Swift Runs The Heart (13 page)

It was only by clenching her fists tight in her skirts that she could meet his eyes with a semblance of calm. Inside, a quiver shook her, nerves blasted raw.

It was he who broke off first, swinging back and crashing the door hard behind him, leaving Geraldine to stare slowly after and sink as if beaten onto the hearth stool. Still her fist clenched tight to her skirts. It was the only way she could stay upright.

It was as well she did not see him again till the next day. The festivities at the saloon were due to start at midday, but long before that an unusual calm had fallen over the township. Men driven by greed to the goldfields from the far corners of the earth for once laid down their tools and flocked to town. An air of riotous cheer gripped the place. Full of life and vigour as the town usually was, today it sparkled doubly.
A Merry Christmas to you
rang in the streets, mingled with the odd
Joyeux Noel
and others, as folk from throughout the world remembered far-off customs for one day. Even the inevitable brawls and stews were good-natured today, bets ringing out loudly on the outcome and when finished, the protagonists rising, clapping arms to shoulders and repairing with the crowd to the nearest saloon.

Earlier, just after dawn, Geraldine had crept in her boy's disguise to the makeshift church service. Parts of each and every faith remembered by the participants came together in a melting pot of carols and prayer. Silently, she whispered a greeting to her own loved ones: Mama, long dead and gone now; Da, so dearly loved even if he seemed to forget her at times; and her baby half-brother, a secret delight despite all. She even whispered words of goodwill for her aunt and step-mama.

Then back to her kitchen and the toil of the day. Yet even that seemed no trouble this morning. Her helpers arrived, rough miners now, but two had served in the homes of gentlemen in England, one had been a cook on a station homestead and, overseeing all, a real French chef no less. A genius in his own right, she guessed, more used to working in the great kitchens of the world, and why he was toiling in the rivers here she knew better than to ask. All she needed was the reputation and an introduction. He had looked like a man reprieved when she told him of her plans, grabbing her by both cheeks and planting a loud kiss on each one. She would have feared for her disguise but the man was too overcome to notice anything. Of course he would do it, he had said. How could it be Christmas without the cooking? So grateful was he that even when he met her again in her cook's guise and saw her kitchen, he made no mention of the rude equipment or makeshift supplies, even deigning to listen to her few hints as to how colonials contrived to produce a suggestion of an old world dish with the ingredients of the new.

It was a hectic day. Christmas lunch, Christmas dinner and a continuous buffet between. Fiddlers for dancing, singers for jollity and sentimental romancing. A comic, and a raconteur for any who cared to match what wits remained after the somnolence of full bellies and copious imbibing. The crowd from the saloon spilled into the streets, and by late afternoon the whole township was a merry, sodden, excited mass of jovial bodies. Miners moved from bar to bar, imbibing, eating and drinking up large, while the bar girls had real grins on their faces today and were enjoying themselves just as much as the men. Music from every bar joined in a raucous competition of sound in the street, until the musicians drifted out and goaded each other on to ever more histrionic displays of virtuosity. The street became a ballroom floor, and the bars threw back their canvas fronts to make the whole mad township one almighty and cheerful saloon hall.

She saw him throughout it all. Bas was the centre of the hurricane, here calming the over-exuberant with a quick quip, there livening a dull moment with an impromptu mad scramble down the street in pursuit of a bet that he should not be able to shoot a bullet off the top of the sergeant's cart. He managed it, and even Sergeant Brannigan convulsed with laughter at the wild ricochets that followed Bas's shots, bullets slamming from rock to rock and causing a minor avalanche that cascaded down a rise to land in a dusty explosion on top of a rival saloon's feast, suggesting none of it had been accidental.

She saw him, and fortunately was too busy to be troubled. The strange scene of the previous day was not forgotten, but was put aside in the goodwill of the day.

Then it was night, the dinner done, and the celebration came to life anew with the rising of the summer moon, near full in the sky, and the blessed relief of the cooling night breeze. Along with the cooling respite, he came to her, a laugh in his eyes and the faintest slur in his voice.

“Miss MacKenny, my compliments to you. A fine day you have given us.”

Her own smile burst forth and she swept down in her grandest curtsey, eyes peeping mischievously up through her lashes. “Why, thank you, Mr Deverill.”

“Wench,” he murmured, taking her hand and lightly bringing it to his lips in salutation. “It's obviously past time you joined us – and in something other than that thing,” he added, eyeing her dress in disfavour. “Black Jack is far away tonight and you are safe enough. You surely brought something pretty with you?”

She blushed her acknowledgement and he laughed. “Off with you then. I fancy a waltz, Miss MacKenny, and with a lady. You do waltz?”

“My step-mama had me taught. An essential attribute for a young lady, she said.”

“Trying to marry you off, was she?”

She ought to have been insulted at the knowing twinkle in his eye, but tonight that was not possible. Tonight was for pleasure and anything was possible.

“Was she?” he demanded, his hand suddenly tightening on hers.

“Perhaps,” she conceded, casting her eyes downwards demurely, a flirtatious dimple touching her cheek. “There did seem to be an inordinate number of young men coming to visit at the time, as I remember.”

“So why is it still
Miss
MacKenny?”

“Unfortunately, I could not seem to find one to whom I could become attached,” she admitted with a wry grin.

“I almost feel sorry for your stepmother,” he laughed. “So what did the poor woman do next?”

“Packed me off south to the strictest of my aunts.”

“It sounds like you thoroughly deserved it. With your looks and spirit, you must have been every second wife's worst nightmare come home to roost.”

Suddenly Geraldine found herself laughing with him. “You are so right,” she gasped, remembering the look on her new stepmother's face the day they had first been introduced. At the time, her world had seemed to collapse in front of her. Her beloved father, abruptly hers no longer, claimed by this conventionally pretty woman only a few years her senior, who clung to her father's arm as if staking a claim of possession. Now, for the first time she saw that day in a new light.

“Father never had the courage to introduce us before he wed her. When we did meet, I swear that if the woman hadn't been clutching his arm so hard, she would have fallen in a faint at my feet.”

“Horrified, was she?”

“Completely,” grinned back Geraldine.

“Let me guess. Petite, not stout but will be one day, fair skin which she never dares expose to the sun. It will become lined with wrinkles by thirty-five – that skin type never ages well. Doesn't show an ounce of flesh during the day, a demure bonnet only, and takes short, improving walks, discussing all the while the goings-on of her neighbours and dearest companions?”

By now Geraldine was gasping with laughter.

“Here, don't expire on me yet. You owe me a dance first. Now, off you go and don't come back until you are transformed.”

Again he kissed her hand, then gave a short bow in response to her swift curtsey and turned to leave. Released, Geraldine sped to the kitchen. He was right. The miners and musicians could take care of the rest of the evening. There was food galore laid out, Bas had promised she was safe from Black Jack, and nothing else needed her attention. The night was hers.

Dodging people, she slipped out to her tent, and pulled the covering away from her secret treasure. Hurriedly, she doused the lights, threw off her old clothes then gazed in rapture at what had been hidden by the rough sacking. It was the beautiful gown of the street stall, carefully pressed yesterday in snatched secret time. Softest green moiré taffeta, so light in colour as to be almost iridescent in the moonlight. She had worn her one set of fine undergarments today, and now drew on the cool silk. From a corner, she pulled out the small bottle of
eau de toilette
brought off another pedlar, and found her preciously-kept pair of good shoes. Carefully, she turned the lamp up, preening and pulling at the gown in the small sliver of mirror that was all she owned. Now, her hair. Released from its workaday bun, it spilled out in all its glory. She had learnt one useful trick from her stepmother; how to dress her own hair to best display its fiery beauty.

Quickly, she combed it through, pulling the thick mass back into an elegant roll at the nape of her neck and releasing tendrils of curls that clung to her cheeks and shoulders. Her stepmother said it emphasised the long line of her neck and slender shoulders. For the first time in her life, she found herself hoping that her stepmother's advice was right. Well, there was only one way to find out.

With a deep breath, she slipped out of the tent. Still unsure, she made her way slowly through the shadows to the door of the kitchen. The staff were still frenetically busy, paying her little heed as she moved through to the door of the main room of the saloon, looking out to the streets where the celebrations still continued, fed anew by a fresh influx of miners from outlying claims.

Suddenly, she knew panic. In that crowd, how could she find him? There were other women here this night. A few were wives and workers such as herself, but the vast majority were dance hall girls. There was one just in front of her, a delighted smile on her pert face as two miners vied outrageously for her favours. For a moment, Geraldine nearly retreated to the safety of the kitchen. She had kept herself hidden so long, a drab skivvy or brash youth. Why did she now expose herself to danger?

Then she saw him. He was standing across from her, waiting. She was still in shadow, she realised, partially hidden by the door and the crowd. It made no difference. His eyes caught hers, and her breath vanished. Then his smile appeared, a lilting invitation, with perhaps a hint of uncertainty? It was enough. She stepped forward.

Silence hit the room. She didn't notice, absorbed in his face as he saw her for the first time as she was meant to be. His smile froze in place and his hand lifted towards her as his feet moved forward.

Then he was before her, and that hand was lifting hers in awed salutation, his lips brushing with stunning allure the tips of her fingers.

“Miss MacKenny, it is my very great pleasure to request that you accompany me in the waltz.”

And she, her back ramrod-straight in the highest drawing room manner, sank gracefully into a curtsey of assent, her eyes never leaving his.

They were perfectly matched. All the hard-fought lessons from her stepmother and the awkward shuffles of her first gatherings were forgotten. Her feet moved effortlessly, a seamless counterpoint to the intricate patterns he led her in. The front of the tent had been opened up to the street, like all the other bars, and crowds of laughing, jostling partygoers carelessly frolicked in the warm summer evening. Now they paused, caught in the entrancement of this exotic pair; fairytale escapees from the old country. Even the crudely vigorous scrape of the fiddles slowed, modulating as if by silent assent to the beautiful strains of the new waltzes from Vienna. Above them, the stars shone and the crowds drew back, silently watching, lost in a dream world.

Geraldine was unaware. Bas's eyes never left her face, his hands guiding her lightly out of the tent and about the street. Dimly, she was conscious of the change in the music, but it seemed only right. A smile of delight and secrets spread across her face, echoing the glow shining from deep in his eyes.

And still they danced. One tune merged seamlessly into the next. Slowly, first one pair then another were drawn from the encircling audience to join them. The few women soon took the floor, claimed speedily by adept partners. Then even the clumsiest of the miners were drawn in, circling the makeshift arena of the street in pairs in a fantasy of home and glamour.

They danced on, men, women, musicians and dancers, caught up in the thrall of the night's magic. Forgotten the hours of toil, the endless disappointments, the hot dusty days and the privations of makeshift homes at work's end. Now, on this night, existed only the aura of hoped-for dreams, the endless possibilities awaiting a strike. They were young, this crowd, vigorous and endowed with all the promises of their moment in history. The world was changing and they might share in it. If only they could find the longed-for riches.

So they danced, and dreamed, and hoped.

Eventually, even dreams must stop. It was the musicians who finally called a halt, whirling the throng faster and faster, building to a crescendo then swirling finally into a glorious chord of fulfilment.

Silence fell, filled still with the echo of the last note. Even the musicians who had ended it stood still as if caught in a daze as the crowd slowly drifted to a halt. Faces turned curiously to their corner, dreamily and then, as if waking to reality, edges appeared, consciousness of a dream come and gone arriving with unwelcome coolness.

It was Molly who saved the day, her wise face cracking into a huge grin.

“Well, if you folk don't need a drink after that fine piece of exercise, I surely do. Jim, a strong one for me, and I daresay many of the folks feel the same. What do you say, boys? The first round is on the house.”

A mighty cheer rose as the ranks broke and the magic of the night returned.

Geraldine was brought slower to reality. They had stilled, but it seemed as if they still twirled. Then with the stillness came awareness. She made as if to lift her head, then as quickly lowered it, fearful of what she might see.