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

“Of course,” I said. “You’ve no opinion on the matter.”

“I have an opinion,” he said sharply. “I’m just not obliged to share it with you.” He glanced down at his pocket watch, then grabbed his scarf from the back of the chair and wound it around his neck. “You would do well to remember your place, Eleanor.”

My cheeks flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

“Where are you going?” I asked, following him to the door. I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted him to stay here so I could unload my protests on him.

“I’ve a council meeting.” He stopped at the door and looked back at me. “Can you sew?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt change of subject. “Sew?” I repeated. “Yes, of course.”

“Good.” He nodded towards the pile of shirts on the end of his sleeping pallet. “I’ve several pieces that need mending. I’ll pay you a half crown apiece. I know it falls outside our arrangement.”

I clenched my hand around the edge of the door in frustration. Damn Blackwell and his decency. I wanted to be angry with him. Needed to be.

“I thought the lobsters only traded in liquor,” I said sharply.

“You ought to have some money of your own,” he said, pushing past my comment. “And I’d hate to think you were resorting to… other means to earn yourself a little coin.”

I felt my face colour violently. “No,” I managed. “Of course I’m not.”

Blackwell nodded. He looked away, as though embarrassed he had raised the subject. “Good,” he said shortly.

I felt the loss of him as the door thumped shut. It was not just about needing to air my grievances, I realised. There was a part of me that wanted to be near him.

I hovered in the doorway for a moment, hot and disoriented by the realisation. Then I took the sewing tin from the shelf and carefully threaded a needle.

I heard voices outside the hut. Muffled, drunken laughter. I recognised Owen’s drawl. I grabbed the lamp and stepped outside.

Owen and Brady were standing close to the door of the hut. There was something small and dark in Brady’s hand. They were tying it to the post of the awnings with a length of rope. I squinted. Were they paws? And eyes?

“What in hell is that?” I demanded.

Owen looked unfazed at the sight of me. “A little gift for the lieutenant.” He stepped back to admire his work. “Don’t you go taking it down now, Nellie.”

I realised they had hung the battered corpse of some poor creature from the edge of Blackwell’s roof.

“This the best you can do with your freedom, Owen?” I hissed. But he and Brady were already walking away.

I went inside for a knife and sawed at the rope. The carcass fell to the earth with a dull thud. I picked the poor creature up by the legs and flung it into the bush.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

 

“[If Catholicism] were tolerated they would assemble together from every quarter, not so much from a desire of celebrating mass, as to recite the miseries and injustice of their banishment, the hardships they suffer, and to enflame one another's minds with some wild scheme of revenge.”

 

Rev. Samuel Marsden

A Few Observations on the Toleration of the Catholic Religion in New South Wales

1806

 

“Wake up, Eleanor.” Blackwell’s voice was soft, and close to my ear. We had barely spoken since I’d confronted him about Owen’s exoneration. I took his gentleness as a sign I was forgiven.

It was a Sunday. The bright morning light told me I had overslept. If Blackwell hadn’t woken me I would have been late for church.

He was already at the door. “Meet me outside the hut after the service.”

I pulled the blanket around my shoulders to cover myself. “Why? What do you need me to do?”

But he had slipped out the door before my question was fully formed.

When the service was over, I made my way back to the hut. Blackwell was already there waiting for me. He had changed out of his uniform into dark trousers and long black boots, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. I wondered distantly if he meant it as a gesture; wanted me to see him as something other than a lobster who’d let Maggie’s killer walk free. The neck cloth tied loosely at his throat made him look boyish and young. A small hessian sack was bunched into his hand.

He started to walk. “Come with me.”

I had to skip to keep up with his long-legged strides. “Where are we going?”

“To find a little space.”

My lips curled up slightly at his hazy response. I didn’t press him. I was coming to recognise that the way to prise answers from Adam Blackwell was to not ask questions at all.

He led me down Macquarie Street and into a thick tangle of trees. Soon, any hint of the settlement had disappeared. I followed close, disoriented by the absence of a path. I could see the undergrowth had been trampled in places. By the savages, I wondered? My heart began to beat a little quicker.

I heard a murmured voice carried on the wind. At the sound of our footsteps, the words fell silent.

“This way.” Blackwell gestured with his head for us to walk in the opposite direction.

I looked back over my shoulder. “Who was that?” I asked edgily. “All the way out here?”

“Father Dixon, I assume,” said Blackwell. “Holding his Catholic mass.”

“Out here?”

“Well,” he said, “the Irish want his services. What choice does he have but to hold them in secret?”

“You’re not going to stop them?”

Blackwell looked ahead, shading his eyes from the sun. “I’ve more important things to do today.”

“Lottie says Father Dixon was allowed to hold mass before the Irish