Swift Runs The Heart

by Jones, Mary Brock

  The first time she saw a stretch of brown tussock reaching over the plains towards the far off hills, she let her horse loose with a wild whoop and breathed in deeply of the earthy smells as its hooves thudded over the ground, feeling at home and free again for the first time in weeks. Her thoughts flew back to the rugged hills of Otago, and Bas. Did he ever think of her? Certainly no word had come and it was as if his last words had never been. “I will return.” Had he said that? The memory of it remained, poignant and crystal clear—too clear to be a phantom of her imagination.

  She managed to push it away that day, but as summer faded into autumn, the memory of words and images thrust at her more often. A word, a quick tug of a smile on an ever-mobile face, the sun catching a bright crown of hair. And at night, the touch and feel of a man’s strong body leading her into delights unnameable.

  Fortunately, March and April brought the usual frenetic activity of harvesting and readying for the onslaught of winter in what was still a primitive life, and for weeks she was too busy and too tired to do more than fall exhausted into bed each night. All hands available were needed in the urgent campaign to prepare the station and household for the cold months ahead, and Geraldine gratefully threw herself into the long list of tasks allotted her, often seeking more once her own were completed. It left no time to think of her future and a part of her prayed that this busy season would not end.

  She was in the storeroom one morning, counting and recording the jars of jams and pickles rapidly filling the long wooden shelves. Most of the other women were in the kitchen, salting down the bean crop, but when Sophie had wondered aloud whether the last of the plums should be bottled or made into jam, Geraldine had leapt at the chance for solitude and offered to spend the morning out here, tallying up the various preserves to find out which was most needed. The incessant chatter of the others was more than she could cope with this morning. Here she had peace, but her mind was occupied enough to keep her thoughts from her troubles.

  “So this is where you are hiding.” She jumped, swivelling about to see her father looking at her half-quizzically. “Not that I blame you. A right flock of old hens it is inside that kitchen. Enough to drive anybody out of the place.”

  She blushed, ducking her head and scrubbing with one finger at a smudge in her column of figures. “You were looking for me, Da?”

  “Yes.” There was a strange touch of hesitancy in the single word, and Geraldine looked up quickly. It was in his eyes too, in the brief moment before he turned them away. Then slowly came back to meet the questions in hers. “I have received an offer to buy Loch Máire run,” he said. “It’s a fair price, and I need the money if am to do anything worthwhile with this place. I intend to accept the offer.”

  She had known this day would come, but put like that, in stark terms, she could no longer ignore the truth. “You’re selling the home run?” she whispered. “Not the bothy.”

  He did not answer at first, and in his eyes she recognised the pain of the loss of her mother he fought to keep at bay. It kept her from arguing further as he finally said, “I will do my best to keep it.”

  She nodded and let him go. It took a very adult kind of courage, she now saw, for her father to keep on building a life for himself and his family after the loss of his first wife. The least his daughter owed him was a similar courage. She buried her grief and turned anew to the rows of jars on the shelves. In the days that followed, she threw herself even harder into the autumn chores.

  Then came the day when all the fruits were stored in bottles in the pantry, the hay cut and stacked for winter, the grains bagged and the vegetable garden stripped and variously pickled, salted and preserved.

  After a week of quiet enjoyment of their labours, her stepmother began to fret at the excessive peace.

  “It’s been a good season, husband. Time to celebrate it with our neighbours.”

  Genevieve looked up from her sewing and caught the look of resignation on her father’s face.

  “What had you in mind, Sophie?”

  “Now that Geraldine has returned to us, I feel that a ball would be appropriate. She needs to meet other young ones hereabouts and to stay cooped up at home always suggests something is not quite right.” A dark flush stained Sophie’s sallow cheeks.

  Geraldine held her breath fearfully as her father sent a long, considering gaze at his wife. Then her heart plummeted as she saw his face ease. “Just as long as this affair is not tomorrow. I would like some days’ rest after the last weeks.”

  “No, no. I was thinking of sending out cards for the first Saturday in June.”

  For an instant, Geraldine cast an imploring look at her father, but he never even glanced her way. “That’s all right then,” he said and settled back into his paper.

  Geraldine could only sit still in shock as her stepmother began prattling of plans for new dresses and party food, only interrupting once during her talk of white lace and muslin with a desperate, “But I’m a married lady.”

  “Of course, so a degree of colour would be acceptable,” confirmed her stepmother. “A nice pink perhaps.”

  At which Geraldine finally relapsed to silence, knowing this horror was really going to happen and dreading already the carping and censorious exposure she knew was to come. Then came a sudden thought, and the image of a man’s grinning smile. “Not pink and not muslin, sweetheart,” she could imagine him saying, and she vowed then and there that if she must appear at this sideshow, it would be as a wife Sebastian Deverill would be proud of.

  Chapter 14

  “Nell, where’s my other slipper?”

  “I don’t kno….”

  Geraldine shut her door with a bang, cutting off the undoubtedly long wrangle about to break out between the Lowry sisters. She leaned against the door and surveyed her room, the one, last refuge in the house from the hordes of visitors now occupying every spare niche. There had been a tentative suggestion from Sophie that she might offer her room to one of the married couples for the duration and bed in with the younger girls, but it was quickly trounced by both Geraldine and her father.

  “She’s a married lady herself now and is not going to join that parcel of silly young girls you’ve invited.”

  Sophie had been about to argue the point, still obviously dubious about her stepdaughter’s so-called marriage, but not even she could argue with the official stamp next to Sgt Brannigan’s signature when Geraldine marched out and returned moments later to thrust her marriage lines in front of her stepmother’s face.

  Geraldine had won that round, but it was the only one in all the constant battles since her return. The ball was to go ahead, and all day their guests had been arriving in a seemingly constant stream. Given the distances involved and the uncertain state of the roads in the new colony, they must all be accommodated overnight; the ladies and children in the main house while their menfolk were variously billeted about the quarters and buildings of the home station. With every arrival, she held her chin belligerently higher as the greetings were made. So many new setters had arrived since she had left for Dunedin that she had met few of the neighbours, so must now stand mutely through the agony of introduction and the inevitable “Shall we be seeing your husband this visit?”

  “He is otherwise occupied with his affairs,” she had invariably replied, followed by a vague indication of connections in Otago if further pressed. None had been brave or ill-mannered enough to enquire further.

  Only a few more hours, she told herself. Hopefully the scarceness of ladies in the colony would ensure that her evening would be fully occupied with dancing instead of answering the prying questions of her stepmother’s older acquaintances. Then tomorrow tiredness would serve as a reasonable excuse for her to keep to her room until most of the unwelcome visitors should leave. Or so she hoped.

  She had herself in hand when it came time to walk down the stairs to welcome their guests.

  “Ye look lovely, lassie,” whispered her father, “and ye look just li
ke your mother the first time I saw her, stepping up the gangplank of my ship and looking like the fairie Queen of Ireland. So proud she was, and ready to spit in the eyes of anyone who dared to think ill of her actions.”

  “And did they?” She answered the smile on his face.

  “Stupidity was not a failing of my crew. Many other vices perhaps – they were sailors, when all’s said and done—but not that one. We all bowed politely and treated her as the fine lady she was.”

  She turned the laughing green eyes of her mother on him and found that his joking had brought her safely through the doors of the ballroom. She was ready to meet the first of their guests, graciously standing between her father and stepmother to welcome the prying eyes to her home—though never to the secrets of her heart.

  Her other prediction proved true. As usual, there were far more eager young gentlemen than ladies, and she was fully occupied for the next hour or so, passing from one set of strong arms to another. Finally, she pleaded fatigue and begged a rest from their exertions as she sought a quiet seat and a refreshing sip. She had just sat down, shaded by a large palm from the rest of the room when she heard a commotion. Some late arrivals, no doubt, held up by duty or the exigencies of the road. Hopefully her stepmother would do the family’s duty, she thought, but then she ruefully collected her manners and rose slowly to face yet more strangers’ eyes. She could not avoid it, in any case. Sophie saw to that, spying the soft sheen of Geraldine’s ivory silk gown round the side of the palm and her even more distinctively betraying flame of hair.

  “Ah, there she is. Gentlemen, let me present my dearest stepdaughter. Geraldine, you know the Familton brothers already, but let me introduce their charming visitor. Sir, my daughter, Mrs Deverill. I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your full name, sir.”

  “Deverill. The Honourable Sebastian Deverill, at your service, Ma’am.”

  Geraldine froze, sinking deep into the curtsy she had begun without bothering to fully look at the three men before her.

  “My dear Geraldine,” said a familiar and amused drawl, “I am happy to know that you are full of respect for me, but so deep a reverence is not necessary for one’s husband.”

  And an equally well-known hand reached out to clasp hers and draw her to her feet. “My apologies, my dear, for not sending you word of my coming, but it seemed I would probably arrive before any message could. I hope one more guest does not inconvenience you, Mrs MacKenny,” he added, turning to cast his practised smile upon Sophie, who responded exactly as she was meant to, noted Geraldine, after the first rush of horror had passed and a hot flush of anger began to replace it. At least the two Familton boys were looking as flabbergasted as Sophie, and Bas wouldn’t find them so easy to sway. She had met the two men during a muster not long after her arrival and had liked them on sight; forthright, hardworking, but with a gleam of mischief that hid a hardheaded commonsense.

  She was wrong. Within minutes, Bas had apologised for not letting them know that Geraldine Deverill was in fact Mrs Sebastian Deverill, then deftly added that he had been delayed with settling some matters that needed clearing up before he met his new father-in-law. Minor details only. But now, if they would all excuse him, he had waited a long time to dance with his wife again.

  “Minor details? You haven’t met my father yet.” Geraldine gazed boldly at his face, then suddenly dropped her eyes at what she saw there. For an instant, hunger shone in the aqua depths, before it was shuttered away and the gay mask returned. It was brief, but it was still enough to send a pulsing surge of heat through all her body. She wondered if he knew.

  “Look up, sweetheart. We are being watched.”

  She could no more ignore his lilting command than order the music to stop and him to leave. The strains of the waltz pulled at her body and the joy of his arms holding her so lightly as he led her effortlessly in the steps was something she could not bear to lose just yet.

  Her eyes met his, and there it was again. The hunger and a hint of vulnerability, hidden behind the screen of his public face. “I told you I would return,” he said.

  “You had been burdened enough by me,” she replied. “I could ask no more.”

  “And if I wished to be so burdened, sweetheart? Did you ever ask that?”

  He swept her in a circle then, giving her no chance to reply. Only to feel, as his body and hers moved in complete harmony until the final strains of the music faded away and the musicians struck up anew in response to a cry for a lively jig.

  For an instant, he pulled her close. “You are very beautiful tonight, my wife.” His voice was a soft caress, almost at the edge of hearing. Then he placed her hand decorously upon his arm and turned towards the far end of the room. “You may now introduce me to my father-in-law. I trust that he carries no weapon in a ballroom, else from the look in his eye you may be a widow before the morrow, sweetheart.”

  She took in both the rakish grin and his ‘English’ face and groaned silently. Did the man know how close to the truth was his jest?

  They walked the length of the room and a path cleared for them. The news of the identity of the stranger had raced like wildfire around the room and all eyes were fixed avidly upon the principals in the drama. Geraldine was conscious of the touch of heat in her cheeks, but beside her Bas wore the calm face she knew so well; that of a man fully at ease and conscious of his social position. It might have worked on Sophie but, looking at the stern face of her father, Geraldine wished it possible for her her husband to acquire a touch of humility in the next few minutes. She alone saw the grim anger hiding behind the expressionless face of John MacKenny.

  They stopped in front of him and at least Bas had the sense not to offer his hand to the older man and risk the rebuttal she knew would come. He bowed instead, looking up waiting for the other man to speak first.

  “Mr Deverill. I have been looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

  “As I yours, Mr MacKenny. My apologies that it could not be sooner, but an urgent matter needed my attention.”

  “I trust it has been attended to satisfactorily.”

  “Yes, sir. It will be of no further concern to either my wife or myself.”

  Bas’s voice was the easy tone of the salon, but it was utterly bare of any trace of irony and Geraldine miraculously saw an easing of the tension on her father’s face. There was still a wariness there, but it seemed that her father understood as well as she what Bas had just said. There was no longer anything to fear from Black Jack MacRae and Bas would make sure it stayed that way, though how he could have guessed she had told her father everything was beyond her. There had been too, a promise that her safety was Bas’s responsibility. Did the man know that this was the one thing most likely to win her father’s respect? Or did it even matter to Bas? From his face, she doubted it.

  “Mmph,” said her father then, a wry look on his face. “I am supposing you wish to have some time with my daughter first, but I would appreciate a quiet word later this evening. And don’t think to be monopolising her dances all evening, young man. There are too few ladies in the colony to allow even a husband to have sole call on his wife’s company.”

  A quick smile lit up Bas’s face. “So I understand, sir. Just don’t expect me to look happy at seeing my wife with someone else; and I do claim this next dance with her.”

  Her father smiled back and, to Geraldine’s surprise, held out his hand. Bas took it and both men gave one short shake, as if in affirmation of something. Before she could puzzle it out, she found herself swept back into the dance as the music recommenced and a hubbub of conversation filled the room.

  Bas said nothing, just held her and let the music work its magic again. She was tense and could barely look up at him. This time, he let her keep her secrets and led her effortlessly in the steps round the room. Gradually, she could feel herself relaxing. She was in her own home, surrounded by their guests. Not even he could do more than hold her arms here. In truth, she could not say which she feared mor
e: the easy quickness of the words that spilled so glibly from his tongue or the power his lips and body held over her; would always hold, she acknowledged, staring bleakly down the years at a future bereft of them. He may have returned, but she could not afford to read too much into it. Nor would she break her promise to herself; that she would not let a man such as Bas Deverill be trapped in this land by the bonds of propriety and the vows he had made to her under duress. He may not love her, but she loved him too much to force him to stay in a world that was so much less than the one to which he was born. He had so many gifts and must be allowed to let them shine forth freely.

  Caught up in her thoughts, she lost awareness of his eyes carefully studying her face and his slow passage to the outer edges of the dancing throng. Then, in a smooth arc of the dance, she was drawn through the door, down the hallway and into the quiet peace of the morning room with the door shut swiftly behind to block out the music and the prying eyes.

  For an instant, his arms held her close and his lips brushed lightly over her hair. Then he put her at arm’s length.

  “We need to talk and, much as I would like to, I do not want your replies befuddled by lovemaking. I could kiss you into mindless submission, but strangely I find I need more than that.”

  “Could I not do the same to you?” she heard herself ask in reply.

  A smile twisted his lips. “You know you could, sweetheart. That I want you as much as you do me has never been at issue.” Then his face stilled. “The world is full of much that amuses me, not the least your unique view of life. But I let levity rule at an inappropriate time at the cottage and hurt you by it. I apologise for that.”

  She had not expected it, and was left foundering. “It was nothing,” she managed to say, then added hurriedly, “You said you had finished your business. Black Jack MacRae, he is no longer a problem?”