All That Glisters

Jude Knight

Published by Titchfield Press

Copyright 2016 Judith Anne Knighton writing as Jude Knight

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except for including brief quotations in a review.

Cover image: ‘The Lovers’, painted by William Powell Frith in 1855.

Dedication

To my readers, and especially to the winners of made-to-order stories who gave me the specifications for this and other short stories.

Table of Contents

1      1

2      12

3      19

4      28

5      37

6      51

Bluestocking Belles      56

Published books      58

Coming in 2016      62

Connect with Jude Knight      67

The setting is New Zealand in the 1860s, when gold miners poured into the fledgling settlement of Dunedin. Rose is unhappy in the household of her fanatical uncle, but Thomas, a young merchant from Canada, offers a glimpse of another possible life, if she is brave enough to reach for it. (Short story)

Image credit: The illustration before and after this story is a pen and ink illustration by Tony Oliver, from Denver, CO, USA, published under a Creative Commons License.  Tony based his illustration upon a 100+ year old photograph of a prospector panning for gold. It appeared in a New Mexico history guide published by the New Mexico Santa Fe Trail National Scenic Byway Alliance.

One

R

ose was late. She’d been shocked, when she emerged from the Athenaeum, at how dark the sky was—her aunt would soon be looking for her to serve dinner. Rose had set a pot roast of beef on the back of the stove this morning, with the vegetables tucked around the meat, and she’d shelled the peas, too, before running Aunt Agnes’ messages and stealing a little time for herself.

The Athenaeum was paradise. A subscription library and reading room at the Mechanics Institute, it provided warmth, books, and a peaceful place to read as much as she liked. And even books to take home, if she kept them hidden.

Scraping together the subscription to the Athenaeum each quarter meant sitting late over the sewing with which she earned a few extra shillings, most of which Aunt Agnes took ‘to help pay for your keep, child’. As if her constant work, saving them the cost of at least one servant, were not sufficient to earn her food and a roof over her head.

She skirted around the Octagon, where the would-be millionaires flooding into the New Zealand gold fields had set up a squatters’ camp with the blessing of the Dunedin Town Board. Down George Street next, thinking of her aunt, struggling to control her unchristian resentment, ignoring the drizzle and the sharp wind that wrapped her long cloak around her legs and billowed her petticoats out in front of her. As she turned the corner into Frederick St., a particularly sharp gust skittered a broken branch across her path, tangling it into her skirts.

She stumbled and would have landed in the mud, if firm hands had not suddenly caught her. As it was, in putting her hands out to break the expected fall, she had dropped her burdens. The shopping basket fell sideways, tumbling fruit, vegetables, and the wrapped parcel of meat into a waiting puddle. The bundle from the haberdashers that she carried on her other arm, thankfully, stayed intact and landed on a relatively dry spot.

She took all this in at a glance, most of her attention on her rescuer. A craggy face bronzed by the sun, amused brown eyes under thick, level brows, a mouth that looked made for laughter. He was bundled against the cold wind in a greatcoat, muffler, and cloth cap.

“Are you all right, Miss?” the man asked, as he set her back on her feet.

My. He was strong.

“Thank you. The branch… Oh, dear, my parcels!” He crouched with her to rescue tomorrow’s roast, now peeping through tears in the soggy brown paper. He looked doubtfully at a particularly dirty carrot and wiped it off on a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.

“Oh, no,” Rose said, as he started to put her damp groceries back in the basket. She retrieved the book she had hidden there, tucking it inside her coat so it would stay dry. Her rescuer made no comment, just continued helping her fill the basket.

“That seems to be the lot,” he said, bringing back an apple that had rolled a good distance along the path, and picking up the basket. “Which way now?”

Rose ignored the proffered elbow. “I can manage, thank you, Sir. If you would just give me my basket…”

He grinned, showing white, even teeth. “I must insist. Damsels in distress do not land in a knight errant’s hands every day, you know. I shall, at least, escort you safely to your front door, fair maiden.”

“You may not, Sir.” He really couldn’t. If a man escorted her to the front door, or even to her uncle’s front gate, it would be fasting and prayer for her, and perhaps even the switch. She set her mouth firmly to stop it from trembling, but he must have sensed her alarm, because he handed over the basket without further argument.

“There, now. No need to be concerned. I mean no harm, Miss.”

She was blushing again; she could feel the heat. The kindness in his eyes was as appealing as his strength and his cheeky smile.

“I cannot,” she found herself explaining. “My uncle… he would be angry…”

He nodded as if he understood. “I will bid you good evening then, Miss. But before I go, can you help a poor, lost traveller and point me in the direction of Knox Lane?”

“Knox Lane?” she repeated, stupidly.

“Yes. Do you know it?”

“I live there,” Rose said. It was a short cul-de-sac, with only three houses besides her uncle’s. She looked at the man more closely, wondering which of her neighbours he intended to visit.

“Then, Miss, will you not reconsider your decision and allow me to escort you? I can leave you at the corner of this elusive lane, so you need have no fear, and it would be a charitable act to a poor traveller.” He made a woebegone face, turning the corners of his mouth down with his lips poked out, wrinkling his brow, so his brows sank at the side and rose in the centre.

Rose smiled despite herself, and surrendered the basket to his waiting hand. “Just to the corner then, Sir.”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, as they turned the next corner and walked briskly along Great King Street, pushed by the wind. “I am Thomas O’Bryan, from America.”

Ah. She had been wondering about his accent. Beyond a doubt, he was another of the great army of men passing through Dunedin on their way to the gold fields at Tuapeka or Dunstan. Fools. Yes, a few of them would find a rich deposit, but most would abandon their families and their responsibilities and return, if return they ever did, with nothing. Rose knew only too well what became of those left behind.

“Rose Campbell.” Her thoughts tinged her voice with ice, and he raised one of those mobile brows. “Campbell?” he repeated. “Do not be telling me, of all the women in New Zealand, I’ve collided with Agnes Campbell’s daughter.”

“Her niece,” Rose corrected. “You know my aunt?”

O’Bryan grinned, a joyous beam that invited her to find life as delightful as he clearly did. “Not to say know, but isn’t she my own mother’s sister?” He bowed, an extravagant flourish. “How do you do, Cousin Rose.”

“Not exactly a cousin, Mr O’Bryan,” Rose demurred. “Your aunt is married to my uncle.”

“Thomas, surely? For cousins so closely related by marriage?”

“Laura!” Rose could not help the guilty flinch at the accusing roar from her uncle. Thomas stepped in front of her, and held out his hand with another of his broad grins. “Do I have the honour of addressing my Uncle Campbell?” he asked.

The sour, old man ignored Thomas’ hand, but turned his glower away from the cowering girl, which Thomas counted as a win. “Who are you, and what are you doing with my niece?”

“Thomas O’Bryan, sir, and I believe I am your nephew-by-marriage. I was asking the young lady for directions.”

“Agnes’ nephew.” The thought clearly did not find favour. “I suppose you’re here after the gold, like all those other godless sinners. Well, you had better come in.” The old coot turned to lead the way down the street, saying over his shoulder, “Laura, I’ll speak with you later, girl.”

Thomas gave his new cousin a reassuring wink, but she dipped her head and hurried after the domestic tyrant.

Thomas’ aunt proved to be cut from the same cloth as her husband, and as far from Thomas’ cheerful mother as could be imagined. She reluctantly allowed that Thomas could stay to dinner, and swept off towards the back of the house, chivvying the niece ahead of her.

“No time to waste mooning in your room, Laura. We’ll need to put on more potatoes to stretch the stew. Put those bundles away…” A closing door shut off the detail of Aunt Agnes’ tirade, but not the sound of her scold, pitched at a droning whine that set Thomas’ teeth on edge.

“Where do you stay this night?” the old man demanded.

Thomas had assumed he would be resisting an invitation to stay here. In Canada, where he was raised, his parents found room for any traveller, let alone a hitherto unknown nephew. In San Francisco, where his business partner lived, the same habits prevailed. Thomas had already taken rooms at the Empire Hotel, but he was surprised not to be offered a bed here.

Campbell made the wrong assumption from his silence. “There’s a camp. In the middle of town. Those heading for the gold fields can find tent space.”

So he’d be given dinner then turned out into the night. And leave without any regrets, except that he’d like to know a little more about his cousin-by-marriage.

“So they told me when I arrived, Sir,” he said, perversely not wishing to let this poor excuse for an uncle know he had already arranged his own accommodation

He continued to make attempts at conversation, each one squashed by Campbell, until they were called to dinner. The table, in the second front room, sharing space with a pair of fireside chairs, a large roll-top desk, and a treadle sewing machine, had been moved far enough from the wall to allow the use of four of the six wooden chairs. Aunt Agnes brought a platter of fresh sliced bread, while Miss Campbell carried in a large pot and returned for another.

After a long prayer of thanksgiving that sounded more like a diatribe against persons unnamed, Campbell gestured them to sit. So began one of the most uncomfortable meals of Thomas’ life.

The stew was delicious, if somewhat sparse. Thomas dug into the bread with enthusiasm to fill the gaps.

“My mother sends her love,” Thomas said, a little mendaciously. Mama had actually told him, I suppose you had better visit Agnes, though I don’t suppose you’ll be welcomed.

This conversational opener fetched a contemptuous harrumph from Campbell, and a nod of acknowledgement from Aunt Agnes.

Thomas tried again. “The stew is delicious. My compliments.” He nodded to his aunt, but it was Miss Campbell who murmured thanks, sliding frightened eyes sideways to her uncle.

What now? The weather? Ladies’ fashions? Greek history? Stargazing or birdwatching? Did nobody at this benighted table talk over dinner?

Before he could make a comment on the beauty of the long Otago Harbour inlet, Aunt Agnes surprised him by asking, “How is my sister?”

“Well, Ma’am, she was well when I left San Francisco. She is staying with my sister, Catherine, to help with the older children, while my sister is lying in with the new baby.”

“Three children is it, now?” Aunt Agnes asked, her tone softening, and something like longing in her eyes.

“Yes. Two boys, and now a little girl. Cath and Patrick are delighted.”

“More half-breed, Papist idolaters bound for Hell,” Mr Campbell grumbled, seemingly to his plate. Thomas controlled the urge to retaliate in kind. Campbell had clearly not softened since the days when his mother and her sister, two good, Presbyterian girls in Edinburgh, were being courted. Both married and emigrated. Mother had gone with her merry husband to Canada, where she was welcomed by his Irish father and his mother’s large Métis clan, descendants of a French trapper and his Cree wife. Aunt Agnes and her dour non-conformist chose to move far from all they knew to New Zealand, where they moved from one congregation to another until he invented one strict enough for his tastes.

Aunt Agnes, who had been about to say something more, subsided. Another conversational sally cut off at the pass.

“I thought your harbour very beautiful,” Thomas offered. “The hills either side… it is very like parts of the west coast of Canada, where I grew up.”

Miss Campbell looked as if she might reply, but clearly thought better of it, and neither of the others said a word.

In the end, Thomas gave up and simply ate his meal. Another interminable Grace in place of dessert was clearly a signal that dinner was over, and Aunt Agnes and Miss Campbell began to clear.

Thomas stood when they rose. “May I pay my guest gift by helping with the dishes?” he asked.

Campbell answered for the women. “The girls will do it. My niece and the maid. Women’s work.”

Thomas, who had fended for himself in a long succession of miner’s towns, where women were few and far between, once again swallowed his opinion. The evening would soon be over, and he could escape.

Sooner than he thought, it appeared. “Agnes, fetch the boy’s coat,” the old man commanded, and Aunt Agnes scurried to obey.

“Thank you for dinner, Ma’am,” Thomas said. “Mama will be pleased to know I found you well.”

Aunt Agnes handed him his coat with one hand, and waved Miss Campbell’s book with the other. “Look what I found under the coats, Mr Campbell. That girl has been reading again!”

Miss Campbell had returned to the room to finish clearing the table, and stood behind her uncle, transfixed, her face white.

“My book!” Thomas exclaimed. “It must have fallen out of my pocket.”

Aunt Agnes looked at him, doubtfully, but handed him the book, and Campbell shut the mouth that had been open to roar. “And what is that you’re reading?” he grumbled, frowning.

Thomas, who had no idea of the answer, held the book up so Campbell could see the embossed title for himself.

“Dombey and Son. That Charles Dickens fellow. Rubbish.”

Thomas tucked the book into his pocket, shook Campbell’s hand, thanked him for his hospitality (may his lips not shrivel—two lies in as many minutes!), and gave his aunt a dutiful salute on a cold, papery cheek.

Miss Campbell had faded from the room again, silent as a ghost. No matter. As the front door closed behind him, Thomas ducked along in front of the parlour window and down the narrow path at the side of the house to the lean-to scullery at the rear.

Miss Campbell was bent over the sink, while another girl dried each dish as it was handed to her. He waited, watching through the window, as they completed the dishes, and then continued to wait some more.

He doubted that Campbell, the nasty old miser, let them burn candles sitting up late. Before long, each of them would make the journey down the path to the outhouse at the foot of the garden. With luck, he could return Miss Campbell her book with no one else the wiser.

Within half an hour, his expectation was fulfilled, as first the maid, then Campbell himself, then Aunt Agnes made the trip. When it was Miss Campbell’s turn with the lantern, he waited until she returned and spoke from the shadows, keeping his voice soft, so as not to alarm her.

“Miss Campbell, I waited to return your book.”

Clever girl. She kept her eyes on the back door, but slowed her steps, saying quietly, “Aunt Agnes is watching. I will be back shortly to collect wood. The wood pile is beyond that shed.” She indicated with her head, still not looking at him.

“I will be there,” Thomas told her. He kept to the shadows, but was in place to meet her when she carried out a basket to fill with wood for the morning fire.

“Maisie will be here in a moment, Mr O’Bryan, to help me carry the basket back inside. Thank you for telling Uncle Campbell it was your book.”

“Here you are, Miss Campbell.” He handed her the book, and she slipped it inside the waistband of her skirt, loosening, then retying, the shawl that insulated her against the chill night air.

A clatter of wooden pattens heralded the arrival of the maid, and Thomas faded into the darkness, leaving the two of them to their task.

He sauntered back along George Street to his hotel. He could write to his Mama and let her know her sister was well. He had done his duty and need not visit again. But he would not at all mind seeing Miss Campbell once more.

Two

M

r O’Bryan was a bright spot in an otherwise dismal week. Rose’s lateness returning home that night had been overshadowed by the American nephew’s crimes of being a Papist, a gold miner, and an uninvited dinner guest. She escaped with no more than an extra fifteen minutes on her knees, and the linen closet to turn out. She managed to read the book Mr O’Bryan had saved for her in the week before it was due for return, keeping it in her apron pocket, stealing moments at the clothesline or in the kitchen when Aunt Agnes was occupied with the ladies’ church committee.

On Thursday, Mr Hackerton came to dinner. A widower and an elder at the Congregation of the Elect meetinghouse, he was looking Rose over for her potential as a wife and housekeeper. Rose shuddered. Imagine: a lifetime of being called ‘Laura’, and being touched by those cold, pudgy hands.

On Saturday, the entire house had to be cleaned from top to bottom, and the next day’s food cooked, so the day could be spent in prayer and meditation, when not at one of two long church services conducted by Uncle Campbell and the other elders.

And on Monday, she saw Thomas O’Bryan again. She was coming back from shopping, nervously skirting the noisy camp in the Octagon, when he materialised beside her, tipped his cap, and held out a hand for her basket.

“Let me carry that for you, Miss Campbell. It looks heavy.” He fell into step, saying cheerfully, “As I thought. Far too heavy for a little bit of a thing like yourself.”

“I thought you would have gone to the fields by now, Mr O’Bryan,” she said.

“There now, you have been thinking of me!” Something in his grin made her insides feel peculiar, and she looked away, feeling the heat rise in her face.

“I have business to attend to in Dunedin, but I’ve passage booked on the coach tomorrow,” he explained. “And what are we shopping for, this fine, crisp, spring morning?” He lifted the corner of a package, and shifted another sideways, ignoring her anxious fluttering. “Is there another book concealed beneath the potatoes, Miss Campbell?”

“Don’t say that,” she darted her eyes about, hoping no one who knew her uncle had overheard. They were all strangers, intent on their own affairs, and Mr O’Bryan was regarding her with chagrin.

“I was only teasing, Miss Campbell. No one heard, and your secrets are safe with me. The old crow and his wife object to you reading?”

She flushed to hear her secret description for her nearest living relations on the lips of this irreverent man, but something about his clear interest tugged a murmured admission from her. “Uncle says the Bible is the only proper reading for a pious woman.”

“Which bits?” Mr O’Bryan enquired with interest. “The Song of Songs? The story about Lot’s daughters? Or Tamar?”

“Mr O’Bryan!” He could not possibly know of her minor rebellion, seeking out the most shocking stories she could find in the Bible, whenever her uncle set her reading.

“What?” He tried to keep his face bland, but one corner of his mouth twitched, and his eyes twinkled.

By now, they were out of the shopping area and approaching the turn into Frederick Street. “Thank you for your escort, sir,” Rose told him. “I can manage from here.”

“I am visiting my aunt, Miss Campbell, so I’ll do myself the honour of seeing you home.”

Thomas was surprised to hear himself say so. He’d intended to steer clear of his aunt and her poisonous husband, despite his attraction to the niece. Unusual for him to be attracted to a little mouse; though, he had to admit, she had backbone, sneaking books into the house under the old man’s nose. There was more to her than met the eye.

But she was all wrong for Thomas—Protestant, and puritan at that. This New Zealand venture would establish his fortune, and he’d return home to San Francisco to look for a wife—a good, Catholic girl like Mary Rourke, the daughter of his partner. Ben had hoped… and Thomas had started seriously thinking about it, but he had thought too long, and came back from a trip to Canada to find the girl betrothed—to a local farmer, of all things.

Miss Campbell was nothing like Miss Rourke. Slender, where Miss Rourke was prettily plump, quiet and contained, while Miss Rourke was vivacious and outgoing, wary, when Miss Rourke expected the world to shape itself to her command. Miss Rourke was all colour—red hair, rosy cheeks, blue-green eyes, bright gowns and shawls and bonnets. Miss Campbell was shades of brown—light hair the shade of a mouse pelt; soft, brown eyes, lightened with gold flecks; skin a pale olive, lit at the moment by the bright colour that rose so easily to her face; and her drab, serviceable, beige dress cut too large and untrimmed.

She should be dressed in green or red or a warm, rosy pink; something that would give her colour, instead of draining it. If she were his, he’d buy her colours.

Protestant, he reminded himself. Not for him.

“Why does your uncle call you ‘Laura’?” he asked, to turn his mind from the subject.

“He does not like my other name,” she explained.

“Rose Laura?” He tried it on his tongue. “Or Laura Rose?”

“Laura Rose, but my papa always called me Rose. Uncle says it is a Pap… Uncle does not like it.”

Thomas could easily supply the word she caught back: Papist. Another reminder that they occupied separate worlds. “Rose is a very pretty name,” he said.

She smiled, and the grim spring day became unexpectedly brighter.

“What business keeps you in Dunedin, Mr O’Bryan?”

“Mining supplies, Miss Campbell. My firm, Rourke and O’Bryan, sells supplies to miners, and I am here in New Zealand to set up supply lines and open stores in the main fields.”

“Food, you mean?”

“And pans and shovels and blankets and buckets and clothing and tents… My father and his partner began the firm in California thirteen years ago, when I was a wee bit of a boy, and Ben Rourke took me into the firm when my father died.”

“I am sorry for your loss, Mr O’Bryan. Is it… recent?”

“Three years ago, but I cannot seem to realise it, somehow. I was in South Australia, and by the time I received the letter telling me he was ill, he had already gone to his reward.”

Thomas shook his head, grimacing. He’d returned home on the first ship that could give him passage, but arrived in Vancouver six weeks past the funeral.

His sister, Mary-Elizabeth, and her family had moved into the fine, new house his parents had built, so his mother would not be alone. But when he was home, Thomas constantly expected to be told it had all been a mistake, to see, at any moment, his father walking in through the front door, kissing his wife, tickling his grandson, and making a joke about the removal of his favourite chair to the attic, since Mama could neither bear to look at it, nor give it away.

Thomas shook off the mood. The whole family had offered Masses for the repose of Papa’s soul, and Thomas had performed all the requirements for a plenary indulgence at Christmastide, on Papa’s behalf, these past three years. Papa was a good man, and surely in Purgatory at least, if not in Heaven already.

“What of your own family, Miss Campbell? How do you come to be living with your aunt and uncle?”

Miss Campbell wilted, all the vitality sinking out of her, and Thomas felt an almost overpowering urge to give her a hug and bring some warmth back into her face.

“Never mind,” he said, hastily. “You need not talk about it, if you do not wish.”

If they turned now, they would be at the Campbell’s cottage before he was ready. He deliberately continued straight ahead, and she followed meekly along, her thoughts far away.

“I do not mind,” she said, breaking the silence. “The story is a short one. My mother died shortly after I was born, and my father raised me. Then, five years ago, he left me with his brother and went off to Australia. He said the gold fields were no place for a growing girl. A few months later… he drowned, Mr O’Bryan. A flash flood, they said, several miners swept away.”

Thomas led her into a small patch of uncleared trees, hidden from those passing, so she need not be embarrassed by the tears pouring silently down her cheeks. He put a comforting arm on hers, and she leant into his hug, shoulders heaving as she tried to contain her sobs.

“Cry away, Miss Campbell,” he told her. “I have two sisters who have cried on me more times than I can count, and no one else will ever know.”

Miss Campbell shook her head, and took several deep, shuddery breaths.

“Uncle Campbell would not like me to return home red-eyed. He says my father is burning in Hell for a sinner, and I should not mourn such a man. But he was a good man, Mr O’Bryan. Always humming and telling jokes and hoping for the best. God would not be so cruel as to keep him from Heaven, just because he played the piano at dances and sometimes missed a church service. He would not, would he?”

Thomas was not qualified to give an opinion on the salvation of heretics. He hedged. “Didn’t Jesus say we don’t know? That some who think they are saved won’t be, and some who think they are not, will be? Love counts, I think. And kindness.” He hoped so, anyway, and the thought cheered Miss Campbell, who pulled back from his arms and set about tidying the bonnet she’d knocked askew against his shoulder.

How pretty she was, even with her eyes slightly puffy.

They continued walking, and to change the subject, he began telling her about the clerks he had hired and the warehouse he had rented and the store he intended to build in Hartley Township, in the Dunstan gold fields. She asked intelligent questions, entering with enthusiasm into discussion of his plans, and by the time they arrived at the Campbell’s cottage, all physical signs of Miss Campbell’s grief had faded.

Thomas sat through an awkward visit with his aunt, who made no effort to conceal her surprise at seeing him again, bur reluctantly offered him tea, which he drank at the kitchen table while Aunt Agnes, the maid, and Miss Campbell bustled about preparing an evening meal.

Aunt Agnes was visibly relieved when he finished the cup of weak tea and refused to stay for dinner. “Mr Campbell will be sorry to have missed you,” she said.

Thomas met the lie with one of his own, sending the old bully his best wishes.

He had no more wish to sit at his aunt’s meagre board than she to have him there. So why, when he took his coat and hat from Miss Campbell, did he bend closer and say, “I will do myself the honour of calling again when I am in Dunedin, Miss Campbell”?

Three

M

r O’Bryan’s visits were the highlight of the month, and Dunedin felt wetter, windier, and colder after he left. Rose struggled with snail depredations and weeds in the vegetable garden, did the shopping, cooked, cleaned, sewed in the evenings, and woke earlier and earlier with the lengthening day, to read a little in the dawn light before another day of unrelenting work.

From time to time, but perhaps not more than a dozen times a day, she wondered how Mr O’Bryan was faring in Dunstan and whether he would, indeed, call on them when he returned to Dunedin.

Then, suddenly, in early December, he was there again, falling into step beside her as she walked from Knox Lane to George Street on her way shopping.

“Good morning, Miss Campbell. May I carry your basket?” He was taking it from her as he spoke, his impish grin robbing the gesture of any offence.

“You’re back,” Rose said. What a foolish thing to say, but her wits had taken flight at his presence.

“I am. And do I find you well?”

She stammered something, trying to collect her scattered thoughts.

“And did your business prosper, Mr O’Bryan?” she managed.

“It did, thank you. The first cartloads of goods sold before they reached Dunstan. I’ve taken on two more assistants for the tent store and a building to house Rourke and O’Bryan is going up in Hartley Township, as we speak. All is going well there, and so I’ve come to attend to business at this end of the trail.”

Rose looked around her, wondering what business he found in this mainly residential area, and he must have guessed her thoughts, because he said, “Today, I am taking an afternoon’s holiday. I was on my way to visit you when, behold, here you are walking toward me. Dare I hope to escort you the entire afternoon, Miss Campbell?”

She smiled her consent, all at once feeling giddy. But someone might see them and report to her uncle! Well, what of it? She would still have the memory of the afternoon—a little treasure to take out and enjoy when he was gone, and she was alone.

He threw himself into the shopping with enthusiasm, debating the merits of various meats, solemnly inspecting vegetables, giving his view on the best threads to match and contrast with the cushion cover she was decorating.

When she hesitated over some bonnet trimmings, yearning for a confection of silk flowers and feathers, he offered to buy them. She blushed at the scandalous suggestion, but was not as displeased as she should be.

“No, indeed, Mr O’Bryan. My uncle would never allow me to wear any bonnet they would make. I will have three yards of the brown ribbon, please,” she told the assistant.

Mr O’Bryan subsided, but his next suggestion was that they should take tea at the Empire Hotel. Rose hesitated. Anyone might walk together when out shopping, but to take tea with a man at his hotel was surely a wanton act. Or so her uncle would say, in any case.

At that moment, they passed Hackerton’s Emporium, and even from the footpath, she could hear the man her uncle intended her to wed berating an unfortunate employee.

“Very well, Mr O’Bryan,” she said. Another memory to cherish. Why not?

She had passed the tea rooms at the Empire on several occasions, but never thought to enter. She felt very grand sitting at one of their white-linen-covered tables, with a tiered cake plate of toothsome delicacies and a dainty china cup full of fragrant tea. And a handsome, charming, attentive escort, who kept her entertained with stories of people in the burgeoning boomtown at the Dunstan.

She was very much in charity with him as they made their way back up Princes Street and through the Octagon, skirting the muddy centre, where the churning population of miners briefly settled, before heading up the Dunstan trail to Central Otago.

In the next moment, her contentment took a knock.

“Mr O’Bryan!” The speaker was a tall, striking-looking woman with bold, dark eyes and porcelain skin, set off to perfection by her black dress and bonnet. In the next moment, Rose realised that the veil, currently pushed back from the perfect oval of the woman’s face, marked her a widow. She was older than Rose had thought at first, too—older than Thom… Mr O’Bryan, that was certain.

“Mr O’Bryan, I want to thank you, Sir. The money has been—I cannot tell you. All those sharks that hovered after the money Arthur owed them…” The woman shuddered.

“Payment for services rendered, Mrs Moffat, and for those you have promised me. And how is little Mary? Better, I hope? Oh, but I forget my manners. Miss Campbell, allow me to present Mrs Moffat, who works for me. Mrs Moffat, Miss Campbell is my cousin.”

The woman gave Rose a distracted nod and a brief curtsey before hurrying on, “I must get back to her. I just popped out for a few groceries and left young Arthur in charge, and Mary will not mind him when she is fretful. But I am grateful for it, Mr O’Bryan, for if she is fretful, she is on the mend, so the doctor says. And we will be in Hartley Township in the new year, I promise you that, Sir.”

“Whenever the little girl is well enough, Mrs Moffat. You are not to be anxious about it.”

The widow said her farewells, repeating her thanks, and hurried off, with Rose looking thoughtfully after her.

“A sad case, Miss Campbell. Her husband managed the warehouse I am leasing here in Dunedin, or so I thought. But a fortnight ago, he walked off the end of the wharf and drowned, leaving a wife and seven little ones.”

“Oh, how terrible!” Rose was berating herself for her uncharitable thoughts.

“When I arrived, I found the warehouse humming along nicely, and it transpired that Mrs Moffat has been running it all along, while Moffat drank his income. I’d leave her in charge, but some of the ships’ captains won’t deal with a woman, so I offered her management of the store in Hartley Township.”

“That was very generous of you.”

“Not really. The miners behave better with a woman than a man, and—to be very selfish about it—she is old enough and soured enough on marriage not to be stolen to the altar almost before she arrives at the fields.”

“You paid her husband’s debts,” Rose guessed, “and probably the doctor’s bill, too.” She smiled at him. What a kind man he was.

And the rent through to the end of January, Thomas thought, but couldn’t bring himself to say, a little embarrassed at Rose’s obvious approval. Just good business. He needed a reliable, loyal storekeeper, and the price he’d paid to redeem Moffat’s gambling debts and pay his bills was cheap, compared to bringing someone of his own from another continent.

And Miss Campbell’s smile upon hearing the tale was a bonus; a lovely, joyful, open beam that transformed the dismal day into glorious summer.

Before he recovered from the mind-reeling effects of it, he found himself inviting her to the Grand Ball in January, being held by the Committee of the Widows and Orphans Institution of the Oddfellows. Just like that, the sun went out.

“Freemasonry is the work of the devil, and dancing encourages licentious behaviour,” she told him, primly, but her eyes were wistful.

“It will be a subscription assembly conducted by ladies of the highest probity,” Thomas assured her. “Do say you will come, Miss Campbell.”

“I cannot.” The wistfulness leaked into her voice. “Uncle Campbell would never allow it.”

They were at Campbell’s front door, and he could say no more, not wishing to draw the ire of Aunt Agnes upon her vulnerable head.

Aunt Agnes was no more welcoming than she had been the last time, making a few minutes of desultory conversation before reluctantly offering him a cup of tea, which he enthusiastically refused, claiming the pressure of other business.

“But I could not be at this end of town without paying my respects, Ma’am,” he said, his tongue firmly in his cheek.

After Aunt Agnes had seen him off at the front door, he doubled back to slip between the narrow houses to the rear garden, where Rose was struggling with the wind to pull in a line of sheets and other linen.

Without a word, Thomas came to her aid, his extra height helping him reach the pegs easily and fold the sheets more quickly.

Again, he was rewarded by a softening in her fine eyes, and that bright smile. “Thank you. Mostly, it is not a problem, but when the wind gets up, I swear the washing has a mind of its own! At least it is not wet.”

She folded the personal items he had politely left for her to retrieve, and tucked them under the sheets in the wash basket. How pretty she looked, embarrassment touching her cheeks with the rose of her name.

“The dance is on the sixth of January,” he said.

“I know.”

“I will be back in Dunedin by Christmas, or not long after. If you will trust me, Cousin Rose, I’ll come and fetch you for the dance and make sure you get back safely.”

“I cannot.” Her eyes yearned, but her voice was firm. “My uncle would never permit it. And it would be wrong of me to disobey him while I live under his roof.”

“If you change your mind, a message at the Empire Hotel will reach me,” he told her. But he didn’t press her any further. He should be grateful she refused him. No good could come of such an evening, however innocent.

It was an afternoon to pack away in her memories, and pull out to relive again and again. Rose had to be careful not to hum as she prepared and served dinner. Even listening to her uncle’s lectures and instructions over the meal could not suppress her mood entirely, nor did facing the pile of dishes that needed to be washed before she could go to bed, this being the maid’s half-day.

As she washed and dried, she imagined what it might be like to attend the Grand Ball. Now that would be a memory to treasure!

Rose packed away the dishes, scrubbed the sink, and set some oats to soften overnight for breakfast porridge, all the time, listing in her head the many reasons why accepting Mr O’Bryan’s invitation would be disastrous.

She believed him when he said there would be no harm in it. Why, even in their small break-away congregation, with its strict rules about social behaviour, some of the other women were going to the event. One was even on the organising committee!

But Uncle disapproved, and so she could not think of it.

Four

B

ut the idea would not go away, and as Christmas rushed ever nearer, Rose nerved herself to approach her uncle and ask if she might go to the ball. She did not even have time to confess to Mr O’Bryan’s invitation before he gave her an indignant refusal, followed with two hours of writing, in her best hand, the admonishments from the letters of St Paul about the behaviour of women.

She had expected nothing else, but that did not prevent her despondency. She was disappointed, too, as the Christmas Octave began, and Mr O’Bryan did not appear. She scanned the streets as she shopped, negotiating the excited crowds and looking wistfully at seasonal decorations.

The Campbell household did not celebrate the feast, except with an extra-long church service. No special preparations, no decorations, no presents.

Watching Mrs Moffat and two of her children negotiating with the grocer for baking supplies, arguing about which particular treats they would make, gave her a pang. She and her father used to bake special cakes and other treats at Christmas. They had hung ribbons and greenery to decorate the house, and sung carols together each evening. Christmas day had meant a special meal, and little gifts made or purchased in secret and presented to each other with great delight. At Christmas, more than ever, she missed him.

Mrs Moffat recognised her and stopped to say hello, admonishing the children to stand still or they’d have no treats, nor presents either, perhaps. They grinned, not at all concerned, but waited patiently nonetheless, while Rose asked after the sick child. “She is on the mend, thank the Virgin and all the saints,” Mrs Moffat said. “We will be following Mr O’Bryan up to Dunstan in a few weeks; by the end of January, beyond a doubt. And have you heard from the dear man, Miss Campbell?”

Rose shook her head. “He said he hoped to be back in Dunedin before, or just after, Christmas, which is only a few days away.”

“Well, if ever the world held a man who keeps his word, it is Mr O’Bryan. An angel from Heaven, he has been to me and mine. Don’t think I cannot see you poking your brother, Margaret Moffat. Butter would not melt in her mouth, that one, Miss Campbell, but I have to watch her every minute. I had best be getting them off home, and leave you to do your shopping. Merry Christmas.”

Rose wished the same to Mrs Moffat and the children. She expected they would have a happier Christmas than she. It would take more than the kind of miracle Mr O’Bryan had wrought for the Moffat family, to turn Aunt Agnes and Uncle Campbell into Christmas carollers.

Christmas Day was even worse than expected. No Mr O’Bryan, and too much Mr Hackerton. He came home with the Campbells after church and stayed for dinner, and Rose had to endure him and Uncle Campbell discussing her cooking and housekeeping skills, as if she were a piece of merchandise whose purchase Mr Hackerton was considering. Which, of course, she was.

As she and Maisie cleaned up after the meal, she listened to the maid’s grumbles with half her attention, much of her focus on whether she could refuse Mr Hackerton’s courtship, and what her uncle would do if she did.

Maisie’s chatter penetrated her distraction. “… leaving at the end of the quarter, and so I told him. ‘I am not your niece, to be kept from any fun and work for nothing every day of the week without a holiday,’ I told him.”

Maisie was leaving? “But what will you do? Where will you go?”

Maisie scoffed. “Oh, Miss, with servants taking off after gold, and all the new people, there is plenty of work for a willing girl. I don’t have to stay where they won’t give me a half-day at Christmas. No, I’ll see out the quarter, but come 31 December, when my wages is due, I’m taking my leave, and so I have told Mr and Mrs Campbell.” She nodded, her lips pursed in satisfaction. “Yes, and you should do the same, Miss.”

She should, too. The seed, thus planted, rapidly took root. Plenty of work, was there? It couldn’t be harder than she did here. Indeed, the difference between the way the Campbells treated their niece and the way they treated their servant put all the benefits on Maisie’s side—wages, a half-day a week off, as well as time to attend the church services of her choice.

Rose would be twenty-one on the thirtieth of January, no longer under her uncle’s guardianship.

She began to question Maisie about how one went about finding a job.

Rose, full of her own plans for a future in domestic service, was completely taken by surprise when Uncle Campbell announced, a few days before the sixth of January, that he had given his approval for Mr Hackerton to escort her to the Grand Ball for the benefit of the Widows and Orphans.

She was torn. On the one hand, she had no desire to encourage Mr Hackerton’s courtship. On the other, this might be her only opportunity to attend such an event. Then again, she had nothing fit to wear to a ball. But that hardly mattered, did it? She would be there to see all the beautiful gowns and enjoy the music, so what she wore was of no importance.

With all these ideas cluttering up her tongue, she could only stammer, “The Ball, Uncle?”

“Hackerton thinks it will be a treat for you, and I’ve said you will go, Laura, so go you shall.”

Rose nodded her acquiescence, and went up to lay her Sunday-best gown out on the bed. It was brown, a soft, mousy colour, a shade or two darker than her hair. Plain, cut high to the neck and loose in the waist, it was not flattering. But it was serviceable, and it was what she had. She sighed and returned it to its hook.

When she had wages, she would buy herself a Sunday dress in green, or perhaps blue. And flowers and ribbons to trim her bonnets. As she came downstairs to answer a knock on the door, she smiled at the thought.

Maisie was right about the dearth of servants; Aunt Agnes was finding it hard to replace the maid, and would not be happy at all when Rose left. Her smile broadened at the thought, and she was grinning when she opened the door.

There on the step stood Thomas O’Bryan.

Miss Campbell met Thomas with a happy smile, and for a moment, all he could do was smile back.

She recalled him to himself, saying, “Why, it is Mr O’Bryan! Come in, Sir. Are you here to see your aunt?”

I am here to see you, Rose, he wanted to say, but he kept his peace and followed her to the parlour where Aunt Agnes sat at a narrow desk, writing out accounts.

“Turned up again, have you?” Aunt Agnes said, but though the words sounded unenthusiastic, she surprised him with a smile that was almost welcoming.

Thomas pulled out the first of the presents with which he had armed himself. “Happy Christmas, Aunt Agnes.”

“We do not celebrate Christmas in this house, young man.” Campbell had been sitting, unnoticed, on a chair facing away from the door. His glower followed his voice as he rose to glare at Thomas.

“Happy New Year then, Uncle,” Thomas said, peaceably, handing the old man a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, and passing another to Aunt Agnes.

For a moment, the two hesitated, then curiosity and avarice overcame their distaste, and they both began to untie the string.

Thomas turned to give his third present—the reason he’d bothered to bring the other two—to Rose, but she had left the room, and he had to wait.

Aunt Agnes thanked him for the pretty shawl, and Campbell, with considerably less grace, grumbled his grudging appreciation of the pen-and-wiper set.

“Take a seat, if you are staying. I suppose that girl has gone to make tea,” Campbell said. Thomas sat, determined to remain until he could speak to Rose.

Almost immediately, he stood again, and hurried to help her with a heavy tray.

“Thank you, Mr O’Bryan.” She blushed as he took the tray from her, and would have left the room again, had he not spoken.

“Miss Campbell, I trust I see you well?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr O’Bryan.”

Campbell interrupted, frowning. “No point in making calf’s eyes at my niece, boy. I’m supposing it is her you have rushed to see, all the way from Dunstan.”

“I came to bring you presents, Uncle, as I said. I am a few days later than I intended,” Thomas apologised. “I told you I would be here just after Christmas, Aunt Agnes, and that’s more than a week past. But here I am now.

“I have a present for Miss Campbell, as well.” He handed Rose the wrapped parcel, and her eyes shone when she found a duplicate to the shawl he had given Aunt Agnes, but with green the dominant colour, rather than the deep, wine red he had chosen for his aunt.

Campbell looked even dourer. He clearly wanted to complain, but could not, having accepted his own gift.

“So what kept you, Thomas?” Aunt Agnes wanted to know.

“I thought I had sufficient time to visit the new fields, Aunt Agnes.” He studiously did not look at Rose, for whom he intended the explanation. “Up on the Arrow and the Wakatip, they’re making finds every day, and at least one new town will be needed, perhaps more. Certainly, Hartley Township is too far for the diggers to bring their gold and buy supplies.” The new town would have a Rourke and O’Bryan store for those diggers to patronise. He had already purchased the land and hired the builders, though that wasn’t the whole reason for the delay.

No need to tell the ladies he’d discovered a body in the river—some poor digger drowned in the winter, by the looks of it, his remains exposed as the water level dropped. Rose, in particular, did not need to know he’d had to stay up the Arrow to give evidence at the inquest.

Might as well take the bull by the horns and address his real reason for coming. “Uncle, I hoped to gain your permission to escort Miss Campbell to the Grand Ball. It is for a good cause, and will be a gentile event.”

Campbell opened his mouth, but Aunt Agnes spoke first. “You are too late, Thomas. Laura has an escort. A gentleman from our congregation.”

“It is a respectable event, and her escort has my approval.” Campbell got to his feet. “Laura. Mrs Campbell. You’ll be about your work, if you please. I’ll be having a word with O’Bryan here.”

The ladies, Rose looking anxiously over her shoulder, left the room, and Thomas listened politely to the not-unexpected lecture from Campbell. He was to leave Miss Campbell alone. He was the wrong religion for her, and too worldly, and altogether unsuitable. Campbell had chosen her husband, and Thomas was not to interfere in any way, up to and including visiting her, dancing with her, and speaking to her.

Thomas said very little, seeing no point in causing trouble for Rose by arguing. Besides, Campbell’s objections were the same he’d raised for himself. They came from different worlds, he and Rose.

But somehow, hearing Campbell say it made him want to defend what he and Rose had in common. Whatever it was that was growing between them, if it proved to be real and true, could stand a bit of difference, surely? And he’d been in the world long enough to know that how a person acted counted for more than what church they attended.

Rose might have been raised Protestant, which made her a heretic, by his family’s measure. But she was as good a woman as any he’d met. Gentle. Kind. Generous. Sweet. Pure, too.

As he walked back to his hotel, he resolved to inspect this young man of Campbell’s at the Grand Ball. If he is a good man, well and good. But the kind of man Campbell was likely to support? Well, Rose should have a choice. That was all. She should be able to choose. Perhaps he could offer her a job in one of his stores? She could not be worse off than she was as Campbell’s unpaid skivvy.

Five

“A

nd you are to do as Mr Hackerton tells you, Laura,” Uncle Campbell said. “You are not to dance unless he says you might. Do not drink the punch, for I do not trust those Freemasons not to put ruinous liquor into it. And you are not to dance with Thomas O’Bryan, do you hear me?”

With her uncle’s admonitions ringing in her ears, Rose set off to the dance. Walking on a gentleman’s arm was strange. Mr Hackerton was much shorter than Thomas, barely an inch taller than she, and the strange pull she felt when with Thomas simply wasn’t there, the one that urged her to tuck herself up against his side. She kept a decorous distance between them.

Conversing with Mr Hackerton was easy enough. She had only to nod, smile, and make meaningless comments at appropriate intervals. “Oh, really?” “Well, I never.” “Indeed.” “How nice.” After a while, she began trotting them out in order, without regard to Mr Hackerton’s conversation. He did not notice, continuing to regale her with story after story of his victories over customers, suppliers, employees, and household.

She could not marry this man. She could not. He was no less a bully than Uncle Campbell, and she shuddered to think of putting herself under his thumb. Whatever the marriage bed involved, she was sure she would rather clean floors in a boarding house than submit to such intimacies with Mr Hackerton.

The new Murphy’s Assembly Room, on Rattray Street, was transformed with flowers and lights and great, hanging swaths of white and gold fabric. Mr Hackerton showed their tickets at the door, and attempted to hurry her through to the main hall, but Rose hung back. “I need to tidy my hair, Sir,” she told him. “I will come to join you directly.”

She waited her turn at the small mirror, smoothed the hair that had been disarranged by her bonnet, and spent a few more minutes tidying and arranging her clothes, reluctant to re-join her escort.

But he was not in the entrance foyer when she emerged from the ladies’ retiring room. Such a small man; perhaps she was missing him in the crowd? She began to weave between the groups of people who had stopped to greet one another, or who were lined at the door of the main room, waiting to enter. No. No Mr Hackerton.

“Are you on your own, Miss?” A strange man rested a hand on her arm, and she flinched. “Thank you, no,” she stammered, backing away. He persisted, following her. “Would you care for a dance, Miss?”

Her backward progress was arrested as she came up against a solid body, and her momentary panic turned to relief at Mr O’Bryan’s warm tones. “There you are, Miss Campbell. So easy to get lost when there are so many people.” She looked up at him with a warm smile, and the man who had addressed her melted into the crowd.

“Have you become separated from your escort?” Mr O’Bryan asked. “May I find him for you?”

“I thought he was waiting here for me, Mr O’Bryan, but he must have gone on inside. I don’t suppose that man meant any harm.”

“Probably not,” Mr O’Bryan agreed. But his eyes remained wary as he offered her his arm.

How different it was making her way through the shifting masses shielded by Mr O’Bryan’s protective arm and cheerful quips. Once they were through the door and in the main room, the crowd opened out enough for her to see Mr Hackerton talking to several other people from the church, and she directed Mr O’Bryan in that direction.

Hackerton saw them coming and abandoned his conversation to bustle in their direction, glowering. “Miss Campbell, what are you about?”

“Mr Hackerton, may I make known to you Mr O’Bryan, the nephew of my Aunt Agnes? Mr O’Bryan was kind enough to escort me through all the people.”

“O’Bryan.” Mr Hackerton gave a short nod, his frown not a whit abated.

“We have met,” Mr O’Bryan told Rose, returning the nod with no more affability than Mr Hackerton. “I commend Miss Campbell to your care, Hackerton. The crowd presses more roughly than a lady likes.”

Two dogs circling with their hackles raised, and Rose would not be the bone between them. She murmured her thanks to Mr O’Bryan and left the two gentlemen to their dispute, passing them to greet Mr and Mrs MacTavish and their adult children.

Mr Hackerton followed her a moment later, but by then, she was admiring Miss Minnie MacTavish’s gown and Miss Molly MacTavish’s fine Indian shawl, and having her own shawl—Thomas’s beautiful Christmas gift—admired in turn.

“Virtue is a woman’s best adornment,” Mr Hackerton proclaimed, offending Mr MacTavish, who complained. “Ye are no’ sayin’ that me Minnie and Molly are no’ virtuous, Hackerton?”

In the interconnected web of Dunedin’s merchant world, MacTavish and his carrier business were crucial. Hackerton was quick to deny any such intention, and with luck, would forget Rose’s own crimes in the ensuing fuss.

After three country dances—one with Hackerton, one with the oldest MacTavish son, and one she watched from the sidelines—the band began a waltz. Rose would not dance the scandalous dance, of course, though she watched wistfully as the MacTavish girls, one after another, accepted invitations from young men approved by their father.

How lovely the dancers looked. Gentlemen in black tailcoats; merchants and clerks and carters and miners in their Sunday best, turning and circling around the floor to the music, the women in their arms like so many flowers, with their full skirts swaying, especially those whose exaggerated bells were supported by fashionable hoops.

She did not realise she was smiling and humming until Mr Hackerton touched her arm to gain her attention. “You are not listening, Miss Campbell. I said I am surprised at Mr MacTavish, allowing his daughters to participate in such a riotous activity. A country dance, yes. Some consider such levity unbecoming, but I cannot allow that the Lord frowns on all dancing, when we are told David danced. Not the waltz, however.”

Rose had a sudden image of the David from the colour plate illustration she had seen at the Athenaeum, that beautiful naked youth with a slingshot over his shoulder. The man who danced before the Ark, but also had several wives at once and pursued Bathsheba even to the point of murder, would have loved the waltz, she thought.

Mr Hackerton droned on, and she listened with half an ear, so her nods and shakes—the only conversational input he required—were not totally inappropriate. The rest of her mind was on the dancing. Had Papa not died in his futile quest for riches, he would have permitted her to waltz. Papa laughed at his brother’s rigid ways and enjoyed seeing his daughter in pretty dresses.

The waltz was followed by another country dance, into which Hackerton condescended to lead her. “For you are not to think, Miss Campbell, that I will forbid my wife all frivolity,” he told her when they took their turn to stand aside for the other couples. “Though I cannot approve of your acquaintance with that scoundrel, O’Bryan.”

“He is my aunt’s nephew, Mr Hackerton,” she protested, ignoring the reference to a marriage the man had not discussed with her.

“Yes, and it is a great pity,” Hackerton shook his head, as if in sorrow. “Mrs Campbell is a good woman, and for her sister to marry a half-breed, and a Papist half-breed, at that! Campbell has told me all about it. Then for that young man to come here with his foreign ways and his foreign goods…”

It was their turn in the dance again, and Rose spent her time in the figures wondering why Mr Hackerton was so upset with Mr O’Bryan.

“What has Mr O’Bryan done, Mr Hackerton?” she ventured, when they stood out again.

“Why, that scoundrel plans on importing his own supplies for his stores in the fields, instead of buying from us here in Dunedin! Are our goods not good enough for him?” Hackerton continued to rave during each break, though Rose rather thought that most of what he said was jealousy.

She sat to watch several more dances, while Hackerton chatted with various business contacts. Mr O’Bryan did not sit out a dance, though he did not dance twice with the same partner.

She was watching him promenade his latest partner up between the couples in a line dance, one hand gracefully on his hip, and the other holding the lady’s high between them, when she felt a sharp pinch on her arm.

“Miss Campbell!” Hackerton frowned at her startled yelp. “You will not embarrass me by panting after that whelp.”

“Mr Hackerton!” Rose rubbed her arm furiously. How dare he pinch her? And how dare he accuse her of… of inappropriate thoughts about Mr O’Bryan?

“I expect propriety at all times, Miss Campbell, and you will do well to keep that in mind. My wife must be beyond reproach. Beyond reproach, I say.”

“I am not your wife, Mr Hackerton. Nor have you asked me to take that role.”

Mr Hackerton waved off the objection. “No, that is all organised. Your uncle has agreed. The banns are to be called this Sunday.” Sensing, perhaps, that this was not to her liking, he grabbed her hand in one of his pudgy fists and patted it. “You will find me a generous husband, if you are an obedient wife, Laura, my dear.”

Suddenly, Rose was furious, being misnamed the last straw. “Mr Hackerton, you are much mistaken if you think I will be your wife, obedient or otherwise. It is my agreement you need, not my uncle’s, and I do not give it.”

Mr Hackerton smiled indulgently. “There, there. It is all understood. You must trust your uncle to know what is best for you, my dear, Laura.”

“I am not called Laura. Nor have I given you permission to be so familiar. Nor shall I.”

“Miss Campbell, you forget yourself.” Mr Campbell was becoming annoyed. “Campbell has promised me your hand, and we will be wed before the end of the month.”

“No, Mr Hackerton,” Rose insisted, “we will not.”

“Is this man annoying you, Miss Campbell?” Concentrating on her altercation with Hackerton, she had not heard Mr O’Bryan approach.

“This is between me and my betrothed, O’Bryan, and nothing to do with you,” Hackerton bellowed.

O’Bryan’s eyes shifted to Rose, doubt clouding them.

“He is not my betrothed,” Rose said, her voice louder than she intended, and was startled to hear a hiss. Looking around, she realised they were the focus of attention in this corner of the room, and several people from the church congregation were frowning at her.

She shrank towards Mr O’Bryan, and he rose to the occasion. “Will you honour me with a dance, Miss Campbell?”

“You will not.” Hackerton, too, had noticed the interest of the bystanders and lowered his voice accordingly. “Miss Campbell, you will not dance with this man. And a waltz, at that!”

Rose ignored him, though her hand trembled on Mr O’Bryan’s arm as he led her onto the floor. She would not faint. She would not be ill. She would sail around the room in Mr O’Bryan’s arms, and if she were a poor, brown sparrow against the colourful flowers that had sailed there before, she would make the most of her opportunity. She would, for certain, pay the price when her uncle found out, but she would have the pleasure first.

Miss Campbell slowly relaxed into the dance, and as she gave herself over to the music and the movement, Thomas let the tension drain out of his own muscles. Still, he kept an eye on Hackerton, until he saw the man push his way to the front door and leave.

Thomas had tried to do business with Hackerton when he first arrived in Dunedin, but soon realised the man was a bully and a coward, and a poor businessman, at that. Thomas had found other suppliers for the local products he couldn’t easily ship in. Hackerton had not been pleased.

He hoped Miss Campbell was telling the truth when she said she was not betrothed to Hackerton. The thought of this timid, little mouse in the hands of that brute made him firm his grip, pulling her a little closer, and he was thrilled to his core when she came willingly, trustingly, looking up into his eyes, smiling as he swung her around a turn in the dance, then reluctantly let her out again to the socially acceptable distance.

He could dance with her all night, hold her in his arms for a lifetime, protecting her from any chill wind that shrivelled that sweet trust… He tried to remind himself she was wrong for him—wrong faith, wrong country, wrong in every way. He needed a strong woman who would be an asset in the business, not a shy, wee lassie that needed to be sheltered and cosseted.

Though she was a hard worker, he would give her that. And she stood up to Hackerton, right enough. He chuckled. Hackerton had not expected that. Thomas had thought the man would explode.

Rose, oblivious to his thoughts, chuckled with him. “This is such fun, Mr O’Bryan. Lovely to watch, but even lovelier to do!”

“You’ve never waltzed before?” He could not believe it. She followed his steps as if they had practiced together half their lives.

But she shook her head, vigorously. “Not in company. My father taught me the steps, but I have never been to a ball before.”

“You dance beautifully,” he assured her, looking down into her laughing eyes. How lovely she was. And stronger than she knew, with her ability to put the nastiness with Hackerton aside and simply enjoy the moment.

“Will you be in Dunedin long, Mr O’Bryan?”

“I return to the fields tomorrow, Miss Campbell. I need to supervise the store until Mrs Moffat arrives, and then I will move to the new store in Arrow.”

He told her his plans for the second store, barely listening to what he was saying, only knowing how good it felt to dance with her, talk to her.

The music was ending. The dance was over, and he had to let her go. He swallowed, abruptly breathless with longing to keep her in his arms forever.

It was difficult to speak past the yearning, but he managed to sound calm as he asked, “What do you wish to do now, Miss Campbell? Is there someone else I can take you to? Do you wish me to stay with you?”

“I am sure the MacTavishes will see me home.”

But when Thomas escorted her to the people she pointed out, the younger members of the family turned their backs, and the mother said, “You have chosen this outsider over one of our own, Miss Campbell. Let him see you home. If, indeed, you dare to return to your uncle’s house, after showing such ingratitude.”

Without a word, Miss Campbell turned and walked stiffly away, two high spots of cover on her cheeks, and Thomas, after tossing the woman a scowl that should have shrivelled her where she stood, hurried after her.

Miss Campbell said nothing until they had collected their coats and were walking through the silent streets, their breath condensing into small clouds as they walked. “She lets her own daughters waltz,” she burst out. “And she would not marry them to Mr Hackerton, either!”

“Is your uncle…? Will your uncle make you marry?” He would marry her himself, rather than leave her to that fate—a solution that seemed sweeter to him the more he thought about it.

“He cannot. This is the nineteenth century. A woman cannot be married against her will.”

She sounded very firm, but wills can be suborned. He pulled her into the recess of a shop doorway, so they could continue the discussion out of the wind.

“Will he be cross, Miss Campbell? Should I talk to him?”

She shook her head, decisively. “That would make it worse, I do not doubt, though it is kind of you to offer. But what can he do, Mr O’Bryan? Shut me in my room to think over my sins, beyond a doubt, but he will let me out when there are chores to be done.”

She believed in her own safety. Looking into her eyes in the half-light, he could see the certainty there. Without conscious thought, he laid his hand gently along the side of her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

“If you have any doubt, Rose, and think Campbell might hurt you, or do something else to force you to his will, you do not have to go back.”

She opened her mouth, already shaking her head, and he hurried on to say his piece before she could object. “You could marry me. I don’t flatter myself that I am a prize, but I am a better bet than Hackerton. Marry me, and let me care for you, Rose.” He bent, curving low to capture her mouth. It was as soft and full as it looked though, at first, stiff and unresponsive.

But she followed his lead in this as she had in the dance, and what had begun as an impulsive gesture to prevent her from saying no became a luxurious vortex that spun him out of space and time until he was oblivious of everything except the giving, the taking, the sharing of their lips, their tongues, their mouths.

She looked dazed when he drew back. Well, good. He was dazed. He gathered her against his chest and rested his cheek on her hair. “Marry me, Rose,” he repeated.

“I cannot, Thomas. You will be gone tomorrow. And we barely know one another.”

“You could travel with one of the families, and we could be married when we arrive at the fields. I know we haven’t known one another long, but I know you are brave and true. I know you feel like Heaven in my arms. I know I can talk to you for hours about anything under the sun.”

“Oh, Thomas… I wish…” She gathered herself, pulling away a little, so she could look up at him. He took heart that she stayed within his arms.

“If you are still of the same mind next time you come to Dunedin, Thomas, I would be proud to be your wife.” She blushed, casting her eyelashes down onto her cheeks. “Proud,” she repeated.

Later, locked in her room, lying, bruised and bleeding, on her bed, after the worst beating her uncle had ever given her, she regretted that choice. She should have gone with him, in her Sunday best, leaving behind her meagre belongings. But would he have taken her? And wouldn’t he have regretted it?

Aunt Agnes had screamed at her, but Uncle Campbell had been silent in his fury. Mr Hackerton, who had been at the house when she arrived home, had declared himself released from his contract by her outrageous behaviour. So, one good thing had come from all the fuss.

Even days later after she was able to drag herself from her bed, she was not permitted to leave the house. Instead, the new maid was sent on errands, and Rose was set to scouring the floors and emptying the chamber pots.

She endured. Surely they would not keep her prisoner forever? Indeed, after the third time the servant came home with no change, having overspent on meat and vegetables that were old and tired, and resigned from her post when scolded, Rose was once more sent out to press every coin until it squeaked, though her time was closely monitored, so she dared add nothing to the errand on which she was sent.

Thomas would return for her, as he had promised. Or, she would find a position and make her own way.

While she waited, life fell back into a normal pattern, except that members of the congregation turned their backs to her when they saw her on the street, or even in church. It was not important. She had only to endure until she finished healing, or until Thomas returned.

Mr Hackerton came first.

Six

“H

e is prepared to take you despite your behaviour,” Aunt Agnes crowed. And Uncle Campbell was gleefully discussing the supply contract the marriage would, apparently, seal.

At first, neither heard Rose’s quiet “No.”

Aunt Agnes was the first to notice. “No? What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“No, Aunt Agnes. I will not marry Mr Hackerton. I would not marry Mr Hackerton, even if I had not promised to wait for Mr O’Bryan.”

The storm broke, as she had expected, and she bowed her head and ignored them both. They could lock her up, beat her, starve her, but they could not force her to marry against her will.

“…And you need not think I’ll continue to house such an ungrateful Jezebel. You disgraceful harlot, consorting with the Whore of Babylon. I’ll not have it, I tell you. Obey me or leave my house, Laura Rose Campbell.”

“Very well, Uncle. I will leave.”

Rose was nearly as surprised as her uncle to hear the words coming from her mouth.

She packed her few bits and pieces while Aunt Agnes watched to make sure she took nothing that wasn’t hers. In silence, her aunt by marriage escorted her down the stairs and out the front door.

When Rose was out on the public walk, Aunt Agnes looked over her shoulder, a quick, furtive glance back into the house. “Wait there, girl. Just for a moment.” She disappeared back into the house and was back in moments.

“You have been a good girl, Laura, on the whole. I will miss you. Here.” She pressed something into Rose’s hand: a purse, with a few shifting lumps that must be coins. “Thomas is a good boy, for all he is a Papist. He has written to you. Campbell made me read the letters and burn them. He will make an honest woman of you.” A quick, awkward hug, and a brush of papery lips on Rose’s cheek, and she was gone, the front door closed between them.

Rose raised her empty hand to her cheek in wonder. Who knew Aunt Agnes had a heart? She had never shown any signs of it before.

The front door flew open again, and Rose was just in time to hide the purse in the folds of her skirt, before her uncle was screaming in her face.

“Go then, if you are going. Don’t litter my doorstep, you foul tramp!” He caught her a buffet that knocked her into the road.

Perhaps he would have hit her again, but a man passing in the street stopped to ask, “Are you all right, Miss?”

“Thank you. I am just leaving.” Rose picked up her bag and walked away without a backward look, her heart rising with every step. Thomas had written. Thomas still wanted her. And even if he didn’t, surely she could find work, respectable work with a wage and roof over her head?

Right this minute, she knew exactly what to do. At the O’Bryan warehouse, she asked for directions to Mrs Moffat’s house. She only hoped the woman had not yet left for the gold fields.

Thomas stood in the door of his store, admiring the bustle as the crowds passed. This late in the day, many of the area’s hopeful, would-be millionaires were coming into town to while away their evening, but they were mostly a cheerful lot. Some would drink every grain of gold dust they’d found, and there would be fights and loud singing, but the New Zealand gold fields enforced a strong ban on guns, so most injuries would be minor.

Soon, Mrs Moffat would arrive, and then, after another week to make sure his new manager could keep the store as well as Thomas did, he could return to Dunedin for Rose. The bonnet trim he had purchased the day after that December shopping expedition sat on the table in his bedchamber, a constant reminder of all the gifts with which he wanted to shower her.

He had wondered, even as he proposed, if her charm would fade with separation. Instead, he wanted her more every day, dreamed of seeing her bright smile over breakfast, imagined her reaction every time he heard a funny conversation or an interesting fact, fantasised about holding her again in his arms, and feeling her burrow trustingly close.

Perhaps, though, she had changed her mind? She had not replied to his letters, sent faithfully on every mail coach. But the Campbells, that poisonous old pair, would not let her reply, he supposed. He held on to that belief, and would, in any case, test it by calling on her. Soon. He could leave soon.

A burst of noise and movement at the other end of the street caught his attention. A wagon train coming into town, full of eager miners and, he hoped, his new shop manager.

There she was, a child on either side, driving a cart laden high with what he assumed were the goods he’d ordered up from the wharves. The others must be walking and, sure enough, at least three children flanked the cart, including one hand in hand with… he caught his breath. Surely, it couldn’t be Rose?

But he would know her anywhere, and his legs had not waited for his brain to catch up, but were already carrying him down the street at a stride, and then at a run.

Rose, his Rose, dropped the child’s hand and pushed her towards one of the older girls with a quick word, then started towards Thomas, her dear face shining with welcome.

In a moment, he had her in his arms, oblivious to the laughing, cheering crowd of bystanders.

“You came,” he said.

“Thomas.”

A swollen, ugly, fading bruise disfigured one eye, but she was still the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. He brushed it tenderly with the back of his fingers, before cupping her cheek.

“Marry me, Rose,” he asked again.

Her smile answered him before her shy words. “Yes, please, Thomas.”

THE END

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Bluestocking Belles

The Belles are seven very different writers united by a love of history and a history of writing about love. From sweet to steamy, from light-hearted fun to dark tortured tales full of angst, from London ballrooms to country cottages to the sultan’s seraglio, one or more of the Belle’s will have a tale to suit your tastes and mood.

The Belle’s blog, The Teatime Tattler, publishes at least twice weekly, with exclusive news, interviews, and scandals set in and around the Regency.

The Belles have committed to publishing at least one box set per year. Proceeds from some of the Belles’ joint projects go to the Malala Fund, to support education for young bluestockings around the world.

Find the Bluestocking Belles online:

www.BluestockingBelles.net/

Friend us on Facebook:

www.facebook.com/BellesinBlue

Follow us on Twitter:

@BellesInBlue

Malala Fund

The Bluestocking Belles have chosen the Malala Fund as the charity we support, and to which we donate communal royalties. Periodically, we take on projects intended to directly support this cause, which exemplifies our personal values and intentions: the right of girls and women to do whatever they choose with their lives.

For more information about the Malala Fund and the founder, Malala Yousafzai, winner of the 2014 Nobel Peace Prize, go to  www.Malala.org

Holly and Hopeful Hearts

When the Duchess of Haverford sends out invitations to a holiday house party and a Twelfth Night ball, those who respond know that Her Grace intends to raise money for her favourite cause and promote whatever matches she can.

Seven assorted heroes and heroines set out with their pocketbooks firmly clasped and hearts in protective custody. Or are they?

Jude has two stories in Holy and Hopeful Hearts: A Suitable Husband, and The Bluestocking and the Barbarian. They will be published as stand-alone stories in 2017.

Jude’s published books

See the excerpts page on Jude’s website for first chapters of all the following stories. http://judeknightauthor.com/excerpts/

Candle’s Christmas Chair

When Viscount Avery wants a chair for his invalid mother, he finds that the best invalid chair maker in Bath is Minerva Avery, who has been haunting his dreams for three years since she rejected his courtship. He has until she finishes the chair for his mother to convince her to change her mind. If he says it with flowers, will she understand?

Min is a carriage-maker’s daughter, educated beyond her station. Once, she dreamed of stepping into the fairy tale world of the ton, only to have her dreams crushed when she found the handsome guardsman was courting her for her fortune. Now the man she cannot forget is back, handsomer and more charming than ever, and he seems determined to raise those false hopes all over again. But she only has to hold out until she finishes the chair he has commissioned.

Farewell to Kindness: Book 1 of The Golden Redepennings

Hidden from the earl who hunts them, Anne and her sisters have been accepted into the heart of a tiny rural village. Until another earl comes visiting.

Rede lives to avenge the deaths of his wife and children. After three long years of searching, he is closing in on the ruthless villains who gave the orders, and he does not hope to survive the final encounter. Until he meets Anne.

As their inconvenient attraction grows, a series of near fatal attacks draws them together and drives them apart. When their desperate enemies combine forces, Anne and Rede must trust one another to survive.

A Baron for Becky

Becky is the envy of the courtesans of the demi-monde - the indulged mistress of the wealthy and charismatic Marquis of Aldridge. But she dreams of a normal life; one in which her daughter can have a future that does not depend on beauty, sex, and the whims of a man.

Finding herself with child, she hesitates to tell Aldridge. Will he cast her off, send her away, or keep her and condemn another child to this uncertain shadow world?

The devil-may-care face Hugh shows to the world hides a desperate sorrow; a sorrow he tries to drown with drink and riotous living. His years at war haunt him, but even more, he doesn't want to think about the illness that robbed him of the ability to father a son. When he dies, his barony will die with him. His title will fall into abeyance, and his estate will be scooped up by the Crown.

When Aldridge surprises them both with a daring proposition, they do not expect love to be part of the bargain.

Hand-Turned Tales

Dip in, and try my writing for free: four very different tales with a variety of heroes, heroines, villains, and settings.

In The Raven’s Lady, Felix returns home in disguise after 13 years. He plans to catch a smuggler then take up his viscountcy. He does not expect the smuggler to be Joselyn, his childhood sweetheart. (Short story: 5,500 words)

In Kidnapped to Freedom, Phoebe is stolen away from her plantation by a handsome masked pirate. But all is not as it seems. (Short story: 5,100 words)

All that Glisters is set in New Zealand in the 1860s, a time when gold miners poured into the fledgling settlement of Dunedin. Rose is unhappy in the household of her fanatical uncle. Thomas, a young merchant from Canada, offers a glimpse of another possible life. If she is brave enough to reach for it. (Short story: 13,000 words)

The Prisoners of Wyvern Castle is a gothic historical romance set in the world of my novels and novella. Rupert has been imprisoned by his wicked sister, and forced to wed. His new wife, Madeline, has likewise been threatened into saying her vows. Forced into marriage, they find love, but can they find freedom before it is too late? The Prisoners of Wyvern Castle is a prequel to Revealed in Mist. (Novella: 23,500 words)

Gingerbread Bride

Lieutenant Rick Redepenning has been saving his admiral’s intrepid daughter from danger since their formative years, but today, he faces the gravest of threats–the damage she might do to his heart. How can he convince her to see him as a suitor, not just a childhood friend?

Travelling with her father’s fleet has left Mary Pritchard ill-prepared for London Society, and prey to the machinations of false friends. When she strikes out on her own to find a more suitable locale to take up her solitary spinsterhood, she finds adventure, trouble, and her girlhood hero, riding once more to her rescue.

Gingerbread Bride is a novella in The Golden Redepennings series

Revealed in Mist

Prue's job is to uncover secrets, but she hides a few of her own. When she is framed for murder and cast into Newgate, her one-time lover comes to her rescue. Will revealing what she knows help in their hunt for blackmailers, traitors, and murderers? Or threaten all she holds dear?

Enquiry agent David solves problems for the ton, but will never be one of them. When his latest case includes his legitimate half-brothers as well as the woman who left him months ago, he finds the past and the circumstances of his birth difficult to ignore. Danger to Prue makes it impossible.

Coming in 2017

A Raging Madness: Book 2 of The Golden Redepennings

Ella survived an abusive and philandering husband, in-laws who hate her, and public scorn. But she’s not sure she will survive love. It is too late to guard her heart from the man forced to marry such a disreputable widow, but at least she will not burden him with feelings he can never return. She prays he will learn to tolerate her.

Alex understands his new wife never wished to remarry. And if she had chosen to wed, it would not have been to him. He should have wooed her when he was whole, when he could have had her love, not her pity. But it is too late now. She looks at him and sees a broken man. He hopes she will learn to bear him.

Locked in a marriage of convenience, Ella and Alex soon discover they are more well-matched than they thought possible. But then the couple’s blossoming trust is ripped apart by an enemy determined to destroy them both. Two lost souls must together face the demons of their past to save not just their one hope of love but their very lives.

Concealed in Shadow

The story of Prudence and David continues in Concealed in Shadow.

When Prue disappears with David’s half-brother, he is determined she must have met with foul play, whatever interpretation Aldridge might put on it. But finding her again may mean choosing between his country and his woman.

Here are the first three paragraphs.

***

The ship had been at harbour for four days now, after a stormy passage from London. The sailor who brought their daily allocation of food and drink would not answer questions, but Prue guessed they were docked somewhere in Ireland. Certainly, the polyglot shouting that filtered into the ship's hold had been flavoured these last few days with the musical lilt of Gaelic, and of Irish-intoned English.

She and Gren were shackled to the same wall bolt, with enough play in the chains that they could reach the narrow bed, the bucket that did for amenities, and the food and drink their jailors periodically sent.

They had not seen those jailors since the day of their capture. Were Wharton and Jo Palmer still aboard? Had Aldridge raised the alarm? Would David be able to find trace of them? Prue fretted away the long hours wondering.

A Suitable Husband (first published in November 2016 in Holly and Hopeful Hearts)

As the Duchess of Haverford’s companion, Cedrica Grenford is not treated as a poor relation and is encouraged to mingle with Her Grace’s guests. Perhaps among the gentlemen gathered for the duchess’s house party, she will find a suitable husband? Marcel Fournier has only one ambition: to save enough from his fees serving as chef in the houses of the ton to become the proprietor of his own fine restaurant. An affair with the duchess’s dependent would be dangerous. Anything else is impossible. Isn’t it?

The Bluestocking and the Barbarian (first published in November 2016 in Holly and Hopeful Hearts)

James must marry to please his grandfather, the duke, and to win social acceptance for himself and his father’s other foreign-born children. But only Lady Sophia Belvoir makes his heart sing, and to win her, he must invite himself to spend Christmas at the home of his father’s greatest enemy.

Sophia keeps secret her tendre for James, Lord Elfingham. After all, the whole of Society knows he is pursuing the younger Belvoir sister, not the older one left on the shelf after two failed betrothals.

With Mariana Gabrielle

Never Kiss a Toad

[A Victorian romance continuing family stories begun in the various Regency books of Jude Knight and Mariana Gabrielle.]

David "Toad" Northope, heir to the Duke of Wellbridge and rogue in the mold of his infamous father, knows Lady Sarah "Sal" Grenford, daughter of the once-profligate Duke of Haverford, will always hold his heart.

But when the two teens are caught in bed together by their horrified parents, he is sent away to finish school on the Continent, and she is thrown into the depths of her first London Season.

Can two reformed rakes keep their children from making the same mistakes they did? The dukes decide keeping them apart will do the trick, so as the children reach their majority, Toad is put to work at sea, learning to manage his mother's shipping concern, and Sal is taken to the other side of the world, as far from him as possible.

How will Toad and Sal's love withstand long years of separation, not to mention nasty lies, vicious rumors, attractive other suitors, and well-meaning parents who threaten to destroy their future before it has begun?

(Never Kiss a Toad is being published one episode at a time on Wattpad, and will be published complete as an ebook later this year or early next.)

Connect with Jude Knight

Jude Knight writes stories to transport you to another time, another place, where you can enjoy adventure and romance, thrill to trials and challenges, uncover secrets and solve mysteries, and delight in a happy ending. Meet strong determined heroines, heroes who can appreciate a clever capable woman, villains you’ll love to loathe, and all with a leavening of humour.

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Table of Contents

Candle’s Christmas Chair

Farewell to Kindness: Book 1 of The Golden Redepennings

A Baron for Becky

Hand-Turned Tales

Gingerbread Bride

Revealed in Mist

Coming in 2017

A Raging Madness: Book 2 of The Golden Redepennings

Concealed in Shadow

A Suitable Husband (first published in November 2016 in Holly and Hopeful Hearts)

The Bluestocking and the Barbarian (first published in November 2016 in Holly and Hopeful Hearts)

Connect with Jude Knight