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

“I would rather die than go out of my own country to be devoured by savages.”

 Convict Sarah Mills, refusing transportation in favour of the death sentence

1789

They threw me into the cells on the bottom floor of the jail. Five days of solitary confinement. I’d not been given so much as a chance to explain myself, though I knew, even if I had, I’d have found no excuse for what I’d done. What did the Rum Corps care that I’d been mortally offended?

The cell was near lightless. Nothing to sleep on but the cold stone floor. I could only guess at the time of day by the clatter of footsteps up and down the staircase leading to the spinning room. Shivering in a corner, I drifted in and out of sleep, and soon lost any sense of whether the footsteps on the stairs made it morning, night, or somewhere in between. Once a day, a hunk of stale bread and a cannikin of water appeared inside the door, bringing with it a precious and fleeting gasp of light.

My anger at Marsden and Owen shifted into anger at myself. I was troubled by what I’d done. I’d been a criminal for some time, of course, but my crime had been carefully calculated. I had never acted so violently, so rashly in my life. I scared myself. My attack on the soldier had been rum fuelled, yes, but it had been a reaction to the injustices I saw in the world around me. I began to wonder what else I was capable of.

My dreams were vivid, filled with lags and blood and Jonathan. Time began to lose meaning, and I felt as though the whole rest of my life would be consumed by this dark cell.

I lost myself in my thoughts. My world was no longer Parramatta, populated by Owen, by Blackwell, by Hannah, by Lottie. Instead, I was back in a townhouse in Clerkenwell, with roses in the front garden and a fortepiano in the parlour.

I’d known from the first days of our marriage that Jonathan had secrets. There were many nights that he’d return home late, his explanations vague and insubstantial. I assumed he had taken a mistress, and like a dutiful wife, I did not ask questions. On the rare occasions we saw each other, he was affectionate and kind, full of questions about the books I was reading, the pieces of music I was learning, the ladies I had taken tea with.

It had never occurred to me that Jonathan might be bad with money. His jewellery business was flourishing; churning out fine pieces for ladies of our class and beyond. I had everything I needed; staff in the household, fine clothing in my wardrobe. Food and wine on the table and a bookshelf that reached the ceiling.

I had no idea that, with each day of our marriage, my dowry and inheritance were being frittered away in a string of bad business investments, and the occasional sorry night at the gambling halls.

A week after New Year, Jonathan took me to Hanover Square to hear a Handel cantata. A generous thing, I’d thought, for him to indulge my love for music, when I knew such a thing would bore him to tears.

As the carriage rattled its way back to Clerkenwell, he slid across the bench so his shoulder pressed against mine.

“Did you enjoy the evening?” he asked.

I smiled. “Very much. The music was magical.”

“I’m glad.” He took my hand and pressed it between both of his. “Nell,” he said, “there’s something I ought to tell you.”

I was expecting to hear of the mistress. Couldn’t believe he was planning to admit to it with my hand sandwiched between his. But Jonathan spoke in a tentative half voice, outlining the coining enterprise he and his business partner had been operating since the early days of our marriage.

The cellar of the jeweller’s filled with silver, with copper, with scales, weights and crucibles. Moulds and tankards and bottle after bottle of aqua-fortis. For each gold necklace that had been finely crafted over the years, there was a pouch of counterfeit shillings and sixpences, put out to pay off gambling debts, or exchanged at the bank for legal white notes.

I forced a laugh. “I see.” I waited for him to break into a smile. Waiting for the confirmation that this was some wildly unamusing joke.

It didn’t come.

“Is this what you do?” I asked. “When you’re out late at night?”

Jonathan picked at a non-existent piece of lint on his greatcoat. “Mostly, yes.”

I didn’t know whether to be horrified, or relieved he had not spent our entire marriage in bed with other women.

I looked out across the coach, with its embroidered benches and gossamer curtains. Looked down at my silk gown, at the gold ring on my finger. How much of this had been paid for with counterfeit coin?

Jonathan’s eyes were on me, waiting for my reaction. My insides were churning and my skin was hot. But I knew better than to unleash my anger on my husband. Paid for illegally or not, I knew how easily that coach, that gown, that ring could be taken away from me.

“And was this your idea?” I asked, careful to keep my voice level.

“No.” As the glow of a streetlamp shafted through the window, I saw Jonathan had the good grace to look ashamed. “It was Wilder who proposed it in the beginning.”

I shifted uncomfortably on the bench seat. Even the mention of Henry Wilder was enough to make my every muscle tense. I had met Jonathan’s business partner several times in the past. An enormous man with a bald head and tiny, darting eyes, he would take my hand in his sweaty palms and press a kiss against it that made my stomach turn over. I had no difficulty