Mary Brock Jones (30 page)

He learned of her mother—a mixture of the practical in her household management and a dreamer in her love for her wandering husband. Wherever her father chose to go, wherever his passion for knowledge led him, his wife and children had unthinkingly followed.

“The four of us, that’s all we had of constancy in the world,” said Nessa once in a rare moment of honesty. At last, some hint, some reason for her refusal to abandon her brother. Having lost her mother and father, she dared not lose her brother—nor would she let her brother be left alone in the world.

So how could he make her believe that would not happen. All John could do was show her, by speaking of his own family and sharing his letters. They might be a half a world away, but he never doubted his family thought of him constantly and hungered for news of him, that he belonged still in the hearts of everyone in that placid English manor house.

It took him near a month, but finally she began to show him her letters from her brother. A month of painful denial. Only once had he kissed her in all those long evenings.

Sometimes he thought he caught an echo on her face of the hunger that was a permanent ache for him, but she stepped back. She was avoiding his touch now. Whether that was a good sign or bad, he was too afraid to consider. But she was talking to him, and this day she handed him a sheet of closely written script.

Her brother had a fine hand, even when it was written on the back of brown wrapping paper with pencil and smudged in places. Writing paper and ink were scarce at Campbell’s, he guessed. The trip was too dangerous now, and the packers were only taking up necessities on their rare trips.

“The work goes well,” the boy wrote. “This time next year, we will be living in a house in Oxford, with cream buns for tea.” John chuckled. So the lad wasn’t as grown up as all that yet. “We have to dig off a foot of snow before starting work some days,” Philip wrote farther on. “It is so cold at night, I am sleeping in every article of clothing I possess. Your scarf is much appreciated, and another pair of gloves would be most welcome. I am pleased you are finding new skills to keep you occupied. Please pass on my thanks to Mrs Cooper for the gift of wool and for teaching you the craft of creating such excellent garments.”

John scowled. “You earned every inch of that wool. Ada tells me she doesn’t know how she managed before she had you to help her.”

She blushed. “It’s the least I can do. She has been very kind—a good friend to us.”

And me? He couldn’t quell the petulant thought. His patience was wearing dangerously thin, and some days she seemed farther from him than ever. Next, he knew, she would be thanking him for being a good
friend
too. It was all he needed.

Philip’s letters came sporadically. In between the words of a young man finally gaining his long-hoped-for treasure were hints of the harsh conditions prevailing at Campbell’s. He had told Ward to leave there two months ago. He knew many of the miners had already left Campbell’s and Potter’s. The boy’s letter told plainly why Philip had chosen to ignore all sensible advice and stay on.
Young fool
, he thought viciously, watching Nessa’s face as she read. He was too attuned to her smallest movement to miss the slight hitch in her voice or the whitening of her knuckles as she read the precious sheet of paper. So much for his hope that she would not pick up the truth behind the boy’s words.

He rode over to Chamonix one day to pick her up after her work at Jacques’. He brought her home as often as he could these days, for the pleasure of feeling her body nestled in front of his.

He tied the horse up outside Jacques’ and strode into the main saloon to hearty cries from the crowd of men there.

The place was packed.

“Shouldn’t you lot be out packing supplies to the fields?”

“Ain’t you heard, guv’nor. There’s floods everywhere. We bain’t going nowhere.”

What were they talking about? He looked around and saw Jacques reading the latest news sheet.

“What’s happened?”

“A storm has hit Fox’s at the Arrow. Many hotels, they are destroyed utterly. All over—she is mad. The river, the great Molyneux, she has made us pay.”

John snatched the page from him, scanning the dark words printed on it. They told of desperate tragedy; heavy rain and flooding up in the mountain rivers causing a terrible toll of lost lives. They lived in a dangerous country, and he had heard similar stories before; but nothing like this. “Keep that paper away from Miss Ward,” said John curtly.

“You can’t keep bad news away from her forever,
mon ami
.”

“Maybe, but I can try.”

“The brother, he is still at Campbell’s?”

John nodded once, then thrust the news sheet back at Jacques and headed for the back room. That was where he would find Nessa when the main room was as full as this. She preferred to avoid the more raucous elements on such days, for which John was profoundly grateful. He trusted Jacques to keep her safe, but it was better if she was away from possible trouble. She had heard nothing yet. He said nothing and took her out the back door. Because of the crowds, he told her.

As it turned out, the storm was but the start of two months of misery on the fields. How many men lost their lives in those terrible days, none dared to guess. It began with rain, pouring down the gullies and rivers and washing away claims, equipment, tents and men with equal impunity. In mid-July, all the Arrow township was hit as rising waters flooded the flats at the mouth of the gorge. John could not hide the news from Nessa and saw the pain of it in her eyes. “I’m sure the Johnston family are safe,” he said.

She did not argue with him, did not say anything. Merely held out her hand for the news sheet and read the words over and over again.

“They have ample supplies at Campbell’s,” said John. Maybe it helped.

After the rains came the frosts—black ice, with the air so cold it burned to breathe it, and everything was coated with the deadly rimes of hoarfrost.

Then came more reports of floods inland, with mud flows and slips washing away isolated mining camps, men, women and children reported to be lost.

“Philip must come down now,” said Nessa on hearing the reports. “I have written, begging him to leave. Winter here is so terrible. Why will he not come down?”

“He’s as safe at Campbell’s as anywhere.” There was enough truth in it for John to be able to sound convincing. The packers would only cross the Great Glacier in pairs now, waiting for a break in the weather then trusting in their horses’ good sense to find the way across the treacherous plain of snow. Deep drifts hid holes and traps in the ground from a careless traveller.

“I must go to him. He needs me.”

“No! No!” he shouted, fear clawing his gut.

She said nothing. From then on, he watched her closely. There had been too much desperation in her voice.

The rains came again in early August, bringing more dreadful stories of lost lives and tragedy. John ordered Jacques to keep all news sheets from Nessa, but he knew she still found them. At least the rains washed some of the snow off the tops. He came over one evening to find Nessa at the back of the Coopers’ cottage, feeding the hens and looking up at the hills.

“Looks like the worst of the snow is over.”

Her tone was too casual to be trusted. “Only from here,” he said repressively. “It takes more than a few days of rain to clear the glacier.”

“Is that what happened in past winters?”

“Yes,” he said, even more forcibly.

“But you could be wrong. This is only your fifth winter here.”

“Don’t even think about it. I’ve warned all the packers against helping take you over to Campbell’s. No one else knows the hills well enough to try it.”

“There’s always the Cooper boys.”

He stared at her, aghast.

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t serious,” she mumbled shamefacedly. He damped down his fear, confident she would never put at risk any of the family who had been so kind to her. But there had been too much desperation in her voice. What would she dare for her brother’s sake?

Nessa could not stop looking at the hills over the next few days. There was hardly any snow visible from here, and John could be wrong. The weather this year was different from that of past years. Even he admitted that.

Today was one of her days for working at Chamonix. She looked at the hills once more, and made up her mind. She could wait no longer.

It was another dismal day: grey skies and a cool breeze. She guessed there would be more rain soon. She hurried to get ready and walked briskly over to John’s cottage, too impatient to wait for him to collect her.

“It looks like rain,” she explained, in response to his surprise at seeing her there. Usually, he picked her up from the Cooper’s place. “I wanted to make it to Chamonix before the clouds burst.”

He conceded, but whether he believed her was another matter. She had learnt not to trust that bland look on his face.

He lifted her onto the horse’s back then mounted behind her. Today, she gave in to his touch. After this morning, she might never feel it again. He was going to be so angry. She leaned back into his chest and treasured the feel of his strong arms around her. She heard the catch in his breath, felt it stop for a full minute, then begin again cautiously. He said nothing, but let her head fall into the hollow of his shoulder and curled his body around hers. Halfway there, he pulled Ned to a halt and turned her round to face him. His mouth descended and his lips met the welcome of hers. It felt too much like a homecoming.

When her senses were fully dazed and her world had narrowed in to encompass only the feelings he evoked, his touch on her body and his mouth moving on hers, he slowly lifted his head.

“I have missed you so much,” he murmured. Then sent shivers through her as his tongue traced the shell of her ear. He bit down gently, and this time it was her breathing that stopped as his hands cupped her breasts. “Have you missed me?”

That she dare not answer. He waited, testing her resolve. It only just held, she had to admit to herself. In the end, it was he who sighed. He picked up the horse’s reins and touched its flanks to walk on. His arms no longer held her so close and she sat forward stiffly.

That, he would not allow. He gathered both reins in one hand and clasped his other arm around her waist, pulling her back close into his body—back where she belonged. “Give me this at least,” said his strangled voice.

There were some pleas she was not strong enough to refuse—not when they exactly matched her own desires. She sat in his embrace and shut her eyes, savouring to the full the feel and the strong, masculine smell of him.

At Chamonix he pulled up in the bustling street, helped her down and led her into Jacques’ store, giving his usual warning to the Frenchman to keep her safe. Then he deposited her bag at her desk, and she waited for him to leave.

He stood looking at her as she fiddled with her pens and papers. His hand reached out and touched her hair, caught in a severe bun at the back of her neck. Then his fingers traced her jaw and she felt herself leaning in to his fingers.

“I don’t know how much longer I can stand this. I need you too badly, but I am beginning to wonder how long you can hold out. You want me as much as I want you.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, but he had already swung on his heel and was disappearing out the door. The words would have been a lie anyway. She bent her head to her first task, translating the words of Mr Thatcher’s latest ditty into German. There was a Prussian packer in town who had taken a liking to the scandalously satirical songs of the miners’ balladeer.

Not even the witty satire could raise her spirits today, yet she must set aside her sorrow if she was to succeed in her goal. At mid-morning, she joined Jacques for their cup of coffee before the rush of the midday lunch crowd. The store owner had the Frenchman’s love of gossip, and she had learnt much of the ways of the packers from him.

“Any new men in who might need my help with translations?” she said today, hoping she sounded as if it were only a routine query.

“No. Only one new man, mam’selle, and he is English. A boy, but good with his horse. He’s from the Lake Country, I think they call it, and seems to be at ease with our hills and the cold.”

“Young, is he?”

Jacques shrugged. “Young enough. Barely a beard there yet. He’s just back from a trip down the Molyneux and did well, Jean-Claud tells me.”

She nodded, then moved on to other news. Jacques was too astute, and she dared not give him any reason to be suspicious. The man was almost as bad as John at wishing to protect her.

Once Jacques was gone, she started to make her plans. The boy was not hard to find. None of the men here were very old, but this lad was younger than Philip. His name was Thomas, he told her, grinning out of a cocky face filled with the bravura of youth. She could not stop the guilt that hit her, but then reminded herself that Philip’s life was at stake. It did not take long in chatting to the boy to find he had grown up on the Pennine hills and so had a good understanding of the perils facing any trying to cross the ranges.

She had managed to save a tidy sum from her work over the past months and knew she was safe when his eyes saw the heavy purse and lit up.

She calculated there was still time to make it to Campbell’s if they left before midday.

“Righto, Miss,” agreed the boy. “Just let me harness up the horses and we can be on our way.”

“And wear extra warm clothes,” she suggested, appeasing her conscience. “It gets very cold up on the tops.”

For herself, she had purloined an oilskin coat from Jacques’ office. She reasoned he would have lent it to her if he knew she needed it and resolutely ignored the voice pointing out that if Jacques had any idea what she was up to, he would lock her in a back room till she came to her senses. She had also packed extra food rations and made the boy call in at the other store in town, to pick up supplies of flour, sugar, tea and dried fruits.

“You’ll get a very good price for these at Campbell’s,” she told him. “Far more than at the close-by fields; but better not mention my name. Over there, they know I work for Jacques, so they may sting you for an extra cut.” Her ability to lie so readily dismayed her. It’s for Philip, she kept telling herself. She had to make her brother come down while he could.