Swift Runs The Heart (16 page)

While the words tumbled out of Molly, Geraldine had been hastily scrabbling into her clothes and had started to leave the tent just as Molly came to a glaring halt.

“Now where do you think you're off to?” she said.

“To get Bas out of jail, of course,” Geraldine flung back at her as she hurried out of the tent. A hand almost as strong as Bas's shot out to pull her back and Molly scowled fiercely.

“Haven't you made enough trouble?”

“But you said …”

“Never mind what I said. Sergeant Braddock knows the score. He'll keep Bas safe till he's sober enough to let out. What he doesn't need is you sticking that pointy nose where it's not wanted and seeing him in his present state. The Lord knows what there is between you two, but I've known men long enough to know they don't like to be seen at their worst. Right now, I'd guess you would be the last person he wants to be seen by. No, you just get on with your work and leave himself alone till he's good and ready to see you.”

Geraldine stopped, undecided, then saw the wisdom of the older woman's words.
Or is it just that they appeal to the coward in you?
jeered an inner voice. Her shoulders slumped. It may be true, but she had learnt some things last night. She had known for some time what she felt for Bas Deverill. Felt – ha! She was head over heels in love with the man. Only until now, she had been able to avoid admitting it. Last night had destroyed that option. She loved Bas Deverill—faults, charm, excitement and all—but last night had also taught her one other thing; that she would not, could not accept him at any cost. She had seen two marriages in her childhood; her parents', and her father's second marriage. She had seen what they had done to her father; both the loss of the love he had known with her mother and the façade of love he had accepted with her stepmother. The compromises and the desperation with which he now sought domestic stability. She would not let that happen to her.

Because there was one thing last night had not taught her; what Bas Deverill felt for her.

That he wanted her, she had no doubt. Her childhood had not been so sheltered that she did not recognise desire. But marriage should be based on more that that, or at least, her marriage must be.

She looked back to Molly, and nodded grim assent. She would leave Bas Deverill well alone for the time being.

Unfortunately, deciding to leave Bas Deverill alone couldn't stop thoughts of him invading her brain at the most unwanted of times. All that day, and for the days that followed, his face and his words kept playing in her mind. She only had to sweep the floor to chuckle at the memory of his face, engulfed in dust, or draw water to remember that moment by the riverbank, when wonder had invaded and claimed her world.

The actual person did not so trouble her, for he rarely came near her. There was one brief, terse meeting later that first day. Her gaze throughout remained fixed on a spot somewhere just above his left brow. It seemed safest. He watched her, an amused twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth, but after the third “Yes, Mr Deverill,” in response to his enquires after her duties, he gave a half shrug. After some moments of heavy silence, Geraldine was forced to drop her gaze, meeting the sparkle in those light filled eyes.

“I will have you yet, Miss MacKenny,” he murmured. Then his hand stretched out and, almost against her will, hers lifted to return the clasp. To what they had shaken, she was not fully sure, but a bargain had been made. Then he left, and for days afterwards all she had of him was the lilt of a voice in the distance or the sight of that bright head of hair passing swiftly about his business.

She buried herself in her work. The carefree suit of clothes for a foolhardy youth, she packed away at the bottom of the crude chest she had procured to secure her possessions. The fairytale gown, encased in muslin, she hung under a muslin cover at the rear of her tent. It was too beautiful to crush into a ball and thrust to the bottom of her chest as she had first been tempted to do, and the memory of that brief dance was too precious. All she managed was to banish it from view, hanging her spare work gown over it in a camouflage of drab utility.

Her days passed in a haze of mops, camp ovens, flour for bread and battles with the ever-present dust. Her chef from the Christmas feast stayed on, splitting his time between working his diggings and favouring the township with the wonders of his cuisine. He would graciously allow Geraldine to share her knowledge of the make-do recipes the settlers used to imitate ingredients unavailable in the colony. Between them, they produced a menu that rapidly became the talk of the township and on the nights François was known to be in residence, the dining rooms were packed with appreciative miners.

The New Year celebrations were even more successful than those of Christmas Day, and even less restrained. She had not needed Bas's terse order, delivered via Molly, for her to stay out of sight that night. Even if common sense had not dictated such a course, Geraldine had no desire to repeat the disaster of Christmas – or the joys.

So she heard the excited laughter, and organised table upon table of food, drinks and merry-making, but never once did she venture out. The next day, she again heard of the wild exploits of Bas Deverill.

“That man will kill himself with his larks one day,” muttered Molly as she stomped through the kitchen. Geraldine bent to the table she was scrubbing, her arm thrusting the brush hard against the already clean surface. “And that other silly young fool is still asking after you.”

Geraldine's head shot up at that. “What young fool?”

“The one who told Bas who you were on Christmas Day, of course.”

“I thought … you said Bas told him I was just visiting here that night from a nearby station.”

“Seems he didn't believe Bas. Had to go and ask questions at every nearby station himself, and of course, nary a word of a runaway runholder's daughter at any of them.”

“Does Bas, I mean, Mr Deverill, know?”

Molly stopped her progress through the kitchen, casting a shrewd eye over her. “As to that,” she said slowly, appearing to turn her thoughts over in her head, “Well, I couldn't rightly say what Bas Deverill does or doesn't know, but if it means less trouble round here, then he won't hear about it from me!”

“Thank you.” Geraldine's hands slowly relaxed their grip on the handle of the scrubbing brush. Molly continued to stare in an unfriendly fashion, then, with a disgruntled ‘harrumph', swung round and stomped out of the kitchen again. When she had left, Geraldine slowly stood, gripping her elbows and hugging her arms to herself as a shudder of fear shook her and she cursed the man who brought it. Her old friend Tipene had tracked her down after that night and after much argument had agreed to keep her secret, yet Tipene had far more reason to expose her. He had known her parents since he was born and was truly worried for her safety. This other man seemed more set on causing scandal then helping her, and that she would not allow.

Bas Deverill must not be forced into marriage. Why, in this one thing, must he bow to convention? Even Black Jack MacRae couldn't drive him out of the Otago goldfields, so why should one young, priggish upstart have the power to force him to offer marriage? She stopped her frenzied scrubbing, a frown gouging wrinkles into her forehead.

Why?

A stifling mugginess pressed relentlessly down on any person foolish enough to move. Geraldine put down her load of washing then stretched upwards to ease the ache permanently embedded in her neck and lower back. Not once in the fortnight since Christmas had she taken even a few hours off, needing desperately to fill every minute of the long, sun-filled days so that she might collapse into exhausted sleep at night. Too tired to think, too tired to venture forth into the threatening streets, it was only hard work that gave her any kind of refuge.

Also her cracked hands, unkempt hair and the work-thinned face she saw frowning back from her reflection in the water in her pail provided a shield against the threat posed by her beauty. No onlooker could now connect her with the green-gowned vision of Christmas night, or so she prayed. Any precious moment of joy she kept strictly to herself: the unbidden smile at the glorious views greeting her some mornings, the sun sparkling on the tossing river below, the sight of a falcon soaring overhead, the wind playing through the rippling tussock on the slopes above.

There was no smile this morning. Geraldine eyed the skyline to the northwest. She knew the clouds forming there too well. A wind was coming, and it was not the sweet, gentle frolic of the east, easing hot limbs and tired bodies in the warm Otago summer.

No, this was a nor' wester; hot, dry and Lord of the Earth as its battering gusts blew everything in its path. She eyed the gorge to the west of the township. The Molyneux had scythed through the wild hills there, to emerge into the gentle basin of the Manuherikia valley before plunging onwards again, south and east to the sea. The township of the Dunstan had grown up right at the entrance to the gorge. It was a handy spot, far enough from the river to be safe from floods and close to the gorge and the gullies that the miners swarmed over in their search for gold. Further inland, new fields were opening up every day; on the Arrow and Shotover rivers, at the junction of the Molyneux and Kawarau rivers and any other likely site. To get there, travellers must pass through the Dunstan, both on their way to seek fame and fortune and on their way home, and most would stop in the Dunstan's bars, either to celebrate or to drown their sorrows after their fortune in the fields had been decided.

Yes, it was a good site, Dunstan township, ideally placed to exploit the new fields. But today, Geraldine feared, its location might not prove so fortunate. That gorge was perfect to funnel the heavy winds, sending them roaring down in heated fury on the small, makeshift canvas town. The shop fronts looked solid enough, worthy structures of wood. But behind them, from where Geraldine stood looking thoughtfully, the flimsy and hastily erected canvas-sided erections looked frighteningly fragile. She had grown up with nor' west winds, and knew their power too well.

She stooped to pick up her load. There was still some time left and washing would dry quickly in the hot breeze that would come first, but as she hung the clothes over the makeshift line, her mind kept ticking over lists. What to stow, what to tie down, safe places to hide stores.

Firstly, and selfishly, her own things. As soon as the washing was up, she went to her tent, hurriedly assembling her few possessions and tying them securely into a bundle. She eyed her gown, but memories of that night were too precious. Almost reverently, she took down the beautiful material, rolling it carefully within its muslin covering into a tight package to stow in her bundle. The crinoline she had regretfully to leave. All she could manage was to cover it with canvas and store it under the weight of her tussock filled mattress. Once done, she went out, hurriedly tugging at the guy lines and supports that held up her tent. Collapsed and covered with rocks, it should be safe from the wind.

She was soon finished, her knowledge that somehow she must warn the rest of the township nagging edgily at her. Only how to do it without exposing herself to unwelcome scrutiny?

Then she saw Bas, and for once was too full of other cares to look away and avoid him. Her mouth broke into a welcoming smile.

“Just the man I need,” she said.

He had gone suddenly still at the sight of her happy face, then he caught sight of the bundle at her side. A grim frown stripped any warmth from his face.

“Finally come to your senses, I see. Can I assist you to the coach?”

“Excuse me?”

He bent to pick up her bundle. “It has been an experience knowing you, Miss Mackenny—one from which I am not sure I shall soon recover—but let me offer you my earnest wishes for a safe trip and a better future than can be found here.”

Geraldine snatched at the bundle, glaring at him as it threatened to turn into an undignified tug of war, then let go with an exasperated grunt.

“I don't know what on Earth you are mithering on about. I am not going on any trip. What I did hope was that you would use your common sense to help me in what must be done today. It seems I was mistaken, so if you will excuse me, there is not much time and a lot to do if anything is to be salvaged of this town today.”

That threw Bas, and he released her bundle. “I presumed that you had realised the error of your ways and were now returning to the safety of you family before your reputation is irrevocably damaged.”

“Oh, stuff. I thought you knew me better than that. No, it's those clouds that have me worried.”

He looked up to where she was pointing, seeing the long, high band of coiling white and grey.

“It will be more obvious out on the plains, but that's what we call a Nor' west Arch. There is going to be a very big wind hitting this place in a few hours and it will roar down that gorge and hit this town like the Seven Furies of Hell are on its heels. People need to get their stores safely under cover and tie these flimsy buildings down with rocks, ropes, whatever they can find.”

He turned back, staring at her stupidly. She grabbed his arms, shaking him roughly.

“Please Bas, pay attention. I need your help. People will listen to you and I can't go about the town. What if I run into Black Jack or that stupid young man whose name I can't remember?” She hadn't realised quite how hard she was shaking him till his hands shot up and grabbed hers, pulling them down to keep her still.

“Are you serious?”

“Completely. Ask anyone who has lived in this land for more than five minutes. That wind is coming and this town will be blown apart like so much matchwood.”

“Then you're not leaving?” She shook her head angrily, wishing he would concentrate on the problem at hand. He grinned. “When I saw that bundle…” She was suddenly being held tightly and kissed as she had dreamed of on so many nights. Yet even as she began to wish she could stay in his arms forever, a gust of wind tugged at her skirts. She struggled to be free, half-heartedly protesting.