Swift Runs The Heart

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Swift Runs The Heart Page 12

by Jones, Mary Brock


  Finally, she blurted out, “So, what now?”

  “Now? Why, marriage, it seems, unless your young man can be encouraged to keep his mouth shut. I take it from his words that he is no longer a friend of yours?”

  Her head dropped. Little did Bas Deverill know, but it was paradise he offered her, yet for every wrong reason possible. “Is there no other alternative?” she whispered.

  “Only an ignominious return to your family.”

  “Back to Aunt Shonagh’s. She would have me married off to a suitable young man before I knew what had happened. Is that all? Forced marriage to you, or to a colourless, dour man whose only interest would be my father’s wealth. No, a thousand times no!”

  “Am I so bad an option? No one has ever accused me of being colourless or dour, at least.”

  “A saloon owner, whose wealth is gleaned from trading liquor and the services of unfortunate young women to the miners? You think I should find such an offer flattering?” If she could make herself angry enough, would the pain go away? Almost, she smiled. “Or should I be overwhelmed by your noble connections? How pleasant to think that with one little word, I could make my stepmother happy.”

  “Or I, my brother, you forget.”

  “So pleased that I might be of use to you.” Her eyes flashed angrily.

  It drew a like answer from him. “Why act so insulted? Look at what you get. A wealthy husband, and the source of my riches mean nothing in this country of opportunists, not to mention the social advantage gained by becoming the Honourable Mrs Deverill. While I get exactly the kind of wife my brother would appreciate; one of which he is able speak to his acquaintances, but who would also keep me permanently trapped in this misbegotten land on the other side of the world. You belong here, you have connections that would be useful to anyone settling here, and not even I am cruel enough to take you to England where you would wither and die.” He thrust a hand through his hair, then clasped both hands behind his back and glared at her. “I am offering you an honourable solution to a dilemma that is largely of your own making, Miss MacKenny. Might I remind you that if we do not marry, I lose nothing, and I keep my freedom.”

  “But what about mine?” And you don’t love me, said the silent voice in her heart.

  The tent walls were closing in, suffocating her. She had to get out. Her shove at his chest took him by surprise and he tumbled sideways, crashing onto her bed. She didn’t care. Her skirts swishing, she was out. Into the open air, with the moonlight silvering the rocks and grasses at the river’s edge below. She turned towards it, away from the noise and chaos of the streets. Down to a river deserted of prospectors for the first time since she had come here. So intent was she on escape that her slipper-shod feet raced across the rocks and gravel without noticing the tears and bruises. She halted her onward rush only when she was right away from the tent.

  A small rock jutted out over the rushing waters here. She stood where she had stopped, her eyes taking in the shapes and lights about her. Below, flashes and sparkles from the river; close to, the lines and blocks of rocks and grass; over the other side, the steely mirror of night’s cold light on planes of stone and bare dirt. The only sounds to be heard above the rushing of waters were the harsh gasping sounds of her breathing, ragged gusts of air forced haphazardly into tormented lungs.

  Then a crunch of soil and the hurry of feet. For the second time this evening a hand fell on her shoulder. This time she was expecting it and turned slowly, her gaze steady on him as she forced her breathing to slow, to sound calm.

  He was not so calm.

  “What in hell do you mean coming out here on your own? Hasn’t anyone told you that ladies shouldn’t wander about mining camps on their own at night?”

  She glanced at his hand, then back to his face.

  “Why? Why did you offer marriage?”

  “With that young idiot about to smear your reputation to anyone who cared to listen? What other choice did I have?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No. Before you spoke to him, he had no real proof it was me. One hasty sighting in a crowded room means nothing. My reputation was damaged because you sought him out. You are many things, but stupid is not one of them.”

  Then she saw the anger leave him as soon as it had come and a twisted smile touched his lips. His eyes scanned her face slowly then his face was swept bare and assumed a bland mask. “Maybe I was just bedazzled by a lady in a green gown.”

  That was as specious a reply as he had ever given her. “I don’t think you know why you asked me. Until you do, the answer is no.”

  With which, she turned her back on him and sent her gaze back determinedly to the river.

  He would have none of it. His hands reached out, pulling her back firmly into his arms. “I know exactly why I asked you—but I doubt whether you would believe me yet,” he murmured. Then his lips found hers and she wondered what all the anger had been about. Now, there was no choice. Her arms stole up and her mouth opened to him.

  It was he who broke off first, putting her determinedly from him. One of his lean hands reached up and softly traced the line of her cheek. He sighed. “You are too beautiful for me this evening. Unless you wish to change your decision, it’s time you got back to the safety of your tent. And take off that dammed gown. No man seeing you tonight would ask twice before taking what he fancied, including me if you don’t leave now.”

  He shoved her curtly back up the hill, and stood watching her every step of the way. She turned to look at him just before she ducked into her tent. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets again, legs spread apart and mouth straight, and the bright flame of his hair shone iridescent silver in the moonlight. Then the flap closed behind her.

  It was Molly who told her the tale of his exploits in the remains of that night.

  “Proud of yourself, are you?” were her words as her sharp toe dug into Geraldine’s shin next morning. Her foot thrust forward a second time, vicious and angry. Geraldine was struggling through heavy layers of sleepless fog and the face scowling at her seemed at first to come from a lingering nightmare. The third thrust of heavy, pointed boots finally convinced her it was real.

  “Wha … what do you mean?” She pushed up ineffectually, somehow stumbling to a full stand and reaching for her blanket.

  “I’ve known himself three years now, and I’ve not seen a night like the last one since his first days in Australia. A wildness was on him, and I’m thinking I’m knowing why.”

  Geraldine shook her head, struggling for sanity. “I haven’t seen Bas Deverill since I left him last night, if that’s to whom you are referring. And while I may think he had taken leave of his senses then, that was a private matter between him and me and I’m surprised he made you privy to it.”

  “Don’t come the hoity with me, young lady. I don’t know what happened between you two, but I do know what happened later last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “Or rather, what didn’t he do, might be more to the matter.” The woman spoke as if Geraldine had said nothing. “Stupid wagers and madcap races down the street in the middle of the night. Riding backwards on frightened horses at full gallop among that crowd of drunken idiots. Target shooting at anything he could think of, including himself when they ran out of targets dangerous enough to satisfy that mob. To end up with, who does he taunt and antagonise but Black Jack himself? Thank the Lord they were both too drunk to do more than brawl and bargy at each other in the street, and thanks be, what’s more, that Sergeant Braddock was there to put a stop to their foolery.”

  “Bas was hurt?”

  “Not that he knew at the time, no thanks to whatever you did to fire him up, my girl. The good sergeant finally threw him into the lock up – “till you’ve cooled down and got your good sense back,” he said to him, and there he is now. No doubt still as mad as Hell, and a sitting duck for Black Jack when he sobers up unless the sergeant stands protection on that place day and night. Which it’s not likely he’ll be ab
le to, what with all the other drunken hotheads who don’t seem to know the holiday is over!”

  While the words tumbled out of Molly, Geraldine had been hastily scrabbling into her clothes and had started to leave the tent just as Molly came to a glaring halt.

  “Now where do you think you’re off to?” she said.

  “To get Bas out of jail, of course,” Geraldine flung back at her as she hurried out of the tent. A hand almost as strong as Bas’s shot out to pull her back and Molly scowled fiercely.

  “Haven’t you made enough trouble?”

  “But you said …”

  “Never mind what I said. Sergeant Braddock knows the score. He’ll keep Bas safe till he’s sober enough to let out. What he doesn’t need is you sticking that pointy nose where it’s not wanted and seeing him in his present state. The Lord knows what there is between you two, but I’ve known men long enough to know they don’t like to be seen at their worst. Right now, I’d guess you would be the last person he wants to be seen by. No, you just get on with your work and leave himself alone till he’s good and ready to see you.”

  Geraldine stopped, undecided, then saw the wisdom of the older woman’s words. Or is it just that they appeal to the coward in you? jeered an inner voice. Her shoulders slumped. It may be true, but she had learnt some things last night. She had known for some time what she felt for Bas Deverill. Felt – ha! She was head over heels in love with the man. Only until now, she had been able to avoid admitting it. Last night had destroyed that option. She loved Bas Deverill—faults, charm, excitement and all—but last night had also taught her one other thing; that she would not, could not accept him at any cost. She had seen two marriages in her childhood; her parents’, and her father’s second marriage. She had seen what they had done to her father; both the loss of the love he had known with her mother and the façade of love he had accepted with her stepmother. The compromises and the desperation with which he now sought domestic stability. She would not let that happen to her.

  Because there was one thing last night had not taught her; what Bas Deverill felt for her.

  That he wanted her, she had no doubt. Her childhood had not been so sheltered that she did not recognise desire. But marriage should be based on more that that, or at least, her marriage must be.

  She looked back to Molly, and nodded grim assent. She would leave Bas Deverill well alone for the time being.

  Unfortunately, deciding to leave Bas Deverill alone couldn’t stop thoughts of him invading her brain at the most unwanted of times. All that day, and for the days that followed, his face and his words kept playing in her mind. She only had to sweep the floor to chuckle at the memory of his face, engulfed in dust, or draw water to remember that moment by the riverbank, when wonder had invaded and claimed her world.

  The actual person did not so trouble her, for he rarely came near her. There was one brief, terse meeting later that first day. Her gaze throughout remained fixed on a spot somewhere just above his left brow. It seemed safest. He watched her, an amused twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth, but after the third “Yes, Mr Deverill,” in response to his enquires after her duties, he gave a half shrug. After some moments of heavy silence, Geraldine was forced to drop her gaze, meeting the sparkle in those light filled eyes.

  “I will have you yet, Miss MacKenny,” he murmured. Then his hand stretched out and, almost against her will, hers lifted to return the clasp. To what they had shaken, she was not fully sure, but a bargain had been made. Then he left, and for days afterwards all she had of him was the lilt of a voice in the distance or the sight of that bright head of hair passing swiftly about his business.

  She buried herself in her work. The carefree suit of clothes for a foolhardy youth, she packed away at the bottom of the crude chest she had procured to secure her possessions. The fairytale gown, encased in muslin, she hung under a muslin cover at the rear of her tent. It was too beautiful to crush into a ball and thrust to the bottom of her chest as she had first been tempted to do, and the memory of that brief dance was too precious. All she managed was to banish it from view, hanging her spare work gown over it in a camouflage of drab utility.

  Her days passed in a haze of mops, camp ovens, flour for bread and battles with the ever-present dust. Her chef from the Christmas feast stayed on, splitting his time between working his diggings and favouring the township with the wonders of his cuisine. He would graciously allow Geraldine to share her knowledge of the make-do recipes the settlers used to imitate ingredients unavailable in the colony. Between them, they produced a menu that rapidly became the talk of the township and on the nights François was known to be in residence, the dining rooms were packed with appreciative miners.

  The New Year celebrations were even more successful than those of Christmas Day, and even less restrained. She had not needed Bas’s terse order, delivered via Molly, for her to stay out of sight that night. Even if common sense had not dictated such a course, Geraldine had no desire to repeat the disaster of Christmas – or the joys.

  So she heard the excited laughter, and organised table upon table of food, drinks and merry-making, but never once did she venture out. The next day, she again heard of the wild exploits of Bas Deverill.

  “That man will kill himself with his larks one day,” muttered Molly as she stomped through the kitchen. Geraldine bent to the table she was scrubbing, her arm thrusting the brush hard against the already clean surface. “And that other silly young fool is still asking after you.”

  Geraldine’s head shot up at that. “What young fool?”

  “The one who told Bas who you were on Christmas Day, of course.”

  “I thought … you said Bas told him I was just visiting here that night from a nearby station.”

  “Seems he didn’t believe Bas. Had to go and ask questions at every nearby station himself, and of course, nary a word of a runaway runholder’s daughter at any of them.”

  “Does Bas, I mean, Mr Deverill, know?”

  Molly stopped her progress through the kitchen, casting a shrewd eye over her. “As to that,” she said slowly, appearing to turn her thoughts over in her head, “Well, I couldn’t rightly say what Bas Deverill does or doesn’t know, but if it means less trouble round here, then he won’t hear about it from me!”

  “Thank you.” Geraldine’s hands slowly relaxed their grip on the handle of the scrubbing brush. Molly continued to stare in an unfriendly fashion, then, with a disgruntled ‘harrumph’, swung round and stomped out of the kitchen again. When she had left, Geraldine slowly stood, gripping her elbows and hugging her arms to herself as a shudder of fear shook her and she cursed the man who brought it. Her old friend Tipene had tracked her down after that night and after much argument had agreed to keep her secret, yet Tipene had far more reason to expose her. He had known her parents since he was born and was truly worried for her safety. This other man seemed more set on causing scandal then helping her, and that she would not allow.

  Bas Deverill must not be forced into marriage. Why, in this one thing, must he bow to convention? Even Black Jack MacRae couldn’t drive him out of the Otago goldfields, so why should one young, priggish upstart have the power to force him to offer marriage? She stopped her frenzied scrubbing, a frown gouging wrinkles into her forehead.

  Why?

  Chapter 9

  A stifling mugginess pressed relentlessly down on any person foolish enough to move. Geraldine put down her load of washing then stretched upwards to ease the ache permanently embedded in her neck and lower back. Not once in the fortnight since Christmas had she taken even a few hours off, needing desperately to fill every minute of the long, sun-filled days so that she might collapse into exhausted sleep at night. Too tired to think, too tired to venture forth into the threatening streets, it was only hard work that gave her any kind of refuge.

  Also her cracked hands, unkempt hair and the work-thinned face she saw frowning back from her reflection in the water in her pail provided a shield against
the threat posed by her beauty. No onlooker could now connect her with the green-gowned vision of Christmas night, or so she prayed. Any precious moment of joy she kept strictly to herself: the unbidden smile at the glorious views greeting her some mornings, the sun sparkling on the tossing river below, the sight of a falcon soaring overhead, the wind playing through the rippling tussock on the slopes above.

  There was no smile this morning. Geraldine eyed the skyline to the northwest. She knew the clouds forming there too well. A wind was coming, and it was not the sweet, gentle frolic of the east, easing hot limbs and tired bodies in the warm Otago summer.

  No, this was a nor’ wester; hot, dry and Lord of the Earth as its battering gusts blew everything in its path. She eyed the gorge to the west of the township. The Molyneux had scythed through the wild hills there, to emerge into the gentle basin of the Manuherikia valley before plunging onwards again, south and east to the sea. The township of the Dunstan had grown up right at the entrance to the gorge. It was a handy spot, far enough from the river to be safe from floods and close to the gorge and the gullies that the miners swarmed over in their search for gold. Further inland, new fields were opening up every day; on the Arrow and Shotover rivers, at the junction of the Molyneux and Kawarau rivers and any other likely site. To get there, travellers must pass through the Dunstan, both on their way to seek fame and fortune and on their way home, and most would stop in the Dunstan’s bars, either to celebrate or to drown their sorrows after their fortune in the fields had been decided.

  Yes, it was a good site, Dunstan township, ideally placed to exploit the new fields. But today, Geraldine feared, its location might not prove so fortunate. That gorge was perfect to funnel the heavy winds, sending them roaring down in heated fury on the small, makeshift canvas town. The shop fronts looked solid enough, worthy structures of wood. But behind them, from where Geraldine stood looking thoughtfully, the flimsy and hastily erected canvas-sided erections looked frighteningly fragile. She had grown up with nor’ west winds, and knew their power too well.

 

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