Mary Brock Jones (33 page)

It was wash day. The men had left early as usual, and Ada already had the copper boiling. Nessa set up the racks in the kitchen, ready to drape everything in front of the fire. There was no drying them outside at this time of year. The clothes only froze solid.

“Would you pop over and get Mr John’s laundry?” said Ada, pushing a strand of hair back from her face as she came back into the main room from the lean-to at the back where the copper was housed.

“Mr Reid’s? Go to his house?”

“He’s not there,” said Ada impatiently. “He usually drops it off himself, but he’s so busy these days, he’s gone and forgotten. The girls are too young to manage it or be left here with these fires going. You’ll find it in a bag by his bed.” Ada gave one more shove to the sweaty strands at her brow then disappeared again to do battle with the copper full of washing.

Nessa braced herself. John was out, she reminded herself as she pulled on galoshes, hat, gloves and muffler for the short trip over the brow. No one is at home. It was still a relief to have it confirmed when she knocked tentatively on the back door and pushed into the kitchen.

It had been so long since she’d ventured here, but still she remembered every knob and plank in the cheerful room. It had been so full of promise, that long ago night.

There was an air of neglect about it now. The porridge bowl and pot still soaked in the tub, and the chair had been hurriedly thrust back. She saw the same weariness in the room that she had seen in John’s face. Too much to do and too little energy left to do it.

She couldn’t give him what she knew he badly wanted. Her. But she could give him this. Briskly, she rolled up her sleeves and set to, boiling water, washing dishes, windows, table and floor. From there she poured through the house, setting her mark on each lovingly polished surface.

The bedroom was last.

There was a rumpled look to it. He had tried to tidy it before he left, she guessed. The blanket was roughly pulled up, but his pillow was askew and there was a heavy indentation in the middle. She could not help herself. She picked up the pillow, held it close and breathed in. His scent still clung to it, masculine and safe, and so dear to her. She could not move, held in thrall by dreams of “what if”.

This would not do. Even if she had not been such a fool, had not blighted her name here and ensured she was no suitable wife for him, there was still Philip. He needed her. Her mother had told her so. Not every day, she conceded. He had grown so much these last months and was so much a man now. But he still needed her to be here, needed a family. She could not abandon him yet, not matter what a certain, large gentleman might think.

She thumped the pillow, shook it hard and set it to one side then briskly attacked the bed. The sheets she stripped and pulled open cupboards until she found clean linen, ignoring any sense of violating a certain man’s privacy. In minutes, she had remade the bed, smoothing it down and tucking in the corners with military precision and set the now smooth pillow at the head. Then she took his mother’s precious quilt, carelessly flung over the end posts, and folded it smooth till it lay in splendour on the top. A stray beam of sunlight gambolled in through the window, setting alight the embroidered flowers in a mirage of summer. She could not resist, pulling out the notepad and pencil she had taken to carrying in her pocket. She could not have the reality, but she could save the memory.

She was so engrossed, she never heard the door open, never saw the large hand reaching for her pad till it was too late. It was snatched out of her hand and she swung around to demand it back.

John stood there, frozen, staring at the page.

“Is this how you see it?” His voice sounded strangled and the big hand swept around to encompass the room.

She snatched for the pad but he clung tightly, turning it to face her.

“It was just a fancy,” she muttered defensively.

He stared at the sketch, saying nothing, but his fingers traced the lines she had drawn. Inside, it was as if everything he had understood about them lurched sideways. In the picture, she had set a vase on the small table beside the bed, overflowing with flowers he remembered from his mother’s garden. Sweet peas, she had called them, and sweet they looked, splashes of memories from long ago. The sun shone fully threw the window and a tree in blossom was framed by a pair of sprigged curtains. Each flower and twig of his mother’s quilt was vividly shown. Even in the black and white of the pencil sketch, the room sang with the joy of spring and the promise of summer’s heat.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

“It’s only a bit of fun. Just one of my sketchings. Nothing special.”

He shook his head. “Ah, but it is. To me, it is. May I keep it?”

She drowned in his eyes, but wondered also at the edge in his voice. She could only watch as he carefully tore the page from her pad and handed the book back to her.

“I better be going. Ada sent me over for the laundry.”

He looked around the room then, but did not let go of the drawing, holding it like some precious talisman. “You’ve tidied up.”

“I hope you don’t mind. I wasn’t prying or anything.”

“Mind?” He choked on a smothered laugh. “It’s … this is nice.”

He examined the room, looking his fill, then caught her hand and pulled her close. She was powerless to stop him.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” she said.

She was nearly touching his chest.

“I needed my other jacket,” he said, “to keep me warm.”

His voice had thickened, deepened, vibrating through her. She could feel him all along her body, and his hands moved to stroke her shoulders, easing the tension he could not miss. She must not let this happen … but she could do nothing, caught by the glow in his eyes and the warm promise of his mouth.

There was a shout from outside. “Hail the house.”

Nessa thought he would ignore the man, and, for a time, he did.

“Mr Reid! You there?” There was the sound of a footstep.

“My saddle bags. They’re by the front door.” He released her, muttering apologies, then swung round like a man hunted.

“Jake. What’s up?” she heard him call, then footsteps disappearing.

The pleasant glow that surrounded her dissipated. She should go. She gathered up the linen and laundry bag, hoisting it all in her arms.

The front door was open as she left the bedroom. She headed for the back, hoping to avoid the men.

“Miss Ward, wait up. You can’t carry all that.”

She peered around the bundle. “No, it’s fine. I can manage,” she hastily assured John, trying to stop him as he hurried back to her.

“Put that bundle down and give me five minutes. Jake, come on in and make yourself at home while I help Miss Ward. I won’t be long.”

The packer had seen her and turned pointedly away. “Better be getting on, Mr Reid,” he muttered. “We’ll sort this out some other time. When you’re free of company,” he said gruffly. There was no mistaking his meaning, as he swung back onto his horse and trotted away down to the river.

“What in blazes!”

John grabbed the linen and marched up to the Coopers so fast she had to run to keep up. He burst in the door and dumped the bundle at Ada’s feet.

“Keep Nessa here. Safe. I’ll be back.” Then he was gone, leaving Nessa gasping and stunned.

John didn’t know when he had been angrier. He forced his horse to its limit, eating up the hill side to Chamonix. So what if he understood why it had happened? The packers were about to be reminded how dependent they were on the run holders of the area. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and ignored the stones on the track. No one, but no one, got away with treating Nessa like that packer had. He didn’t care how many stupid mistakes she made.

“What was that about?” Ada’s arms were stuck half in and out of the water.

Nessa could only shrug, not too sure herself. No matter how she turned it over while she sorted clothes and pegged washing on the racks, it became no clearer. John knew how the packers felt about her. So why had he ridden off so madly and to where? She smoothed the clothes on the rack and, when they had dried, sorted them into piles for ironing, hoping to find a meaning in the chaos of her thoughts.

The door banged.

“You,” said John, “have some explaining to do.”

He grabbed her arm and dragged her outside.

“John, stop. Have you gone mad? Ada, help.”

“Don’t worry, lass. When a man gets that look on his face, you mun better let him have his say. It’s quicker all round.”

If she was going to say more, Nessa did not hear it. John had slammed the door behind them.

“John, stop. Let me go.”

“Not a word. Not one more word. Not till we’re somewhere private.”

She dug in her heels, grabbing the porch rail to stop him dragging her down the steps. He simply picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, ignoring her shrieks. He strode down the steps and across the paddock. She doubted he even noticed how much she was being bumped around. She tried to lift her head up.

“You’ll make me sick.”

He heard, but only switched her around, carrying her upright in his arms. He still marched across the ground and did not stop till he reached his own house. There, he banged open yet another door.

“You’ll smash something soon.” Nessa started to wriggle, twisting and turning in his arms in an effort to break his deadlock. She was becoming seriously annoyed. His arms gave not an inch, and he slung her into a nearby chair, catching her fall just in time to stop her slamming into the deep seat. Then he stood over her, arms braced on each side to allow her no escape.

“I have just come from Chamonix.”

“So?” By now, she was too angry to care that she was a virtual prisoner, at the whim of his greater strength.

“Young Thomas has told them what really happened up on the glacier. You will be glad to know Jacques will be down here to apologise for his crass idiocy first thing tomorrow morning.”

“That’s nice,” she muttered, crossing her arms mutinously.

“What I would like to know,
Miss
Ward, is why I had to hear it second hand from a ratbag boy, instead of from you.”

“Hear what? That I persuaded a mere boy to cross the tops in the middle of winter and nearly got us both killed. End of story.”

“The version Thomas tells is that you took one look at that glacier covered with snow and told him to turn back. It was that feckless boy who insisted on riding on, right into the icy cold up there, and it was only your pig-headed heroism that saved both your lives. He fell off all right, because he wouldn’t listen to you when you told him to let his horse find its own way, and ploughed head on into a blind drift over a hidden dip. It was his own fault he fell off, and he has no memory of how he got back on the horse and home safe. But you know, don’t you?”

“I put him back on the horse. What of it? If I hadn’t told him how much money he could make selling food to the miners at Campbell’s, he would never have thought of trying to cross the tops.”

“True. But you had no more idea than he of how dangerous it was up there. At least when you saw the snow was too deep, you had the sense to know you had to turn back. Didn’t you?”

“I hadn’t expected it to be still covered,” she agreed reluctantly. “The hills looked clearer from here.” She hugged herself tight, feeling like a naughty child. It wasn’t pleasant.

“So, Miss Ward, far from being a reckless idiot who nearly got a young packer killed, you were actually a
bona fide
heroine up there. I saw your skirts. How long did it take you to get that boy back on his horse?”

She refused to meet his eyes. “Long enough.”

“How did you manage it? You might be tough, but you are still a slip of a woman, and that boy outweighs you by a fair margin.”

“There was a pile of rocks sticking up through the snow. I led the horse there and dragged Thomas over to it. Once I got him onto the rocks, I brought the horse in close and sort of tipped him on board. He had a good, quiet horse.”

“How many attempts? Don’t tell me this grand plan of yours worked first time.”

“No. A few.”

“So, you’re soaked through, probably worn out after all that. Why didn’t you ride your horse back?”

“I tried, but Thomas kept slipping off. I couldn’t hold him tight and control the horses. It was just easier to walk beside it. The horses followed where I went. I couldn’t hold Thomas properly in the saddle when I was on the horse as well.”

“Right.” His arms released her, and he strode once around the room, raking his hands through his hair. “If I didn’t know you had survived all that, the hearing of it would drive me insane.” He stopped his pacing, flung himself into the chair opposite, then sprang up again and leaned over her, both hands gripping tight to the chair as if to stop them gripping something else.

“You saved that boy’s life up there. Don’t shake your head at me. You saved him, and his stupid greed was his problem, not yours. Then what happens? You miraculously bring him back to shelter, half-dead yourself, and do you get any thanks? No, all of us, me included, treat you like the lowest of criminals. And you know what the worst of it is? You let us. You couldn’t even tell me what really happened up there, knowing how I feel about you. Why?”

She did not know how to answer that one. What did he mean? It was all so obvious, to her anyway. Did he truly think she could have stood in that room and defended herself against their judgements? She was in charge of that boy, and she had nearly caused his death.

John’s hand released the chair arm and grasped her chin. She could feel the tension in him, feel the control he was forcing on himself, but his touch was soft. He cradled her chin and lifted her head up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“You have no idea, do you? No idea how amazing you are. You give and give, and expect nothing back.”

She shook her head. He was wrong. “That boy wouldn’t have gone up there if not for me. I was responsible for him.”

“Just like you were responsible for your dying mother or your too-idealistic father? Or now, for your brother?”