One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

mouthful of soup. “It’s good,” he said, after a moment of silence.

I managed a faint smile. Good, no, but I appreciated his kindness.

There was something about the civility of this; this act of sitting at a supper table, however crooked and rough-hewn, however foreign and ropey the meat. I couldn’t remember the last time I had done something as refined as share a meal across the supper table.

Blackwell sipped the soup carefully from the edge of his spoon and I heard a laugh escape me.

“What’s so amusing?”

“It’s absurd,” I said.

“What is?”

“This. Every bit of it. You, so careful with your manners; sipping your soup like you’re at a gentleman’s dinner party. And all the while we’re sitting here in this mud hut with the roof falling down, eating heaven only knows what animal.” I heard my voice get louder, bolstered by the awful liquor in my blood. “What point is there bothering with table manners when we’re up to our knees in dirt like wild things? And,” I said, dimly aware that I was making a scene, “you’ve never even thought to tell me your name. Am I worth so little I don’t even warrant an introduction?”

He paused, his spoon hovering in mid-air. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My name’s Blackwell. Adam Blackwell.”

I stuck a spoonful of soup in my mouth, embarrassed by my outburst. I couldn’t remember ever speaking so openly, especially not in front of a man.

Finally, I dared to look up at him. And for a second it was as though the protective shell he hid behind had fallen away. I saw a flicker of a smile on his lips, a hint of warmth in his eyes. It caught me by surprise and I looked away hurriedly.

My eyes drifted to the book he had left on the edge of the table. “The Vicar of Wakefield was one of my father’s favourites,” I garbled, trying to take the conversation back to less hysterical grounds.

“You read?” he asked. There was a hint of surprise in his voice.

I nodded.

“If you wish,” he said, “you may take it once I’ve finished. I know books are few and far between in this place.”

His kindness emboldened me. “Why are you here?”

“Duty. Why else?”

“Well.” I put down my spoon. “In London they used to say this place was an officer’s dream. Land grants from the governor. Free labour. The freedom to choose a woman like we’re fruit to be picked from a tree.”

Blackwell raised his eyebrows.

“Isn’t that why we were sent here?” I asked. “To keep all the lonely men company? To populate this place?”

He looked at me squarely. “You were sent here because you committed a crime.”

I turned back at my soup. Found a chunk of gristle inside it. I scooped it out of the bowl and sat it on the table.

“This place could be better for you than England,” Blackwell said.

I frowned. What did he know of my life in England? Who was he to make such judgments? I supposed he looked at me as the same as all the others. A street rat crawled from the Whitechapel slums. It was a fair assumption, I supposed. I’d heard all the stories, bleated out by those poor sorry girls I’d been crammed onto the Norfolk with.

A loaf of bread to feed my boys.

A cloak to keep out the snow.

Tales of pity.

But Blackwell knew I was a reader. And how many of those poor sorry girls from the slums had their letters? Perhaps my attempts to disguise my polished upbringing had been more successful than I’d believed.

Let him believe I too was tale of pity. Bread pocketed from the market. A stolen cloak wrapped around my shoulders.

That was a far simpler story.

CHAPTER SIX

“Here,” said Lottie as I made my way down the stairs into the jail yard behind the factory. She held out a small, misshapen pillow.

“What’s this?” I sat beside her and Hannah on the patchy grass, a cannikin of lukewarm tea in my hand. The sun had vanished behind a cloud just in time for our afternoon break.

“Took it from old Bert’s bed when he weren’t looking,” said Lottie. “Thought you could use it. Might make you a little more comfortable.”

I shook my head, feeling a stab of guilt. After two weeks beneath Blackwell’s roof, I’d still not found the courage to tell Lottie I was no longer sleeping on the street. “I couldn’t.”

She whacked me on the arm with it, making tea slop down the front of my dress. “Would you just take it, you madwoman? Bert won’t even notice it’s gone.”

Maggie looked down at us from where she stood leaning against the wall of the jail. “Take it, Nell. She’s right; old Bert’s as blind as a bat. Everyone knows it.”

“It’s true,” said Hannah, sipping her tea. “I saw him in the tavern last week asking some scrawny lobster for a dance.” She winked at me. “The lad was quite pretty and all, but Bert would’ve got a right shock when he got him home.”

Maggie laughed. “Look on the bright side, Lottie. Least he’s too old and decrepit to get a child on you. When was the last time he managed to get it up?”

Lottie snorted. “Don’t stop him from trying.”

Maggie lifted her cannikin in a mock toast. “Good of you to take him off our hands, girl. You’re to be applauded.”

Lottie gave her a thin smile. “Ought to say the same to you. Must be hard keeping Patrick Owen under control with those wandering eyes of his.”

“I will take the pillow,” I said suddenly, desperate to steer the conversation away from their friction over Owen. “You’re right, I’ll be much more comfortable.”

Lottie turned away from Maggie and tossed the pillow into my lap.

“Thank you,” I