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

the river, ready to carry her away. Ready to carry her to a life as Patrick Owen’s wife.

“Be safe,” I managed, my voice coming out broken.

When I stepped back, Lottie’s eyes were glistening. “And you, Nell,” she said. “He’s not who you think he is.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

I opened my eyes to thick darkness, aware something had jolted me awake. It had been several months since Owen had left Parramatta, and I thought constantly of Lottie. Thought constantly of Blackwell and the redcoats out on their midnight drills.

To still my thoughts, I’d thrown myself into my work. As Mrs Leaver’s confinement approached, I’d become something of a lady’s maid to her, running to answer the ringing of her bell throughout the day and night. My devotion to her earned me the occasional smile from Leaver, who was clearly besotted with his young and pretty wife.

I sat up in bed, listening for Mrs Leaver’s bell.

No. That was not what had woken me.

Murmurs were coming from Amy’s room. Male grunts of exertion.

I climbed out of bed. Had one of the farmhands crept into her room? Had he been invited?

I stood outside her door, debating whether to intervene.

A muffled cry came, followed by another grunt; this time one of aggression. I darted instinctively into the room.

In the shafts of moonlight streaming through the gap in the curtains, I could see the square figure of Leaver on the bed, trousers around his knees and Amy struggling beneath him.

I snatched the candleholder; the only meagre weapon I could find.

“Get away from her,” I hissed.

Leaver whirled around and stumbled from the bed, yanking up his trousers and buttoning them hurriedly.

Amy was watching open-mouthed, her blonde hair ruffled, eyes wide with fear. Her nightshift was tangled around her knees.

“Go,” I told her.

She scrambled off the bed and disappeared out of the room.

Leaver came towards me, forcing me backwards. His face was darkened with shadow, his untucked shirt hanging around his knees. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded, voice thin. Beneath his miserable attempt at forcefulness, I could hear the uncertainty, the embarrassment.

I held the candleholder out in front of me. “She’s just a child.”

“She’s my lag. I can do with her what I like.” He tucked in his shirt, looking at me with flashing eyes. “What will you do? Go to the Rum Corps? You think they’ll give a shit?”

“The Rum Corps won’t care,” I said. “But I’m sure Mrs Leaver will.”

I watched a look of horror pass over his round face. What a weakness it was, I thought distantly, for a man to care what his wife thought. He pointed a finger at me. I could see it trembling. “One word to my wife and I’ll kill you.”

I smiled thinly. My time in this place had shown me the difference between men who could kill and men who just talked. Robert Leaver was a man who just talked.

“You’ll not kill me,” I said.

He looked taken aback by my boldness. “What do you want?” he hissed.

I faltered. Let out a short laugh. “Are you trying to bargain with me?”

He clenched his jaw. “I said, what do you want?”

And I saw it then. I had power. For the first time since I had stepped onto these shores, I had the upper hand.

I thought of Lottie, wed to Patrick Owen, carted off to Sydney Town. And I said, “I want my ticket of leave.”

*

I signed my name and the paperwork was handed to me.

‘It is His Excellency the Governor’s pleasure to dispense with the attendance at government work of Eleanor Marling…’

Below it was a detailed account of my appearance, my voyage on the Norfolk, and my trial at the Old Bailey. But it was the last line that had my attention:

‘Permitted to employ herself in any lawful occupation within the district of Parramatta.’

No. I couldn’t be imprisoned here in this settlement. Not while Lottie was in Sydney.

I stared down at the page. Demanding Leaver go to the magistrate on my account had been selfish. I ought to have bargained with him for Amy’s freedom. Not my own. I had done as I had out of a desperate need to help Lottie. But this would not help anyone.

I bought myself a room at the lodging house on Macquarie Street. At the market, I found two poplin dresses for sixpence each. They were threadbare and their prints faded, but with a little rehemming, they both blessedly reached my ankles. I stood in front of the mirror in my room at the lodging house and fastened the hooks to my neck. For the first time in almost two years, I was not dressed the same as every second woman in Parramatta. Nor was I the lady I had been when I had last stood in front of a mirror like this and fastened a lace collar at my throat. The relentless sun had darkened my skin and lightened my hair, almost two years of labour scarring my hands with callouses. But I knew the changes this place had wrought on the inside were far greater. Parramatta had stolen my ignorance, my ability to turn away. Twenty months in New South Wales and I was a woman who walked with a knife in her hand.

I looked down at my papers I had laid across the bed. Though I had little else, I had freedom of sorts. The enormity of that was not lost on me, despite the underhand way it had come about. I felt little guilt at having blackmailed Robert Leaver. Twenty months in New South Wales had also taught me there was little place here for decency.

I combed and pinned my hair, scrubbed my skin clean. And when dark had fallen thick across the street, I went to Lieutenant