Hearts in the Land of Ferns

by Jude Knight

  She waited her turn at the small mirror, smoothed the hair that had been disarranged by her bonnet, and spent a few more minutes tidying and arranging her clothes, reluctant to re-join her escort.

  But he was not in the entrance foyer when she emerged from the ladies’ retiring room. Such a small man; perhaps she was missing him in the crowd? She began to weave between the groups of people who had stopped to greet one another, or who were lined at the door of the main room, waiting to enter. No. No Mr Hackerton.

  “Are you on your own, Miss?” A strange man rested a hand on her arm, and she flinched. “Thank you, no,” she stammered, backing away. He persisted, following her. “Would you care for a dance, Miss?”

  Her backward progress was arrested as she came up against a solid body, and her momentary panic turned to relief at Mr O’Bryan’s warm tones. “There you are, Miss Campbell. So easy to get lost when there are so many people.” She looked up at him with a warm smile, and the man who had addressed her melted into the crowd.

  “Have you become separated from your escort?” Mr O’Bryan asked. “May I find him for you?”

  “I thought he was waiting here for me, Mr O’Bryan, but he must have gone on inside. I don’t suppose that man meant any harm.”

  “Probably not,” Mr O’Bryan agreed. But his eyes remained wary as he offered her his arm.

  How different it was making her way through the shifting masses shielded by Mr O’Bryan’s protective arm and cheerful quips. Once they were through the door and in the main room, the crowd opened out enough for her to see Mr Hackerton talking to several other people from the church, and she directed Mr O’Bryan in that direction.

  Hackerton saw them coming and abandoned his conversation to bustle in their direction, glowering. “Miss Campbell, what are you about?”

  “Mr Hackerton, may I make known to you Mr O’Bryan, the nephew of my Aunt Agnes? Mr O’Bryan was kind enough to escort me through all the people.”

  “O’Bryan.” Mr Hackerton gave a short nod, his frown not a whit abated.

  “We have met,” Mr O’Bryan told Rose, returning the nod with no more affability than Mr Hackerton. “I commend Miss Campbell to your care, Hackerton. The crowd presses more roughly than a lady likes.”

  Two dogs circling with their hackles raised, and Rose would not be the bone between them. She murmured her thanks to Mr O’Bryan and left the two gentlemen to their dispute, passing them to greet Mr and Mrs MacTavish and their adult children.

  Mr Hackerton followed her a moment later, but by then, she was admiring Miss Minnie MacTavish’s gown and Miss Molly MacTavish’s fine Indian shawl, and having her own shawl—Thomas’s beautiful Christmas gift—admired in turn.

  “Virtue is a woman’s best adornment,” Mr Hackerton proclaimed, offending Mr MacTavish, who complained. “Ye are no’ sayin’ that me Minnie and Molly are no’ virtuous, Hackerton?”

  In the interconnected web of Dunedin’s merchant world, MacTavish and his carrier business were crucial. Hackerton was quick to deny any such intention, and with luck, would forget Rose’s own crimes in the ensuing fuss.

  After three country dances—one with Hackerton, one with the oldest MacTavish son, and one she watched from the side lines—the band began a waltz. Rose would not dance the scandalous dance, of course, though she watched wistfully as the MacTavish girls, one after another, accepted invitations from young men approved by their father.

  How lovely the dancers looked. Gentlemen in black tailcoats; merchants and clerks and carters and miners in their Sunday best, turning and circling around the floor to the music, the women in their arms like so many flowers, with their full skirts swaying, especially those whose exaggerated bells were supported by fashionable hoops.

  She did not realise she was smiling and humming until Mr Hackerton touched her arm to gain her attention. “You are not listening, Miss Campbell. I said I am surprised at Mr MacTavish, allowing his daughters to participate in such a riotous activity. A country dance, yes. Some consider such levity unbecoming, but I cannot allow that the Lord frowns on all dancing, when we are told David danced. Not the waltz, however.”

  Rose had a sudden image of the David from the colour plate illustration she had seen at the Athenaeum, that beautiful naked youth with a slingshot over his shoulder. The man who danced before the Ark, but also had several wives at once and pursued Bathsheba even to the point of murder, would have loved the waltz, she thought.

  Mr Hackerton droned on, and she listened with half an ear, so her nods and shakes—the only conversational input he required—were not totally inappropriate. The rest of her mind was on the dancing. Had Papa not died in his futile quest for riches, he would have permitted her to waltz. Papa laughed at his brother’s rigid ways and enjoyed seeing his daughter in pretty dresses.

  The waltz was followed by another country dance, into which Hackerton condescended to lead her. “For you are not to think, Miss Campbell, that I will forbid my wife all frivolity,” he told her when they took their turn to stand aside for the other couples. “Though I cannot approve of your acquaintance with that scoundrel, O’Bryan.”

  “He is my aunt’s nephew, Mr Hackerton,” she protested, ignoring the reference to a marriage the man had not discussed with her.

  “Yes, and it is a great pity,” Hackerton shook his head, as if in sorrow. “Mrs Campbell is a good woman, and for her sister to marry a half-breed, and a Papist half-breed, at that! Campbell has told me all about it. Then for that young man to come here with his foreign ways and his foreign goods…”

  It was their turn in the dance again, and Rose spent her time in the figures wondering why Mr Hackerton was so upset with Mr O’Bryan.

  “What has Mr O’Bryan done, Mr Hackerton?” she ventured, when they stood out again.

  “Why, that scoundrel plans on importing his own supplies for his stores in the fields, instead of buying from us here in Dunedin! Are our goods not good enough for him?” Hackerton continued to rave during each break, though Rose rather thought that most of what he said was jealousy.

  She sat to watch several more dances, while Hackerton chatted with various business contacts. Mr O’Bryan did not sit out a dance, though he did not dance twice with the same partner.

  She was watching him promenade his latest partner up between the couples in a line dance, one hand gracefully on his hip, and the other holding the lady’s high between them, when she felt a sharp pinch on her arm.

  “Miss Campbell!” Hackerton frowned at her startled yelp. “You will not embarrass me by panting after that whelp.”

  “Mr Hackerton!” Rose rubbed her arm furiously. How dare he pinch her? And how dare he accuse her of… of inappropriate thoughts about Mr O’Bryan?

  “I expect propriety at all times, Miss Campbell, and you will do well to keep that in mind. My wife must be beyond reproach. Beyond reproach, I say.”

  “I am not your wife, Mr Hackerton. Nor have you asked me to take that role.”

  Mr Hackerton waved off the objection. “No, that is all organised. Your uncle has agreed. The banns are to be called this Sunday.” Sensing, perhaps, that this was not to her liking, he grabbed her hand in one of his pudgy fists and patted it. “You will find me a generous husband, if you are an obedient wife, Laura, my dear.”

  Suddenly, Rose was furious, being misnamed the last straw. “Mr Hackerton, you are much mistaken if you think I will be your wife, obedient or otherwise. It is my agreement you need, not my uncle’s, and I do not give it.”

  Mr Hackerton smiled indulgently. “There, there. It is all understood. You must trust your uncle to know what is best for you, my dear, Laura.”

  “I am not called Laura. Nor have I given you permission to be so familiar. Nor shall I.”

  “Miss Campbell, you forget yourself.” Mr Hackerton was becoming annoyed. “Campbell has promised me your hand, and we will be wed before the end of the month.”

  “No, Mr Hackerton,” Rose insisted, “we will not.”

 
“Is this man annoying you, Miss Campbell?” Concentrating on her altercation with Hackerton, she had not heard Mr O’Bryan approach.

  “This is between me and my betrothed, O’Bryan, and nothing to do with you,” Hackerton bellowed.

  O’Bryan’s eyes shifted to Rose, doubt clouding them.

  “He is not my betrothed,” Rose said, her voice louder than she intended, and was startled to hear a hiss. Looking around, she realised they were the focus of attention in this corner of the room, and several people from the church congregation were frowning at her.

  She shrank towards Mr O’Bryan, and he rose to the occasion. “Will you honour me with a dance, Miss Campbell?”

  “You will not.” Hackerton, too, had noticed the interest of the bystanders and lowered his voice accordingly. “Miss Campbell, you will not dance with this man. And a waltz, at that!”

  Rose ignored him, though her hand trembled on Mr O’Bryan’s arm as he led her onto the floor. She would not faint. She would not be ill. She would sail around the room in Mr O’Bryan’s arms, and if she were a poor, brown sparrow against the colourful flowers that had sailed there before, she would make the most of her opportunity. She would, for certain, pay the price when her uncle found out, but she would have the pleasure first.

  Miss Campbell slowly relaxed into the dance, and as she gave herself over to the music and the movement, Thomas let the tension drain out of his own muscles. Still, he kept an eye on Hackerton, until he saw the man push his way to the front door and leave.

  Thomas had tried to do business with Hackerton when he first arrived in Dunedin, but soon realised the man was a bully and a coward, and a poor businessman, at that. Thomas had found other suppliers for the local products he couldn’t easily ship in. Hackerton had not been pleased.

  He hoped Miss Campbell was telling the truth when she said she was not betrothed to Hackerton. The thought of this timid, little mouse in the hands of that brute made him firm his grip, pulling her a little closer, and he was thrilled to his core when she came willingly, trustingly, looking up into his eyes, smiling as he swung her around a turn in the dance, then reluctantly let her out again to the socially acceptable distance.

  He could dance with her all night, hold her in his arms for a lifetime, protecting her from any chill wind that shrivelled that sweet trust… He tried to remind himself she was wrong for him—wrong faith, wrong country, wrong in every way. He needed a strong woman who would be an asset in the business, not a shy, wee lassie that needed to be sheltered and cosseted.

  Though she was a hard worker, he would give her that. And she stood up to Hackerton, right enough. He chuckled. Hackerton had not expected that. Thomas had thought the man would explode.

  Rose, oblivious to his thoughts, chuckled with him. “This is such fun, Mr O’Bryan. Lovely to watch, but even lovelier to do!”

  “You’ve never waltzed before?” He could not believe it. She followed his steps as if they had practiced together half their lives.

  But she shook her head, vigorously. “Not in company. My father taught me the steps, but I have never been to a ball before.”

  “You dance beautifully,” he assured her, looking down into her laughing eyes. How lovely she was. And stronger than she knew, with her ability to put the nastiness with Hackerton aside and simply enjoy the moment.

  “Will you be in Dunedin long, Mr O’Bryan?”

  “I return to the fields tomorrow, Miss Campbell. I need to supervise the store until Mrs Moffat arrives, and then I will move to the new store in Arrow.”

  He told her his plans for the second store, barely listening to what he was saying, only knowing how good it felt to dance with her, talk to her.

  The music was ending. The dance was over, and he had to let her go. He swallowed, abruptly breathless with longing to keep her in his arms forever.

  It was difficult to speak past the yearning, but he managed to sound calm as he asked, “What do you wish to do now, Miss Campbell? Is there someone else I can take you to? Do you wish me to stay with you?”

  “I am sure the MacTavishes will see me home.”

  But when Thomas escorted her to the people she pointed out, the younger members of the family turned their backs, and the mother said, “You have chosen this outsider over one of our own, Miss Campbell. Let him see you home. If, indeed, you dare to return to your uncle’s house, after showing such ingratitude.”

  Without a word, Miss Campbell turned and walked stiffly away, two high spots of cover on her cheeks, and Thomas, after tossing the woman a scowl that should have shrivelled her where she stood, hurried after her.

  Miss Campbell said nothing until they had collected their coats and were walking through the silent streets, their breath condensing into small clouds as they walked. “She lets her own daughters waltz,” she burst out. “And she would not marry them to Mr Hackerton, either!”

  “Is your uncle…? Will your uncle make you marry?” He would marry her himself, rather than leave her to that fate—a solution that seemed sweeter to him the more he thought about it.

  “He cannot. This is the nineteenth century. A woman cannot be married against her will.”

  She sounded very firm, but wills can be suborned. He pulled her into the recess of a shop doorway, so they could continue the discussion out of the wind.

  “Will he be cross, Miss Campbell? Should I talk to him?”

  She shook her head, decisively. “That would make it worse, I do not doubt, though it is kind of you to offer. But what can he do, Mr O’Bryan? Shut me in my room to think over my sins, beyond a doubt, but he will let me out when there are chores to be done.”

  She believed in her own safety. Looking into her eyes in the half-light, he could see the certainty there. Without conscious thought, he laid his hand gently along the side of her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

  “If you have any doubt, Rose, and think Campbell might hurt you, or do something else to force you to his will, you do not have to go back.”

  She opened her mouth, already shaking her head, and he hurried on to say his piece before she could object. “You could marry me. I don’t flatter myself that I am a prize, but I am a better bet than Hackerton. Marry me, and let me care for you, Rose.” He bent, curving low to capture her mouth. It was as soft and full as it looked though, at first, stiff and unresponsive.

  But she followed his lead in this as she had in the dance, and what had begun as an impulsive gesture to prevent her from saying no became a luxurious vortex that spun him out of space and time until he was oblivious of everything except the giving, the taking, the sharing of their lips, their tongues, their mouths.

  She looked dazed when he drew back. Well, good. He was dazed. He gathered her against his chest and rested his cheek on her hair. “Marry me, Rose,” he repeated.

  “I cannot, Thomas. You will be gone tomorrow. And we barely know one another.”

  “You could travel with one of the families, and we could be married when we arrive at the fields. I know we haven’t known one another long, but I know you are brave and true. I know you feel like Heaven in my arms. I know I can talk to you for hours about anything under the sun.”

  “Oh, Thomas… I wish…” She gathered herself, pulling away a little, so she could look up at him. He took heart that she stayed within his arms.

  “If you are still of the same mind next time you come to Dunedin, Thomas, I would be proud to be your wife.” She blushed, casting her eyelashes down onto her cheeks. “Proud,” she repeated.

  Later, locked in her room, lying, bruised and bleeding, on her bed, after the worst beating her uncle had ever given her, she regretted that choice. She should have gone with him, in her Sunday best, leaving behind her meagre belongings. But would he have taken her? And wouldn’t he have regretted it?

  Aunt Agnes had screamed at her, but Uncle Campbell had been silent in his fury. Mr Hackerton, who had been at the house when she arrived home, had declared himself released from his contract b
y her outrageous behaviour. So, one good thing had come from all the fuss.

  Even days later after she was able to drag herself from her bed, she was not permitted to leave the house. Instead, the new maid was sent on errands, and Rose was set to scouring the floors and emptying the chamber pots.

  She endured. Surely, they would not keep her prisoner forever? Indeed, after the third time the servant came home with no change, having overspent on meat and vegetables that were old and tired, and resigned from her post when scolded, Rose was once more sent out to press every coin until it squeaked, though her time was closely monitored, so she dared add nothing to the errand on which she was sent.

  Thomas would return for her, as he had promised. Or, she would find a position and make her own way.

  While she waited, life fell back into a normal pattern, except that members of the congregation turned their backs to her when they saw her on the street, or even in church. It was not important. She had only to endure until she finished healing, or until Thomas returned.

  Mr Hackerton came first.

  6

  “He is prepared to take you despite your behaviour,” Aunt Agnes crowed. And Uncle Campbell was gleefully discussing the supply contract the marriage would, apparently, seal.

  At first, neither heard Rose’s quiet “No.”

  Aunt Agnes was the first to notice. “No? What do you mean, ‘No’?”

  “No, Aunt Agnes. I will not marry Mr Hackerton. I would not marry Mr Hackerton, even if I had not promised to wait for Mr O’Bryan.”

  The storm broke, as she had expected, and she bowed her head and ignored them both. They could lock her up, beat her, starve her, but they could not force her to marry against her will.

  “…And you need not think I’ll continue to house such an ungrateful Jezebel. You disgraceful harlot, consorting with the Whore of Babylon. I’ll not have it, I tell you. Obey me or leave my house, Laura Rose Campbell.”

  “Very well, Uncle. I will leave.”