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

his weight. He sat on the edge. Laced his fingers together and looked up to meet my eyes.

His story of the uprising was not the same as Owen’s. There were no heroes; not the rebels, nor the Rum Corps. Just an impassive retelling of the rebels’ attack on the government farm at Castle Hill, and of the way they had beaten down their overseers. Of their advance towards Parramatta, and the way the army had so quickly responded. A midnight march to meet the Irishmen. The surrounding of the rebels at nearby Rouse Hill. Firing lines formed to cut the croppies down.

His story emotionless, a thing of duty.

I thought of the rows of crosses in the clearing outside Parramatta. That day, I had seen emotion in Blackwell’s eyes. When he had thought no one was looking, he had let it slip above the surface.

“And afterwards?” I asked.

“We were sent out to hunt down the rebels who got away.” He spoke calmly, evenly. “We were told to find every one of them. Told that if we let them live, they’d overturn the order we’d created in this place. Undo everything we’d worked for.

“I found the Owens’ hut out behind Squires’ inn. Three of them were hiding there. I saw the stolen muskets up against the wall.”

“You killed them.”

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. It was not surprise I was feeling. Not shock. Just a quiet acceptance that I had known this all along. I had seen the guilt within him the day I had followed him to the rebels’ graveyard.

“You speak of it so calmly,” I said finally.

Blackwell looked up at me. “How would you have me speak of it?”

I tilted my head, trying to see behind his eyes. “Do you regret what you did?”

“I was doing my job. Doing as I’d been instructed.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

For the first time, I understood Owen’s hatred. But I also understood my own love. It was deep and unyielding. Unmoved by the blood on Blackwell’s hands. And this, I realised, was my biggest betrayal of Lottie. I saw then how right she was to have refused to share things with me.

I would never see things from her point of view. How could I? Not only was I an Englishwoman of a far higher class, I would give my life for the man who had pulled the trigger.

There was regret in him; I could hear it in his voice, could see it in his eyes. But perhaps it showed too much weakness for him to speak of it, especially in front of a government lass. Perhaps it went against everything he had committed to when he had taken on his commission. Went against everything this place expected of him.

“I saw you at the graveyard outside Parramatta,” I said. “Do you go there often?”

He let out his breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“What of the Owens’ cottage? Do you ever go there? To pay your respects?”

Something flickered across Blackwell’s face. The look in his eyes told me I was right; that he had returned to that cottage, as he had returned to the rebels’ graves. Seeking what? Forgiveness? Absolution? The thought of it filled me with dread. If Owen or any of his remaining family were to discover the lieutenant alone at the cottage, he would likely not return.

I took a step towards him. Placed my hands on the broad plane of his shoulders and looked down to meet his eyes. He reached up, tracing gentle fingers along my bare forearm. I shivered.

“It’s best that you leave,” he said, but his hand slid around me as he spoke. Came to rest on the small of my back. A gentle pressure, guiding me closer.

His body felt heavy against mine, at once both weighted down and liberated at having spoken of the cottage. I wanted to give him a little in return.

I drew in a breath and sat beside him on the bed. “I was transported for high treason,” I said. “I ran counterfeit coins across London.”

I made no mention of Jonathan. I wanted to claim my crimes, just as Blackwell had done.

He said nothing. Just gave a nod that made my guilt fall away. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and ran his thumb along my cheek.

And then his lips were on mine. This was not what I had come for, I told myself. I had come to warn him about Owen. But a part of me knew that a lie. I had also come for that goodbye I had been deprived of at the tavern.

My mouth opened beneath his, deepening the kiss. My hands in his hair, pulling him towards me.

For all his urgency, Blackwell was hesitant, uncertain, his fingers sliding to the hooks at the front of my bodice, then pausing there, as if awaiting permission. I reached down to pull apart the first hook, sighing against his lips as his fingers slid beneath.

I pulled his shirt up over his head with a fervour I didn’t recognise. Perhaps this place had corrupted me. Perhaps I had grown to fit the label the colony had saddled me with.

I didn’t care. At least not there in the humid, sea-scented air, with Blackwell’s breath on my skin.

It was me who loosened the last laces of my stays and let them ghost against the floor. Me who lay back on the bed, pulling him down over me. My hands slid up and down his back, over his shoulders, the backs of his thighs. I could feel the tension draining from his body; replaced with something far more urgent, more temporal.

“I missed you,” he said, close to my ear. “I missed having you in my home. I missed