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

“And so? Your lie was protection against temptation?”

“Yes,” he says. “I suppose that’s what it was.”

Protection against the shame of falling for a factory lass.

I can’t bring myself to speak – to do so would be to either voice my anger or relinquish it. And I can do neither.

The silence between us is thick; heavier than it had been the night I’d first lain beside him in the night. Had he decided then to lie to me about his wife? Erect that barrier that would keep me distanced? Or had that decision come later?

“For whatever it’s worth,” he said, “I feel a great anger at myself.”

“Because of me? Because I caused you to sin?” I hear my own bitterness.

“Because of you,” he says. “But not because you caused me to sin. Because I lost you. To my own foolishness. And my own lies.”

I roll over. I can barely see more than his outline, but I know I am looking into his eyes.

“You’re a good person, Eleanor,” he says. “You deserve far better than what you’ve been given in this place.”

I let out a cold laugh. I’m unsure if his words are an understatement, or the greatest of untruths. I don’t feel like a good person. I’m not sure I ever have.

“Captain Grant told Flynn you and I were together,” I tell him. “He broke off our betrothal.”

For a long time, Blackwell doesn’t speak. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I truly am.”

His words have left an ache inside me. For the first time, there is no barrier between us; no Flynn, no Sophia, no colony watching. No barrier but my own anger, my own reluctance to let him near me after all he has done.

His hand tightens around my arm. Does he mean to hold on to me? Do so and he will likely drown. I am barely able to hold my head above water.

“My entire world,” he says finally, “it’s been upturned since I came to this place. I’ve found myself questioning everything I thought I knew. And that has shown me very clearly that I should not have blindly accepted the things I was taught. I ought to have thought for myself.”

How well I know that feeling. I ought to have thought for myself, as I had carted counterfeit coins around the city. I ought to have thought for myself as the thief-takers had led me from Jonathan’s townhouse.

“This place changes you,” I say.

“No. Not the place. The people in it.” His thumb moves against my shoulder.

“I was to die,” I say. “For your murder.”

He sits up suddenly. “What?”

And I tell him it all; of the rebels coming to the Grants’, and the body in the street. I tell him of how I slid out of the hangman’s grasp and how Lottie is to die.

Blackwell lets out his breath. He shuffles across the blanket, pressing his forehead against mine. His hands are tangled tightly in my hair. He pulls me hard against him, his nose brushing against mine. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry for everything.”

I let him hold me. I need him to do it. My anger has not faded, but I need something to steady myself. The relief of escaping the gallows is so fierce I can barely fathom it. Coupled with grief over Lottie and the pain of Blackwell’s betrayal, I feel as though I am falling.

“In the morning,” I say, “we go back to Sydney. You’ve only days until your ship leaves. And nothing you do here is going to change the past.”

Each of us here must live with our mistakes; live with the crimes that sent us into this new world. Why should Blackwell be any different? But in spite of myself I curl up against his chest, trying to memorise the feel of him beneath my fingers before he disappears from my life forever.

I hear noise outside and sit up quickly. A crackle of twigs. It is not the sound of an animal. It is the sound of footsteps.

Natives? My heart speeds.

Blackwell climbs out from beneath the shelter. On my knees behind him, I look into the darkness. I can make out the shapes of the trees in the moonlight.

“Who’s there?” says Blackwell. The old authority is back in his voice. The sound of it is swallowed quickly by the dark. He reaches for the tinderbox and lights the lamp. He holds it up, shining it over the thick pillars of the trees. The orange glow picks out a small face between the gnarled trunks.

“Kate?” I can’t make sense of her being here.

Blackwell looks at me for an explanation, but I just stumble through the darkness towards the girl.

“What are you doing here? You came all this way on your own?”

She throws her arms around my waist. “A man came to the tavern,” she coughs. “He made me tell him where you were.” Her voice is wavering, cheeks stained with tears.

My stomach tightens. “Did he hurt you?”

She shakes her head, but keeps it pressed hard against my chest. “He’s here,” she says. “He came for you.” She looks past me at Blackwell. “And him.”

I catch Blackwell’s glance, then look hurriedly back at Kate. “Did he force you to come out here?”

She shakes her head. “I followed him.” Her voice is trembling. “I thought he was going to hurt you. I had to find you. Tell you he was coming.”

I close my eyes and pull Kate close again. “You must be exhausted.” I feel a tug in my chest that she might put herself in danger on my account. “Where is Owen now?” I whisper. And her gaze drifts past me to the inky outline of the cottage.

Blackwell steps out into the night.

“No,” I say. “Please don’t.”