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

I stood outside the hut and knocked, my heart pounding harder than it had the night he had first brought me here.

The door groaned as it opened.

He stooped in the doorway, looking at me without speaking. His eyes glided over the floral print of my skirts, my neatly pinned hair, the hint of lace at my neck. Beneath the callouses and the second-hand dress, I had conjured up a little of my old refinement. Chin lifted, shoulders back; a way I’d not carried myself in many months. Last time Blackwell and I had spoken, I’d been a chaotic mess with a knife in my hand. I needed him to see I was stronger than that. Capable. I needed to him to do as I asked.

I held out my paperwork. I knew one glance at the page would tell him I was here for life. But as he glanced over it, his face gave nothing away.

“You have your freedom,” he said finally, passing the papers back to me. “That’s wonderful.”

I shook my head. “It’s not wonderful. I can’t leave Parramatta. And I need to get to Lottie in Sydney Town.”

Finally, Blackwell took a step back, gesturing for me to step inside the hut.

“I’m sorry, Eleanor,” he said, “this is the way things are. But do things right and perhaps one day it will become a pardon.”

I couldn’t wait for a pardon. Not while Lottie was lying beside Patrick Owen in the night.

I looked up at him. “You could persuade the magistrate on my behalf,” I said. I knew there was little point dancing around the issue.

Blackwell scooped back his hair, exhaling. “This is highly inappropriate.”

“Yes. I know.” I looked him in the eye. And I kept my distance. Perhaps there were ways I could have persuaded him. Gentle fingers down his arm, lips on his neck.

Concubine.

I stayed fixed to the floor, my papers held out in front of me. “Please,” I said. “Lottie is in danger.”

“Danger you plan to walk right into.”

He cared for me; yes, I saw that. And a part of me was grateful. But I didn’t want to be cared for right then. I wanted – needed – that extra gasp of freedom.

“You were the one who arranged for me to work for Leaver,” I said suddenly.

“Yes.”

I swallowed, taken aback by his blunt admission. “Why?”

His eyes shifted. “You know why.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Because when I’m around you, I fear I will be unfaithful to my wife.”

The words fell heavily into the silence. They did not bring me nearly as much satisfaction as I had expected.

“I thought it better for both of us,” he said. “I know working in the factory is difficult.”

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was better for both of us. But that didn’t stop me from feeling as though I’d been discarded.

My hand tightened, crumpling my papers. “Patrick Owen should never have been allowed to walk free,” I said. “We both know that.”

I saw his jaw tense.

“I need to get Lottie away from him.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. I only knew it was not something I could do from the depths of Parramatta. “Please,” I said. “You know how important this is to me.”

Blackwell rubbed his stubbled chin, exhaling deeply. Finally, he reached for the papers. “Let me speak to the magistrate.”

*

The following day, the factory burned. Flames roared up from the warehouses above the jail, a cloud of smoke drifting across the sun.

We all stood by the river, watching flames pour out the side of the building. The smoke stung my eyes and made my throat burn.

The women from the spinning wheels milled about in the street, staring up the fire. They chattered among themselves, some with children clamped to their hips. The men from the prison below the factory stood lined up in their shackles, guarded by a row of soldiers. Convicts and enlisted men formed a line from the river, passing buckets of water up the chain to be flung onto the blaze.

 I sought out Hannah, who was standing among the women. I could feel their eyes on me, taking in my floral skirts, my straw bonnet. I felt myself shrink under their scrutiny. For so many months, I had longed to be more than a miserable factory lass. But now I felt painfully disconnected. Caught between two worlds.

“What’s this about then?” asked Hannah, gesturing to my dress.

I shook my head dismissively. “Had a little spare coin is all.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I’d wrangled a ticket of leave.

I stared up at the factory, imagining the spinning wheels ablaze. “What happened?”

“Started in the kitchen,” she told me. “Some logs come out of the grate and landed on the girls’ blankets.”

Fitting, I thought, that that dreadful place might turn to ash. It deserved little more. But I feared what it would mean for the women and children who spent each night on its floor.

I edged away from Hannah and the other women, feeling an inexplicable tug of guilt. Guilt that I might escape this place. And guilt that fate had fallen in my favour and led me to Blackwell’s door.

I felt his presence before I saw him. He stood at my side and pressed a piece of paper into my hand.

I unfolded it, heart pounding. My ticket of leave.

And there, at the bottom of the page, was the thing I had longed for:

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

I looked up at him with gratitude in my eyes. I was going to find Lottie.

And then?

I couldn’t bring myself to think that far ahead. I was terrified of what I might find.

“Thank you,” I murmured. He was standing close; close enough