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

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“The natives won’t come any further east than Prospect,” he said. “We’ve likely strayed into their land.” He watched his feet as we stepped over a fallen tree. “It’s the white men you ought to fear. Not the natives.”

I didn’t answer. What did he mean by such a comment? Was he speaking of himself? Or was he warning me away from Patrick Owen and the other Irish rebels?

He shoved aside a thicket of grass. “This way,” he said, “I want to show you something.”

The ground began to rise steeply, and I grappled at tangled tree branches to haul myself up the incline. And suddenly the trees cleared, the land opening out before us. I let out my breath at the sight. I could see out to a jagged mountain range, silhouetted in the late afternoon sun. It was achingly beautiful; the peaks dotted with snow beneath the harsh black of the rock. Golden winter light spilled over the hills, a stark contrast to the heavy gloom that pressed down upon England.

I sat on the hillside, hugging my knees to my chest. Let a sense of calm wash over me. I saw then that it had been a deliberate act; his bringing me here. He had known the mountains would be a tonic for my anger over Owen, over Marsden’s register. He had known how much I needed it. I felt a sudden swell of gratitude.

I looked over my shoulder. He was standing several yards behind me, one hand shading his eyes from the sun. And for the first time, it was curiosity I felt about my new home, rather than terror. I thought again of the natives; of the mothers, the children, the tall man’s nod of greeting.

I caught Blackwell looking at me.

“How long have you been out here?” I asked.

“Almost four years.”

I imagined four years in this place must feel like a lifetime. The harshness of this land made time distort. My four months in New South Wales felt more like a decade.

“Do you miss home?” I asked.

“Sometimes.”

I peered sideways at him, determined to eke out more than one-word answers. And then he sat beside me on the damp grass. I took it as a sign he was open to my questioning. I folded my legs beneath me, suddenly conscious of the shortness of my Navy Board issue skirts.

“Who is she?” I asked. “The lady in the portrait?”

Blackwell’s dark hair streamed back in the wind. “My wife. Sophia.”

“Where is she?”

I was expecting dead. Perhaps I was even hoping for dead.

But, after a brief moment of silence he said, “London.”

I heard a sound come from my throat. “Tell me about her.”

He raised his eyebrows. “What do you wish to know?”

In truth, I wished to know nothing. The question had just fallen out in the surprise of finding her still living. I could tell from her portrait the kind of lady his wife was; polite, well-spoken, obedient. The kind of lady I was supposed to have been.

Blackwell had been four years away from his wife; four years, plus the length of the voyage. Had time apart made him long for her? Or had he pushed her to the back of his thoughts?

“Do you love her?” I asked boldly.

He didn’t flinch. “Yes. She’s my wife.”

“A marriage does not necessarily equal love.”

“No. But it did in our case.” He shook his head. “It does.” An afterthought.

“Children?” I asked.

“No.”

And what was she doing now, I wondered, that lady in the portrait? Beautiful, curly-haired Sophia. Was she faithful to her husband, pining, praying, awaiting his return? Or had she long found someone to take his place?

“And you?” he asked. “Have you a husband?”

“No,” I said. “He died.” The words felt strange on my lips. It was the first time I had ever spoken of Jonathan’s death, outside of the interrogation at least. I was surprised at the lack of emotion in my voice.

Blackwell said, “I’m sorry.”

I nodded. Perhaps this was why I had never spoken of Jonathan. I didn’t want the pity. Or the questions.

“You’re not like the other women here,” he said. “You did not commit a crime of desperation.”

I gave a wry smile at that. His guess was not entirely accurate. My crime had been one of great desperation, just not desperation fuelled by an empty belly and starving children.

“Is this your way of asking how I came to be here, Lieutenant?”

“No.” He got to his feet, slinging the sack over his shoulder again. “That’s not for me to know.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The light had drained from the day by the time we returned to the settlement. Though I was warm from walking, the icy wind had made my cheeks and fingertips numb. I wished for the gloves I had lost on the voyage.

As we approached the main street, I held myself back, leaving space between myself and Blackwell. He looked over his shoulder at me, brow wrinkled in confusion. I wasn’t sure if my gesture was for him or me. I did not want him to be seen in the company of a lag in mud-streaked skirts. And I did not want to fuel stories of me as his concubine.

As I approached the hut, I felt a stab of dread. The door was hanging open, the cloth on the window dangling by one corner.

Blackwell dropped the sack and strode towards the hut. The tubers spilled onto the road. I grabbed the sack and followed.

I let out my breath as I stepped through the door. The table had been knocked onto its side, the books flung from the shelves. Shards of glass jars were strewn over the floor between the remains of potted meat, and the wooden chest had been overturned. The place smelled