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

I take the money and slide it into my apron. “Two in an hour. That’s not like you.”

“Well,” he says, eyes meeting mine, “I’ve to do something while I sit here hoping you’ll eventually speak to me.”

I say nothing. I want him to leave. But I also want him to stay. Stay in the tavern. Stay in the colony. But it’s far too late for any of that.

“I was a fool,” he says. His words should feel like a victory, but they don’t. Because I know he had not been a fool. He had been acting in line with beliefs that had been ingrained in him since he had first pulled on his uniform.

I shake my head. “You’re no fool. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Yes,” he says. “I knew what I was doing. I was doing as I was taught to do. And that’s what makes me a fool.”

I close my eyes for a moment. A dark strand of hair hangs over his cheek and it takes all my resolve not to reach out and touch it.

“Meet me at the wharf tomorrow morning,” he says. “Please. Nine o’clock.”

I fold my arms; a gesture of self-preservation. “Your ship is due to leave tomorrow.”

“Yes,” says Blackwell. “In the evening. So give me the day. And then you never need have anything to do with me again.”

I hesitate. But then I find myself nodding.

I see the faintest of smiles on Blackwell’s lips. “Thank you,” he says. He stands. “I don’t need that second drink.”

He is out the door before I can give him back his penny.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

In the morning, I sit at a table in the corner of the tavern and write a carefully worded letter. I fold it, seal it and slip it into my pocket. And then I make my way to the wharf.

Blackwell is waiting for me on the edge of the water, coat buttoned to his neck and boots gleaming. At the sight of me, a tentative smile breaks across his face. “I’m glad to see you. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

A small, single-masted boat is bobbing on the swell, its sail furled against the hot wind. A seaman sits by the tiller, legs stretched out in front of him, awaiting our arrival.

I raise my eyebrows. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Blackwell offers me his hand and helps me step into the boat. I fold myself neatly onto the bench seat and look out over the glittering sea. An enormous three-masted ship lies at anchor beside the dock, men swarming up the gangway with crates in their arms. Tonight it will set sail for England.

Soon, our boat is flying down the river, the hot wind billowing the sail. When last I made this journey, from the silver swell of Sydney Harbour, inland towards Parramatta, I was bound for the factory above the jail. The enormous shadows of the trees, the animal shrieks within the bush, the inky darkness that had cloaked the land; every part of it had filled me with terror. But today the golden water feels different. I lift my face upwards, enjoying the warmth on my cheeks. This sun-bleached land will be my life forever, but I am achingly grateful to be living it.

For a moment I imagine I am the one with the ticket for England in my hand. The one with the freedom to leave this place at will. Would I climb onto that ship if I had the chance? The woman I am now has no place in London.

And is there a place for me here, on the edge of this vast wilderness? I have been gifted the life I thought I was to lose, and I want to believe there is something for me in it beyond the misery of the factory. A purpose beyond mere survival.

I can feel Blackwell’s eyes on me. He peers beneath the brim of my straw bonnet, trying to catch my gaze. I’m acutely aware I’ve barely spoken a word to him as the hot morning has stretched towards afternoon.

I reach into my pocket for the letter. Hold it out to him. “When you go back to England, I need you to deliver this.”

He frowns. “What is it?”

That morning, I had penned a letter to the magistrate who had sent me across the seas. I had outlined the role Henry Wilder had played in my husband’s coining venture. And I had outlined my firm belief that he had murdered Jonathan Marling in order to keep his involvement a secret.

Perhaps Wilder will not be found guilty. Perhaps I am too late in finding my voice. But I can no longer stay silent. There is already far too much injustice in the world.

Blackwell slides the letter into his pocket. “Is this the reason you came today? To see that the letter got back to London?”

I hesitate. Would I be here otherwise? I don’t know. But here I am.

The boat knocks against a narrow jetty. Ahead of us, the trees part to reveal manicured farmland, the outline of a large brick cottage in the distance. I frown.

“Who lives here?”

“Captain Macarthur and his wife.” Blackwell climbs to his feet, helping me out of the boat. I stay planted on the jetty, swatting at the flies that are circling my face.

“Why have you brought me here?”

“I’ll show you.” He puts a gentle hand to my elbow, ushering me up the path from the jetty and across a wide brown lawn towards the house. Fledgling trees waver on either side of the path.

My nerves are roiling. Once upon a time I could have held my own against people like this. Dined on jellies and drunk champagne. But I am wearing threadbare skirts from Parramatta market, my stained convict papers tucked in my pocket. I don’t belong