Catherine brought her hands up to her flaming face, thankful for the shadowy moonlight, though it probably wasn’t much use. She couldn’t take her eyes off his chest, noticing the way his shirt strained over the muscles. And she’d said he was magnificent. Whatever had possessed her?
‘I didn’t recognise you either. My apologies.’
He had more reason not to and she’d behaved like a trollop with her free and easy behaviour, her hair falling down. Although he hadn’t made any remark about her clothes, a small token in his favour. Most men would have shrieked in horror, even the teamster had given her a few sideways glances when she’d ducked into the inn and reappeared in her working clothes. Now, stuck on the road in the middle of the night, she was pleased she’d had the foresight to stuff them into her bag and change when she’d arrived in Morpeth.
She and Pa often rode home—oh Pa. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t think about him now. No more tears. Not until she had him home, safe and sound.
‘Right! This should do the trick.’ The teamster elbowed Sergey out of the way and bent down on one knee, loosening the dirt around the wheel.
Sergey grabbed hold of the end of the backboard and held it straight, easing it into the sloppy mud. With a lot of shuffling and grunting they slipped the board under the wheel. ‘If you can take the horse’s bridle and lead him forwards when I give the word,’ Sergey said, ‘we’ll push from behind.’
For the first time since Pa’s death someone was offering valuable and useful assistance. Oh, he’d looked so impressive on that wonderful white horse.
‘Oi, that’s you, lady,’ the teamster bellowed at her over his shoulder.
She jumped. Concentrate, she had to concentrate. This was Pa, she had to get him home and here she was dreaming about bare-chested horsemen.
‘Wash your mouth out or you’ll have me to deal with. Miss, could you please …’
‘Catherine, Catherine Cottingham and yes, I can do that.’ She took off around to the front of the wagon and ran her hand down the horse’s nose, crooning softly, soothing.
The belligerent teamster gave another bellow. ‘Get a move on.
’ ‘Button it. I’m not telling you again.’ Sergey growled, his head close to the teamster as they wiggled the backboard into place. ‘Now.’
‘Come on, boy.’ She tugged on the bridle. ‘Come on, you can do it.’ The dray moved maybe an inch. She mustn’t stop, if she did it would roll back perhaps deeper than before and heaven knows what damage she could do to the two men with their hands under the wheel. ‘Come on, boy.’ She tugged again and the dray lurched. She threw a look over her shoulder, keeping the pressure on the harness. With a shudder and a squelch, the dray inched out of the rut and righted.
The teamster leapt back in the seat before she had a chance to slow the horse. ‘You’ll have to jump up. Not risking stopping now we’re moving. Think you can do that?’
She turned and stepped to the side of the road. Warm hands clasped her firmly around her waist and she was placed as carefully as a wrapped package on the seat beside the teamster.
She turned to thank Sergey but he had gone. Twisting the other way, her breath caught as in one perfect, fluid movement he catapulted astride his big white horse and drew alongside the wagon.
The teamster kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead, letting out an irritated growl.
‘Thank you for your help.’
‘It was my pleasure. Where are you heading?’
‘Home.’
‘May I ask where that is?’
‘West of Maitland. About ten miles.’
‘Not tonight, in this weather. You’ll be travelling half the night and your clothes are wringing wet.’
Her breath skipped a beat at the memory of his hands around her waist when he lifted her into the wagon. Through the wet fabric of her shirt he must have been able to feel every one of her ribs. The entire conversation, no the entire series of events, had a surreal quality. The sheer size of his horse made him tower above the wagon and she had to hold her hat hard on her head and crane her neck to talk to him.
‘I’ve no alternative. I must get my father home.’ She couldn’t say ‘Pa’s body’. Not yet. ‘Besides, the wagon must be back in Morpeth for the morning.’
As she spoke a flash of lightning lit the sky, then a resounding crack and drops as big as pennies started to fall.
‘Not much bloody chance of that at this rate. You’ll be up for double the fee and recompense for missed deliveries,’ the teamster said, unimpressed with the way his evening had panned out.
‘You will be compensated for your time and any inconvenience you may suffer. I explained that before you took the job.’
‘May I make a suggestion?’ Sergey’s voice cut through her mounting hysteria. ‘The circus is camped outside Maitland. Rest the night there and in the morning I’ll take you and your father home. We have wagons.’
She had a feeling he wanted to say ‘better wagons’. He was probably right and she doubted they’d make it home by sunrise in this broken-down old cart. She’d made a bad calculation. Although she’d ridden this way a hundred times it had been on horseback, not in a dilapidated dray after a torrential downpour.
‘I can promise you a warm fire and a comfortable bed for the night.’
The teamster’s great guffaw startled the horses. ‘Nice try, mate. Nice try.’
Sergey rose in the stirrups to glare down at the teamster. ‘I should call you out for that.’ He dared the teamster to utter another word.
‘No skin off my nose,’ the obnoxious man spluttered. ‘Just make up your bloody mind and give me the money. Maitland turn-off’s up the road.’
The dray lurched and Catherine turned in the seat, reaching behind to check on Pa. The prospect of dry clothes and something warm to drink was more than enticing. Could Pa wait? Would a few hours make any difference?
‘Thank you. I must get Pa home.’ Her throat tightened and she closed her eyes, willing back the tears as a wave of unutterable exhaustion swept over her. If she could stay brave for a little longer. Damn it. The temptation was too great. ‘I would like to rest if you’re sure it would be no trouble.’
Sergey nodded and without a word of command the great white horse leapt forward and disappeared into the darkness.
‘So we turning off here, then?’
‘Yes. The camp must be just ahead.’ She pointed to the sign hanging crookedly on a tree. Maitland Town 2 miles. ‘Take this turn.’
The teamster bent and lifted the flagon from under the seat, took a long hard slug, smacked his lips and flicked his whip. The horse turned its head and shot him an evil look then carried on at the same pace, head down, ears back. Poor thing was as tired as she was. Hopefully there’d be a comfortable stable and some feed for him eventually tonight. He deserved it.
When they rounded the bend the rain stopped as suddenly as it had started and a blaze of light penetrated the misty darkness. Flames from a roaring fire leapt up into the sky, dancing to the discordant notes of the tin-whistle band she remembered from her trip to the circus. Was that only five days ago? It seemed like a lifetime.
The teamster ground to a halt and those same warm hands reached out and lifted her down from the wagon, settling her gently on the ground. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to rest her head on Sergey’s broad chest and forget everything.
It wasn’t to be.
‘You’re safe now. Come and sit down by the fire.’
‘I have to …’ She struggled out of his embrace.
‘You have to do nothing but sit down. I’ll deal with the oaf.’
‘But Pa …’
‘I’ll take care of Papa. Rest easy.’
He led her through the circle of wagons, carts and tents to the huge fire, then settled her onto a mound of sweet-smelling hay, near enough to enjoy the warmth but not too close. The strains of the band floated through the air. Someone pressed a pannikin into her hands and she cradled it, allowing the heat to seep into her numb fingers.
‘Drink this, you’ll feel better.’ A young woman, one of the troupe no doubt, though difficult to tell without her star-spangled finery, crouched down beside her and patted her shoulder. The steam from the warm drink coiled around her face and she inhaled, letting her mind drift for a moment.
She took a sip and the fragrant brew burnt a path down her parched throat. When had she last eaten or drank for that matter? She couldn’t remember. The foul brew the teamster had offered had turned her stomach. This was different, clean and slightly flowery. Her eyes grew heavy as she sipped and gazed into the leaping flames. The tin-whistle band gave way to a softer kind of music, something with strings, a fiddle perhaps. Her eyelids fluttered and the pannikin dangled loosely in her fingers. Someone removed it and then strong arms lifted her.
‘Come, you need to sleep.’
Sleep. First there was something else. Her eyes flashed open. ‘Where’s Pa?’
Cradling her in his arms Sergey strode away from the fire. He was so warm, it had been a long time since anyone had held her tight. Somewhere in the back of her mind the thought she should be concerned swept over her but such a sweet lethargy had invaded every disjointed bone in her body she couldn’t move.
‘Papa is here.’ He turned his body and she squinted into the darkness. Pa’s coffin sat atop a table, next to the tent, the red cedar glinting in the shadows. Intact and safe. ‘You will be just inside.’ He ducked his head and stepped into a tent. A candle flickered on a crate beside a camp stretcher. He lowered her and pulled the blanket over her, smoothing her hair back from her forehead as though she were a child. ‘Sleep well. I’ll be close by if you need me.’
Bright sunlight hit her and Catherine snapped her eyes open. Everything came flooding back. Last night. The wagon. Pa slipping towards the mud. The stench of rum. Warm arms cradling her. Then nothing.
Pushing back the blanket she struggled from the pallet, her bare feet scrabbling in the soft dirt. Her boots. Where were her boots? Her jacket? Gone too. She pulled her hair back from her face. Her hat. Where was her hat? More to the point, her bag. She’d stowed it beneath the seat of the dray. Scrubbing her face she stood and took a good look around the tent. Like a bedchamber. A small table next to the pallet. A book, a candle. A simple chair. Her hat hanging jauntily on the back and her jacket neatly folded, her boots and bag beneath.
She pushed her feet into her boots then dragged her fingers through her hair searching for any remaining pins. Finding none she twisted it into a knot and rammed her hat back onto her head.
She licked her dry lips. She was thirsty, so thirsty. Then she remembered the tea last night. What was it? Had it contained some sleeping draught? She didn’t feel as though she’d taken anything. The thundering headache that had plagued her since her first visit to the circus had vanished, her mind was clear and she was more relaxed than she’d been in days.
Pa. What had happened to Pa? Shrugging into her jacket she stuck her head out and there, on a table next to the tent, sat Pa’s coffin, the sun glinting on its brass handles while a young boy ran a polishing cloth over the red timber.
‘What are you doing?’ She bolted towards him, her hat falling into the dirt.
‘Morning, Miss.’ He threw a grin and huffed a breath onto the coffin, rubbing away as though his life depended on it. ‘Cleaning, Miss. There’s mud on it. Papa wouldn’t like to be dirty.’
No, he wouldn’t, the most fastidious of men but how would this boy know?
‘Ah, you’re awake.’ Sergey’s strong voice rumbled through her. ‘I’ve brought you tea.’
Not on his life. Not after last night. ‘No, thank you.’ The steam coiled up from the bone-china cup, so incongruous and fragile in his large brown hands. So out of place in this strange camp.
‘Come, you must be hungry and thirsty.’
‘Water. I’d like water.’
He frowned at her then a smile flickered across his lips. ‘I can get you water. The tea last night was only an infusion of chamomile. Is that what concerns you?’
A flush flew to her cheeks. How could he know what she was thinking?
‘Nothing but exhaustion made you sleep last night. Don’t you trust me?’
Her cheeks burned. No, she didn’t but if she didn’t why had she sent the wagon away? The events of the evening flashed back before her eyes. The dreadful teamster, the cavernous rut, Pa slipping. Hanging on for grim death, frightened she’d lose Pa in a quagmire miles from home and this man had come from nowhere like a knight on his white stallion to rescue her. It was the stuff of fairy tales.
‘I see you found your boots. Your hat is …’
She looked down at her boots no longer caked in last night’s mud. ‘I know where my hat is.’ She pushed at her hair hanging like a curtain over her face. ‘I can’t find my hair pins.’
‘You have no need to hide here. You’re amongst friends.’ He stretched out his arm indicating a long trestle table alongside the remains of the fire. ‘Come and eat.’
Her stomach growled in response as she walked across to the table. Heads lifted and her name drifted across the table. So many different voices, so many tones, all of them welcoming.
‘Catherine.’ Sergey held back a chair and she slipped into it. The woman on her right smiled and her choppy hair reminded her.
‘You brought me tea last night.’
When she nodded her head her brown hair danced around her round face. ‘I’m surprised you remembered. You were so very tired.’
‘What was it?’ She couldn’t resist. Had to make certain Sergey had told her the truth yet hated doing it.
‘Chamomile to make you sleep.’
A wave of embarrassment washed over her. ‘Thank you. It worked.’
‘You look much better this morning. Last night I thought you would drop where you stood. Sergey said you have had a difficult time. We are very sorry to hear about your father.’
Catherine bowed her head. These were the first genuine words of condolence she’d received and from a stranger, yet the smiling faces around the table didn’t seem like strangers. ‘I’ll take Pa home today.’
‘Sergey has the wagon ready. He’ll accompany you.’
She lifted her eyes and fell straight into Sergey’s gaze. He sat across the table, his chin resting in his hands as though she were the centre of his concern. The flush rose to her face again. ‘There is no need. I can manage alone. My man will return the wagon to you.’
‘You will not go alone.’ His voice brooked no argument and his words quashed her bravado. ‘It is not a journey to be made alone.’