Abigail's Quest

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Abigail's Quest Page 6

by Lois Mason


  “Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful.” There was nothing Abigail wanted more at that moment.

  Later, much refreshed by the warm cleansing water, Abigail was unaware of her own allurement as she wound her brilliant reddish-gold hair loosely into the chenille caul. Rob Sinclair was very much aware of it, though. He drew breath sharply as he came through the curtain to take his bride for wedding.

  “Come, Abigail, all is ready,” he commanded.

  “Not till I’ve tied my bonnet,” she replied nervously. She was all fingers and thumbs with, the pink satin ribbons.

  “Here, allow me,” he bent over and had the bow tied in a trice. She saw that he was freshly shaven, and had replaced his collarless ticking shirt with a high-collared white cotton one worn under his dark jacket, now brushed free of all dust. He had also exchanged his moleskins for some brown checked pegtop trousers.

  “Ah, you look a princess,” he whispered, low and warm by her cheek.

  “Fit for a prince,” she finished mentally. But he was not a prince, though his appearance was much improved from yesterday’s, and his masterful blue eyes and hair of a tawny lion could win any girl’s heart, she did not doubt. Nor was she a princess, and more the pity! There was no choice left open for her. She could not even choose her own wedding.

  She would have liked a silken gown with a sheen and colour of pearls, trimmed with Mama’s handworked lace, tucked and frilled, but it was not to be. Instead she was the palest rosebud, with the merest hint of orange accentuated in her bonnet trimmings. She could not imagine that the colouring was actually more flattering than what she had set her heart on—that it highlighted her pale, clear skin with a reflecting touch of colour in her cheeks.

  Self-consciously, she took Rob’s arm as they crossed the rutted street. The bank opened for business at ten, time enough for hasty nuptials before the first of the hard-headed customers would be served. Already groups of diggers were lounging about, waiting for the hour of opening.

  Mr. Johnson met them at the closed doorway, and with great importance he unlocked the door and ushered them in. “’Tis a lovely morning for wedding. Clear as a bell, for sure! The Reverend and his good lady are inside ready and waiting. Mind the step there, madam! Safest to keep the door locked till the gold escort arrives from the Gully. ’Twill be here just on ten.”

  Mrs. McNeil smiled kindly at Abigail. She had attempted to brighten the nondescript room by placing a white linen tablecloth over Mr. Johnson’s desk with a bowl of flowers in its centre. Mr. Johnson shuffled his feet and somewhat sheepishly said, “First time there’s been a wedding here. I hardly know my little room after Mrs. McNeil has put her touches to it!”

  Abigail murmured her thanks to the minister’s wife, and she smiled.

  “I’m afraid there ain’t much to choose from in the way of flowers here. But I did want ye to have a happy place for your marriage, m’ dear. Here’s a wee posy for ye to hold. The flowers were mine on my wedding day.”

  The dear, sweet lady! Abigail’s nervous hands clutched firmly at the tussy-mussy of silken rosebuds and fresh green leaves tied up with a narrow tartan riband, and she started to feel less embarrassed in this company of strangers.

  “Och, if ye’re ready then, we’ll be starting,” Mr. McNeil indicated. Abigail and Rob took their places in front of him, and Mrs. McNeil and Mr. Johnson stood to the side of the desk.

  As the ancient words of the ceremony were repeated, Abigail fixed her eyes firmly on the bowl of flowers—white flowering tea-tree, lavender veronica and foxgloves—that Mrs. McNeil had somehow gleaned from the pockets of bush amidst the wheaten landscape.

  “Abigail Emmeline, wilt thou take this man, Robert Hayden...” the Reverend McNeil intoned.

  In a small shaking voice Abigail affirmed the marriage vow. Robert? she wondered. Of course! Rob was the shortened version, she should have realized. It bothered her that she had heard the name only recently and could not quite put her finger on ... Then it came to her. The bushranger with the red necktie. No, it was not her Robert he was after. But how coincidental that there was a “Robert” on that coach after all!

  There might well have been other Roberts. It was a common enough name these days, and she had no idea of the names of her fellow passengers, apart from Mr. and Mrs. Grant. Mr. Grant was Harold, she had heard his wife call him that. Oh, what did it matter how many Roberts there were?

  She and her Robert were now man and wife. The rich blue stones again glimmered in the gold band on her left hand finger. Rob bent over and kissed her on the cheek at the conclusion of the brief service, and he was quickly followed by Mrs. McNeil and Mr. Johnson. The Reverend Mr. McNeil claimed his kissing of the bride too, and all imparted felicitations. Abigail handed back the nosegay to Mrs. McNeil for whom the flowers held such special remembrances. There would be no mementoes of this day for her.

  Nor did music attend them as they marched, arm in arm, out of the bank door. A hint of song came from a thick-set Italian, waiting to deposit his latest find, having left it too late the day before. His music was probably the most appropriate to the occasion, a rich tenor voice with vague operatic strains on his tongue.

  But the words that stuck in Abigail’s mind on that whirlwind day came from the chant of three grubby children, jumping the iron ruts in the road:

  “One-a-pecker, two-a-pecker, bright fine gold,

  Spend it in the summer, and you die in the cold”

  “Mrs. Sinclair!” Abigail felt the colour rising in her cheeks as Mrs. McNeil addressed her. Even though her name was now honest, she found it hard to shake off the residue of pretence. “I thought ... if ye had no prior engagement ... if ye’d care to lunch with us? ’Twas a small celebration for your special day I was having in mind?”

  Abigail was touched and turned to her husband. His eyes assented. “’Twould be lovely, thank you, Mrs. McNeil. Where...?”

  “Straight doon the road past the barber’s tent, then turn right. Och, I was forgetting! Mr. Sinclair knows us. Shall we say in an hour? I know ye’ll be leaving at two with Mr. Thomas.”

  How did she know? Abigail wondered. Of course, how stupid of her! Mr. Johnson. Still, it was of no consequence that their movements were known; but some trace of Mama, who had always been close about familial affairs, had rubbed off on to her, and she was unused to others gossiping about her plans.

  “Mrs. McNeil, that is very kind of you. Thank you, sir, for your offices, and we shall see you both in an hour.”

  Rob shook the minister’s hand. Abigail watched them move off down the street, Mrs. McNeil just as soberly dressed as her husband in her dark grey bonnet and crinoline, relieved only by a small white lace-edged collar at her throat.

  “Well then, Mrs. Sinclair! I think we may have some packing to do. You’d best change that flimsy creation, however gorgeous it may be, as I doubt there’ll be time for that between our visiting the McNeils and our departing. I hardly think ’twill be suitable for Fred Thomas’s cart.” Her husband looked disapprovingly at Abigail’s dress, ever conscious of the hungry stares it was drawing from the motley crowd of diggers outside the saloon.

  So it was the green chintz again, and, as the pink confection was carefully folded into her bag, Abigail wondered wistfully when she would wear it again, and prayed that it might be for her reunion with her father.

  Already the sun was hard overhead and the little tin room exceedingly warm. There was no need for her shawl.

  Rob burst through the curtained opening, holding a small cut-glass drinking cup in each hand.

  “I bribed Mrs. Barton! ’Tis not champagne, but ’tis something to toast this day. Here you are, Mrs. Sinclair!” He passed her a glass and pressed her other hand strongly. “To us.”

  She clinked his glass and gulped the fiery liquid. Her coughing and spluttering were uncontrollable. Rob threw back his head and laughed. “Rum! You must take small sips.”

  “I don’t like it.” She handed the glass, with the half-finished
drink back to him, and he polished it off. Abigail hoped desperately that she had not married a drinking man.

  He grasped her arm, “Come! We’d best get some fresh air into our lungs, before our visit to the McNeils’. I doubt that they’d appreciate fumes on the breath! Very strict is the Scottish Free Church, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Compliantly, Abigail allowed him to take her from the hot iron cell. A walk in the open air was enticing, but not for reasons of blowing away intoxicating aromas! However, any reason to leave this horrid little room would suffice.

  As they sat on a dry, grassy spot in the bush-clad gully, Rob pulled her to him. “Not long now, my dear, and we shall be on our way to Gabriel’s Gully.”

  “Oh, if Papa is there...”

  “You must not bank on it. Best not to hope too much, then there’s less disappointment if the news is bad.”

  “Aye, I suppose you’re right. Oh, look! Aren’t they beautiful?” She pointed to the bright, metallic flash of green, as a flock of pigeons flapped towards thicker bush, their wing coverts reflecting deep purple in the sun. Abigail stretched back against the rounded mound of tussock-covered earth and let the warm sunshine bathe her face. The crown of her stiff hat made reclining uncomfortable, so she took it off and lay back again, closing her eyes and basking in the glorious day. What if she were to become freckled! she thought. The warmth on her cheeks was delicious. At this moment she was beyond caring for her complexion.

  A shadow thrust her into coolness, and she opened her eyes and met Rob’s steady gaze, a teasing uptilt flickered about the corners of his strong mouth.

  “How does it feel to be Mrs. Sinclair now?” he whispered.

  “I hardly know,” she returned, starting to feel hot, uncomfortable, and trapped under his arm.

  “Then you shall start now in finding out!” He brought his face fast to hers and pressed her mouth with pent-up desire. His hand sought her small, firm, high-rounded breast.

  She did not hear the echo of the hawk as it pounced in triumph on some small field rodent, helplessly showing itself for an instant. The flurry of confusion, pain, heat, pleasure and agitation as her husband urged his love rendered Abigail speechlessly perplexed, pinned as she was to the hard, bumpy ground. Her protests were ignored. No longer a wife in name only, she felt violated, not mistress of her own body.

  “Passionate, would you say?” he taunted her.

  She could not answer, but her face unmistakably bore her bewilderment and disquiet.

  “’Tis a brute and a beast, then?” His eyes twinkled mockingly, but the hand that stroked her forehead was light as a breeze, and the kiss on her cheek but a puff of swansdown.

  They lay in silence then. She could feel his breath, now steady and faintly warm, at the side of her neck as his head rested into her shoulder.

  No one had prepared her for this moment. It was an intimacy undreamed of, unwanted yet wanted. Her husband’s touch was expert. Of that there was no doubt. Nothing hesitant, unsure, marred his performance, unlike her own.

  She wished she had proffered more resistance, yet was that really what she regretted? The total surprise of his manoeuvre and his masterful strength precluded any physical repulses on her part.

  Was this what marriage was all about, a complete submission to the needs, desires of a husband? Were her own feelings and wants not to be regarded, but to be tossed aside like pea-pods, superfluous to the delicacy?

  Tears of humiliation burned about her eyes as she tried , unsuccessfully, to muster a veneer of indifference and worldliness. She would not have him mock her for her ignorance. He was unspeakable, yet she was forced to trust him. She wondered what else lay ahead for her at the hands of this mysterious man.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Face the McNeils she did. But she could not tell afterwards of what they talked. She could remember the bric-a-brac, copper pots and kettles, a wooden butter churn, the fretwork gingerbread clock, all crowded into that calico tent. And the bowl of broth with big chunks of bacon floating in it, and Mrs. McNeil’s store of shortbread fingers produced from a large Delft jar which she kept for special occasions.

  All memory of conversation faded on the nor’easter that rippled the tussock on the hills that afternoon, to be replaced by a chilling, uncertain thing which left Abigail far more wary and uneasy than her first taste of a man’s desire.

  They had come back to the “Golden Haven” for Abigail to put the final touches to her packing before Fred Thomas collected them in ten minutes’ time.

  Then she saw it. A slip of folded parchment, well-creased from constant handling, lying indifferently on the dusty floor, waiting to be read. It must have fallen from her husband’s coat as he had tossed it on a bed, shunning his jacket in the heat and preferring to roll his shirt-sleeves for comfort.

  Female inquisitiveness had no delay as she scanned the rich violet ink.

  ‘My dear Robert,

  ‘Whilst I know condolences are inappropriate, you and I both cognizant of the situation, yet, be assured my thoughts are with you at this time.

  ‘After consideration of the climate here, I thought best to warn you not to return home yet. You know only too well what gossips these people are, and it is put about that Thomasine’s death was at your hands. My father believes this to be hearsay, and his mood is not conducive to your return for the present. Let me know of your whereabouts, and I shall endeavour to inform you when the atmosphere is more congenial, though I fear this may not be for some time.

  ‘Caroline is with child again, and little Edward is growing so fast that you would not know him. I miss our hunting, and I look forward to the time when Wellington will see his master again. He can still hurdle the yew hedge as well as on the day you left. I daresay Henry has given you news there. They were all thriving when I visited them last week.

  ‘Until I hear from you next,

  ‘Yours, etc.

  ‘Aubrey Fitzjames.’

  The letter was dated October, 1861, a month after Papa had left Sydney.

  What could it mean? “Thomasine’s death was at your hands”? The words made a sickening imprint on her heart, accentuated from the others. She stood there, the hot flush of unwanted knowledge burning her mind, when her husband dashed through the curtain. He caught her in the act of folding the letter to return it to its hiding-place. The paper was snatched from her hands, and with fear in her eyes she looked at Rob.

  “You must not read other people’s letters,” he chided.

  “Not even my husband’s?”

  “Nor mine!” he asserted, his eyes boring into her thoughts.

  “Then I may not have read it!” she tried to quip lightheartedly.

  “Ah, but you did.” The statement, with a rising cadence, was a query.

  With all her effort of casual pretence, she tossed back flippantly, “Who’s to know?” and fluttered her eyelids coyly.

  “The coquette does not become you,” he stated firmly, catching her up by the arm, his fingers digging to the bone. The frightening moment passed. “Stay as you are, Abby. ’Tis how I like you best,” he murmured softly, and dropped her arm. Pocketing the letter, he made no further reference to it, assuming that Abigail had not read it.

  Her thoughts raced. Was he—dare she think it—a murderer? Was she right to have put her trust in him? Were those hands, but recently caressing her, the hands of a killer? She had no time to form a plan of escape, for that was what was taking shape in the back of her mind. Rob had taken their baggage out to the cart, and, in a matter of seconds, would be taking her.

  Forcing her, she thought. His grip on her elbow was hard as a rock..

  “How d’ye do, Mrs. Sinclair, ma’am.” Fred Thomas was tipping his wide, floppy felt, and before she could blink she was well ensconced beside sacks of flour, potatoes, shovels and mining cradles, on a grubby pallet at the side of his shaky wooden dray. Rob sprang up beside the driver on to the rough-hewn wooden seat.

  A great deal of jeer
ing and shouting accompanied them as the frisky geldings threw the cart into confusion amidst the hapless diggers, yet to find and stake a claim, who were forced to journey Shanks’s pony.

  The coach had been slung on seven or eight leather straps upon which it rocked recklessly, and which, in part, had some effect of cushioning the seasick ride. But the cart had no such device. Every bump, every rut and pothole was felt, jarring through the back to the head. By the time a quarter of an hour had gone, Abigail had a splitting headache and she was in fear of losing the bacon broth and shortbread she had eaten. It was not only the nerve-racking ride that made her feel ill; the ghastly thoughts of her husband contributed immeasurably to her shaking disposition.

  She managed to hold on grimly to her lunch until three-quarters of an hour later Fred Thomas called a halt, “to stretch the legs”, just in time for her to make a bolt for the side of the track. She was violently sick, then white and drawn, she returned to the men.

  “Bear up, Abby. We are nearly halfway now.” Rob took her hand and led her to a spot for resting.

  “Here, ma’am, some water for drinkin’. Wash the taste from yer mouth.” Mr. Thomas handed over a grimy canvas waterbag.

  “I think this might be better,” Rob said as he pulled a small hip-flask from his trouser pocket.

  Remembrance of the rum made Abigail flinch, but nevertheless she cautiously moistened her lips with the liquid. It was rum, and as the sour taste in her mouth sweetened, she felt a little revived. Gratefully she handed back the flask. She dared not use the offered waterbag, not knowing the source of its water.

 

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