All That Glisters

One

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.