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

“That’s awful,” he said.

“Bought it for a sack of grain,” I told him. “Though Governor Bligh didn’t like it.”

He gave a short chuckle. “I see you managed an eyeful of my letter.”

“Well,” I said, “we must make a stand against those who dare interfere with military order.”

He failed to hold back a smile.

I took the bottle, my fingers grazing his. “The Fairy Reel?” I asked. I was acting inappropriately; a part of me was well aware. I was also well aware that I’d never been so drunk in my entire life. It was a blissful, liberating feeling.

“No,” he laughed. “Still no Fairy Reel.” He nodded to where Hannah and Lottie were chatting by the edge of the water, heads bent towards each other, their brows creased in deep concentration. “Looks as though they’re solving all the colony’s ills. Perhaps you ought to join them.”

I nodded, knowing even in my drunken state it was his polite way of telling me to disappear.

Blackwell returned to the marines, and I went and sat with Lottie and Hannah. As I’d guessed, the only thing they were solving was who’d drunk more of the liquor. The party was going to pot quickly. Bodies were dozing around the fire, upturned bottles scattered across the riverbank. Hannah disappeared into the trees with some mud-coated scrub, and Lottie made her way to the remnants of the bonfire, hands all over Patrick Owen. Sounds of pleasure drifted out from between the trees.

The first time I had heard such a thing on the Norfolk, I had been horrified. I’d been taught that my wifely duties were never to be spoken of, an act that took place behind locked doors. I had always been silent in the bedroom out of fear the staff might hear. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone knowing what we were doing.

But I had come to understand it was different here. For the women, such a thing was not a duty, but an act of survival. And it didn’t matter who witnessed it.

Sitting alone on the log, I felt a tug of loneliness. And in spite of everything I knew was decent and right, I found myself wishing I were one of those women sitting beside the river with a man’s arms around her. I longed to forget myself, to forget where we were, and what my life entailed now. Until the morning at least.

A distant roll of thunder and the air seemed to grow thicker.

I felt the log shift beside me as someone took the place left empty by Hannah. The man’s words were garbled. But his hand on my knee left no doubt as to his intentions.

I let that hand move up my thigh. Let him bend over and kiss my neck. Let myself sink into the warmth of another’s touch. I could let it go no further, of course, but in that fleeting moment, I relished the company.

“Fetch me a drink,” I said.

And he got to his feet unsteadily, giving me a smile. I felt a tangled mix of disgust and desire. And a tug of guilt at having let him think I was offering more than I was. I watched him saunter over to the bottles that sat ridiculously close to the bonfire.

“Don’t.” A voice close to my ear. “He’s not a good man.”

I opened my mouth to speak, my words dying in my throat when I turned my head and saw Blackwell’s eyes inches from mine.

I watched him for a moment, trying to make sense of what I was feeling. Anger at his intrusion? Or flattery? The liquor was tangling my thoughts.

“Why do you care who I spend my time with?” I asked.

“I just don’t want to see you get yourself in trouble.”

“Why are you looking out for me?”

He frowned slightly. “Why do you need to ask that?”

Because I was lulling myself into the belief I might be worth caring for. That the safety of a convict woman might matter to a lieutenant in the Rum Corps. And I knew they were dangerous beliefs.

Lottie turned back from the bonfire and her eyes met Blackwell’s. Then she glared at me. I looked away.

Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Raindrops the size of marbles began to pelt the dry earth, sending wisps of steam spiralling up from the fire. With the arrival of the rain, the oppressive heat vanished, and I drew down a long breath, lifting my face to the sky.

My suitor returned with a fresh bottle, confusion wrinkling his face when he saw me with Blackwell. I could tell he was trying to remember which woman he’d been after.

Blackwell stood suddenly, as though he had only just become aware of how close he was to me. “I’m going back to the hut,” he said.

He began to walk. For a moment, I sat motionless, unsure if his words had been an invitation to join him. He glanced back over his shoulder and I got to my feet. Hurried after him.

He opened the door and lit the lamp. His letter and inkpot were still spread out across the table.

I sank to the ground, not quite making it to my sleeping pallet. The earthen floor felt soft beneath me. My skirts and boots were splattered with mud.

Blackwell sat beside me on the floor, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his knee knocking against mine.

“Your letter,” I said. “It’s very boring.”

He chuckled. “Yes, I know. My father is not the most vibrant of men. I’m playing to my audience.” I could smell the liquor on his breath.

I made some sort of response, halfway between an acknowledgement and a groan. I rolled onto my side, my back to him. I closed my eyes against the violent