Hearts in the Land of Ferns Read online

  Hearts in the Land of Ferns

  Love Tales from New Zealand

  Jude Knight

  Hearts in the Land of Ferns

  * * *

  Jude Knight

  * * *

  Published by Jude Knight

  Copyright 2019 Judith Anne Knighton writing as Jude Knight

  Publisher: Titchfield Press

  * * *

  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.

  Created with Vellum

  To my husband again. Yesterday, Today, Forever, just as it says on the locket you gave me nearly fifty years ago.

  Hearts in the Land of Ferns

  The historicals

  All That Glisters (first published in Hand-Turned Tales, a Jude Knight collection)

  In gold rush New Zealand, they seek the treasure of a true heart.

  * * *

  Forged in Fire (first published in the Bluestocking Belles collection Never Too Late)

  Forged in Fire, their love will create them anew.

  The contemporaries

  A Family Christmas (first published in the Authors of Main Street collection Christmas Babies on Main Street)

  She’s hiding out. He’s coming home. And there’ll be storms for Christmas.

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  Abbie’s Wish (first published in the Authors of Main Street collection Christmas Wishes on Main Street: Volume 1)

  Abbie’s Christmas wish draws three men to her mother. One of them is a monster.

  * * *

  Beached (first published in the Authors of Main Street collection Summer Romance on Main Street: Volume 1)

  The truth will wash away her coastal paradise…

  Contents

  I. All that Glisters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  II. Forged in Fire

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  III. A Family Christmas

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  IV. Abbie’s Wish

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  V. Beached

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Stories by Jude Knight

  About Jude Knight

  Part I

  All that Glisters

  In gold rush New Zealand, they seek the treasure of a true heart.

  Step into the 1860s in All That Glisters, set in Dunedin at the time of the first gold rushes. It was first published in Hand-Turned Tales.

  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.

  1

  Rose 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 rep
eated, 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. Thus 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,” T
homas 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.