Abigail's Quest

by Lois Mason

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  “Wake up, Mrs. Sinclair! ’Tis nearly time for us to be away. Come on, sleepyhead.” Abigail felt her husband’s touch on her shoulder. He was already dressed, freshly-shaven, and looked as if he had been up for hours.

  She had not heard him arise. “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Nigh on eight. Since we’re taking a few days for our journey there’s no need for early starting. You looked so peaceful there asleep, I thought best not to disturb you until it was really necessary.”

  So peaceful, and so vulnerable. Sleep had been the only refuge from her perturbation; awake now, those tumultuous notions crowded in again. She sat up and shook her head. The long copper locks cascaded negligently against her luminous, pale skin.

  Her husband’s gaze disturbed as he lovingly scrutinized her thick shining hair as it swirled about her elfin face. Fear was momentarily forgotten as he gently leaned over, and pushing a lock behind her ear, pressed his lips firmly into the nape of her neck. Were those palpitations those of a wife for her husband? For, despite the aura of mystery enshrouding him, she sensed that hers might be a charmed existence in his company, and his kiss of the morning caused more than a flutter in her wifely breast.

  “Breakfast in fifteen minutes. And by the smell from Mrs. McNamara’s range, ’tis bacon,” he informed her.

  Bacon! Bacon again. Bacon for breakfast, bacon for dinner. Bacon broth, baked, stewed and fried bacon. Always bacon. The corners of Abigail’s small mouth unconsciously turned down. There was a limit to bacon.

  “I quite agree, my dear,” her husband concurred on seeing her expression, “but remember we are hardly in the centre of society out here, and there’s little variety to be had in food. Bacon’s a good keeper.”

  “And a bad settler,” she replied pertly, the nauseous ride in the dray yesterday uppermost in her mind.

  “Never mind. When we’re back in Dunedin...”

  Abigail looked up in anticipation. What would it be like? But he tailed off and gave no indication.

  “I shall see you in the dining-room in quarter of an hour. Have you something warm for the ride? It promises fair, but the air is still keen.” He was all business again.

  “I have a cape.”

  “Good. You will probably need it.” With that he left her to prepare herself for the day.

  One thing, she thought, there was no ominous pounding on the roof, so they would be dry for riding.

  She was soon washed and dressed, leaving the merino cloak over the bed to collect after breakfast. She was eager to be off—there was nothing better than galloping astride, wind through her hair, out in the open country. It was far preferable to sitting in a tossing coach or carriage, although much less ladylike. There were times when to be unladylike was infinitely more desirable. All cares could be forgotten in the motion of a horse—only horse and rider mattered, each attuned to the other.

  As she pulled on the green chintz again, drooping without its hoops, she wondered what steed Rob had picked out for her. Horses were fickle. With some there was instant rapport, others needed cajoling, wheedling, or a firm hand before camaraderie could be established.

  Rob was talking and laughing animatedly with a group of men and Mrs. McNamara in the far corner of the room as she entered. His eyes lit up when he saw her and he beckoned her over to a table adjacent to the group. The men paused in the midst of conversation to openly admire this sprightly slip of a girl, whose figure was readily observable without the triangle that a crinoline suggested. As she sat down one of them continued his tale.

  “He’d put his teeth in a glass of water the night before,” he wheezed. “Well, when the coach came through at four in the mornin’ the water had froze! There he was, sittin’ in the coach holding his teeth in the glass ’til the ice thawed!”

  “The poor blighter,” another codger commented, as they all guffawed loudly.

  “Aye,” said Mrs. McNamara, “everything was iced up last winter. Ye’re most fortunate, Mr. Sinclair,” she turned to Abigail’s husband, “your journey is in the summer. My heart went out to those half-starved creatures going off in the snow and sleet.”

  Abigail’s heart churned. Was her father one of those to whom she referred? She could not imagine Papa, who was such a well-built man, ever becoming ‘half-starved’. Yet ... The shortage of food was a major topic of conversation. Did this mean even that Papa was touched by it?

  “Eat up, Abigail,” her husband whispered, as he watched her toying with what was on her plate. She felt almost guilty, eating the uninteresting food, thinking of the hundreds in far meaner circumstances. She looked at her husband. His was no slight figure by any means—he could never have known the suffering of starvation. Was this an indication of the life of which she knew so little?

  As she finished her breakfast and shared a pot of Twankay tea with Rob, she heard hoofbeats and an “Ahoy! Sinclair!” calling outside.

  Her husband sprang to his feet. “I’ll strap our bags up. Are you finished?” he asked her.

  “Quite.” She followed him to wrap herself in her cape, denying herself any last glimpses of her discarded belongings in the enormous armoire. Rob brusquely picked up the saddlebags and went out to the street.

  The men in the dining-room were surprised to see Abigail darting in and helping herself to some sugar lumps out of one of the many basins set about the trestles. She ignored their looks and went out to meet their transport.

  Her questions about her horse were instantly answered. She was pleased. Her hack was a moderately sized skewbald, with an amicable eye and a neat, frisky head, and Ned Fogg had an equally amicable eye as he watched the horse nuzzle into Abigail’s hand and take up the sugar. Rapport was instant and Abigail’s spirits lifted. Today was another day closer to her father.

  “That’s Gypsy Dancer, Mrs. Sinclair. She’s a bonny little horse and very good-natured if she likes you.” Ned Fogg held out his hand to her. She shook it; there was something dependable about his honest eyes and she knew she liked him. “I can see she does. You like horses, ma’am,” he stated admiringly.

  “Aye, I do.”

  “ ’Tis easily seen. Look at her makin’ up to ye! Ye’ll have nought to worry with her. Not like your husband’s. A contrary brute if ever I saw one, but I daresay

  your husband knows how to handle him.”

  They were alone for the moment, as Rob had gone back into the lodgings to settle their account with Mrs. McNamara and pick up the tent.

  “What’s his name?” Abigail looked at the high black beast snorting impatiently.

  “Midnight,” Ned Fogg replied. It was most appropriate. The animal looked as if all the forces of darkness had mustered their powers together in it. His eyes glinted evilly, and his nostrils flared as tossing his head he pulled against the reins restraining him to the hitching post outside the ‘Establishment’.

  “He’s a beauty, though,” she declared.

  “Aye, and he carries weight with lightness in his step. Mighty powerful even if his temper can be foul. I wouldn’t cross that horse, Mrs. Sinclair.”

  “Thank you for the warning.” Was he an evil horse for an evil man? No! She felt she was being carried away with far-fetched presentiments. Rob had shown her no malice and she was only too aware of his magnetism.

  He appeared at that moment bearing the calico rolls under his arms and handed Abigail a neatly-tied white linen bundle.

  “Parkin. A gift for you from Mrs. McNamara. She thought you might like a bite of cake to take with you since our fare will be plain. I thanked her for you.” Abigail took the rounded napkin and placed it in the top of her saddlebag. It should not squash there. “Are you happy with your horse?” Rob asked her. “She’s most suitable. I commend your taste. But I’m wondering about yours?”

  He smiled. “ ’Tis not looks that count. This one will serve us well—look at those haunches!” He strapped one of the rolls to the other side of the beast and tossed th
e other to Ned Fogg, who attached it to the packhorse.

  “You may be right,” she replied.

  “There’s no mounting-stool,” he observed. “Come! I’ll give you a leg-up.”

  He grasped her bent, stocking-clad leg and thrust her up. She was thankful that nobody else was around at that moment—mounting a horse astride, in skirts, was not conducive to a modest show. Hastily she tucked her skirts well in under her knees.

  Rob was soon mounted on his snorting animal, holding it in check. At a glance she could see that he, too, was accustomed to riding, and by the way he was now handling that proud mount, more than well-accustomed.

  The small entourage was under way: Ned Fogg, up front on his brown Archer, led the sturdy, grey pack-horse laden with most of their equipment and called, somewhat inappropriately, Moon Mist, for in no way did the solid creature resemble the heavenly qualities suggested by the name.

  Abigail’s husband rode beside her, behind Archer and Moon Mist. Midnight stretched against his bit, arching his neck contemptuously, eager for the pace to be increased. Rob managed him well.

  “Whoa, boy! We’ll let you run later, but you’ve a long way to go today and a slow pace is best first.” He slapped him against his neck. The horse tossed his head but responded to the male voice.

  Abigail could not help but admire her husband. A man who showed consideration towards his mount could hardly be capable of some dire action against a human. She reasoned that she knew nothing of the circumstances of that letter so could make no hasty judgement of him, particularly when she knew so little about her husband.

  Time was softening the acuteness of her terror, but there was too much mystifying her. At least this morning, in the crisp summer day, she felt that he could not harm her; and his obvious enjoyment of the ride, like her own made him even more attractive.

  “You love riding, Abby, I can see that,” he interrupted her thoughts.

  “Aye, ’tis what I like best!” she answered.

  “The same for me, Unless ’tis finding a maiden in distress!” he taunted mockingly. “One feels so free, as if nought could touch one. Especially here.” He waved his arm toward the scrub-covered hills, splendid in their isolation. Not a soul was to be seen. They had climbed away from the scene of the diggings and were trotting westwards to meet up with the Molyneux River, fifteen or so miles further on.

  The air was still and the sun now well up; Abigail had already shed her cape. The day could not have been more perfect, and was not yet too hot. The hills loomed about them and she sensed almost a presence in their desert-like, golden beauty.

  “These hills ... they speak to us,” Rob echoed her thoughts. “We are the intruders.”

  “Aye. What must they think of the thousands passing over them, and the ravaging they leave behind in their search for gold?” she answered.

  “Like scars that do not heal. But ’tis the way of men. Do you know what the Maori calls the South Island?” She shook her head.

  “Te Wai Pounamu. It means the water of jade. The Maori prizes a beautiful greenstone, and ’tis here among these mountains, or down on the beaches that he finds it. He used to travel hundreds of miles by canoe to seek it out. The white man is not the first to plunder this splendid land.”

  “ ’Tis a pity to touch it.” She turned her ingenuous eyes towards him.

  “Aye. But what a place to settle! If you had seen what I have, Abby, in the cities of England! The slums, overcrowding, poverty, and incessant smoke from the factory chimneys pouring their smuts on the daily lives of the people living beneath. Here, ’tis mostly unspoiled. ’Tis a fresh hope for those people. Pray to God that the land stays this way.”

  “Shall we settle here?” she demanded.

  “Nay.” His face clouded, became a closed book. He seemed not to want her to pursue that topic. Yet a wife had every right to know where she was to live with her husband! However she did not persist, although she thought it most peculiar that he would not tell her.

  Rob saw the puzzlement in her face and it pained him that he could do nothing at present to brush away the little wrinkles veining her forehead. He turned the subject.

  “How are your legs, Abby?”

  “The bruising’s still there, but the pain has gone.”

  “Good. We shall not make today’s journey too onerous for you,” he added concernedly.

  They rode on in silence, a slow little procession wending its way relentlessly towards the Beaumont cutting. The going was not easy. At times they had had to pick their way, single file, around narrow transverses with steep drops to gullies far below, or ford the many streams that ran down towards the Molyneux. So far the streams were easily forded, being shallow with firm, stony footholds.

  The creek they were now approaching, however, was more swollen than the others, and its water, increased by the night’s rain, raced in small rapids around and over the boulders. It could not have been more than fifteen feet wide at the point where Ned Fogg considered it safest to cross, but it was too wide to jump safely. It ran south-west, and Ned judged that they were not far now from the great Molyneux. About twenty yards downstream to her left, Abigail could see the water dropping almost in a waterfall, and heard the roar of it as the waters eddied at its foot. She watched hypnotisedly as the men deliberated how best to cross.

  To her mind they were spending an exasperating time working it out. Anyone could see that it was only a matter of putting your horse at it and moving through slowly and carefully as they had done with the others. It did not look that deep!

  “We’d best lighten Moon Mist. Ye take one load across, Mr. Sinclair, and follow me. Then if ye’d return and lead Gypsy Dancer...” Ned instructed.

  Her husband agreed. Together they unstrapped one of the calico rolls from Moon Mist’s side and Rob held it across the front of his saddle. Ned shifted the other roll up across the grey’s saddle.

  “Wait there,” Rob called tersely to Abigail as he headed his horse into the water after Ned.

  “What nonsense,” she thought. They were making an unconscionable fuss since they had now forded with apparent ease. No, she would not wait! She was quite capable of fording by herself, and besides they had wasted time enough already.

  She called across confidently, “I can come myself!” and plunged Gypsy Dancer into the racing water.

  “Don’t be foolish! Wait!” shouted her husband. But he was too late. She was halfway when the accident happened.

  The skewbald, so surefooted until now, suddenly shied and stumbled. It may have been the half submerged tree trunk, its jagged, unnatural shape frightening her for a moment. Whatever it was, it was enough to cause Abigail to be thrown straight over the horse’s neck into the water.

  Miraculously she was unhurt, the rushing water buffering her from any rocks, and she, in a daze of shock, even managed to find a footing in its pushing, icy wetness. A footing for a second. For, although the creek was only about her hips, it was moving with such velocity that she was too soon swept off her feet. The weight of her skirts dragged her down, and it was all she could do to keep her face out of water as her olive bonnet bobbed dangerously closer to the waterfall.

  Whatever happened next, happened in a flash, but to Abigail it took a lifetime.

  Her husband turned his great black mount straight at the rapids, and the next thing she knew was being fished out, pulled up by a bunch of skirt at her waist, and laid across the front ridge of Midnight’s saddle.

  Now the horse strained against the current to reach the opposite bank. The muscles taut in his flanks with a supreme effort, he gained ground.

  Choking and spluttering wretchedly, Abigail dared not look at her husband as he lifted her effortlessly from the saddle and set her down on the grass.

  “Phew! That was a close one. Are ye all right, Mrs. Sinclair?” Ned Fogg’s face was screwed up with concern.

  “Aye,” she replied faintly. Shamefacedly, she turned her wet face to her husband. “Thank you,” she whisp
ered contritely.

  “Saved your life, he did. Another yard and ye’d have been over that edge,” Ned prattled on.

  Shivering, Abigail took off her sodden bonnet, slowly regained equilibrium. Her chintz hugged her body, clinging to her breasts and outlining her cold nipples. Rob said nothing, made no rebuke. He pressed her hand tightly and she turned her bedraggled head to him.

  If ever there was a look of love, then it surely was on his face at that moment. A wave of recognition swept over her hazel eyes. She forgot her shame, her overconfidence, the impulse to ignore his warning. Returning the pressure on her hand, she murmured again, “Thank you, Rob. It seems I do need you, doesn’t it?”

  But there was no sarcasm this time in the acceptance of her need. In that awful moment alone in the water, fighting for her survival, she had realised her desire for this stranger; that he was more than a necessity, a means to her father.

  As that monstrous dark horse had borne down upon her, she had seen, almost in slow motion although the reality was the time of a falling star, that her fears were all figments of her imagination, that what was past did not matter—it was the now, the future, that did. And she had known that she desperately wanted to be saved by him, not to have all his secret promises brought to a watery end.

  High spirits reigned again—almost a nervous reaction to the tragedy so lately averted. For Ned Fogg it was relief that one of his party was saved, but for Rob and Abigail it was a mutual perception that a point of closeness, intimacy had been established. And for Abigail alone, it was the clearing of suffocating fears from her mind.