by Darry Fraser
She tapped his chest, then allowed her fingers to drift under the blanket. ‘So I’ll keep my own counsel and nothing—nothing—will detour me from that.’
He frowned. Whatever that meant.
He’d had to take a moment here and there over the last couple of days and nights to sort all her words—she had a lot of words—and to catch what she might have meant, to keep up with her. He reckoned he’d got the gist of it, now. He smirked to himself. Incessant. Prolonged.
They couldn’t marry, he knew that, but they’d live together, wouldn’t they? That would make her his wife. It was a given. A contentment came over him. The stars looked brighter. The future looked brighter. He had a woman of his own.
She pushed away then and rolled onto her back and when he smoothed a hand over her luscious breasts, they seemed to float. He wanted to bury his face in them and slide inside her.
‘Frank,’ she said, and he imagined her lip was curling by the tone of her voice. ‘Oh God, how his very name draws me down to the depths. But I must face facts. I don’t want to be Mrs Putney, not for a moment longer, but I am.’
She had lain—gleefully and wantonly were her words earlier—with him, a man not her husband, and delight had opened for her, she’d said.
‘The reality is, Mr Jones,’ she said, her fingers reaching over to swirl lightly on his belly, ‘unless I can prove cruelty beyond the law,’ and she laughed then, ‘and no one can actually see this particular cruelty, I am married to Frank until death.’
It didn’t faze Nebo; he just didn’t care. He had his hand on a full and firm breast, and when he tweaked the nipple, he heard her soft gasp. Then he put his hand on her bare thigh and slipped it higher to brush her damp pubic hair.
‘You are most distracting,’ she said, and rubbed against him, diverting him from her well-endowed chest. ‘And it’s no duty to undergo, whatsoever.’ Her fingers crept around his hard cock.
He was just happiness itself with the fact that she couldn’t seem to get enough of him. And he couldn’t get enough of her—when he was in her, gliding back and forth and making her hum and quiver.
He couldn’t wait … He needed her now. Gripping her sneaky hand, he tugged it away before she ruined him, lifted himself on top of her and slid between her open legs.
‘You look right happy, Mrs Jones,’ Nebo said to her. They were sitting at his campfire the next morning. He bumped Rosie’s shoulder as he poked at the campfire coals with a stick. A chill lingered in the air. The seasons were changing, and summer was receding to autumn.
‘Shouldn’t call me that, Mr Jones,’ Rosie chided, though she didn’t seem unhappy about it: that little smile, that little lift in her eyes. She tugged his jacket around her.
‘You just call yourself Mrs Jones,’ he said. ‘And that can be that.’
‘When I am already Mrs Putney? I told you last night.’
‘We’ll just forget that Putney bit,’ he answered. ‘From here on in, no one else need know.’ He waved a hand around the campsite. ‘And no one here cares. You’ve left him, haven’t you, my girl?’
She’d nodded and still went on about the same thing. He stopped listening; wished she’d stop going on about it. He had stated his needs, and they were simple. He was hers, she was his—the rest would be fun. No need to go on. And on.
He threw the stick into the fire, and interrupted her. ‘If I had a decent tent, we would be there now, makin’ you more my Mrs Jones.’ He grabbed her hand, traced a finger down her palm and raised it to his lips. He felt a tremor pulse through her.
Rosie’s voice wavered. ‘It’s not only delight you’re after, is it, Mr Jones?’
‘It’s that, and more,’ he said. ‘You’re my kind, Rosie. We’re alike, you and me.’
She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘What will we do? What will you do, no job, no prospects?’
He smoothed a hand over her hair and said, ‘I have prospects, I said that. My brothers have small holdings, too small to make life easy. If they work the blocks together, make them worthwhile, I’ll have work.’
Rosie pulled back. ‘And you don’t have a block?’
‘I wouldn’t live in the bush if I had a block. I was the layabout son, so my parents put up a bit each for my brothers.’ He shrugged. ‘Pa had a little money stashed workin’ the goldfields at Bendigo in the ’fifties, they bought some land, carved out a farm. They were careful, those two.’ He snorted. ‘I was to have worked the farm, but the rabbit plague of ’sixty-six ruined them before I was old enough to help. And Zeke was even younger than me, so it was hard times.’ He flicked a few twigs into the fire. ‘Jude was maybe eight. He could go work for someone, to bring in some money, but things were too far gone on our farm by then, so it got sold. We had to camp for a few years, but they’d hung onto a tiny stash of coin for that rainy day. Was the only way they could get ahead. So we lived on those rabbits. I never wanna see another pot of rabbit stew again in me life.’
He stayed silent a while. Rosie stopped talking, too. His life didn’t seem so good, if he looked back. Mostly his doing, he knew. He knew it, clear as anything. The other two had picked themselves up, but not him. He’d gone wild. Seemed easier, believed he was owed something. It rankled, still.
He picked up a pebble and hurled it to the coals. Hard to look at yourself. Unruly, angry—no local girl had taken him as a serious contender for marriage. He had nothing, was a no-hoper without a crust to his name. The old farm had gone long prior, and his parents dead these last ten years. His brothers had made their own way, Jude had already been walking out with Anne in the early ’eighties. Maisie had chosen Zeke—the bastard—and not once had she looked back at Nebo, who’d been after her first. Didn’t matter now. Maisie was dead. He should stop lookin’ back.
‘Stay with me, Rosie,’ he said urgently. ‘We’d be good together, you and me.’
She glanced at him. ‘I could, I suppose.’ She picked at her hands, like she was nervous or something. ‘I mean, it’s only been days,’ she continued. ‘I know we’re grown-up people, but it’s so forward, and unusual. Still—’
‘We start from here, then.’ He stopped her going on too much, smiled and held out his hand.
Rosie’s slipped into his. ‘Um, all right.’
His heart thundered, and a happy gallop of pulses shot through him. Nothing else mattered now. He was gonna make good. He’d go cap in hand, but serious, to his brothers and start a life on the land again. It wasn’t like he was useless. He could do anything, he knew it.
Wally and Sal emerged from behind the canvas drop, the lifeless little bundle in Sal’s arms. ‘We’re ready now,’ Wally said, and gathered Sal close, an arm around her shoulders. ‘We’ll put this little one to rest.’
A thud landed in Nebo’s chest. What was that, grief for his mate? Must be. He jumped to his feet. Rosie stood, her slim hand squeezing his as she pressed alongside him. When he glanced at her, he saw tears running down her cheeks.
Thirty-Seven
Lily watched the cart, the extra horse tied behind, bob along the track until it took the bend and disappeared from her sight. Shading her eyes from the glare striking through the dense, rolling clouds, she hoped they’d get to wherever they were going without the heavens opening and drenching them. Oh well, at least Miss Goody would be all right with Ezekiel escorting her back to her sister.
She wondered whatever would become of the sister, left behind in Nebo’s camp. Could be a scandal to that, but she knew there were other women there if the poor girl needed to be sheltered. Such a strange predicament for everyone—the dead boy, and his sisters searching for answers. And poor Jude, being stabbed like that.
Her heart warmed, then cooled almost as soon. He had rejected her … Mrs Hartman, I thank you for your company, but I am a solitary man … He faltered then, and she thought he’d perhaps been too embarrassed to go on. So she’d gone about other business in a hurry, couldn’t even remember what she’d said. Well, for heaven’s sakes—she ha
dn’t proposed; it wasn’t that bad. Still, she should be resigned and let it go. No point believing there’d be some magical turnaround from him. The man had made himself clear. The rejection was, after all, her own fault—wearing her heart on her sleeve. What sensible woman ever did that? Her mood dropped even further. She sighed long and hard.
Whatever would her daughter think of it? ‘Mama, you are just too old for that sort of thing,’ she’d most likely say. Lily could just imagine Loretta tsk-tsking. If the mail had arrived in Melbourne on time today, Loretta would be doing just that as she read Lily’s letter, as she read of her mother gushing (oh, the mortification now) over the possibility of Judah Jones in her life.
Still, it didn’t matter that Loretta knew, or thought she knew. No one else was privy to how Lily felt, and Judah Jones had simply jumped to conclusions. She hadn’t declared herself—God forbid. So, no harm done, except for a little bruising of her ego. She was of an age where her dignity came before all else. No one knew her private thoughts, and so her ego would survive this.
She sat on the end of Gracie’s bed and looked around. The children’s room was small, with hardly any furniture except the necessary, and no playthings whatsoever. Perhaps Gracie might like Loretta’s old rocking horse. And surely there’d be something discarded by Edward and Oliver at her house that she could bring over for Gifford and Jonty.
Oh, to have family around again. Well, young family. The older her children got, the more distant they seemed. Perhaps that was her fault, and Stan’s. Perhaps they’d given their children such an idea of independence and maturity that they hadn’t wanted to revisit the past, the past that belonged outside of the busy city.
And really, she thought to herself a little exasperated, what on earth was she doing here, all by herself? Certainly, if the only man in the district who interested her was not interested, then what was the point?
Widows were hardly inundated with invitations for afternoon teas or lunches. Widows, except those who were in their dotage—and she was most certainly not—were given a wide berth, especially if they had no family. It had even been hinted, and outright suggested when she came to think of it, that she should go to Melbourne and take up lodgings with her daughter. She shuddered and didn’t study that too much. Loretta, at sixteen, had not been able to wait to governess in the city and Lily had barely seen her in the three years since. Her daughter’s letters were more than a little stand-offish these days; hardly conducive to Lily suggesting a visit to the city.
She cast her glance around the little room again, straightened Giff’s bed linens, and grabbed a small pair of discarded long-johns that had seen better days. Probably new when Giff wore them, passed down to Gracie before she wore dresses, and now to Jonty. Oh no, was Jonty not wearing any unders today? She folded them on his bed.
Perhaps she should go to Melbourne after all. Pack up her house and sell it, though talk was that she’d not get anything for it, such was the dismal state of the economy, especially house and land prices. And the way the banks were acting—disgraceful, all these foreclosures and bankruptcies.
So what point would there be to leave here and put herself in debt in Melbourne, where finding a decent house to suit her budget would be nigh on impossible, or worse, to burden her soon-to-be married daughter with her company? One must be sensible. Then again … Oh, gracious me. I used to be so clear-headed. She left the room, thoughts spinning, heart heavy.
Standing in the hall, she could hear a child crying somewhere outside, and she started towards it until she heard the soothing murmur of a man’s voice following the sobs.
Jude was coming out of his brother’s room. ‘Mrs Hartman.’ He shuffled into her path, a hand on the wall as he crept along.
Her steps faltered, her chest tightened. Seeing no signs of distress in him, she asked, ‘Are you quite well, Mr Jones?’
‘I am sore, but well as can be.’ He had a few days’ growth on his cheeks and chin, and salt ’n’ peppery it was, too. She wondered—very fleetingly—what it might feel like to smooth her hand over it. She knew (of course she knew, from oh-so-long ago), what a man’s bristly face felt like, but not Judah Jones’s face. Her heart gave a little jump.
Goodness me. She had to stop this. He’d made himself clear. And the only reason she was still here in this house was that his brother Ezekiel had asked her to stay while he was gone—for her own safety as much as anyone’s. And really, that was a very sensible reason for her to stay. Besides that, Jude was an invalid at the moment, and there were three young children to be cared for.
‘Got me thinking, the boy cryin’ out there,’ he said and seemed to be choosing his words carefully as he edged towards the back of the house. He shoved the door open for her, beckoned her to go ahead of him. ‘Let’s have some tea.’
In the bright but cool early morning, the sunshine pale blue, she waited until he was level with her and then walked at his pace to the cookhouse. Their silence was awkward as far as she was concerned. Well, she had nothing of interest to impart.
Inside, she pulled out a chair and indicated he should sit. Removing a discarded hairbrush from the table, she thought to have Gracie come and put it away, which prompted her to ask, ‘Where are the children?’ She remembered the cry from before.
He sat carefully. ‘They’re saying goodbye to Miss Goody. They’ll be in directly. If they’re not going to school, they have to do chores before they get their damper and jam for the day.’
‘Ezekiel is lucky he can still send them to school,’ she commented, setting the half-filled kettle back on the stove. She checked the contents of the teapot and decided another brew could be eked from it.
‘He won’t be able to for much longer,’ Jude said. ‘Giff will have to work on the farm. Maybe on both our farms. Us brothers need to talk more.’
It gave Lily pause to think of her own place again, of how hard it was just to find spare money to pay someone to help her when she needed it. But if she sold … She dismissed the thought. Don’t think of it now.
‘You heard the boy cry, Mrs Hartman?’ His voice was low, hoarse. His big hands smoothed the tabletop as if it had a wrinkled cloth on it, and he seemed to be studying his progress. ‘It was the little lad, Jonty. I was watching.’
Lily glanced at him. Oh my. That wistful look on his face. Whatever is the poor man thinking? Perhaps missing his children, his girls, of course. Terrible thing. Terrible disease, diphtheria. She sighed inwardly. It wasn’t her place to speak those thoughts. Many a time she’d been in trouble second-guessing what was on someone’s mind. Who knew what he was really thinking?
‘Upset for something, no doubt,’ she replied evenly. She gathered the remains of yesterday’s damper and brushed the crumbs and the crusts into a bowl for the chickens. Finding the flour bag, she poured a good measure into another bowl, added water and began to mix. Felt right; it was nice and easy in her hands. Something to do.
‘Got me thinking.’
For goodness sake, man, you already said. The kettle whistled. Scraping sticky dough from her hands, she wrapped her pinny around the handle and poured the water into the pot. Give it five minutes, she decided. Back to the damper, and it was coming together nicely. ‘I wonder if Ezekiel has any dried fruit?’ she mused aloud.
Hands still doughy, she turned back to the mantel and as she did, she heard the chair scrape and Judah Jones was standing behind her. Without turning, she could feel the heat of him close to her back. She reached up for a tin on the shelf and his hand closed over hers.
‘I came back, thinkin’ the time was right to move forward. Got me thinkin’ how much I miss a family life. Reckon I could be a help here with these children, ’stead of pushing them away.’ He took the tin from her hand, set it on the table with a firm thump and picked a little dough from his hand. ‘’Stead of pushin’ everyone away.’
And you were a solitary man only yesterday. But she didn’t dare say that aloud—of course not. She turned, now so very close to Jude.
She looked into those eyes that were always under a frown, always dark and enigmatic. Heat crept up her neck. It wasn’t from the stove, and those burning flashes of heat other women talked of hadn’t tormented her yet, and so it only left one thing.
‘I said I was a solitary man. I am. I feel I have to be because my mind still takes me to dark days, every so often. The ghosts will never be gone, but they come less now than before.’ He wasn’t so much taller, and yet it felt as if he towered over her. ‘I didn’t finish sayin’, yesterday before you ran off—’
I didn’t run off. She gave him a look, sidled away from the stove and put her hands back into the dough. A light sweat broke out on her forehead and she patted it off with her forearm, hoping nothing would likely drip into the damper mix.
‘—and I know I sounded like I was keepin’ my distance, warnin’ you off.’
One way of putting it, and you succeeded. Perhaps he was still too much attached to his dear and departed family. Well, she couldn’t blame him for that, but it would certainly not do her any good to be hankering after a man who was unreachable. Oh, make up your mind, Lily Hartman.
She huffed out her determination and gazed at the bowl. She had a good dough, and another knead or two and she could put it in a pan. Now. Where was a pan?
‘I just didn’t have the right words.’ Jude reached under a bench close by and a pan clattered to the table. ‘When this is healed,’ he said pointing to his side, ‘I’ll get back to my own place. Get it built up again.’
‘Good for you,’ she finally said as she kneaded. A blush rushed over her face to the roots of her hair. She’d felt like this for Jude for years. Still, he had put her straight yesterday. ‘No need for you to explain—’
‘Then maybe with that done, I’ll have something to offer you,’ he said, and stopped her hands working in the bowl. ‘But for now, I’d like it if we stepped out together.’ His eyes searched hers. He moved closer. ‘Let me be proper about it and court you, Lily.’ He pressed a hand over her wrist. ‘If I may call you Lily?’