Carry Me Home

by Dorothy Adamek

  I’ll miss the jams they gave Father each year, but even more, I’ll miss the shade of those trees. They remind me of a day Mother and I visited there together. I don’t remember why we went, but we all sat under that canopy and drank mulberry cordial, fragrant with cinnamon.

  And now, I have one less place to remember my mother, but these dear women have even more to count as loss.

  Shadrach put the letter down. Always counting loss. Had she counted much true happiness in her days before she left England? He knew her days since held more misery than she cared to revisit, and he couldn’t blame her.

  Tucking his hands beneath his head he looked at her trunks, pressed against the wall.

  Locked and fastened, many of them with leather straps, they shadowed his room with a presence he couldn’t fight. They loomed above him while he slept and reminded him each morning they sat in storage under his nose until he made good on a crazy promise to a dead friend.

  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine Finella as his wife. Under a mulberry tree somewhere in his yard, drinking tea in the shade.

  His yard? Unlikely.

  *

  “She is not going to church like that.” Shadrach slammed the door shut and crossed the room to where his sister stood by the bed. Mirror in hand, Molly admired herself from every angle. “You’ve dressed her like a hussy.”

  “Surely you’re not serious?” Finella’s pulled on her gloves, and a little crease appeared on her brow.

  “My sister will not go to church dressed like that. Anyone with half a brain will wonder what you’ve done to her.”

  “Done to her? Done to her?” Finella repeated his words as if they were new to the English language. “And what exactly have I done to her?” She rested her hands on her hips.

  His good shirt choked him and Shadrach ran his finger between the stiff collar and his neck. What had she done? He wasn’t sure exactly, but his sister had a look about her. A fancy look, and he didn’t like it.

  She wore a chocolate colored woolen skirt with red trim along the bottom and a white shirt with shiny black buttons. He only recognized her old tan shawl and shoes, now rescued from the mud and polished.

  But her hair stood out more than anything. He knew it had something to do with the rags Finella tied there last night. He had no idea it would turn out like this. If he had, he would never have allowed it.

  Curls fell around Molly’s face, like a twist of bean shoots. Some of them gathered at the back with that new red ribbon, in a style very unlike her somber plait.

  Finella waited for his answer.

  “You’ve dressed her up… like a doll. That’s not what you’re here for. You’re supposed to teach her what my mother didn’t get to. This…” he struggled to find the right word, “is not what I meant when I asked for your help. I never asked for anything fancy.”

  Like Molly, Finella looked different too and he tried to ignore the snap in his chest that brought. A small hat perched on her head, under which similar curls to Molly’s escaped from where she’d piled them all up in a loose knot. A matching dark blue skirt and jacket replaced her work dresses and aprons. She stepped beside Molly and took the mirror from the girl’s hand.

  “You may not have asked for anything fancy, but Molly did.”

  “Molly did?” He found that hard to believe. The girl hardly knew what day it was. “Molly doesn’t know what she wants. She’s perfectly happy with simple hair and simple clothes.”

  “Shadrach, I assure you, this couldn’t be any less fancy. Molly’s wearing an old skirt of mine I altered to fit her. The shirt is mine too, but look…” She patted the girl’s arm and smiled. “She looks different not because the clothes are fancy. She looks beautiful because she looks like a young girl, and that makes her happy.”

  Molly looked at him. “I’m the only girl now, Shad.”

  She was the only girl. His mother’s sunshiny girl. “I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

  “I told you.” Molly slumped onto the bed and lay on her side. “He doesn’t like fancy things.” She pouted and closed her eyes.

  Finella pulled her back up by the arm. “Oh, no you don’t. You’ll crush your beautiful curls. We’ve waited long enough for this rain to ease and we’re going to church looking our best. Now, sit up, love.”

  Shadrach tapped his hat against his leg. He’d not taken Finella to church once since she’d arrived, and while the bad weather would excuse their past absence, they had no real excuse today. They’d have to leave in the next few minutes or face being late.

  Who knew if any of the tracks ahead were still water logged? There was no time to get bogged on the road. Or here in his own home.

  “Wagon’s hitched and there’s no time to argue. You’ll both be seated in less than five minutes. Do whatever needs doing so we’re not late.”

  He slammed his hat on and with equal force slammed the door behind him. Heaviness in the pit of his stomach slowed his march across the yard. It had nothing to do with the hurried breakfast he’d eaten or the strong black tea he’d gulped.

  It had everything to do with the way Finella worked her charm on Molly. What was so hard about teaching a girl how to cook and sew, anyway? Why did she insist on fancies that didn’t belong in the bush?

  He checked the harness again. Was it fancies that didn’t belong or Finella herself? He dragged his hand through Old Lou’s mane, smoothing it down. If only the tangle in his stomach were so easily unraveled. He needed the comfort of scripture and hymns to quiet his soul, not the mess of thoughts he mulled over each day. The grief of George’s loss hit him afresh and he wondered who would do the preaching that morning.

  The sound of the door opening drew him from his thoughts.

  Molly held her shawl close and Finella shut the door behind them. Both stood still and surveyed the yard.

  He hadn’t noticed the large puddles on his way in or out. But he saw them now. Finella looked down her nose at them and up at him as if he’d put them there on purpose.

  “Come on!” He yelled. “Time to go.”

  Molly stepped out first. Schooled by Finella, she collected a chunk of skirt with each hand and lifted it high. She looked different in a longer skirt, older somehow, and he’d never seen her walk with such deliberation. She picked her way through the puddles and a coil of impatience sprung in his chest. This would take all day.

  “You’re doing fine, Molly.” Finella followed behind her, each ginger footstep placed to avoid the worst of the mud. “Just keep that hem up.”

  Molly’s tongue poked out the side of her lip but her eyes remained fixed on the ground. At this rate they would get to church in time for the benediction. Shadrach contemplated walking over and scooping her up in his arms.

  “My shoe’s dirty.” Molly lifted her foot to lament the muck at her heel.

  “It doesn’t matter!” he called. When had it ever mattered? She could wipe her shoes later. “Just keep moving.”

  “But Shad…” Molly came closer. “I don’t want dirty shoes.” She placed her foot down and inched forward in a quick slip. Her arms swept the air and she fought for equilibrium, stopping in one less then elegant pose.

  She looked at Shadrach, feet akimbo, eyes wide, mouth open. “Nearly,” she breathed in a whisper.

  “You’re fine. Just jump over this last big puddle,” Shadrach encouraged, and in three more steps and one leap she crossed to where he waited.

  “Good girl.” He lifted her into the seat and turned for Finella.

  Frozen in the middle of his yard, the ever-proper Miss Mayfield searched for a way out. Molly’s slip had left a long trough of mud right in front of her, erasing her best option.

  She looked at Shadrach with the same eyes he’d seen that first day at Queen’s Wharf, when she wrestled with the iron track for her snagged dress. He’d seen it then, the look that begged for rescue. He saw it now; in eyes so deep he wondered if he could ever look away.

  She needed him. George was right. She
needed Shadrach as much as he needed her. A finger of something hot and cold pressed his ribs. Like an I-told-you-so from the other side of eternity. Right into his heart. What he felt for Finella Mayfield had little to do with Molly. Or George. It had everything to do with how she fit into his world. Even when she fought it.

  “Wait there. I’ll come for you.”

  “I didn’t ask for your help.”

  “Yes, you did.” He held out his hand. “Your eyes said it. Please Shad, come get me. I’m stuck in all this mud, with my fancy hat and I need you to get me to the other side.”

  “Nonsense.” She took a tiny step. “I didn’t ask for help because I don’t need it.”

  He came closer and reached out. “Grab on and hop over that puddle. There’s no trolley coming this time.”

  “Jump, Finella!” Molly yelled from her seat on the wagon. “It’s fun.”

  Finella dipped her toe into a shallow puddle.

  “Come this way.” Shadrach warned and pointed to where he stood.

  Finella pushed her other foot forward, but instead of stopping on solid ground, it slipped like Molly’s had. Her long slide and scramble did nothing to keep Finella upright. Her foot lost ground to a flurry of skirt and petticoat, and Finella Mayfield landed on her back in the mud.

  “Oh dear!” Molly whispered and stood up.

  “Keep your seat, Molly!” Shadrach hoped his frantic heartbeat would follow suit. With quick long strides he splashed through the puddles to Finella’s side.

  She opened her eyes and closed them again. Moaned softly and tried to move. Her hands, palm down in the mud reached up. Cold and gritty, they wrapped around his.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She opened her eyes. “Well… my pride didn’t escape, unmarred.” Lost in the tumble, her hat also lay in disgrace, crushed against her shoulder and newly decorated with the signature red mud of his farm.

  But her hair bore the full brunt of the fall. Loose and wet, it dripped round her face and onto her shoulders. She blinked and tried to sit up.

  “Are you sure you’re not injured? How’s your head?”

  “I’m not sure.” She let go of one hand and rubbed her neck.

  Shadrach guessed puddle water found its way through the layers of her church clothes.

  “I’m taking you in.” He scooped one arm under her legs and the other around her shoulders.

  “Into the house?”

  “Of course, the house.” He lifted her out of the mire. “I haven’t yet built an infirmary, so yes, into the house it is.”

  “Please, Shadrach. I don’t want to bring mud into the house.”

  He cradled her in his arms. Water dripped from her skirt onto his trousers and a long strand of her hair fell loose from where she’d secured it. He avoided more puddles between them and the door. His hold on her a little firmer, a little closer.

  He tipped her against his shoulder to reach for the latch. Another strand of hair slipped from her temple, its end slick with mud. It drew a brown line along her cheek and fell with a soft slap to rest under his chin.

  It drew his gaze to her as surely as if she’d reached for him. If she had caressed him herself with her very own fingertips, it would not have burned any less.

  A small cry, the protest of one freshly bruised, escaped her lips, and breath, sweet and warm touched his neck. Elbowing his way in, he hooked a chair with his foot and dragged it over.

  “Sit here. Anything broken?” He knelt beside her.

  She shook her head.

  “Are you sure? Sometimes these things take a few minutes to show up.”

  She touched the back of her head, then examined her dirty glove.

  “I don’t think I’m bleeding.”

  Blood was the last thing he needed now.

  “There’s a…” he reached with his thumb, “small splash of mud just here.” He rubbed under her right eye. “And… here.”

  Drawn like a moth to its fate, he touched her bottom lip. Its pink flesh marked by the rust of dirt. His dirt. The soil of his farm. It touched her. And so did he.

  He wiped at her mouth and her whisper scorched his hand.

  “Shadrach.” She withdrew her head to where his reach no longer found her.

  “I’m sorry.” He stood upright and searched for a breath deep enough to lift the weight off his chest. The longing he could no longer ignore.

  Head down, Finella pulled at her soggy gloves. Her fingers trembled on the buttons and no amount of fumbling peeled them off. She dropped her hands into her lap with the same defeat he saw in her shoulders.

  A tear, and then a second one fell into her limp palms.

  There would be no hymnbooks today. No verses for strength, just when Shadrach needed them most.

  “I’ll bring Molly in. She’ll help you get cleaned up.” He hovered, wanting to scoop her up, until she nodded and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Earthy smudges marked her beautiful face. Like words on a page, they dotted her neck.

  He glanced her way once more, lest she faint or take a turn. But he knew for certain now, it was his own breath that had been knocked clear from his chest.

  15

  For as long as Shadrach remembered, Sundays had never been for baths. Not even on the goldfields where the rush for riches watered down man’s civilized rituals. But here, in his own home, long after the church bell stopped swinging, Shadrach carted water bucket after water bucket to rival any Saturday night bathhouse.

  He wished there were more he could do for Finella, but she assured him all she needed was to wash the mud out of her hair. But he could not ignore the way she protected her elbow. And the tears she wiped when she thought he wasn’t looking. And finally the door she fastened to keep Molly in while she bathed.

  Shadrach returned to his skillion. He’d met there with God enough times to know a man didn’t need a pew on a Sunday to turn to Scripture. But the Psalms soon gave way to Finella’s letters, stacked less neatly than when he’d received them, fattening the pages of his well loved book.

  It didn’t escape him. The temptation he hid in the pages of his Bible. But he figured with George’s permission he had every right to sift through her letters.

  Tired of reading the same pleasantries about the summer heat at George’s end and windblown tales at Finella’s, Shadrach skipped ahead to what passed between them just before her departure.

  June 12, 1875

  Chingford Green

  My dear George,

  Father has sold the piano. And my mother’s mahogany chiffonier she inherited from Great Aunt Anna. Our little parsonage grows empty and more hollow as the weeks pass.

  And there’s an echo here, now. It pushes us out, as if we were in a nest no longer ours.

  Aunt Sarah keeps me busy filling trunk after trunk. Everything of my mother’s which can be transported, we shall pack. And somehow, I feel Mother’s arm over us while we dig into her cupboards and empty her drawers.

  She’s here, not like a specter from the grave, more… a treasured fragrance. A caress to the cheek, like her embroidered pillow shams. The happy weight of Mother’s handmade lace stitched onto my wedding dress by Aunt Sarah. Her Christmas linens.

  Dear George, do you suppose Mother’s arm is pushing me closer to what I’ve always searched for? Do you suppose her memory, dimmer with each year, might sharpen now that I am to see you again?

  You must know how much your promise to help means to me. If Aunt Sarah knew, she’d chide me for foolishness she forbade years ago. But you know from my last letter, I cannot stop. How deep the root runs and how heavy the longing for that name. Just one name. I need to finish what my mother uttered on her deathbed. And your promise to help, fortifies my resolve and convinces me Father chose well when he matched us together.

  If I am to walk away from my mother’s grave forever, then perhaps God will allow me to put all this to rest. With your knowledge of Australia to decipher what I never could, I’m cheered to contemplate this torment mig
ht finally end. Your assurance we will do this together is the best wedding gift. Far beyond any other token you could offer.

  I remain sincerely and affectionately yours,

  Finella

  The loose sheet pulsed in Shadrach’s hand. What was she talking about? Unlike Finella’s early letters, this one breathed an air of intimacy he wasn’t sure he cared for. When had her words with George taken a turn toward the familiar? And why was his heart thundering at familiarity they’d had every right to?

  He sat on his bedroll, surrounded by a mess of correspondence out of sequence, and very much out of his depth.

  A thousand soldiers marched across his chest and drummed up fresh trouble. “What are you looking for, Finella?” He addressed the air. “How was George meant to help you?”

  The empty skillion offered no reply on her behalf, and Shadrach stood to face the wall of trunks. He planted a hand at either end and leaned in. Hard, but not hard enough to extract anything. Her well packed cases remained tight lipped and Shadrach rested his forehead on the brass lock of a small case jammed between two others.

  “Locked, tied, and latched.”

  He didn’t know who was more tethered. He or Finella.

  Jealousy crammed his throat like a thumb to the neck. He wished he’d never seen the letters. He’d only read what George asked him to. It’s not as if he pried into business that wasn’t his.

  George made sure of that when he made him promise. And for his troubles, Shadrach had more questions than when he started.

  He rummaged through the pages, casting aside those too old, those too bland. But nowhere in the mess could he find another letter as direct as the one he’d just read.

  “You’re still cornering me, George. With as much clarity from the grave as you did on your deathbed, Brother.” He flattened the papers into a loose wad. “Her father may have matched her with you, I’ll give you that. But you matched her with me. And whatever it is Finella’s looking for, I’m going to be the one who hands it over now.”