Carry Me Home

by Dorothy Adamek

  “I’m Shadrach Jones. Mr. Gleeson sent me to collect you and your father.” He drew a paper from his pocket. “I have Reverend Mayfield’s letter to George with your arrival details. And this photograph.”

  Finella’s heart matched the trembling of her hand. She reached for the photograph.

  So, the old beggar hadn’t been talking nonsense. Tears messed with the image of her beloved father and she caressed the card with her thumb. He’d wanted this new home for them more than anything. Now he was gone and she was left to…

  Fear jabbed Finella in the chest. What if Dr. Saville’s warning was true? What if this man picked the pocket of Mr. Gleeson with plans to defraud them? She pressed the card to the bony place on her collar, right where a beat trebled against her skin.

  Was the beggar woman a part of this scheme? After all, she did wink like she knew something.

  Even with her feet on the solid pier, the phantom swell of the sea caused Finella to sway. Her calf tingled, and if it were bleeding, she would need to attend to it soon. Tempted to fan her face with the card, she resisted, and slid it into her dress pocket. Aunt Sarah had words for less than appropriate gestures. Even if they served to hide even less than appropriate blushes.

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  Mr. Jones frowned. “Isn’t the photograph and letter enough? George himself gave them to me. He didn’t think I’d need anything else.”

  His eyes darkened and his tanned face turned a deeper red. “I assure you, Miss Mayfield, I’m here on behalf of your fiancé whose instructions are to find you and your father.”

  Loss echoed in her core like a stored whimper. He waited for her reply. She’d not yet spoken the words, herself. Others aboard the Aurora had uttered the unutterable, sparing Finella the pain. But no one spared her now.

  “My father is no longer with us, Mr. Jones. He took ill and perished at sea.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, as if a muscle needed fixing, just out of his reach. “I am very sorry, Miss. I know Mr. Gleeson will be, too. He speaks of your father with the greatest respect.”

  “How is it you know Mr. Gleeson?” Finella had to be sure.

  “I’m a member of his congregation. And a good friend.”

  “Why is he not here himself?”

  “He asked me to escort you today because…” Mr. Jones stalled and ran a finger between his neck and shirt. “He’s taken ill and thought it unwise to attempt the journey to Melbourne.”

  “What kind of illness?”

  “Fever. The doctor was with him yesterday, and his housekeeper’s there today.”

  Finella considered his words. If Mr. Gleeson were ill, it made sense to send a friend in his place. She tested him again. “Are you able to tell me about the woman who keeps house for my fiancé?”

  “Her name is Mrs. Lawson. Susannah Lawson. She not only keeps house for George, but makes sure nobody else comes within inches of him while she does so.”

  Finella remembered now. George had written about Mrs. Lawson, the faithful housekeeper.

  She searched the crowded pier. Where was her trusted friend, Mrs. McLachlan, when she needed wise counsel? Would it matter to wait in Melbourne another week or so until Mr. Gleeson could come himself? Recovered and robust?

  “I appreciate you coming, Mr. Jones, but I’m not comfortable joining you on an unchaperoned journey. Perhaps I should stay on in Melbourne until my fiancé can collect me himself. I’m sure if he knew my father were not here, he would not have suggested we travel together. Alone.” She tried to soften her words with a smile. “Surely another day or two will make little difference?”

  A crowd passed by and two young boys knocked Mr. Jones’ legs with the trunk they carried between them. He didn’t appear to notice. His blue eyes held her gaze, and she squirmed a little to be so thoroughly stared at. Somehow he managed to look even taller than a minute ago.

  “You should consider Mr. Gleeson’s wishes. He’s given instructions for your immediate passage home, and I gave my word I’d return with you. He’s anxious for your arrival and you should make haste to accommodate him. I’ve done all I can to assure you I’m George’s friend. Don’t force me to deliver you against your will. You have to come now, or I’ll—”

  Finella stepped back. Breath bounced against her windpipe, like the burst of an oar from some cold depth. “You’ll what, Mr. Jones? Tie me up, and row me there against my wishes?”

  Shadrach Jones stiffened. “I’d never take you anywhere against your will, miss. But if we don’t hurry, George will hold it against me for longer than you and I have to debate it. And I could never live with that. Now, are you coming?”

  4

  “That’s twenty-three items, listed and corded, Mr. Jones. We sail in twenty minutes.”

  Shadrach thanked the steamer captain and gestured to Miss Mayfield to take the narrow stairs. Tempted to pack her in with her precious twenty-three crates and trunks, he relented, not keen to watch over her in the stuffy cargo hold. Eyes down he waited for her to complete the climb before he scaled the steps two at a time.

  He found a seat for them on the upper deck, her sour mood rubbing off on him, now. It didn’t surprise him the outdoor bench might prove uncomfortable. It shouldn’t have been. With its back against the captain’s room it offered a clear view ahead and down the pier to their left. But she ignored the sights around her and labored to tuck the rip in her skirt out of view. He leaned against the deck rail and wondered how to smooth things with her.

  “Hungry?”

  She shook her head, her sunken eyes tear-stained again.

  “Are you sure? If you promise to stay put, I can jump off and get us something to eat.”

  “And where do you fear I would run to, Mr. Jones?” She pinned her back to the bench. “Sent away from Melbourne as I am, against my wishes with my belongings all stowed on this vessel.”

  He sighed and tried hard not to roll his eyes at the frightened twenty year old. “You were not sent away, Miss. You were sent on your way, to George. To where you belong.”

  His words sounded harsh even to his ears and he started again, this time a little softer. “Hasn’t the captain settled your fears? Phillip Island is the next stop and then you’re home.”

  Miss Mayfield forced a limp shrug, and looked to the pier where a saveloy cart and its owner greeted the hungry.

  “All hot, all hot!” The vendor bellowed for customers.

  “Throat cutter’s here.” Shadrach’s belly rumbled. “Don’t know about you but I can’t wait another minute.”

  Her nut-brown eyes widened. “Throat cutter?”

  “The pork and pie man.” Sorry to have rattled her, he pointed to the pier and slipped away before she could protest. She may be too refined to admit hunger, but breakfast had been many hours ago for him.

  He hurried over to the cart and quickly paid for two sausages. In a flash, the seller slit the saveloy with a long knife, slammed it atop a slice of bread and expertly sprinkled the lot with vinegar. A quick wrap of newspaper and the mouth-watering treats lay steaming in Shadrach’s hand. He hoped the aroma would appease Miss Mayfield. There was nothing like food to coax a better mood from the sullen.

  Back onboard, he settled onto the seat opposite her. She accepted the food parcel with gratitude and a dash more warmth but neither of them spoke while they ate. He munched on his saveloy and she nibbled on lady-like portions while the steamer cut a path through the bay and away from Melbourne.

  The warm food and twinkling sun had their calming effect. Reflections danced off the waves and over Miss Mayfield who took in the sights around her. The steamer hugged the coastline and a brisk wind picked up. Miss Mayfield held her veil back with one hand while she ate with the other.

  When she finished, she busied herself with the oily newspaper. Shadrach watched, lulled by the waves and mesmerized by the way she folded the ragged edges of the sheet to make a perfect square. A childhood image of his father fell into his
mind, like a kite with a broken string, and Shadrach closed his eyes to let the waves rock him further. He’d promised to care for Molly and that meant he would. She kept him busy with today and tomorrow. And nothing worth thinking about would drag him back to the days of grimy newspapers and golden promises.

  A moan broke into his nap. Miss Mayfield bit her lip and grimaced. She rubbed the back of her leg and the saveloy paper slipped to the floor.

  “Cramp?” He stood to make room for her to flex her foot. “Hop up. Take my hand.”

  “It’s not a cramp. It’s the wire.” She pushed the hoop to one side and tried to get comfortable. “It’s been jabbing my leg all day. I think it may have broken the skin back on the pier.”

  Shadrach searched the deck for other female passengers. Two crewmen stood on the starboard side, but he didn’t see any women. He sat back down and leaned toward her. “Do you want me to look—”

  “No. I certainly do not want you to look.” She stepped onto the underside of her hem and dragged it closer. “How can you suggest such a thing?”

  Shadrach measured his reply. “I was going to say, for a woman passenger to assist you.” Did she have to cut him off each time he tried to explain something? Tiny flecks of pink stained her neck. And possibly her face, but she kept that down and trained on her skirt. “There may be someone who can help you tend to your leg in privacy.”

  “I’ll look at it later.” Her folded hands landed in her lap in a dismissive flop, but it took some attempts for her thumbs to still. He waited until she gained her composure.

  “There’s amazing scenery coming up, at Cape Shanck. Not many people get to see it from the approach we’re taking.”

  “Because you take them prisoner? With bound limbs and blindfold?”

  Shadrach exhaled. She would hold a grudge all the way home. He looked at the coastline and hoped it would not be too long before he delivered her to George.

  “For your information, the only other person I’ve escorted this way is my sister. She wasn’t tied up, and I didn’t hear a word of complaint from her.”

  “Did she have any say in it, or did you make that decision for her, too?”

  “If you must know, Molly’s lot is similar to yours. She’s always lived with my mother but she died last month, and Molly’s come to live with me.” He said it as if it hadn’t already toppled his world over. As if having Molly were as easy as adding another shelf to the wall. As if Miss Mayfield would even care.

  But Miss Mayfield’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry about your mother. How old is your sister?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders lost a little of their starch. “I lost my mother at fourteen, too.”

  Heaviness lumbered into his chest, reminding him loss had followed Miss Mayfield all the way from England. And he had no idea what awaited them back at the island.

  The vessel hit a wave and his stomach lurched in reply. He steeled himself to talk about anything but the loss of loved ones.

  “Would be good for Molly to marry, someday, but that’s not to be.”

  “She is only a child.” Miss Mayfield almost smiled. “It’s hardly too late.”

  “It’s not her age. Molly’s… a simple girl. Not suited to marriage.”

  “Oh.” Miss Mayfield seemed to think about this for a moment. “Where is she today?”

  “With Mrs. Lawson.” Whatever had lumbered into his chest now settled there. He wondered what went on back at the little church house while they steamed toward it. George had better be sleeping and Molly had better be at Mrs. Lawson’s elbow. Nothing else would do. Not with Miss Mayfield staring up at him.

  “Does Molly enjoy living with you?”

  “She’s happy. I’m the one that’s had to make adjustments.”

  “I guess Molly is the lucky one then, because you were certainly in no mood to make adjustments today.” Her exaggerated smile reached no further than her lips and those brown eyes, warm only a moment ago, flashed resentment he knew simmered under the surface.

  “Does Molly comply because you threaten to tie her up, too?” She brushed a breadcrumb from her lap. For someone with pretty eyes, she knew how to use them for fighting.

  A prickle, like the burrs he sometimes picked up on his trousers, took hold in his chest. Or was it his heart? She had no business assuming anything about him, and certainly not about Molly.

  “I’m not afraid to keep my promises, Miss Mayfield. My mother died knowing Molly would be safe with me. If I have to tie her up for her own good, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  Miss Mayfield’s mouth dropped open. He wasn’t sure if her eyes filled with tears or whether the wind made her blink. “You don’t really tie her up, do you?” she whispered. “I can’t believe an honorable man such as Mr. Gleeson would trust someone who resorts to cruelty.”

  He rubbed his knee and wondered how to answer. His cruelty had saved his sister’s life. More than once.

  If she baited him, Shadrach refused to play. She’d had a difficult journey and, with Phillip Island less than an hour away, she probably juggled a mess of jitters.

  He stood to stretch his legs and murmured. “Let’s hope you never have to find out.”

  *

  Finella imagined the sun threw golden ribbons across the sky just for her. Streamers of rust and purple festooned the horizon and for the second time in one day she stepped off a vessel and looked for her fiancé.

  Dusk hovered over the wooden L shaped jetty; reaching out like a hook from the shore, ready to gather all that washed up into its neat hug.

  “See that bunkhouse by the shore?” Mr. Jones pointed out a structure at the end of the jetty. “Jon Tripp lives there. He’ll bring his horse and trolley down for your things. Most people come back next day to collect. Jon will keep it safe overnight.” His words were kind but his eyes came nowhere near her. They scoured the village.

  Finella regretted her biting words on the steamer but somehow he’d succeeded in crossing her more than once in their brief trip together. She didn’t know how to offer an apology now and concentrated on making out the shape of houses among the trees. But the shadows matched the tides, and night lapped at the edge of the day.

  She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear and peered at the sky. A low shadow of wings, a flock of some kind twisted against the sky and passed overhead.

  “What was that?” Another stream followed, their path almost silent except for the long black wave they carved against the sunset.

  “Muttonbirds. They come in every year. Most burrow on the other side of the island. Not many stop on this side.” Mr. Jones answered with only the briefest look into the air. He kept his eye on the village.

  Finella followed his gaze. The birds might not stop here, but she would have to. “Do you see Mr. Gleeson?”

  “I don’t see anyone. The house is only a few minutes up the track. Ready?” He picked up her travelling bag.

  She considered her disheveled hair, puffy eyes, and ripped dress. She was hardly ready at all. She brushed the creases from her skirt and tried to ignore the vinegary smell on her gloves.

  “I don’t suppose it would make any difference to you if I said I am not ready, at all.”

  He looked her over.

  “You’re fine.” His words scraped at her jangled nerves. “George wouldn’t care if you arrived in sackcloth. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

  “To you, perhaps.” She spat her words under her breath. What was wrong with her? Hadn’t she learned her lesson already? Instead of composing herself, she let this man draw her into another argument.

  Demure. She turned a deaf ear to the whisper in her mind, but Aunt Sarah’s wisdom on greeting men snuck in anyway. Demure was the last thing she needed to hear. Shadrach Jones had served his friend well but he brought out the miserable worst in her.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Jones. You promised to deliver me and well… you have. Your job is complete. I’ll find my own
way from here.” She collected her bag and marched down the narrow pier.

  Too late. She forgot the blessed hoop slowed her down. Instead of storming off, the wire jabbed her calf with every step and she slowed to a limp.

  In three, perhaps four strides Mr. Jones reached her. He snatched the handle and easily overtook her. His boots beat an angry tap against the jetty.

  “You’re in Australia now, Miss. Don’t you forget that for one minute.” He barely turned to address her, but she heard it all the same. “You know nothing about the bush you so bravely stomp into, so you’ll follow me until—”

  “Shadrach?” Voices and footsteps curled from the shore and two boys bounded toward them.

  Mr. Jones dropped the bag and grabbed the taller boy by the shoulders. Both lads fought to catch their breath. Their chests rose and fell and they looked from Finella to each other.

  “Who sent you, Jimmy?” Mr. Jones’ voice remained calm and low.

  “Mrs. Lawson. Said we had ta look out for ya… and let ya know ta hurry.”

  Shadrach Jones turned his back on Finella and drew the boy closer. Their whispers eluded her and she meant to elbow in when Mr. Jones faced her again.

  “Jimmy’ll bring your bag when he catches his breath.” He frowned at Finella and rubbed his chin. Blew a quick breath through his lips and cracked the knuckles on his fists.

  “What? What is it?” Her heart doubled its beat.

  “Forgive me, Miss. I can’t think of any other way to do this, with your leg.”

  “Do what? What’s happened? Please, tell me.” She shuffled closer.

  He pinched his lips together and collected her up into the air as if she were a feed sack and flung her over his right shoulder. And then he ran.

  Finella wanted to scream but her breath caught against her ribs. Blood rushed to her head and the wooden jetty boards turned into a sandy track. Sand turned to dirt and they followed a well-worn path to cover ground faster than Finella knew possible by foot. She closed her eyes and groaned at the churning of her stomach. She couldn’t tell how many minutes passed before he eventually set her down. He with no breath, she with dizzy head.