Swift Runs The Heart (22 page)

The next morning, Bas was about to mount his horse when Geraldine shook her head.

“We'll have to lead them most of the way up the creek.”

His eyes followed the direction of her hand. “We're going up that?”

“It's not too bad, really.”

He looked decidedly sceptical. Geraldine was pointing up into the ranges to where the Manuherikia River, now little more than a rough, stony burn, had gouged a tortuous path down between steeply sloping hills.

“At least it's summer,” she said. “The water is quite pleasant at this time of year. We're going to have to cross the creek quite a few times.”

“Cross it! More like wade up the bed right to the top.” He eyed their proposed route. “Are you sure you know where you're going?”

“I've done it before, looking for stray sheep, and you can't follow the riverbed all the way. It's too stony. Don't worry, it's not as bad as it first looks.”

“Just when did you last try this?”

“About eight years ago,” she admitted. “It's the only way to get to the top and cross to the northern side of the hills without being seen.”

He looked at her long and hard. The sharp edge and bright gaze were back this morning, as alert and cutting as ever. Then he sighed dramatically. “Lead on, my lady fair.”

It was a long morning. As she had said, the route was not as difficult as it first appeared, but it was slow and demanding of much patience. Again and again, they were forced to splash across the riverbed as the hills became too steep on one side or the other. Gradually, the Manuherikia dwindled from substantial stream to hurrying creek to rivulets and the odd spring. Then they were forced to scrabble up a steep face, Bas following closely behind Geraldine as she showed him the way to master the treacherous sliding scree. At the top, the hills flattened out, then some hours later, they came to a bluff high above a slope falling down to the far side.

Outlined against the sky, Bas looked grimly behind him.

“Don't worry, those rocks back there will hide us. We're safe now. You're on MacKenny land – home.” A wide grin split her face and she swung round in jubilation, spreading her arms wide to drink in the vista.

The country spread out below them, wide and open to the snowcapped mountains in the distance and just in front, the hillside fell in a series of steps and ridges to the broad valley below. A great river meandered through it in haphazard fashion, rather than flowing in the furious onslaught of the gold-bearing Molyneux he knew, gouging its single-minded path through the gorges and hills south of here. This river was one of the braided rivers of the eastern plains of this island. The stunned look on Bas's face spoke for him. He may have heard of them but reality was something else again. Multi-stranded streams sparkled in the sun, spreading in turquoise ribbons across the wide gravel and tussock bed. She gestured to it.

“The river is the Ahuriri, which flows on down to the Waitaki. Across the other side belongs to our neighbours; but this side, from the head of the valley to the bend of the hills over there to the east: that's Loch Máire. MacKenny country.”

Bas stared at her then looked back at the landmarks she had pointed out, and the sheer breadth of land covered. To the left, miles up to the head of the valley, and right, ten miles away at the least.

“It's huge. You could fit a whole English county into it.”

“This isn't England,” she reminded him softly. “And it may be big, but one English estate would carry many more head of stock. This is a raw land, still new and unbroken. We have little rain and harsh winters here. My father's other run, down on the Canterbury Plains, is far more productive.”

“But this is your home. And you love every inch of it.” His voice had softened and she looked up to see his eyes on her, then looked away as quickly, conscious of a bright heat staining her cheeks.

Her hand hastily pointed to the valley below where a small, perfect lake sparkled in the noonday sun. At some point, a stray side steam had been cut off from the main river, a mile or so away across the flats. No longer part of the river, the remaining strand of water stood alone, a gently curving kidney shape tucked against the base of the hills. A rare patch of trees nestled against one edge and nearby, the shore widened out to a small beach before rising again to a sloped embankment.

“Loch Máire, from which the run takes its name. It was called after my mother,” she said. “My father brought her here many years ago, long before any settlers knew of the country that lay at the head of the Waitaki. The Maori told him of this place, and brought him up river. You can't see it until you are almost upon it but down there, just back from the beach, is the cottage he built her. It's still used as an outrider's hut. The new homestead is further over, closer to the main routes, but the bothy is always kept ready, though it's long now since Father or I have been here.” He stood, looking where she had pointed, but said nothing. She was grateful, aware of the trace of sadness she knew had crept in to her voice, and wanting to discuss it as little now as she had when her childhood world had ended.

“Come on,” she said brusquely. “It's further away than it looks and we've still quite a scramble down these hills.”

The shadows were lengthening before they reached their destination. The rising beach Geraldine had pointed out to Bas on the hilltop had disappeared behind ridges and brush not long after they began their descent and it was only now as they rode over the embankment from the lake that they could see the cottage.

Geraldine watched his face. She loved this place, but looked at it now through his eyes. A long, low-slung hut, simple in structure and built of dried mud, the easiest material to obtain in a region of scarce trees. The most basic of verandas was set along the front, facing north. It was but an extension of the roof, supported by poles set into the bare ground. A door stood to the left of centre, with two shuttered windows on either side and at the rear, a lean-to housed the scullery and storeroom.

Simple and crude, yes, but it was larger now than when first built and the sod walls had mellowed with the years to a warm ochre. The cottage was set back under the shelter of the hills and beside it, banks of earthworks offered protection for a simple garden. It was overgrown now, but Geraldine remembered playing among the bean vines her mother had planted there. The last rays of the sun still shone on the cottage walls and Geraldine slowed to a stop. This place had always meant welcome and comfort, but for the first time when coming back to the bothy, she felt uncertain.

Eventually Bas realised she was no longer with him. He turned his horse, walking it back to stop beside hers. For long minutes, she could feel him studying her face. Then he reached over and took her hand, bringing it up to lightly touch his lips to her fingertips. His eyes held hers captive.

“I have never told you of my home. It's huge, the main building massive with a Palladian façade that is but the latest incarnation of a haphazard pile. Every single one of my revered ancestors seems to have felt impelled to leave his mark upon it, for better or worse. No doubt my eminently estimable brother will do the same, probably for the worse, but it won't matter.” A smile lit his face. “My earliest memories are of corridors and stairs – miles of them. It's an inconvenient rattle of a house, cold in winter and gloomy in summer. And I would not change one inch of it.”

He paused then, turned his head slowly from one side to the other, taking in hills, lake and the cottage that was Geraldine's home at its centre. “This is very beautiful,” he said, and brought her hand up again, lips firmly pressed in promise to her hand.

Geraldine giggled, tension gone. “Wait till you get inside.”

But even that he survived. In truth, the interior offered a simple comfort. The door opened into the main room. At one end, a large fireplace told of warmth and sustenance, in the middle was a sturdy table and chairs, and at the other end were three tiers of wooden bunks. A small door between them stood open and Geraldine led him through.

“My parents' room.”

A wooden bedstead stood in the middle of the small room. with the only other furnishings a chest of drawers in one corner, two hooks and a rail on the other wall for clothes and a small window set into the far wall through which the morning sun would shine.

Suddenly, she felt his hand leave hers. She turned. A tight, closed look was on his face and he stood in infinite stillness. Not one trace of his thoughts could she read. Not in the blank eyes, not in the straight mouth, not in the breath caught in a rigidly controlled pattern of in and out.

It lasted a moment only, but it was enough. He hates it, she thought. I have trapped him in this small world of mine and now he can never more return to his home of endless corridors and pillared facades. He will never forgive me. A place inside her broke, and a door locked that she must not open, for fear of the pain that lay beyond.

But then his innate politeness must have taken control. That, or the essential liveliness at his heart, for just as suddenly as it had come, he shook off the curious stillness and a smile of shocking mischievousness lit his face. Very soon afterwards she discovered that, though he may have paid a heavy price for her, there were definite aspects of their marriage that were very pleasing to him, and to her it had to be said. Despite that locked door, she had no defence against this side of him and in the tussle that resulted as he teased and tricked her clothes from her, laughing all the while, and in the heady joy that followed, she almost forgot that moment of silence.

Not completely, though, and over the following days the memory of his first reaction would return at sudden, unexpected moments, eating deeper and deeper into her peace of mind. She loved him so much. How could she ask him to forsake all that he had been and enter her world?

Guilt gnawed at her. He appeared to be trying so hard to be the kind of husband he seemed to think she needed. In just two days, he had cajoled her into riding with him over every inch of the surrounding countryside, introducing him to the plants and birds of this inland river country. She taught him the ways of the river; how to read the often-treacherous and changeable watercourses. They lay on their backs and watched the clouds as she pointed out the shapes and explained what weather was to come. And one glorious night, they swam in the black velvet waters of Loch Máire, splashing and diving and re-emerging laughing through the fragrant leaves of the waterweeds touching the edge. Afterwards, he warmed the chill of her body as they lay on a blanket on the lake edge and she gazed in wonder as the moonlight etched the lean planes of his body rising over hers.

They slept together on the tussock-covered bank above the loch that night and in the morning, the rising sun woke Geraldine as it whispered over the hills across the far side of the river. She lay watching, feeling a deep contentment flowing through her. Around her now was almost all that was precious to her in this world. Her home country and the man beside her. Greedily, she hugged the moment to herself, watching intently as the sun highlighted every fold of hill, plain and river as it steadily inched up into the sky.

“You love this place,” said a quiet voice beside her and she turned slowly. Bas was watching her face, scanning the planes and depths of her pleasure as she had scanned the land.

She nodded.

“Yet this spot here, this is the heart of it all,” he guessed.

She nodded. “It's where the memory of my mother being with us is strongest,” she said. “I only hope that …”

He waited, but she had stopped, the moment of contentment suddenly lost, but this morning for some reason he refused to leave her with silence. “You hope—what?”

Her gaze moved to his face as he leaned over her, his hand teasing the strands of her hair then moving down to lightly trace the outline of her lips, breaking down the barriers she had begun to erect against him. She relaxed, leaning into his beloved body, but could not keep out the sorrow in her voice. He had a right to the truth, she admitted, to know how little his sacrifice of marrying her had gained him.

“My father plans to sell Loch Máire. He has built a house for his new wife on the run he bought in Canterbury, not far from Christchurch – Strathdene. Now she wants him to expand. A neighbouring run has come up for sale. He would have to sell up to buy it, and I think he probably will, but this bit here, the cottage and the land about the lake—I can't help hoping he keeps hold of this at least.”

She had half expected anger and disappointment, but instead he drew her close, soothing her fears with gentle kisses of comfort, and soon, all sorrow was forgotten as the magic sparked between them again. It was very late into the day before they made their way back to the cottage.

Then there were the other days, when one or the other would say something or nothing without thinking, and suddenly the black pit of an awkward silence was yawning in front of them. Did he worry about how they would make their way in the years to come, or was it just that he was starting to resent the primitive smallness of the world she had brought him to? She wished she knew, but still feared too much to bring it into the open.

After two weeks, the silent days happened all too frequently. Geraldine knew Bas was restless. At odd times she would catch him scanning the hills and one day, he asked after any neighbours. So already he'd had enough of her company.

“The Loch Máire homestead is closest; about two miles that way,” she said, pointing northeast. “Apart from that, the homesteads of the two nearest runs lie about half a day's ride to the east or west of that.”

“We should call on them. Someone must have seen the smoke from the cottage. I'd have thought they would have come to investigate by now.”

Geraldine blushed. “They did.”

“When?”