Mary Brock Jones (19 page)

“What? Subjecting his sister to a childish tantrum in public?”

“He wasn’t the one who started it.” Her head began to duck again, but his hand stopped her again.

“Just tell me. All of it.”

There was a look in his eyes. Something there impelled her to trust him, and she told it all, from the argument with Philip to the truth of what she had said. All of it, just as he asked. “The men. Some here understood every single word I said.”

“To your brother.”

“So?”

“So, they have sisters. Do you think you are the only girl to ever lose her temper with a brother?

She shook her head. She had no choice.

“That’s my girl.” The hand holding her chin gentled, moved to cradle the nape of her neck. This was dangerous, but she no longer cared. She put out one hand slowly, and his fingers caught it. His eyes held hers as slowly he drew her hand up to his mouth. She stared back entranced, aware with all her taut body of his lips slowly moving on her palm then carefully tracing each finger as if in precise worship. This was not right. Philip could return at any moment. Yet she kept her hand where it lay, slowly flexing each finger to follow the warm path he traced.

Then he must have remembered where they were also. Regretfully, a last imprint of his lips, and he gave her palm back to her custody.

“Stay here. I will make everything right with your brother,” he promised, then stood and left. She should have felt alone but did not. It was the first time she could remember feeling that since her mother died. That too was dangerous.

A long while later, her awareness returned to her surrounding and realised where she was—lost in daydreams in the common room of a boarding house. A protective glow still lingered, but reality was intruding. Mr John Reid might promise he could make all well with Philip and these men, but nothing he could do would stop what they must think. She had behaved no better than the most common of the girls who flocked to the fields.

She glared at her foot, stamping it on the ground then crumbling back into her chair as pain shot up her leg. No, she would not be going anywhere on it for quite some days yet. She could have cried. Right now, there was nothing she wanted more than to bundle up her swag and run from this town where she had made such a fool of herself.

A knock at the door sounded. A mop of hair the colour of her own leant round the corner, and her brother came in. Even beneath her blanket of self-pity, she could not miss his unusual meekness.

“Nessa, I’m sorry.” His hand brushed ineffectually at a stray lock of hair. “I should not have ripped up at you. You’re white as a ghost still, and I can tell that foot’s hurting.”

She shook her head, trying to deny it, but fooled neither of them. Tears pricked her eyes and she flapped her hand. “I’m sorry too,” was all she could mumble.

“Oh, Lord, Ness, you look like a beaten-up kitten.” Her attempt at a reassuring smile was not too successful. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed,” he said.

Philip picked her up, and again she felt surprise at the size and strength of her brother yet could not help wishing it had been an even stronger pair of arms that lifted her. She hid her face in her brother’s shoulder, worn out by the pain and emotional storm, and he carried her through to her room. The small space now seemed like a sweet haven of retreat.

Philip laid her on the bed, stayed long enough to see that she had everything she needed, then blessedly left. She had no energy to remove her gown and just pulled the precious quilt over her to hide beneath its feminine sanctuary.

She had not thought to sleep, but when her eyes opened again, it was to see that the light in her room had changed to the shadowy dimness of late afternoon. There was a sound at the door, and she struggled to sit up, wishing for a mirror to be able to repair the mess she was sure she must present. She smoothed both hands over her hair, finding and securing the pins that had come adrift while she slept. She could do nothing about her crumpled gown but did make sure every single button was fastened. The sound of knocking repeated.

“Come in.”

It was Pat, carrying a tray. “I looked in earlier but you be so peaceful, seemed a right shame to disturb you, Miss.” His homely face looked at her the same was as always, as if she were some rare treasure from his childhood days. It gave her the courage to mumble a thank you again.

“No bother, Miss. Reckon you done a bit more this morning than you shoulda done.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” she managed to reply.

“Now, get this in you, Miss. A good bit of mutton broth will fix anything, my Mam used to say.”

So that was the warm smell filling the room. She suddenly discovered she was hungry and pushed herself up farther. “You know, Mr Pat, I think your Mam was right.”

His smile widened, and he fussed round, placing the tray carefully on the rough table by her bed and settling the pillows at her back. Then he handed her a real cotton napkin to spread over her gown before passing her the bowl.

“There’s good bread and real butter. Ada Cooper sends it across from time to time. You enjoy, Miss, and I’ll be back for the tray.”

“Thank you so much, Pat. I don’t know how I can ever repay such kindness.”

A red tinge flushed the man’s cheek and he ducked his head. “Fact is, Miss, it’s right nice to have a proper lady among us. Makes it feel more home like, if you take my meaning. The lads all think the same.”

Now it was her turn to flush scarlet. “Even after my exhibition?”

“Don’t you let that worrit you, Miss. Reckon it did you a power of good to get that lot out. Leastways, that’s what me Da always said when me sister or Ma gave me an earful. Now, sup up and not another word. It’s all forgotten by the lads, anyway. And any lad who looks the wrong way will have me or Jacques or Mr Reid to deal with.” He beamed at her, so convinced that his words must reassure her that she found herself agreeing with him. With which he nodded and left the room. Leaving her a party to a thousand thoughts, all definitely ‘worritting’, whatever Pat might say to the contrary. Just what had John Reid said to the packers? And why should they think he had a right to say anything?

John slammed the gate on the hens, ignoring the squawk from the old rooster trying to sneak out, only to have the wooden bars close almost on his beak. A few strides more and John was back in his kitchen. He had set the porridge on to cook earlier. He ate it now only because he knew be must. All the time, he kept an eye on the sky, watching the sun rise and the day brighten, waiting till the time was reasonable to saddle up his horse and set out for Chamonix.

In the end, he ate only half the bowl, before thrusting it aside and fetching a pail of water to wash off the dirt of his morning chores. He had been forced to leave her last night, knowing she needed rest and time to recover, knowing that if he stayed, he might give that idiot brother of hers the thrashing he deserved. Embarrassing his sister in public. A woman alone among men, and injured to boot, and the young idiot pushed her so far into a corner he must have known Nessa would retaliate. Didn’t the boy know the pride she carried?

That was it. Time was up. Flinging his towel to one side, he strode out the door and towards the stable. Very soon after, hooves beat on the hard track and he was on his way. A certain lady was going to learn she owed him. She would not be putting herself into danger by haring over the rough tops to a bleak spot like Campbell’s, whatever she or that blighted brother of hers might think to the contrary.

He yanked his horse to a halt in front of Pat’s just as the man wandered out the front door.

“Is the lady up?”

Pat looked to be about to argue. Then looked at his face and instead lifted his thumb towards the rear of the boarding house. “She be at breakfast in back with her brother.”

With her brother. It might have stopped him, but it had been a long night. He stalked into the back room and planted himself in front of her.

“You’re coming home with me.”

The silence should have made him think twice. That, or the swift scrape of chair on board as her brother sprang up and marched towards him. He carried on regardless.

Sticking his fists against his side, he glared at her. “I’ve had enough,” he announced. “The only safe place for you is my house—my home and my bed.”

Whether it was the fist to his nose or the bright flush of red on her cheeks, he could not say. One thing finally got through. This time, he was the idiot.

He thrust out one hand to hold off her brother and checked his nose with the other. Not broken and hardly any blood. That was good, he supposed.

She refused to look at him.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Reid, coming in here and saying such things to my sister?” Her brother was doing his damnedest to hit him again. John was bigger, stronger and more experienced. He used all three to his full advantage, grabbing the boy and pinning his arms behind his back to stop more nonsense. It didn’t prevent the boy trying to swivel around and punch him again.

“I need to speak to your sister. Alone.”

“Not while I’m still standing.”

“That can be dealt with,” John snapped back, his temper breaking through. He wanted her so badly, and by the look on her face he had just killed any hope of having her. “I want to marry the woman, not assault her. Ask her if it’s true. Then get out of here.”

“Nessa?”

Even he could hear the shock in the boy’s voice, but John had no sympathy for him. The boy had had his whole childhood with Nessa. Now John wanted the rest of her life. He glared at Philip, who glared right back.

“Philip, Mr Reid, that’s enough.”

Her voice was quiet, too quiet—but it was not the words that stopped him. It was what else lay underneath. They both turned towards her.

Never had John seen her look so uncomfortable—more even than yesterday, after her outburst in front of the packers.

And he had caused it.

“You may wait outside, Philip, while I have a word with Mr Reid.”

The boy opened his mouth to argue. John could see how close she was to tears.

“She’s safe with me,” he said, nearly as quiet now as she. “That’s a promise.”

Philip still looked ready to argue. Then something passed between sister and brother. A promise of a kind also. His heart plummeted.

“I’ll be just outside,” said Philip pointedly, then swung round to march out, slamming the flimsy door frame behind him.

Silence. After all his bravado, John had absolutely no idea what to do now. Nessa’s head looked resolutely down at the table, her hands turning her cup round and round in her hand, then slowly lifting it to sip at the tea inside.

The silence stretched out. She was no more inclined to be the first to speak than he, it seemed—whether because she didn’t know what to say or had no wish to speak to him ever again, John was too scared to contemplate. He had already muffed this meeting so badly. Dare he open his mouth and make things worse.

Finally he said the only words he could. “I’m sorry.”

He stepped forward, seizing the chair beside her and straddling it backwards, sitting down so as not to dwarf her with his size. “It’s just… You are driving me half mad with worry and want.” He tried to smile, to ease his words. She did not look up to see it.

She did put the cup down, then half stood, putting weight on her injured foot. He saw the wince on her face and put out his hand to steady her. She tilted back, avoiding his touch, and sat. Finally she lifted her head.

It was worse than he feared.

“You want me? You need me?” One of her hands held the other tight in her lap.

“Yes,” he said. “Since you left, my house is like an empty shell.”

Her face closed up, shutting him out.

“You are not the first to tell me they need me.”

He was too scared to speak now, watching the hidden pain seeping from the shadows in her eyes.

“My mother said she needed me. I helped her care for my father and brother. I looked after her when she was sick. At the end, she made me promise to keep minding my father and brother. I did all she asked, gave her all she said she needed; and she still died.”

“Don’t…”

“My father needed me too. Needed me to wash and clean and cook for him; needed me to make him a home. But it was never enough. He needed me, but never took the trouble to know me well enough to love me. And I could not stop him dying either.”

“Nessa, I love you and I am not going to die. Not for a very long time.”

“Don’t,” she said this time. Her hand must hurt, so hard did the other grasp it. “My brother, he needs me too.”

“Not forever. He is old enough to be near a man.”

“Maybe soon. But not yet. He needs me, and I gave my word to my mother. Until he no longer needs me, I will be here for him.”

Finally, maybe too late, John found the right words. “What about you, Nessa? What do you need?”

She did not expect that. The shadows in her eyes vanished, chased away by shock. She looked like a lost child. Her hands twisted over and over in her lap.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

The thought was so new to her. He had to give her time to turn it over. He sat silent, so nervous he could barely breathe.

Finally, her eyes came back to him. She took a deep breath and locked her hands still again.

“I want to be safe,” she said. “Can you promise me that?”

It was so simple. “Of course I can—from everyone but me,” he grinned, relieved.

Her face fell. “I meant it,” she said. Her voice was so soft he barely heard the words.

Then her voice changed, as if banishing whatever strange world she had stepped into. Her face was closed to him again, and she had forced on a tight smile. Her voice was that of someone reciting a lesson learned long ago. “What do I want? I want to see my brother established and happy. We will find our gold and then he can go home and become the great scholar he was always meant to be.”

He had failed her, and could not say how.

He stood up, twisted his chair round to sit without the barrier of the chair back between them. His legs enclosed hers, and he reached forward to take her clenched hands in his. Gently, he released her fingers. She watched him as he took first one hand, then the other, to his mouth, softly kissing each palm.