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

“You shouldn’t spend your time with men like that,” he said after a long silence.

I didn’t answer at once. His comment felt intrusive. Who was he to demand such things? Who was he to care?

I opened my eyes a crack, watching the flame dance inside the lamp. “Sometimes this place just feels overwhelmingly lonely,” I said finally.

“Yes,” said Blackwell. “It does.” And I felt his body curl around mine, his big hand gripping my wrist as water drizzled in from the roof and put the candle out.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“The poor girl who yields to a misplaced passion, no matter how her ruin has been effected … is immediately fallen. She has passed the threshold over which there is no return.”

Thomas Beggs

An Inquiry into the Extent and Causes of Juvenile Depravity

1849

On the twelfth night, the officers gathered at Government House for a celebratory dinner. I watched Blackwell peer into the shaving mirror and glide his razor along his cheeks.

He had been distant since Christmas night. I could tell he regretted the way he had acted. But which part of it, I wondered? His drunkenness? Or the fact he had let himself get close to me?

The morning after Christmas, I’d woken alone on the floor beside the hearth. Blackwell had been back on his sleeping pallet on the other side of the hut. No doubt when the liquor had faded he had seen the gross impropriety of curling up beside me in the night. I had seen it too, of course. But it had not felt like impropriety at the time. It had felt far too natural. Far too easy. A thing both of us had needed.

After he left for Government House, I sat at the table staring into the spluttering candle. I was exhausted, having sat hunched over the carding machine all day, but I felt too alert to sleep.

I took Blackwell’s shirt from the back of the chair, where I had hung it for mending. I had little doubt he was hacking at his hems on purpose. A reason to put coins in my hands and keep me from selling my body.

Threading a needle by candlelight, I stitched the torn hem carefully, the rough linen warm in my hands. The Parramatta cloth was thick and coarse. I wondered how many of Blackwell’s shirts had been woven by my own hands. His musky scent infused the linen. Made me feel close to him. Closer than I, as a mere convict woman, ought to be.

These thoughts felt sinful in so many ways. There was Sophia, of course, and the ghost of Jonathan, not long enough in his grave for me to be thinking of another man.

It was improper, my governess had taught me, for a lady to feel desire. Only a loose woman, a harlot, a concubine, would let her heart quicken in the presence of a man.

There was regret in me that I had let Blackwell see my desire. I knew as a military man, he was expected to look down on a factory lass like me. To see me as the loose woman the female register painted me as. But I knew my attraction was not one-sided. On Christmas night, while rain pelted the roof, I had felt his body slide closer to mine. Felt the warmth of his hand against my bare forearm. That night, as I had laid my cards on the table, Blackwell had also laid his.

I finished the sewing, folding the mended shirt and placing it on the end of his sleeping pallet. I undressed and blew out the lamp, curling up on my blanket beside the unlit hearth. The air was thick and humid, frogs clicking loudly in the river.

 Voices came towards the hut, along with a spear of light. I sighed inwardly, wondering what gift Owen and the other rebels had for the lieutenant this evening. I glanced across the hut to where the rifle was leaning against the wall. If I burst out the door and threatened the rebels with it, would they would be afraid? I smiled wryly to myself. Do such a thing and I’d find myself celebrating the twelfth night back in solitary confinement.

I grabbed my shawl and threw it over my shoulders, yanking open the door to confront them. “Get the hell out of here,” I hissed. Owen and Brady charged towards me. I stumbled back into the hut. Felt hands around the tops of my arms. I thrashed against them. “Get your damn hands off me!”

“You’re coming with us,” said Owen. “It’s important.”

My heart thundered, Maggie Abbott’s blank stare flashing through my mind. I tried to scream, but Owen clamped a hand over my mouth before the sound could form.

“Keep your bloody mouth shut. We can’t have that lobster of yours coming running.”

They yanked me back towards the door. “My dress,” I spluttered. “And my boots.” If I was going to be found in the undergrowth like Maggie, I at least wanted to have a little decency about me.

After a moment, Owen nodded reluctantly. He and Brady released their grip. I yanked my dress on over my head. As I bent to lace my boots, I felt a pang of regret. If I were found with my dress and boots on, it would look as though I had left the hut on my own accord.

But it was too late. Owen’s hand was back around the top of my arm and I was being marched out towards the river.

“What’s this about?” I demanded. Fear lurched inside me. Was I to be the next body found in the scrub? Did the croppies still believe me responsible for turning Owen over to the authorities? Or had they some twisted idea that they could punish Blackwell by harming me?

When we reached the river, I