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

I had baked that morning, and the air was thick and humid. With the fire still lit, I knew Blackwell couldn’t have gone far.

I pulled off my dress and stepped into the gown, fastening the hooks and closing the single button below my throat. I felt the weight of the skirts around my ankles.

I took Blackwell’s small shaving mirror and peered into it. My hair had come loose from its plait and hung over my shoulders. With my free hand I bundled it into a knot on my neck, searching out the gentleman’s wife I had once been.

I could not find her. The eyes that looked back at me were hardened. The eyes of a woman who did not belong in a worsted gown.

I put down the mirror. I didn’t want to see my reflection. I didn’t want that reminder of who I’d once been, of all I’d squandered with my terrible choices. Nor did I want Blackwell to return and see me in the dress. Perhaps for a fleeting moment, a part of me had wanted him to see that I had once been more than just a factory lass. But that lady in the worsted gown was nothing to be proud of. What pride was there to be felt when I’d let that life unravel so dramatically?

I undid the hooks and let the gown slide from my shoulders. I stood for a moment with it in a pool around my feet, before stepping out of it and tossing it into the fire. It caught with a burst of orange light, and I sat back on my heels to watch. I felt the blaze warm my cheeks.

The door creaked open and I leapt to my feet, suddenly aware I was standing there in searing daylight in nothing but my underskirts.

My eyes caught Blackwell’s for a second and I grabbed my striped dress, holding it to my body. He disappeared again before I could speak.

I dressed hurriedly and stepped out into the street, feeling the need to apologise. It had been wrong for me to strut around the hut indecently in the middle of the afternoon. I couldn’t bear for Blackwell to think I had been parading myself for his benefit.

I called after him, but he didn’t respond; just kept striding out towards the edge of the settlement.

I followed. I wanted to explain myself. But I also wanted to know where he was going.

We climbed into the hills, along a narrow track beaten into the scrub. I stayed some distance behind, not wanting him to know I was following, but close enough to keep track of him as he wove through the trees.

We walked for over an hour, perhaps closer to two. Sun streaked through the trees, insects dancing in the needles of light.

I could see a clearing up ahead. I hung back, hiding myself among the trees.

I peered out between the gnarled white trunks. Rows of graves, each marked with a crude cross, like Maggie Abbott’s.

Blackwell walked slowly among them, eyes fixed to the crosses. I stood motionless, barely daring to breathe.

My heart lurched. Why had he come here? Who lay beneath his earth?

I darted into the undergrowth so he wouldn’t see me. Held my breath as he walked past, back onto the narrow path.

Once his footsteps had disappeared, I stepped out into the makeshift cemetery. A heaviness hung over the place. A coldness, despite the warmth of the air. There were shallow engravings on the wooden crosses and I bent closer to read them. No names appeared in the inscriptions, but there were snatches of Gaelic, carved in a rough hand. And then English words that made my breath catch.

Castle Hill 1804

Had the battle taken place among these trees? I had learned from some of the men at the river that the site of the main conflict lay further to the north, where the Rum Corps had surrounded the rebels and brought them to their knees. But I also knew there had been men killed in the uprising from Toongabbie to Sydney Town; days of underhand warfare following the main attempted rebellion. I imagined the redcoats storming through these trees, imagined rifle fire shattering the stillness.

How many of these men had been sent to their graves by Blackwell’s bullet? Was it guilt that had brought him here?

Surely it was no easy thing to be a soldier; to shoot to kill on another’s bidding. Could a man still be haunted if he were acting in the name of duty?

I stood suddenly, unable to bear the oppressive atmosphere of the cemetery. I turned back the way I’d come, seeking out the narrow path that snaked back towards civilisation.

When I returned to Parramatta, I detoured to the river so Blackwell wouldn’t ask about my absence.

“Oh,” I said, in the world’s worst attempt at feigning ignorance, “you’re back. Collecting the chocolate flowers?” I set the bucket of water on the ground beside the hearth.

He returned my smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like that.”

I had hoped, of course, I might nudge him into speaking of the burial ground. But I could tell today he was to be tight-lipped.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” I said. “I didn’t mean for you to see me that way. I dirtied my dress and I…”

Blackwell shook his head dismissively. “It’s no matter.” He slid the Bible from the shelf and sat at the table, opening the book in front of him. His message was clear: conversation over.

The weight pressing down on him was almost a physical thing. A part of me longed to ask him outright about the cemetery. I couldn’t bear the thought of him locking all that regret away to be passed over.

“I saw you come from the north,” I said clumsily. “What’s out there?”

Blackwell eyed me. I could tell, even without