Mary Brock Jones (28 page)

“They like to speak to a lovely woman, yes,” Jacques told her with a grin, “but you remind them of home, and of their dreams. And no, I will not tell you of what they dream. It is not for the ears of a young lady.”

As word spread, more came in to seek her skills. The diggers and packers came from all over the world, and most days someone would bring in a letter, or bill, or claim form, with a note attached from a digger asking that she translate it into the language of the owner. As they grew to know her, sometimes they were not translations but letters from home to men who could not read and were desperate to hear the words of the family they had left behind. She would take them to the back room, and read the creased pages aloud, then copy the men’s words in her best copperplate, to be sent back to the other side of the world. She could almost feel the desperation in the letters for word of their men in this strange, faraway land.

Sometimes, they were so personal, so heart-rending, that Jacques would come on her later at the small desk beside the counter he had set aside for her use to find tears streaming down her face. She would never tell him the cause. The men trusted her to keep their secrets, and she treasured that trust too much. But the stories were so sad, the longing in the words from loved ones left behind so great that she could not refrain. And sometimes it was because the words reminded her too much of the love she could not have, not like the kind these men trusted in so deeply. She saw it in their eyes and grieved that she could not bring that look to the eyes of the man she loved.

She admitted it freely now, to herself at least. Now, when he chose to avoid her, she realised how much she had come to depend on the protective shield he had wrapped her in ever since she had first met him. Always, in whatever miserable place she had been, she had kept inside her the knowledge that he was there, somewhere. That he would come if she needed him. All she had to do was ask.

Now, she was not so sure. She had seen the hurt in his eyes and felt his absence. Had she hurt him mortally? Had she killed his love? After that one time, he had never come again to give her a lift home, sending Bob or one of his sons if Bob was not free. She was living in his back yard, and it was worse than when she had been miles away.

It was lucky she had so little time to brood. Every spare minute she had from her work at Chamonix and for the packers, Ada commandeered her to help in the huge task of readying the small settlement for winter. The large vegetable garden was picked and stripped bare, with pumpkins stored in the rafter away from mice, cabbage shredded then pickled or salted, beans salted or bottled or the large pods stripped out and the dried beans put away in large pottery jars. Late in the evening when they would all finally sit, exhausted, Ada would still be busily knitting for her large brood.

“Here,” she said one evening, passing a ball and needles to Nessa. “Your brother will be needing a scarf up at Campbell’s”

Nessa could do most household tasks and was a fine sewer, but she had never learnt to knit.

“Didn’t your mother teach you?”

“She tried once, I think. It was a long time ago.”

The gentle hint to ask no more was lost on Ada. That night, over the steadily clicking needles and lessons in the intricacies of plain and purl stitches, Ada managed to prise out of Nessa most of her childhood tale.

“It’s a hard road you were handed, lassie, and no mistake.”

Nessa blushed. “Not at all. Truth to tell, I suspect I would not have been at all happy with my lot if Father had stayed at Oxford and we had never travelled. Mama told me tales of her own girlhood, and it sounded … well, so very tame.”

Ada laughed, and Nessa had to join her. Bob and the children had long since gone to bed and it was just the two of them. The bustle of the room by day had shrunk to their peaceful corner by the fire, lit only by the lamp beside them and the cheerful glow of the coals.

“You’ll do, girl. And you’ve done a good job with that brother of yours. Word I hear is that he is well liked up at Campbell’s and is a big help to the other men up there.”

Nessa looked up, startled. “You’ve had word of him?”

“Mr Reid happened to mention the other day he’d been talking to one of the packers who had been that way.”

“Oh.” She coloured again. “It’s just that I’ve not had a letter from him for more than two weeks now.”

“Don’t you fret now. That’s to be expected this time of year. The packers won’t take that trail too often these days. Hear tell, it’s a fair dangerous track over that there glacier and it won’t get any better.” Nessa’s heart plummeted. “Tell you what,” said Ada. “You go ask Mr John about your brother. He gets all the news. And don’t you go worrying your head about young Philip. Mr John would have made sure he’s told when he must leave that field.”

“Yes. Thank you,” mumbled Nessa, and tried not to see the knowing look on the older woman’s face or hear her low comment as she bent to bank the fire for the night.

“Past time you talked to Mr John, if you ask me,” muttered Ada. “Long past time.”

That night, Nessa could not sleep, plagued by images of a starving, frozen Philip, mixed in with the memory of a man’s strong body lifting over her and filling her as she knew she was made to be filled. But tonight, the joy and peace of that night in the hut would not come to her. She tossed and twisted, and rose in the morning more tired than when she had gone to bed. She dressed quietly so as not to disturb the household and stepped outside.

The air was crystal clear, but under her foot was an unmistakeable crunch. The first frost of the year had arrived, and white crystals danced in the morning sunlight. So beautiful and so ominous. She looked swiftly up at the Old Man Range. The snow was unmistakeable, creeping down from the tops to meet them. All was clear now, and the sun falling on her skin held a promise of the heat of the day to come, quite enough to chase away the morning’s warning of winter to come. But winder was on its way. She had been on the top of Old Man Range, and it was not hard to imagine how much worse it would get.

“Come home, Philip,” she prayed quietly. “Come home, now.

She was for Chamonix today. She made time first to sit at her desk and write a letter to Philip. She told him of her work, of the kindness of the Coopers, of the safety of this side of the ranges and the rich provisions laid up for winter. Then she told about the Cooper children: the little girls so adorable and so like their mother, the older girl already like a young adult, and the two boys, hardworking, one as steadily silent as his father and young Jimmy who was more like Ada, forever bringing her new things to look at or telling of the work of the day. Then she wrote of how she had begun to show them their letters, carrying on from the work John had started before he ceased his evening visits. Before she came to stay with the Coopers, but that she didn’t write to her brother.

Then she casually dropped in how the boys’ eyes had lit up at her stories of Greece and the Levant, of exotic places and their adventures there. “But you would be able to tell them so much more than I,” she added. That was enough for now, a lure to reel in his interest. She could only pray it would be enough.

On the way home from work, she saw her luck was in. Old Ned was already in his stable when she rode by John’s house, and she was sure she saw John disappearing from sight around the corner of the hens’ run.

“Drop me off here, Jimmy.”

The boy looked at her, startled.

“I have a packet for Mr John to take to my brother. He is the best man to trust it to.”

Jimmy understood her there, for sure. As far as Jimmy was concerned, the only man on the whole face of the earth you could trust more than Mr John was his Da. He pulled the horse to a halt and helped Nessa slide to the ground.

“Tell your Ma I’ll be along shortly. I can easily walk from here.” Jimmy nodded and nudged the horse to ride on.

Now to hunt down her quarry. She set off determinedly towards the hen house.

She was right. She rounded the corner and saw him standing behind the wall, turned away from her and listening for something. The sound of retreating hooves, she guessed. Half of her wanted to giggle; the other half was too apprehensive about being rebuffed.

She gave her shoulders a quick shake and stepped forward.

“Excuse me, Mr Reid. Er, John.”

He swung round. “What are you doing here?”

For an instant, she saw something, some powerful feeling, on his face. Then it was shut away.

“I have a favour to ask,” she said quietly, and hated the hope she saw on his face. She drew a letter from her pocket. “I wonder, could you possibly? Would you be able to get someone to take this letter to my brother?”

He stood silent. Then said: “That is all you want of me?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He held out his hand. “Of course. Though I cannot say how long before it can be delivered.”

“Thank you.” She stood uncertainly, her hands clasped together. He had been so careful to touch the letter only, and not her.

“Is there something else?”

Oh yes, there was. So much else. But none she dared to say now. She kept instead to the purpose of her visit. “Ada said you had mentioned seeing Philip recently?”

He nodded. “We were checking on some sheep that had gone missing on the far side of the hills. We overwinter the stock from that side down below in the Nevis Valley, rather than risk bringing them back over the Old Man.”

His words were so impersonal, so matter-of-fact. She forced herself to continue. “Did he say when he was planning to come down from Campbell’s for the winter?”

“No, Miss Ward, he did not.”

She could not miss the tone of dismissal in his words. “Oh. Thank you.” She stepped back, went to turn. “Forgive me for intruding on your evening. Good night.” She was gabbling like an idiot, desperate now to get away. His abrupt words were suddenly more than she could bear.

“Nessa, stop.”

She twisted away and began to run. His hand caught her, pulling her back to face him. “Stop. Forgive me. Please don’t cry. Just don’t cry.”

“I’m not.” She squeezed her eyes shut as hard as she could. He laughed, dry and deprecating.

“Yes, you are and, as usual, it’s my fault. I had hoped… But enough.” He set her back, carefully taking one hand in each of his and stepping back again to give her the space to recover. One thumb gently stroked the back of her hand. Did he even realise his voice held a new gentleness?

“Have I seen your brother? Yes. Did he say when he plans to come back this side of the hills? No, he did not. You will be pleased, though, to know his claim is yielding very good colour and he is fit, healthy and managing very well on his own.”

She searched his face, forcing herself to look him in the eyes and see past the strong bones of his face and the glowing depths of his eye that set alight the fires of desire in her. She was not totally successful, unable to stop from leaning unconsciously forward; but she did see he was hiding something.

“And?”

“And what?”

“You promised me you would tell him when it was time to leave Campbell’s.”

He dropped her hands and a frustrated half-smile touched his lips. “And you wonder why I want to marry you, when you can read me so well.” He drew in a deep breath. “I told your brother to leave the diggings a full three weeks ago. And told him again last week. The miners have been lucky so far. It’s cold up there, and there’s been one snowfall already, but it was light enough and soon gone. They won’t believe me. Won’t think about what will happen when the packers can’t get through to them. Your brother’s as bad as any of them. Lord knows it’s hard digging up there, but he’s finally found enough gold in a claim and is determined to stay as long as it’s yielding colour.

“Can’t you make him come?”

“What, tie him up and bring him bodily down? It’s called kidnapping. Even if Philip could be overcome, the other miners would take exception.” John tried to joke with her.

“Then take me to him. I can talk to him.”

“No.” It was implacable. “And don’t think of getting one of the packers to take you. They all know they would have me to answer to.” He grabbed her hand again. “Promise me you won’t try it?”

She looked down at his hands clutching both of hers. He did not let her go. She looked up again. There was nothing hidden in his face now.

“You would be so much better to forget me,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Promise.”

She stared into his eyes and finally could no longer resist the pull between them. She reached up for his mouth. “I promise,” she said, just before his lips met hers.

It was just like every time before. No sooner had his lips met hers than she was lost to everything but the warm temptation, the magic his tongue wrought, the feel of his hands pulling her in close, making her feel the proof of his desire.

He wrenched his head up. “I tried so hard to stay away, but this time you came to me. Now, it’s too late.” He swung her into his arms and marched towards his house.

“Ada will be waiting,” she tried to protest.

“She can wait.” His lips closed over hers. “Agreed?” he asked as he mounted the steps and his foot shoved open the door.

“Yes,” she murmured with a snatched breath as he laid her on his bed and ruthlessly stripped away his mother’s precious quilt before hauling back the sheets.

There was no speech after that, only the soft gasps of lovers as they rediscovered old delights and learnt new ones. At some time, their clothes had been discarded, and he blazoned every inch of her body with his tongue and lips, exploring her, branding her as his own. Never had she felt so alive, as her own hands and lips traced the hard muscles and firm planes of his body, and the pleasingly responsive rod that danced to attention with each touch and fascinated stroke she lavished on him.

Then he was inside her again, and it was just as good as the last time, and more again. He thrust once, hard, as if coming home. Then stilled, touching his forehead to hers and fighting for control. “Do you know what these weeks without you have been like?”