Carry Me Home Read online

  Already she loathed the L shaped dwelling that sat in a bog. This was no cheery white-clad weatherboard, the likes of which she’d seen in Cowes. Instead, a layer of red dust on her gloves confirmed her worst suspicions. Molly and her brother lived in a mud hut, surrounded by mud, and if she were not careful, she would be wearing this same mud before she completed the short journey to the front door.

  If the house could boast anything, it probably fell to the two mud free doors made of woven saplings. Here, long straps of tree fibers and young branches wove together in a tight construction bound by rough twine. She hoped insects didn’t make it their home, too.

  “Come on.” Undeterred by the mud, Molly beckoned and made her way across the courtyard.

  Aunt Sarah might have called it a pigpen. Mr. Jones called it a yard and warned Molly not to slip in it.

  Conversation had fallen to silence during the journey from the church house, and that was fine with Finella, for she wrestled for balance most of the way.

  But, Mr. Jones issued no word of caution and to Finella’s regret, he did not issue any words of welcome, either.

  She passed the door which lead to his skillion. His coat dripped from where he’d thrown it on a nail in the wall. Broad shoulders flexed under his damp shirt and he worked quickly to move Finella’s things out of the rain.

  “Excuse me.” Head down, he hurried back to the wagon. Finella let go of the doorjamb and slid to where Molly waited for her at a second door. She scraped her boots as best she could before entering. Molly bounded right in.

  Larger than the skillion, at one end a stone chimney begged a good clean. A beaten table and roughly made chairs filled the middle. Against the walls, long strips of timber shelving held an unmatched collection of plates, cups, and crocks. As endearing as the grin of a toothless drunkard, they did nothing to warm Finella’s heart, nor did the welcome of dust on every surface. She looked for something to make her glad.

  Beside the door, a small window let in only enough light to hide the true condition of the packed earth floor. At least the roof held the rain back. Was that the one good thing? That rain would not trickle down their necks while they slept?

  At the opposite end of the room, two plank beds sagged against the wall. Her heart joined in this sagging at the thought she would sleep there tonight. Even more of a surprise was Molly’s quick scramble to get out of her shoes and lift the covers.

  Mr. Jones arrived at the door with a crate. “She sleeps a lot. Especially in the afternoon.”

  He too entered without wiping his feet and dumped the box on the table. “My only instruction is she’s never to be left alone. If she knows you’ve gone off somewhere, she’ll follow, get distracted…,” he grabbed a wooden pail from the floor, “and most likely become lost.”

  How dim-witted did he think her? For longer than what Finella felt necessary or proper, he looked at her. Cold and unfriendly, his earlier smile now almost replaced with a frown.

  His fingers tapped the side of the bucket.

  “You have no need to concern yourself with Molly’s safety, Mr. Jones. Her welfare is my responsibility now. I’m fully aware of that.” She lifted her chin despite the heavy ache in her neck from the jostling ride. What had made him so mad?

  From the shelf, Mr. Jones lifted the lid off a saltcellar and plucked a fistful for the pail. “She already knows it, but now it’s full of your crates and my bed, you might as well remind her there’s no sneaking into the skillion, either. She’s a nosy magpie.”

  A trail of grains spilled onto the floor and peppered the toe of his shoe. He filled the pail from a ceramic water filter and turned to the shelves again. Tucked high where Finella suspected Molly couldn’t reach, lay a knife. He threw it in the bucket and headed for the door where he stopped and turned back.

  Finella didn’t move from beside Molly’s bed where the fully clothed girl no longer fought sleep’s pull on her fluttering eyelids. Mr. Jones watched his sister with a strange tenderness. It bore a hole in Finella and she longed for her own lost family.

  “She tires easily. Needs her naps. I know it’ll be hard to teach her. I’m not too fussed how much she learns, as long as she’s safe.” Softness stole into his face. “I shouldn’t be long.” He closed the hut door with barely a sound.

  Through the dirty window, Finella watched him trudge across the yard and into the bush without a backwards glance. And something about that bothered her.

  8

  Shadrach lay down his hunting knife. Crouched beside his traps, he turned his back to the biting wind. He normally did his butchering at home, but today he kept it far from the house. The open field would be dotted with another shower at any moment and already the yard around his house filled with more puddles than he liked.

  Miss Mayfield had screwed her delicate nose at his yard the minute she’d sunk into the mud. She hated it all. He knew it and it annoyed him more than he’d expected.

  He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. His mother’s pouch of gold dust had paid for his land and there was still something in there for a proper house. Someday. When he’d place an order for a plank delivery from Melbourne. But Miss Mayfield didn’t know that and her obvious distaste wounded and silenced him.

  He’d done his best to tidy inside before she arrived, but who would’ve imagined he’d need to give thought to the muck by his front door. She’d said little about that but her tiptoeing across the yard shouted disgust. He made sure he was not there to see her reaction when she stepped inside. Some things he didn’t have to see.

  He wiped his bloody fingers on the wet grass before he touched the rabbit fur again. At least there’d be fresh meat for the pot tonight. With two small rabbits from his traps there’d be enough for the makings of a meal and two more pelts to set aside.

  If she had not deboned a rabbit before, surely Miss Mayfield would appreciate him doing it for her today. It might make up for her disappointment. Then again, she may dislike even this attempt at a welcome. He had no way of knowing how to please her. Yet.

  He reached into the already gutted cavity of the first rabbit and tugged at the tiny heart. Still warm, it slipped into his palm with ease. It didn’t take much to rip it out. When all the innards lay in a pile at his feet, he sliced the second one and with care tore the skin off that carcass, too.

  Stripped of her mourning clothes, an image of Finella as he’d found her this day hit him afresh. A skirt the color of a violet dusk. The fragrance of lavender. A collar of something soft and lacey at her throat.

  For a man used to gutting rabbits, you’d think the sight of a beautiful woman wouldn’t displace him. Yet his stomach flipped like a stranded fish in a shallow pool.

  But even in different clothes, her haunted eyes remained the same. Still wide-eyed and often startled, they only held warmth for Molly and even though her fresh appearance lifted her mood, she appeared to fight it with every breath.

  “Ah, George. What have I done?”

  He tried not to see it, but his mind’s eye couldn’t shake the vision.

  Twice he’d caught her with a scowl on her face while he labored to unload her crates. Tomorrow, Shadrach’s muscles might burn from carting them, but right now he burned with a humiliation he hadn’t felt before.

  Into the bucket of salted water he dropped the quartered pieces of the saddle and all the rabbit legs. The brine would draw away any bitterness. Pity he couldn’t dunk himself in the ocean and deal with his mood the same way.

  He set the bucket aside and stood to stretch his legs. Raised his arms high above his head and held them there while the kinks stretched in his shoulders.

  An angry procession of clouds filled the heavens and he breathed a heavy sigh. He’d brought a woman into his home who despised being anywhere near it. Or him for that matter and she made no disguise of either. Having her close was going to make keeping his promise to George all that more difficult, not easier.

  He prayed for patience. For God to help her grieve
and settle. For him to keep a cool head.

  He crouched again and caressed the soft downy rabbit pelts. He’d need many more to make a blanket for Molly, but he’d find them. He’d make his sister the best blanket he knew how. He’d promised, and nothing would stop him keeping his word.

  *

  I write by the light of the lamp. I sit at the table and the fire waves and keeps me company with short crackles. I am in a hut, no better than the crudest shepherd’s shelter. My heart withers to find there is no oven or range. A naked fire, medieval and unbridled is all I have for cooking.

  I wish to fling the door open, let in light and toss every dirty item out. To boil water and scrub until each surface is rid of its filthy layers. Instead, I listen to Molly’s soft snoring and the scrape of my pen.

  The tabletop is naked and badly scratched. If I had to guess, I would say Mr. Jones cleared it of everything and rammed each item on a high shelf.

  What Molly does not learn in cleaning tomorrow, she will learn as the days go by, for I do not intend to live with dust, grime or sour bedding.

  And I will, under no circumstances, live surrounded by puddles and mud.

  *

  From the open barn door, Shadrach watched his house, lit from within. The small window spilt a honey glow into the night.

  How much longer before he headed in? It felt like hours since he’d handed Miss Mayfield the pail of rabbit meat.

  Molly would eat bread and jam for every meal if he’d let her, and the temptation to give in and dish up her favorite after a hard day meant she’d eaten her fair share of hasty offerings at his table. He hoped Miss Mayfield’s cooking would put an end to hurried meals for Molly and if he were honest, his own stomach anticipated something warmer and savory as well.

  The salt he rubbed into the rabbit skins hardly stung his fingers. Tough and calloused, they stretched the pelts over wire cones to dry and when secured with dome pins, he hung them on an overhead beam.

  “Well, they’ve had long enough.” He spoke to Old Lou, but suspected his words were more to convince himself than his horse. “If they haven’t set something out to eat by now, they never will and I’m about ready to grab jam and bread if the cook pot’s empty.”

  He washed up in the barn and ran his fingers through his hair. He sloshed across to the door where he tapped lightly before entering. Silly to knock on your own door before entering, but after a few hours away he figured he’d do all he could to smooth the way with Miss Mayfield.

  Molly beamed at him from the table and grinned when he winked at her. Her rosy cheeks flushed with something he hadn’t seen. Before he had a chance to discover more, a wave of aromas collided with the night air. Onions and meat simmering in the Dutch oven mingled with smoke and fire from the hearth.

  And a sweet aroma all-together unknown in his house wafted across the room to assault him. A perfume he didn’t recognize but knew must be some kind of flower water.

  Miss Mayfield rose from a chair nearest the fire.

  “Just in time. Our rabbit curry is hot and ready to serve.”

  She dished up their meals onto tin plates and set them down, steaming and pungent.

  “I washed the cups, Shad. And plates and forks and spoons.” Molly reached for a slice of bread. This was not the damper he normally set out for them.

  “Did you now?” He couldn’t help sneak a look at Miss Mayfield but she’d turned to place the lid on the pot. His belly did another fish-flip. Drawn to her waist, his eyes took in her apron strings pinched and tied in a neat bow.

  She was here, at his table, dishing up his evening meal. A loyal memory of George washed over him and like a traitor, he nudged it away to make room for an altogether new hunger.

  “Yes. All by myself. And tomorrow, we wash the sheets.” He’d never heard Molly delight in housewifery. Ever.

  Miss Mayfield’s face matched Molly’s pink one. She fixed her eyes on the table and he blessed the food. It looked as good as it smelled and his stomach growled to sit down to a meal twice as abundant as their normal fare.

  Steaming rabbit curry pooled in his plate against a mash of potatoes and boiled carrots, with slices of bread on the table beside the butter crock. With no encouragement, Molly busied herself with the goodness before her.

  “If this is what Molly learns to prepare, then our arrangement will prove a very happy one.” It hadn’t escaped him the table itself shone and a hint of lemon bruised his palms where he rested them against the edge.

  He wanted to compliment the cook more, but wasn’t sure how she’d receive his words.

  “Molly’s been the most trustworthy washer today. She scrubbed the table until I thought we’d need another top for it altogether.” A fresh twinkle lit Miss Mayfield’s eyes and fell on his sister. “She did all she was told to do, and didn’t budge from where I set her.”

  Shadrach thrilled at the light in her eyes. “So, it’s been a good start then. I’m pleased for you both.” He brought another fork full to his mouth, eager for more. Much more.

  “Mr. Jones…” Less interested in her food, Miss Mayfield poked at a piece of carrot. “I think it’s fitting we start with spring cleaning, tomorrow. A deep clean.” Large brown eyes blinked at him. “Do you have a wash-house?”

  A wash-house? Here, among the rough structures he called house and barn? He stopped chewing.

  He did not. He had fields sown with crops, and saplings which promised fruit a few summers from now, along with a milk cow and chickens. But not a wash-house. Nor a smoke-house or a boat-house. Not even a birdhouse. Or maybe he did, if you counted the chickens…

  He reached for a slice of bread. “There’s no wash-house, Miss Mayfield. The tubs hang out back. I’ll bring them around and build a fire before I do anything else in the morning. I’ll also carry up as much water as you’ll need.” He fought the bitterness which tainted the good food.

  “Thank you.” She set her fork down. “I… Perhaps you could tell me where you’ll be building the fire. For the washing.”’

  Another question? He swallowed again. “Same place as I always do. Out front.”

  “And… the lines?”

  “The lines…?”

  “The washing lines? Will they be near the house too?”

  The nearest tea tree served him well enough. He’d never needed a line.

  “I’ll string something up in the orchard. There’s a good wind there for drying. If it doesn’t rain.”

  “So, I’ll have to work out front and walk through the muddy yard with every basket of wet washing?” She frowned, as if he’d suggested she take it on a barge to Melbourne.

  “Same as I’ve always done. I can help if you need me to.”

  Redness filled her cheeks again. “That won’t be necessary. Molly and I will manage.”

  Shadrach mopped his plate with a chunk of bread. It wasn’t his fault there was no washhouse. A man could only do his best, and right now it was all about crops. Everything else came later. Didn’t she know that?

  He steadied a rise in his temper and eyed the pot. Surely there was more in there. He cleaned his plate with the last of his bread and hoped she’d notice.

  She did and reached for it. “Let me fill that for you again.” It returned to him as generously heaped as the first time. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten two servings of anything.

  “You’re a good cook, Miss Mayfield.” He turned to his sister. “Are you watching, Molly? You’ve good things to learn in the days ahead.”

  He continued eating until his plate emptied and Miss Mayfield looked up once more. “If I may ask another question, Mr. Jones? I was wondering how I might bake bread? Without an oven.”

  Shadrach shifted his chair from the table with a scratch against the hardened floor, and stared.

  First, she wanted a washhouse. And now an oven? Wasn’t a stone hearth good enough? He’d carried those rocks for miles and heaved them into a working chimney. He never thought to build an oven. He didn’t need
one.

  “We make damper, Miss. In the same pot you used for the rabbit. I’ll teach you when this bread, I assume from Mrs. Lawson, is almost gone.” At the rate he ate it, that would be soon.

  “Yes, it is Mrs. Lawson’s. She packed two loaves in with her lemons.”

  “Day after tomorrow, then. Worry about the washing for now. We’ll sort out the bread later.”

  Little pink dots deepened in her cheeks but she didn’t look away. Irritation vexed him, and his own house, the room he’d built for himself, suddenly crowded upon him like a sinking roof.

  “Thank you, Miss Mayfield. For the meal. I’ll leave you to your chores, and attend to my own.” He pushed away from the table and stood.

  “One last thing, Mr. Jones, if I may?” She rested her wrists on the table, either side of her unfinished meal.

  Shadrach had no time to hide his clouded face. His jaw hurt and his teeth could not be any more clenched. And he wasn’t about to unclench them. Had she not exhausted her list of inadequacies? Was she looking for directions to an icehouse, now?

  “Yes. Miss Mayfield.”

  If she flinched at the rumble in his voice, he didn’t see it.

  “Before I retire, I wish to secure the door. How do I do that, without a key?”

  Heat rushed through him like a firestorm and he almost let the temper fly. Instead, he swung the door open with a boot shove. Molly sat upright, her bread-filled mouth open mid chew.

  “There is no lock here, Miss Mayfield. No fancy latch either.” He slapped the string he’d fixed to secure it. “The door is made of sticks and wood and rope. Much like everything else you see here, for which we’re grateful and I suggest, before you go finding fault with your bed, or the fire, or the roof above your head, you remember I built all this from nothing. With the help of no man. For myself.”