One of Us Buried

by Johanna Craven

  Flynn’s home was a great sandstone monolith that seemed to grow from the paddocks, the distant turquoise of the sea visible beyond the hill. Behind the house, a patchwork of fencing outlined the sheep-dotted farmland. There was a barren, eerie beauty to the place, with its oceanic fields glittering in the heat haze, gnarled skeletons of trees stark against the fierce blue of the sky. I felt a flicker of nerves at becoming the lady of such a vast and unfamiliar property. But for the first time since I had climbed off the Norfolk, I was able to see a future that did not make me cower at its misery.

  The farmhand offered me his hand to help me out of the trap and I climbed down, my boots crunching on the brittle brown grass. Ann was waiting outside the house to meet me.

  “Mr Flynn’s asked me to bring you into the parlour.”

  I followed her across a wide veranda and across the dark polished floorboards of Flynn’s entrance hall. She knocked lightly on the parlour door and I entered at Flynn’s invitation. As I stepped into the room, he put down his teacup and rose from his armchair. He turned to look at Ann.

  “Please leave us.”

  She bobbed a quick curtsey and pulled the door closed behind her. It clicked loudly in the stillness. My eyes pulled towards the vast stretch of glass that filled one wall of the parlour. I could see out to the rusty fields of the farm, and a landscape so predominantly sky.

  I hesitated, waiting for the invitation to sit. The offer of tea. Perhaps Flynn wished to show me around the farm first. I wondered whether I ought to remove my bonnet. “The property is beautiful,” I said. “This view is quite something.”

  “Yes. It is.” He did not return my smile.

  And as I looked in his eyes, I realised. He knew. There could be no doubt.

  I felt something sink inside me.

  Was I to speak first? Find some petty explanation? Assure him such a thing would never happen again?

  “Captain Grant and I are good friends,” said Flynn, before I could find the words.

  At the back of my mind, I had known that, yes. Had known it when I had stared Grant down in the middle of his hallway. Foolishly, I had believed – or at least hoped – our meeting might go by unacknowledged.

  Flynn rubbed his shorn chin and stared out the window. I wondered distantly if this was the end. I knew there were many men in this colony who would look past such things. But I felt instinctively that Arthur Flynn was not one of them.

  He came towards me slowly, his boots clicking on the floorboards.

  “I chose to look past what they say about your kind,” he said. “Because I believed you were different. But I see now how wrong I was to do so.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. And I was; truly, deeply. Flynn had been achingly decent to me. He had been willing to see beyond my convict stain and make me wife. I felt a striking guilt at having hurt him. But I also knew that, had I the chance, I would do the same again and again.

  My throat tightened. “I was a fool.”

  Flynn stood close. I could see the green flecks in his eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m the one who has been a fool. To have let myself be shamed by a government lass. Any man with half a mind knows better than to try and find a little decency in a woman so unspeakably impure.”

  I waited for him to strike me. Closed my eyes and braced for the impact. But instead he swept a wild hand across the table, sending his teacup flying across the room. It shattered noisily against the hearth, making my heart leap into my throat.

  Flynn turned away, folding his arms across his chest. “You need to leave.”

  I trudged back into town, having refused his stilted offer of the trap. This hot, dusty trek was what I deserved, I told myself, as I swatted furiously at the relentless onslaught of flies. Craving the bliss of drunkenness, I stopped at the first tavern I came to and bought a flask of the Rum Corps’ finest. I didn’t care who saw me. I had already been irretrievably shamed.

  I carried the liquor up to my room and took a long mouthful. As it seared my throat, a barrage of tears spilled, and I pushed them away hurriedly. I couldn’t bear to sit here in self-pity. Everything that had happened to me I had brought on myself.

  I tucked the bottle beneath the bed and trudged down to the tavern with my apron in my hand. I wasn’t due to start work for another hour.

  “You’re early,” said Charlie, as he strode in from the kitchen.

  “I know. I need the distraction. You don’t have to pay me.” I knotted my apron around my waist. I could smell the dust and sweat on my skin. Could feel my hair frizzing wildly around my cheeks. A lass behind the bar might bring men through the door, but one look at me and they’d walk right back out again.

  “What’s happened?” asked Charlie.

  “Nothing.” I couldn’t bear to speak of it. Couldn’t bear to think of it. Of any of it. I couldn’t think of the hurt in Flynn’s eyes, or of Blackwell sailing home to his wife. I couldn’t think of Kate Abbott running through the streets picking pockets, or Lottie on the floor of that squalid kitchen. Couldn’t think, couldn’t think, couldn’t think.

  The tavern filled quickly and I was grateful for it. Exhaustion was pressing down on me, but I kept myself charging through the bar, wiping tables, and serving drinks.

  When I knocked a glass of rum from the counter, sending it exploding on the floor, Charlie took the dish cloth from my hand.

  “Go upstairs, Nell. Go and rest.”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. Any fool can see that.”

  “I’ve got to clean it,” I said, pointing to the shards of glass lying in the pool of liquor. Inexplicably, the sight of it made my tears spill.

  Charlie pointed to the stairwell. “Upstairs,” he said. “That’s an order.”

  I trudged up to my room. Rain was beginning to patter against the windows. I sat on my bed, trying to swallow my tears.

  I pulled the bottle out from under my bed and gulped down a mouthful. And then another. And one more for good measure.

  I had never felt more alone in my life. Never felt so directionless, or so empty. I stared at the window with glazed eyes, watching lines of water snake down the glass.

  I knew that just a few blocks away, Blackwell would be alone in Captain Grant’s house. I longed to go to him. To curl up against him and disappear from the world. But I couldn’t do that to Sophia. Or to him.

  And I couldn’t do it to myself.

  But nor could I stay here, drowning in rum and sadness. I got shakily to my feet and headed out towards the Rocks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The sky ripped open as I walked, the drizzle growing into marbles of water that turned the roads to mud. The rain brought cool air with it, and I shivered as droplets ran down my bare arms. I put my head down and quickened my pace towards the kitchen.

  I knew Lottie would not want a thing to do with me. Perhaps she would send me away. Or perhaps she would not even be here. Perhaps Owen had decided he wanted her for the night again.

  The alleyways of the Rocks were near empty, rain pounding against roofs, and water trickling from the gutters. A few sailors were sheltering beneath dripping awnings with pipes in their hands. One of them called out to me as I stumbled past, but didn’t bother following. I squinted in the darkness. Which way to Lottie?

  I stumbled through the maze of cottages and shacks until I found the narrow door leading to the kitchen. I knocked loudly. Tripped slightly on the doorstep as an old woman let me inside. Lottie pushed her way towards me.

  “Nell,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  I felt myself swaying slightly. “I’m worried for you,” I said. “I thought Owen…” The lie spilled out without me having a thought of it. Why couldn’t I admit that I needed her? Why did I feel the urge to appear in control, even when I was soaked to the skin and my steps were crooked with liquor? Perhaps Lottie was right. Perhaps I did need to show her how well I’d done for myself.

  “Are you drunk?” she deman
ded.

  “A little.” Water trickled down the back of my neck.

  Her hand was suddenly around my arm, leading me to the corner of the room where Willie’s basket was tucked away. Water dripped from the ceiling and ran down the wall, but the kitchen was marginally drier than the alley.

  “Christ,” Lottie said, unwrapping her shawl and draping it over my shoulders. “What happened to you?”

  Suddenly, I wanted to tell her everything. The breaking of my betrothal, and being thrown from Flynn’s house, and all that had happened between Blackwell and me. I wanted to tell her of the chaos of guilt and love that roiled inside me. But instead, I said:

  “Has Owen been back for you?”

  Lottie sighed. “Would you forget about Patrick for one damn minute? What’s happened to you?” She slid an arm around my shoulder and I felt myself break. Deep sobs racked my body and I buried my head against her shoulder. She held me tightly.

  My words came out in a tangle. “Flynn broke off our betrothal. I ruined everything. And Blackwell…” I knew I ought to stop; knew I shouldn’t speak of him in front of Lottie. But I couldn’t stop myself. “He’s leaving,” I sobbed. “Going back to England. To his wife.”

  Her arms tightened around me. “It’s for the best, Nell. You know that. You know how the Rum Corps sees women like us. We’re the lowest of the low. They can’t look past our convict stain.”

  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Blackwell’s in Sydney. Staying with a colleague. Flynn found out I went to him… To his room…” Perhaps it was a foolish confession. But with the words, I felt a weight lift from my chest.

  “I see,” Lottie said after a long silence. Outside the window, rain poured from the edge of the roof and thundered into the street.

  A part of me wanted to tell her about the conversation I’d had with Blackwell about what had happened at the Owens’ cottage after the rebellion. Tell her I understood her hatred, Owen’s hatred. And I wanted to tell her of the remorse I could sense in Blackwell’s words. Tell her of the way he saw the world through a guilty man’s eyes.

  But I did none of that. It felt like I conversation I was not permitted to have. She would know I still saw the story from Blackwell’s side. How could she not, after all I’d just confessed?

  I wiped my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I coughed. “I didn’t mean to burden you.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Nell. You’re not a burden.” She leant her head against mine. I was so glad for her closeness, for the friendship I’d feared had been washed away completely.

  In the basket beside us, Willie gave a weak cry. He rubbed his eyes and squirmed beneath his blankets.

  I frowned. “Is he unwell?”

  “A fever,” said Lottie, scooping him into her arms. “Came on last night. Neither of us have had a wink of sleep.”

  “Come back to the Whaler’s with me,” I said. “Stay in my room. It’ll be quieter there. And drier.” I could see her hesitation. “Please. I could use the company.”

  Lottie glanced at the baby, then back to me. “All right,” she said finally. “But just for the night.”

  The rain was beginning to ease as we made our way back to the tavern. Lottie held Willie tightly to her chest, while I carried his empty basket, drawing in lungfuls of air to clear my liquored-up thoughts.

  As we passed Captain Grant’s house, I lowered my eyes and began to walk faster. Lottie jogged to keep up with me.

  “What’s this about then?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I just—”

  Oh.” She peered up at the house with knowing eyes. “This where you paid the lieutenant a visit?”

  I felt my cheeks burn with shame.

  Lottie glanced back over her shoulder, then gave me a crooked smile. “House is dark,” she said. “No need to rush by with your tail between your legs.”

  “The family’s left for Van Diemen’s Land,” I mumbled. “But I’m sure Blackwell’s still there.” I turned the corner hurriedly, glad when the Whaler’s Arms came into view. I stopped in surprise at the small figure standing outside the tavern. “Kate.”

  She offered me a sheepish smile, twisting a strand of dark hair around her finger. “You said you had a room here.”

  I smiled. “I do. Yes.”

  Her clothes were grimy and torn, her wet hair hanging loose on her shoulders. Had she been sleeping on the streets since I’d found her all those weeks ago?

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  She chewed her lip, avoiding my eyes. “Just about.”

  I nodded. Wherever she’d been, whoever she’d been with, it didn’t matter. I was just glad she was here now. I put a hand to her shoulder, ushering her inside. “Come on. Come and get yourself dry.”

  I led her and Lottie into the alley behind the tavern and used my key to unlock the back door. I ushered them up the stairs to my room.

  As Kate hurried inside, Lottie reached for my arm, holding me back. “Who is she?”

  I kept my voice low. “She’s Maggie’s daughter. I found her in the street.”

  Something flickered behind Lottie’s eyes. “Does she know what happened to her mother?”

  I shook my head. Kate turned back to us and I forced a smile, stepping inside and locking the door. I had no thought of where we would all sleep in my little snuff box of a room.

  I went to the table by the bedside and lit the lamp. Lottie took the baby’s basket from me and laid Willie inside it. She sat it on the floor and knelt beside him. I took my cloak from the hook beside the door and tucked it around the baby.

  “He’s sleeping at least,” I said. “That’s good. We can take him to the physician tomorrow.”

  Lottie gave an incredulous laugh. “You’ve no idea, do you, Nell? Two years in this place and you’ve not learned a thing. There’s no physician who’ll look at him once they learn he belongs to a factory lass.”

  “That’s not true,” I said. “It can’t be.”

  Lottie looked at me witheringly, shaking her head. A reminder that my time at the spinning wheels had not washed away all my naivety.

  She chewed her thumbnail. “He needs his father. Patrick would know what to do.”

  I glared at her. She couldn’t speak his name. Not in front of Maggie’s daughter.

  Kate was hovering at the foot of the bed, chewing her hair and peering down at the baby.

  “Is he going to die?” she asked.

  “Of course not.” I ushered her away from Willie’s basket.

  Lottie let out her breath. “I see she’s got the same gift with words as her mother.”

  My stomach plunged. Kate’s lips parted, and she looked up at me with wide eyes.

  “Take off your dress and hang it up,” I said hurriedly. “You’ll catch a chill.”

  She slid her smock over her head, not taking her eyes off mine. “Do you know my mother?”

  I glared at Lottie, willing her to speak. But she was kneeling over Willie with her head down, refusing to meet my eyes. Making it clear Kate was my responsibility. The girl was a fragile figure in her thin wet shift, with skeletal white arms and a face dwarfed by wild, wet curls.

  “Your mother is dead, Kate,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I clenched my fist behind my back, trying to force away my anger at Lottie. A drop of water slid from the end of my hair and beaded on the floorboards.

  Kate’s mouth opened, then closed. She perched on the bottom of the bed, her feet dangling inches from the floor. “Oh,” she said. “Oh.”

  I sat beside her, my wet skirts tangling around my legs. “Lottie and I both knew her. At the factory in Parramatta.” I opened my mouth to say more, but could find few words. My most vivid memories of Maggie were of her lying lifeless on the side of the road. But Kate was looking up at me, expectant. I knew I had to give her more. “She was a kind woman,” I managed. “She always spoke her mind. And she loved you very much.”

  I remembered the tremor in Maggie’s voice when she’d spoken of the Orphan Schoo
l. I had no doubt her head had been full of her daughter at the time.

  Kate began to gnaw on her thumbnail. I waited for her reaction. Tears? Anger? There was none of that. Just a silent acceptance. I put my hand to her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “Come on. We ought to sleep. If we squeeze up we can all fit.” I looked over at Lottie. She was sitting on her knees with her back to me, a protective hand on the edge of Willie’s basket.

  “Lottie,” I said, “there’s room for you on the bed.” In spite of my anger, I hated the thought of her spending yet another night on the floor.

  “There’s no room for three,” she said. “I’ll stay here.” The divide that had sprung up between us felt almost a physical thing.

  Kate stayed planted on the edge of the bed, staring into the lamp. “How did she die?” she asked suddenly.

  I hesitated. Was I to lie? Cobble together some more manageable version of the truth?

  “She stopped breathing,” I said finally. I stared at Lottie, willing her to turn around. Willing her to face the reality of who her husband was. What good would it do her; this blind hope that one day Owen would take her back? That impossible dream of having a family. I understood her need for security, of course. But surely she would do better if she let her faith in Owen die.

  Kate stared at me with her mother’s deep-set blue eyes. “What do you mean she stopped breathing? How?” I knew she’d spent too much time on the street for my all-too-gentle truths.

  And I was thinking of Lottie and Owen when I said, “Someone killed her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Killed her?” Kate repeated. “Who killed her? Why?”

  “She was killed by the savages,” Lottie said, before I could answer. “She had too much to drink and wandered out into the bush.” Her voice was cold. Empty of emotion. And suddenly she was on her feet, grabbing Willie’s basket and making for the door.