by Amanda Deed
Most of the drovers’ faces were familiar ones, except for one or two. Cook hovered over a big kettle of stew at the fire, sending a rich aroma into the air. That was sure to make the men’s stomachs rumble with hunger. She’d seen them eat before—like men half-starved—polishing off large bowls of food in moments. Cook probably had a few loaves of damper baking beneath the coals.
Jane glanced at the basket in her arms. The scones in her hands might keep the team’s hunger at bay for another hour or so.
She glanced up again. But where was Danny? She scanned each face but couldn’t see him. And then she noticed Mr Moreland and her stomach flipped. What was he doing here? She soon observed the scissors in his hands as he bent closer to Mr O’Grady’s head and snipped at a lock of hair. Of course. He was working.
Jane sought out Mr Mitchell. She’d never been comfortable calling any of the men by their Christian names, or their nicknames, as they always insisted. She didn’t want to be too familiar with a rough bunch of men—except for Danny. And Mr Mitchell would be able to point his direction. As she began to approach him, she remembered the basket in her hands and turned towards Cook instead. She didn’t even know his name, everyone just called him Cook.
‘Hello, Miss Jane.’ He offered her a somewhat toothless grin as she approached.
‘Hello, Cook.’
‘Nice to see you again. What ya got for us this time?’
‘Aunt Ruby baked a batch of her scones.’ Jane held out the basket to him.
‘I suppose she put jam and cream in there, too.’ He lifted the corner of the cloth, which covered the goodies and chuckled. ‘You’d think these blokes was goin’ to a high tea. Should tell ’em to put their petticoats on, eh?’
Cook laughed out loud at his joke while Jane smiled at his humour.
‘Tell yer aunt thanks. I’ll have this basket ready for yer to take back with ya soon.’
Jane nodded, then turned to find Mr Mitchell. He sat near the fire, talking with one of the men, but stood as she neared him.
‘Jane, lass. How are ya?’
Jane dipped her head in greeting and shuffled her feet in discomfort, averting her eyes. He was a large man, not in height, but huge and intimidating nonetheless.
‘Lookin’ fer Danny, are ya?’
Jane looked up at him briefly. ‘Yes.’ She guessed he was on shift to guard the cattle, because he wasn’t among the drovers in camp.
‘He didn’t come this time, lass.’
‘He … he didn’t?’ Danny loved the horses, riding for days on end with the mob of cattle. Something must have happened. Was he sick?
‘Nae. He got himself a new bride and he’s busy settlin’ down with her fer now.’
Everything within her tumbled in confusion. A new bride? And here she’d been hoping he would seek her for that position. Did he not care for her? Obviously not the way she had hoped. Heat burned in her cheeks. She had to escape, before Mr Mitchell suspected. She forced a smile although she guessed her face must be bright red or even pale by now. ‘Oh.’ She fumbled for words and they sounded odd to her ears. ‘Tell him congratulations from me.’
‘I will, lass. Thanks.’ Mitch turned back to his mates then, releasing her.
With great relief, Jane walked away. Forget the basket, she could come back for it later. She forced one foot in front of the other, humiliation growing within her at every step.
‘Miss O’Reilly.’
Jane jerked to a halt as a pair of feet appeared before her downcast eyes. Mr Moreland’s voice made her ears burn. She couldn’t look up at him though. Not for a second.
‘How’s that tooth coming along? You haven’t been back to see me, like I suggested.’
‘It’s fine, Mr Moreland.’ It took all her energy to be polite enough to acknowledge his name.
‘I’m looking forward to joining your family for dinner on Sunday.’
He wanted to make pleasant conversation? Now? Jane wanted to escape to find seclusion and calm her wounded spirit. ‘Yes,’ she mumbled.
‘Perhaps you can show me around your farm afterwards.’
Why me? Wouldn’t he want Father to give him a tour? Even Old Darcy would be a better choice, wouldn’t he? Would it be rude to suggest so? Jane shrugged her shoulders. ‘If you wish, sir.’
‘I used to live on a farm, too, of sorts. Do you—’
At that moment, Moses swooped between them and landed on Jane’s shoulder. He seemed to startle Mr Moreland somewhat. Jane used the interruption for her escape. ‘I must be going, Mr Moreland. Good day.’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but ducked past him and hurried away.
5
Rather than following the worn tracks and trails home, Jane stuck to the river bank, her favourite route when she wanted to avoid people. She followed its meandering bends until she came to the familiar boundary of her father’s property. There, one tree stood out among the rest. Not because it was a different variety of tree—a huge gum like many others around here—but because her mother’s grave rested beneath its overhanging limbs.
As if he knew Jane’s intentions, Moses left her shoulder and perched on one of the branches above her. Jane dropped to her knees before the stone cross, then lay against the bare mound. She tried to remember the days when she curled up with Mama if she’d had a bad dream or been scolded by Father. If only Mama were still here to hold her.
Today her heart broke. Danny loved another. Danny. Sweet, funny, Danny, who had been her best friend whenever he was in town, and now he’d made a life with someone else. ‘Why, Mama? Why didn’t he love me?’
Deep down, Jane knew the truth. She was too ugly, awkward, tall and stupid for any man to ever love her. Danny’s friendship must have stemmed from pity—he was sensitive in that way. Kind and generous, but not enough to give her more than sympathetic companionship. The realisation came as a bitter spoonful of castor oil. Why had she even dared hope?
Tears slipped from her eyes, down her nose and into the soft ground that covered her mother’s remains. Jane hugged the earthen mound as though it were Mama, stroking the hardened soil as she wept. Her feelings of grief and loss became prayers of desperation. Jane sought the only resolution she knew for her problems. ‘God, please make me beautiful. Please make me useful.’
Mama always told her that God heard her prayers and answered those who were good. Well, Jane always sought to behave her best, even when her sisters were plain nasty to her. Even when Stepmother gave her icy stares, and when Papa ignored her. She always obeyed, always remained polite, and always tried not to despise them. Surely God would see her goodness and grant her request. He must know how hard she had tried. Surely He would reward her for her efforts.
Jane’s insides groaned with the desperation of her plea. ‘Please, God. Please send someone to love me.’
Danny had seemed to be the answer to that prayer. Jane’s mind turned back to that devastating announcement Mr Mitchell had made and new sobs shook her frame. The loss was too much to bear. Who else would love a bedraggled, ugly and useless girl? It was easy to guess the answer: no one. ‘Oh God.’ Was there any use in praying? Did God even hear? Mama said He did, but maybe God didn’t care. Maybe Mama was wrong.
No. She couldn’t think that. God was her only hope. ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’ Jane recited the twenty-third Psalm to herself. The words brought a sense of calm, filled with hope and promise—of green pastures and still waters, of tables laden with food, of restoration, of comfort, goodness and mercy. Her grief began to subside as she recited the verses again and again.
In time, Jane sat herself up and dried her eyes. Danny was gone—a lost hope, a dream flown like a downy feather in the wind—she had better come to terms with it, and soon. There was no use dwelling on it or moping. It would only make her sick. No one at home would be interested in her woes anyway.
Jane stoo
d to her feet and pulled a sprig of green eucalyptus leaves from a nearby sapling and laid them at Mama’s headstone. Flowers did not bloom this close to winter, so she made do with the greenery. She pressed her fingertips to her lips and then to the cross. ‘I love you, Mama.’
The snap of a twig caused her to jump. Someone was coming. Without hesitation and with skill born of practise, Jane tucked her skirt into her drawers and hoisted herself up into the tall red gum above Mama’s grave. She had climbed this tree ever since she was a young girl. It was her haven away from everybody, but close to Mama.
Moses flapped to a branch near her. Jane scratched his neck and whispered, ‘shh’, as the footsteps below came closer. What stranger walked along the river, and on her father’s property?
Price broke through a small stand of dense shrubs into a clearing dominated by a huge gum tree, at the base of which rested a few gravestones. A family plot. He crouched to inspect the nearest grave. ‘In loving memory of Maire O’Reilly.’ Price recognised the name at once and glanced around him. He spied fresh leaves lain before the cross. The ground appeared to have been scuffed and disturbed recently.
Miss O’Reilly was here—or had been a few minutes ago.
Price’s mind flicked back to the drovers’ camp. When he’d gone back to cutting O’Grady’s hair, the cook had begun to mutter over the cast iron pot on the fire nearby.
‘Is something wrong?’ Price had asked.
‘That girl shouldn’t be allowed to wander countryside alone.’ Cook shook his grey head.
‘Does she do that often?’ Price suspected it to be true.
‘Why nobody look after her, I dunno.’ He shrugged and frowned. ‘Now she gone an’ left her basket here.’
‘Have the men already finished?’
‘You bet. They hungry boys.’ The cook offered a chuckle this time.
‘I’m about done with O’Grady here. I’ll take the basket to her if you wish. I can come back later and do some more.’
Cook had picked up the basket and thrust it toward him. ‘Good idea. You better go quick, or you never catch her. Follow the river.’
With that, he’d instructed Patrick to brush off O’Grady’s neck and hurried off, his long legs carrying him at a swift pace along the water course. The large gums left little room beneath them for other plants, so apart from the occasional thick stand, his path was unimpeded.
Now that he stood at the small grave site, he assumed he had arrived at Miss O’Reilly’s property, but too late. Had she gone home? He swivelled around on his feet, looking in every direction. He could not see the girl anywhere. Perhaps he should return to the drovers’ camp. The basket could wait until Sunday. And he had no idea which direction her house lay.
As he began to step back through the shrubs, a low bird sound met his ears. Could that be Moses? Price squinted up into the low hanging branches, but saw no sign of the cockatoo. Wishful thinking, that’s what it was.
But then it came again, sharper this time. Was Moses here? Was Miss O’Reilly hiding from him?
‘Miss O’Reilly? Are you there?’ He paused to listen. ‘I have your basket.’
Another squawk helped him locate the bird. Price stepped closer to the trunk of the river gum and peered up into its branches. There, about fifteen feet up, he saw the white feathers of Moses, and next to him, a wide-eyed Miss O’Reilly, trying to shush the bird. That was a sight one didn’t meet every day. This girl managed to intrigue him more every time he saw her.
Trying to hide his amusement, Price called up to her. ‘Well, hey there, Miss O’Reilly.’
A small voice returned to him after a pause. ‘Hello, Mr Moreland.’
Price held the basket aloft. ‘I have your basket. The drovers’ cook sent me with it.’
Again, she did not reply at once. She was shy, if nothing else. ‘Thank you. You may leave it there, if you wish.’
It became clear to Price that Miss O’Reilly did not intend to climb down and meet him. He drew his brows together as he placed the basket by the grave. As he straightened, he looked up into the tree with a new idea. ‘I daresay you have a good view from up there.’
Miss O’Reilly didn’t respond this time.
‘Back home, I used to climb this big old oak tree on our farm. I could see for miles from there.’ A memory of sitting up in that tree after news had come of the riot in Baltimore in ’61 hit him hard. He’d been a boy at the time—ten years old—and scared out of his wits with the talk of war between the North and the South. Price had clambered up that oak tree just as fast as his legs could carry him, to keep a lookout. Not that he’d been sure if he was supposed to watch for Yankee soldiers or Rebels. He’d been too young then to understand the politics. But he learnt soon after that—and lost his childish innocence with the learning.
With an involuntary shudder, Price forced the memories back down and focused on the gum tree and Miss O’Reilly. ‘Why, I bet you can see the steamers coming a long way down the river.’
The young woman still didn’t answer. Price supposed she was too frightened or too embarrassed to come down or even speak to him. He tossed up whether he should walk away or persevere. Then an idea struck him. He moved to the lowest branch and swung himself up into the tree. Above him, he heard a gasp and a rustle of material. Glancing up, he offered her a smile, and noticed she was busy smoothing her skirt.
At once the truth hit him. She had been too humiliated to climb down because she needed to lift her skirts to do so. Price bit his lip to try not to laugh and pressed his forehead against a branch in front of him. Never mind, he had committed to the climb now. Pretending to be unaware, he continued his ascent, feeling the smooth parts of the tree beneath his hands as he followed her path. She must have climbed up many times, judging by the worn marks on the tree.
Price perched himself on a branch across from her and looked around in every direction, avoiding eye contact with her. The poor girl’s face was flushed red and her eyes filled with fear.
‘Well now, I see why you admire this spot. What a wonderful view.’
Moses bobbed his head and fanned out his crest with a screech.
‘Hey there, Moses. Times like this, I wish I were a bird. Then I could see views like this whenever I want.’
Miss O’Reilly sat in the tree in silence, watching him, but without looking at his face.
Price looked into the distance again and pointed. ‘Is that there your home?’
Miss O’Reilly nodded.
Price turned his gaze to the pretty girl and noticed she held herself in a rigid pose, her face still mottled with shame. It dawned on him that rather than helping her relax, he was making her feel trapped. Compassion arose and he breathed out, standing to his feet on the branch. ‘Well, I suppose I should be getting back to the drovers and shave a few more chins. Good day to you, Miss O’Reilly.’
Relief was not the word Jane used to describe her feelings when Mr Moreland left. Relief was too much of an understatement. What did he mean by climbing her tree? Was it an underhanded form of mockery? The fact that his face was so handsome she couldn’t look at him didn’t help the matter. Indeed, since her stomach flipped every time Mr Moreland smiled, her mind accused her of betraying Danny. How dare she think another man attractive while still so wretched over Daniel Mitchell?
Oh, but when Mr Moreland grinned, a dimple appeared in his cheeks which made her heart throb. That is, when she did chance a glance at him. And she didn’t honestly believe he was laughing at her. He appeared to be a genuine sort. So, why climb her tree? He surely didn’t intend to be friendly on purpose, not to her. Nobody took notice of Plain Jane.
‘Stop it, Jane.’ She shouldn’t be thinking about Mr Moreland at all. Danny had gone and married another girl. She missed him. They’d spent hours riding together. Indeed, with Danny, Jane had dreamed of a life on the track with the drovers. She’d planned
to be a horse tailer in the team with him. Danny had explained the duties of a tailer—seeing to the horses. A life with those beautiful creatures would be a dream. As a horse tailer, her looks didn’t matter, and neither did nice gowns. Dressed in moleskins and cotton shirts as all the drovers wore, she would be accepted.
The only problem with that dream had been that the drovers never took women on their teams. And now that Danny was no longer an option for a husband, she had even less chance. Jane had supposed that if she married a drover, he might take her along with her. But it seemed that Danny Mitchell preferred a wife who stayed at home while he went out droving. Another stab of rejection burned in her heart.
Had Mr Moreland noticed she’d been crying? Jane pressed her palms to her cheeks. They were still warm. Her face must be blotchy at the very least. How ugly she must have looked to him. As if her red hair and freckles weren’t enough. At least he hadn’t mentioned it, which was considerate of him. Jane breathed out a long breath. This was too confusing.
‘Come on, Moses. Let’s go home.’
Jane tucked her skirt up once again and climbed down with the same precision as when she had ascended. She collected the basket, and Moses flew to his perch on her shoulder. As she headed for the farmhouse, her mind turned over her circumstances again.
Jane must get her thoughts in order, and quickly. Mr Moreland was due to visit her home in a few days and she didn’t want to be an idiot again when they met. He already had enough meat to make a complete mockery of her if he chose. Would he gossip to his customers and tell them stories about Plain Jane and how she climbed a tree? Jane’s face burned at the image of men laughing over her, or shaking their heads in disgust.
She sucked in a deep breath and pushed her shoulders back. When Mr Moreland came around on Sunday, he would not find anything to ridicule. She determined to be quiet and demure, even if her heart raced at his gorgeous smile. Jane refused to allow her silliness to betray her.