by Lois Mason
“And Papa? How is Papa?” she asked anxiously. He only uttered one word. “Rich.”
She knew not whether it was to her father’s health or pecuniary status that he referred. Nor was there a chance for him to elaborate, for he was engrossed in negotiating his dray on to the punt again, and delivering them, just in time, to catch the last coach back to Manuherikia.
They were lucky that their transport left the following morning and that there were spare seats. Ned helped with their bags, collecting their laundry from Willy Gee’s, and waved them off in the dawn. A touch of sadness shook Abigail as she bade farewell to this helpful man with one of the kindest dispositions she knew. She hoped their adieux were not for ever.
In a mood of total depression she clutched Rob for support as the coach lurched about the terrifying windings of Rough Ridge and the Lammermoors. It was an eighteen-passenger affair, and with five relays of horses could now do the trek in one day, reaching Dunedin by way of the Mountain Track, shortly before midnight.
The weather was fine. No hefty gusts bowled them over, no rain or flash floods delayed, and nor were there any bushranger hold-ups. They scanned every horseback rider or traveller with a cart that they encountered, but not one was Abigail’s father.
In the early hours of the next morning they met an astonished Mrs. Sergeant in her green satin peignoir and nightcap, who, finding the girl now with husband, had no hesitation in putting them both into the upstairs back double-bedroom.
Abigail thought her landlady amazingly unperturbed by her bombshell. But the good soul, still half-asleep, was in truth so stunned that she could not take it all in. Her action was by habit. Married couples always went into the upstairs back.
Abigail was shaking with weariness as her husband helped prepare her for bed. They were both too tired to search out their night clothes.
Rob pulled off her dusty jacket and dress, and unlaced her petticoats; she was so exhausted that her fingers trembled and would not perform these intricacies. Then, with one swift swoop, he plucked her up and laid her on the huge iron four-poster.
Tenderly, he washed the journey’s grime from her as she closed her eyes, nearly asleep.
“What now, Rob?” she whispered, her mind dwelling only on one goal. His ministrations were wholly solicitous, the touch of a caring husband, not a passionate lover.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning, my sweet. Go to sleep now. We shall find your father, Abby. Be assured of it.”
“Papa ... how? How shall we?” Her face looked set to dissolve once more with her agony.
Rob finished drying her arms and legs, then sat beside her, and bending forward, ran his palm backwards and forwards across her wrinkled brow until his soothing movements had banished every line.
“Everything will resolve itself soon, I promise!” he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead and continuing his stroking until he was satisfied that she was fast asleep. Not till then did he undress, wash, and slip in beside her.
She woke to the sunlight dancing on the side window-panes and particularly noisy sparrows under the eaves.
Rob’s amused expression in his large clear eyes, the colour of the Molyneux, met her as she turned to him.
“I was wondering how long it would take before you awoke,” he said.
“I ... What time is it?”
“I don’t know, but there’ve been noises in the kitchen below for nearly an hour. Close to breakfast, anyway,” he murmured, nuzzling into her neck and burying himself in her softness.
As his hand came up over her breast and she felt the heat of his ardour once again, she trembled with the force of her own passion. Mastering her emotions, she gave him a playful push.
“Then I think we’d best dress for it,” she said firmly.
He frowned petulantly for a second, then considered her words. “Aye, you are quite right, my dear. And you shall introduce me to your brother. There will be much explaining, won’t there?” He grinned ruefully.
And your family, she thought. What of yours? This man, who had intruded so roughly into her life, now so gentle and considerate, was still as enigmatic as the day they had fallen from the coach.
He gave her no chance to put words to the unspoken queries in her eyes. Yanking the patchwork quilt and sheets and exposing her half-clad body, he leapt out of bed, ordering her to follow her own counsel.
“Rob! That’s unfair!” she protested. She hated stirring herself so rapidly first thing in the morning.
“If you’ll not dress, then perhaps you’d prefer this!” he laughed, as he was back upon her again, covering her face, neck, and breasts with firm, demanding kisses.
She giggled as he mocked their intimacy with his teasing, and would have responded to his jesting had there not been a knock on the door at that very moment.
“Coming!” he called, hastily wrapping the quilt about him whilst she drew the sheets up tight to her neck.
He opened the door a crack, enough for him to look out. Abigail heard Biddy, Mrs. Sergeant’s scullery-maid, address her husband.
“Ma’am thought ye’d be likin’ your breakfast in bed this mornin’, what with your long journey and all. There’s bacon and eggs, bread, butter and a little bit o’ ma’am’s black currant conserve. I made ye coffee, but if ye’d sooner tea? And would there be anything else ye’d be wantin’, sir?”
Rob told her that there was nothing else, and thrusting out one long hirsute arm deftly managed to keep himself behind the door as he took the tray and kicked the door shut with his foot. As he transferred the weight into both hands, his “robe” fell about his feet.
“Your Mrs. Sergeant has an uncanny sense of timing,” he delivered in a tone of annoyance. “And what are you laughing about?”
Abigail’s mirth filled the room with sunshine. “You! You don’t know how funny you look!”
As they ate their breakfast side by side in the huge bed, she thought there was one thing she could say for her new husband. He never failed to lift her from dejection
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
“He’s a good man, Abby, your husband,” William commented matter-of-factly, as he helped himself to another of Mrs. Sergeant’s buttermilk scones. .
Abigail thought how well her brother was looking, and under their landlady’s attentions he seemed to have grown even taller.
It was three days later and there was still no news of Papa. But there had been no effort spared on Rob’s part in making enquiries, leaving their address at the Bank of New South Wales, and putting an advertisement, to run each day for the next two weeks in the Otago Daily Times, in the hopes that Papa might read it. How Rob could pay for it—for it must have cost him a fortune—or for the new clothes he was buying her, she had no idea.
It was strange that he had had no home in Dunedin. She had assumed he did, but he had declared that they must all stay with Mrs. Sergeant until her father was located.
“Aye,” she nodded, concurring with his judgment and hoping that he would not ask any sticky questions about the mysterious man she had married.
Miraculously, the affable personality of this enigma endeared him to others instantly, and neither Mrs. Sergeant nor Billy saw anything amiss in Abigail’s hasty marriage. For Mrs. Sergeant, these days were heady times. Once she had assimilated the fact of this young lass meeting the choice of her heart on the gold-fields, then she could wish Abigail nought but happiness; Billy was not yet mature enough to appreciate fully the subtle intrigues between men and women. He only knew that he liked Rob, who talked to him man-to-man, and consulted him in his every move in their search.
Before Billy could question further, Rob himself came in, dressed in new town clothes—muted green tweed pegtops, black morning coat and matching waistcoat, starched linen collar with a neat silk bow-tie, and grey melon-shaped bowler. How well he carries himself, Abigail thought. There was something arrogant in his bearing and his clothes sat naturally, easily, on him.
She stood u
p to greet him, parading herself before him. Rob, on retrieving her abysmally crushed clothes from Cobb and Company, had declared that she must have new ones, and she had changed into one of the dresses this afternoon.
“How does it suit, sir?” She patted her swaying-lettuce-green and white striped foulard dress, with its braid-trimmed pagoda sleeves. She twirled the natty brocaded parasol that he had also purchased.
Her husband beamed. “Most becoming! My wife is easily the prettiest female in the whole of Dunedin! Wouldn’t you say so, Billy? Come and sit beside me, Abby.”
William screwed up his face, failing to see any .thing special about his sister. “Have you heard anything from the bank?” he asked.
“Sorry, not yet.”
Abigail settled her crinoline back on to the couch in Mrs. Sergeant’s backyard. She wondered if Rob could see the almost obscenely green petticoat shading the thin material. She blushed to think of him buying such a garment. And hoops too! Did nothing daunt this incredible man?
“’Tis a beautiful dress, Rob, and I thank you. But should it not have been black for Mama?”
“Nay,” he asserted, “you’re too young for mourning. I’m sure your mother would not wish her daughter, as a young bride, to dress so drear. Do not fret—the armband’s enough. Mrs. Sergeant agrees with my decision, and I’m sure Billy does too?”
The lad nodded. He too had the narrow black taffeta riband around his sleeve. Abigail did not argue; she also had no desire to adopt the dismal convention. Because she did not wear black did not mean that she grieved any the less in her heart. It was far more cheering to dress in colours of freshness and light.
At that instant Mrs. Sergeant appeared, bearing more tea things and scones. “Here you are, Mr. Sinclair. I thought you’d like to join your wife. Oh goodness, Miss Abigail,” she could not quite accustom herself to calling the girl “Mrs. Sinclair”, “don’t you look a treat!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sergeant, and there’s something I’ve been meaning to return to you.” She put her hands to the back of her neck and unclasped the little medal. “Here ’tis. I’m sure it looked after me, too. Apart from my husband, of course!”
“Aye, ’tis good you are safe back to us again. I’d forgotten I’d given it to you. Have you heard anything of Mr. Wright, sir?”
“Nought, I’m afraid, Mrs. Sergeant. But we’ll not despair, Abby. ’Tis early days yet, and it’s probable that he went back to Gabriel’s. All we can do is wait.” Abigail’s mouth started to turn down at the corners and she swallowed hard. Rob saw the start of her miseries and squeezing her hand, bantered jovially, “’Tis time we celebrated our wedding! What say you, Mrs. Sergeant, Billy? Shall we go to the Vauxhall Gardens this evening? Some dancing will be just the thing to cheer us all up!”
Billy was not so sure about the man’s notion, but their landlady, always one for an opportunity for some gaiety, agreed with alacrity.
“Abby? What of you?” Rob pushed his suit.
“Oh ... I have nought to wear!” she protested, thinking that she couldn’t leave this place, even for one night, in case her father turned up.
“Nonsense! By six o’clock you shall have all the requisites for such an outing,” he replied firmly.
Despite her objections that he had spent more than enough already in refurbishing her wardrobe, he bullied her into agreeing, and was soon off about the business.
By six o’clock, she did indeed have all she needed for an evening of dancing; though Rob confessed that he had borrowed Biddy, whose lithesome figure was similar to Abigail’s, for an hour to ensure that the dress would be a perfect fit.
It was. Like a glove. Its neat pointed waist accentuated her own, albeit Abigail had a secret feeling that it would not be quite so narrow much longer. It was a delicate furbelowed off-the-shoulder froth of aqua-patterned muslin, trimmed with darker ruched Chantilly lace at least fifteen inches wide on the tiers and narrower about the décolletage, with tiny sprays of silken rosebuds of white hued to the palest pink, touched with fronds that trickled from the waist down the side of the dress in a line to the first furbelow. Rob had even found a matching chaplet of rosebuds and greenery to twine in her hair!
She admired herself in the tall mahogany cheval, turning this way and that with a swish of the expansive skirts. Into the mirror came the reflection of the man she now knew she loved.
“Rob! ’Tis ... absolutely exquisite!” she exclaimed, taking up his hand in her excitement and kissing him on the cheek.
“Just the cheek, Abby? Surely a husband deserves more?” he teased, and with that she was once more overwhelmed by the delightfully sensual touch of his lips as they firmly savoured her expectant mouth. She could have lingered thus, drawing sweetness from him, but he pulled away, his eyes twinkling.
“Nay, we must not dally. Mrs. Sergeant’s dinner is almost ready and you must change. Here, I’ve a present for you.” He turned and took a square package from the whatnot in the corner of their bedroom. “My wedding gift. It would have been here yesterday, but I wanted it engraved for my bride.”
“Oh, Rob! You have given me too much already,” she protested as she took the article from him.
“Quick! Open it,” he urged.
She did so and smiled. It was what every husband or fiancé gave to the girl he loved, but this sewing-box was matchless in its beauty and unlike any she had seen so far.
“’Tis made from kauri. I told the man how the inscription should be. Do you like it?” He regarded her apprehensively.
“’Tis beautiful! Oh, thank you,” she murmured.
He had his reward in watching her little fingers lovingly trace the fine carving, with delicate patterns inlaid with lighter woods. He had had her name inscribed on a small brass plate, ornately entwined with roses, lilies, heartsease, and forget-me-nots, “Abigail Sinclair”. And below this a date, “8 Jan. 1863”. Their marriage day. Her eyes clouded as she thought of that ceremony in its crude surroundings.
Rob encircled her with his arm. “I know it was not in the best of circumstances we wedded, but I’ll make it up to you, Abby. I promise.”
“You already have, Rob,” she replied as she opened the vermilion, velvet-lined box. It was full of every conceivable aid to needlework—pincushions, scissors, pins, silver thimbles—all curlicued and floral-bedecked by engravings. Even the cotton bobbins had dear little mother-of-pearl flowers decorating each end. Her eyes told her gratitude and emotion as she gently closed its lid.
“You must change now, Abby. I’ve ordered two cabs for us an hour after dinner. Do you think you shall be ready by then?” Rob asked.
“I shall have to be, shan’t I?” she teased.
As it was, the cabs only waited five minutes as the ladies put the final touches to their attire. Mrs. Sergeant, rather splendid in emerald and black taffeta ruffled at its broad hem at least ten yards around, was handed somewhat self-consciously into one cab by William. Abigail and her husband followed in the second.
The waltz-like strains of the redowa wafted over the chatter as they climbed out of the hansoms pulled up in the Vauxhall Gardens. Many eyes were drawn to the picture of beauty and innocence that Abigail made as she drew her cloak about her, but hers were for her husband only.
He, too, cut more than a fine figure in his new clothes, consisting as they did of a knee-length black dress coat, lined with silk serge and with low, narrow lapels faced in black velvet, and braided black cheviot trousers. The bright colours of his silk-embroidered waistcoat relieved this sombre appearance. There was something familiar about his dark figure which eluded her. It was as if she had seen it all before, yet she knew that that was impossible. Perhaps, like a dream that becomes reality, this tall, handsome man had already existed before she met him as a fragmentary illusion in her girlish imagination.
It was still light enough—for twilight drew itself out till almost nine in this Southern quarter of New Zealand—to see the glorious floral displays, cunningly devised in some motif
or other. There a flag bloomed in red, blue and white petunias, and here a diamond radiated upon itself. One came upon these gorgeous, brilliantly-coloured garden plots at unexpected intervals, by way of narrow, fern-enframed, leafy winding paths that discreetly skirted grottoes where garden furniture and gazebos invited dalliance, and led to the band rotunda, and the pavilions for refreshments, dancing and vaudeville.
They headed towards the dancing pavilion—a large, timber structure gaudily decorated with rococo effects in multi-coloured paintwork.
Even Mrs. Sergeant twirled and whirled with William as he made a gallant endeavour to act the gentleman, steering the good lady in and out among the other dancers and hoping that he would not tread on her slippers or bump the rest of the dancers too often.
Partners were exchanged and they pranced to the polka, then back again to original escorts for a breathless mazurka. At this point Mrs. Sergeant begged leave to sit out the dance. The truth was that her corsets were suffocating her, and she thought she would duck off to the Ladies’ retiring room and have them loose-laced. When she left William he sauntered outside for some air.
“I think I’ll have to stop too,” Abigail breathlessly called to her partner in mid-dance. “I feel a little tired and can barely keep up with the music.”
Her husband stopped immediately and put an arm around her back. “Come, we’ll stroll in the garden and find a seat for you to rest.”
Abigail took out her ivory fan from the reticule dangling from her wrist, and cooled her flushed face. Neither Billy nor Mrs. Sergeant was to be seen.
“You’d best put your cloak over your shoulders, my dear. Although ’tis warm outside there are some cool breezes. Wait while I fetch it.” Rob left her near the door while he went to the cloakroom.
Abigail idly watched the other couples dancing, a spectacle of expansive feminine frills and ribands, gliding about the floor now to a slow waltz. Then she diverted her attention to the newcomers dribbling through the door. One in particular attracted her notice. There was nothing about his evening dress to distinguish him from any of the other well-attired gentlemen until his dress coat parted, but his vest was outlandish, ostentatiously announcing wealth. Emeralds, topazes, rubies twinkled mockingly—so also did the dark, deepset eyes of their owner.