Carry Me Home Page 7

  He knew his face flamed and regret would eat him later, but now he needed to say it. Tell her exactly what simmered under his breath all day.

  “I didn’t expect a sister to join me here so soon. And not even in my wildest dreams did I think a third occupant, used to life’s fancies would also take residence.”

  He shouldn’t have spat the word fancies like that. He would have to add that to his list of regrets, too. He yanked at the rope loop and dragged the door to his shoulder.

  “If my home displeases you this much, then leave it. I didn’t ask you here to be reminded of every inadequate plank and stone. So don’t go asking for a replica of the home you came from.”

  He stepped out, one hand on the door. “Because here, we have a yard full of mud, no oven, no fancy wash-house and when night falls we shut the door and say goodnight.”

  He could have pulled the door clear off its crude hinge. Instead he shut it as hard as it took to rattle every timber in his house. His house.

  The walk across the yard to his skillion resembled more of a military stomp than a man retiring to his quarters. With equal force he shut that door, too. Pity he couldn’t deal with the bristle in his chest with equal measure.

  He fell back onto the pallet he’d set up that morning and jammed his fists behind his head.

  His home. Purpose built. A temporary structure to keep the rain away while he grew a farm from nothing into something. That’s all he wanted. A working farm.

  This was never meant to be a boarding house for girls, and, as Miss Mayfield made perfectly clear, certainly not for ladies.

  9

  Molly had no trouble falling asleep shortly after she’d washed their dishes and laid the breakfast table. Even here, in this crude hut, Finella determined she would follow Aunt Sarah’s rules. Especially here.

  Tables should be set early. If possible, breakfast tables should be set the night before. Admonitions brimmed in Finella’s mind like a swell of waters.

  “If we lay the table now, in the morning when we need it, the work’s already done.”

  Molly had set the table with three plates and three tin cups. Aunt Sarah had things to say about naked tables too, and Finella reminded herself to look for a suitable cloth among her packed linens in the morning.

  Neither she nor Molly spoke about Mr. Jones’ temper-fuelled exit and each time his anger blazed through her mind, Finella pushed it aside and concentrated on Molly.

  Molly washing tin dishes. Molly drying and putting them on the freshly scrubbed shelves, like dented tin soldiers in a row. Molly obeying while Finella instructed, until all chores were complete and one tired girl lay in her bed. Tucked under her chin, Molly’s ragdoll kept her company.

  For Finella, no one offered solace. The evening faded and the kettle hummed on the fire for one last pot of tea before bed. Struck by the loneliness of the months ahead, she slumped on the edge of the second bed.

  Weariness needled her bones, dragging her down with a weight she’d never before carried. She rubbed her eyes with red raw fingers. The smell of soap and lemon did nothing to disguise the unwashed quilts covering Molly, and no doubt, the ones on the bed reserved for her, too.

  A soft cry escaped her before she could stop it and she slumped on the bed. She pressed her palms to her eyes. Her head throbbed and the longing to escape to Molly’s dark world of sleep beckoned with the strength of ten men.

  She shifted her weight on the lumpy mattress. Until last night this bed belonged to Mr. Jones. No doubt, so would the bedding. She chided herself for not remembering to collect Aunt Sarah’s lavender scented sheeting from her trunks in his skillion. She couldn’t fetch them now, but neither could she sleep under someone else’s bedclothes. She peeled the covers back one by one.

  A coarse blanket, then a light quilt. Both needed airing, if not deep soaking. A soft knock on the door broke the silence. Finella wiped her eyes and gathered her shawl closer.

  Mr. Jones stood outside. Raised and messed, his hair looked as if the chickens had combed it for grubs.

  Good. Perhaps he’d come to apologize. She mashed her lips together and waited.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thought I’d check on Molly before she fell asleep.” His frame had lost its soldier-like stance and from somewhere within, Finella was sure she spied the unwinding of a small smile. Perhaps Molly alone brought that out in him.

  “She’s asleep.” Finella kept her hand on the door. A tiny thought, smaller than a tick bite, gnawed at her conscience. What if he hoped for a cup of tea before bedtime? It was his home, and he had every right to the fire, his table and its provisions. Would it be so bad to share a pot together at the end of a trying day?

  He shuffled from one foot to the other. “She does a lot of sleeping but I guess the excitement of you being here knocked her out even earlier.” He cleared his throat. And that annoying tick sunk its teeth a little deeper.

  “She’ll sleep the whole night through, too. Never gets up ’til you wake her. Unless she has a fright in her dreams, but that doesn’t happen much. It’s during the day she needs watching. If you’re still planning to wash, you’d best give her a chore where you can keep your eye on her all day long.”

  Finella nodded and crossed her arms, the fringe of her shawl caught in each fist.

  Mr. Jones didn’t look like he planned on moving on in a hurry. His eyes searched her face and even with a swirl of cold night air in the small mud hut, a twinge of heat stoked her cheeks.

  “Well, I don’t mean to disturb, but I need to collect something from…” He pointed to the empty bed.

  Finella backed away and he inched past, crossed the small room and knelt on the floor. From underneath the sapling base, he pulled a thick Bible. Loose papers stuck out at all angles and he pressed it to his chest to fish for something else. When he stood, his other fist clenched a black velvet pouch. He took a quick look at the blankets she’d tossed to the end of the bed and ducked into the night.

  “I’ll leave you to your rest, then. Goodnight.”

  Finella couldn’t tell if a sad smile crossed his face, but his words held a hint of tenderness. He jumped over one large puddle to cross the yard and slipped into his room.

  From its place over the fire, the kettle hissed at her and spat reproach, completely drowning out Finella’s attempted reply.

  She would not have dared speak it too loud, but a sorry whisper directed at the shut door of the skillion would have to do.

  “Goodnight to you, Mr. Jones.”

  *

  “I’m hungry.” Molly grumbled for the third time from her place at the breakfast table.

  “We’re waiting for Mr. Jones.” Finella stirred the porridge pot but nothing worked on the lump in her throat. If Molly were to learn anything, it would have to be by example. “It’s good manners to wait.”

  “Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones…” Molly sang to her dolly. “Mr, Mr, Mr. Jones.” A garbled tune rang out with a string of words Finella didn’t understand.

  There was not much she did understand these days. She was sure she did not understand the man Molly sang about. Or the unrefined ways of his Australian home and she barely understood her own deep conviction to stay in it with Molly.

  But here she stood; ready to teach the things Molly’s mother had never been able to share. The very thing Aunt Sarah had done for her. And it felt good.

  She banged the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot. Mr. Jones wouldn’t bully her into leaving. Not when Molly needed her the way she did.

  “No, not Mr. Jones.” Molly shook her head. “Shaaad-Raaach.” She sang his name like a sweet lullaby. As if it were her favorite song. “My brother. Shad-Rach.”

  Finella turned from the fire. “Yes, your brother is Shadrach. I call him Mr. Jones. It’s my way of being polite. You do the same with Mrs. Lawson.”

  “I like Shadrach.” She tapped her chest with her doll. “My Shadrach.” Molly’s blue eyes flashed with deep love for her brother. He must have done
something right, to make his sister defend his name with such tenderness.

  “Of course, he’s your Shadrach.” Finella drew the boiling kettle away from the fire and muttered into the steam. “He’s certainly not mine.”

  “Miss Mayfield is correct. I belong to you, Miss Molly and don’t you ever forget it.”

  His deep voice invaded the room. Had the whistling masked the sound of him opening the door? Finella dropped the kettle on the iron trivet, but her heart continued to drum, drum-drum.

  “Mr. Jones. Good Morning. I’m just about to make the tea.”

  “Miss Mayfield.” He squeezed Molly’s shoulder and took his place at the table. “I’ve a fire outside. For your washing. Water’s almost boiled. And you’ll find a line down by the orchard.”

  Molly leaned across the table. “Finella slept on your bed, Shad.”

  He glanced at Finella before turning to his sister. “Well yes, we… talked about that before Miss Mayfield came. Remember? She sleeps here with you and I’ve a bed in the skillion, now.”

  Finella looked away. If her face matched the flush creeping into his, she didn’t want him to see it.

  “Did you sleep well, Miss Mayfield?”

  In that sapling bed of sour linens? She blew out a quick breath and turned to face him.

  “On… your bed.” Molly slid her doll across the table and a fresh tide of nerves filled Finella’s stomach. The kettle weighed twice what it should have, but she carried on filling the teapot, glad for even the thin veil of steam.

  “Not how we sleep, Shad. Not under the covers. On them.” Molly bumped his arm with the doll’s round head. “With her shawl for a blanket. On the bed, Shad.” He covered her hand with his and silenced the raw babble.

  “I heard you, Molly.” His words came out low and measured. “I heard you.”

  Two sets of blue eyes pinned Finella. Shame washed over her, like a hot dousing of pickling liquor. Surely he could understand she would not sleep underneath a heap of dirty coverings? And when had Molly spied her sleeping? She had risen a good hour before the young girl first stirred.

  Finella placed a steaming cup of tea in front of Mr. Jones.

  Eyes fixed on her, he dragged the cup closer. “I expect, dear Molly, you’ll find Miss Mayfield will have no trouble sleeping under the covers tonight. A day of scrubbing will thump the starch out of anyone. Even the high and mighty.” He mumbled high and mighty, but Finella heard it. She handed him his porridge dish and clenched her fists behind her back.

  “You’re right, Molly. I did not sleep under the covers.” She looked from brother to sister. “I normally do and as Mr. Jones has pointed out, I probably will tonight after we’ve aired the blankets and washed the sheets.”

  She couldn’t think of a reply to his high and mighty. At least not one she cared to speak in front of Molly. She looked away, but not quick enough to miss him sling one arm across the back of his chair. A smile pulsed at the corner of his mouth. Subtle. Slow.

  “I’ll pray. I’m hungry.” Molly laid her doll in her lap and bowed her head.

  But the child’s prayer did not draw Finella. Against every fiber of her well-tuned judgment, she stole a fleeting look over Molly’s bowed head.

  And then she saw it. Satisfaction played across his face in an inescapable symphony of creases and twitches and twinkling blue eyes.

  *

  Finella smacked the soggy sheets with a wooden paddle. Steam burned her eyes and scorched the back of her mouth. Grated soap did little to mask the odor of sour washing wafting into her nose.

  Molly sat on a sawn log and scrubbed equally hard at the contents of a tin bucket in her lap. She poked her tongue out the side of her mouth in deep concentration for the task. And today the task would be huge. Every stitch of bedding needed boiling and not even the threat of rain would hold Finella back.

  Against the side of the mud hut, two thin hay-filled mattresses aired in the morning sun. Finella prayed it would bless them all day, for if she were to experience anything near a good night’s sleep, she needed to have everything dry and on the beds by nightfall.

  Already, the promised line fluttered with the few blankets and quilts she’d stripped from the beds. Mr. Jones hadn’t been seen since breakfast. She did not fancy entering his skillion without permission so she left his bedding where she guessed it lay, on the floor.

  “You’re doing a fine job, Molly.” Finella wondered if the pillowcases would survive Molly’s rubbing. From the looks of her red knuckles, Molly was a keen washerwoman.

  The girl nodded but her focus remained on the tub. What she lacked in cooking skills she more than made up for in sheer strength at the washtub.

  “Blankets are dry.” Molly sniffed and looked at the motley coverings fluttering nearby.

  “Well, yes. We hung them dry. Remember? To air them. We’ll have to wait until summer to wash them properly. Quilts need air and sunlight every week to keep them fresh and a long soak in summer.” Finella marveled to think about the turn of the seasons.

  Her next summer would collide with a bush Christmas, the likes she’d only heard about on the ship to Australia.

  “Finella?” Molly disturbed her wandering thoughts. “Brother’s making me a rabbit blanket.” Molly looked up. “He promised.”

  “For you? You’re one lucky sister.”

  With wet fingers Finella collected flyaway curls from her neck and face and dampened them back across her head. She stretched her arms over her head. If Mr. Jones kept his temper in check, she and Molly would spend a pleasant enough time together. Even if it did mean an upside down Yuletide.

  “Brother made a promise to George, too.”

  Finella wasn’t sure she should ask what it was. Perhaps Molly would keep talking and tell her anyway. For a few moments both young women wrestled with their tasks until Molly looked up.

  “On the day the snake came.” Molly nodded. “Mrs. Lawson told him he has to keep it now. That’s what happens when you make a promise.” She looked at Finella.

  “I see.” Finella reached for the washing bat, not exactly sure what Molly prattled on about. “And have you made any promises Molly?”

  “Only to Shad.” Molly blew a stray hair from her forehead. “I promised to be a good girl and obey you. If I’m good then you stay. And brother can marry you.”

  Finella let the paddle slip into the wash trough.

  “Marry me?” She stared at Molly, whose bent head gave nothing more away than another quick nod.

  Finella’s head spun like a newly cranked mangle. “I think you’re remembering the story backwards. I came to marry George.” She took a deep breath and tried to wind Molly’s thoughts the right way. “But now he’s gone, I’m here to keep you company until my Aunt Sarah arrives from England.”

  Poor child must have blended fact with circumstance. Finella could see how she made the mistake. Hadn’t she herself jumped to the same wrong conclusion that day on the beach when Mr. Jones offered this position? She fished for the paddle.

  “I’m here to be your teacher and friend. And right now I see you don’t need me for washing lessons. You’re the best scrubbing girl I ever saw.”

  Molly grinned. “I like washing. I washed everyday… before.” Her pink tongue poked out the side of her lip. Finella watched her a while longer. No different to any fourteen year old girl at her chores. But she was no ordinary fourteen year old, and that played tricks with Finella’s heart.

  “What is it you wish for the most, Molly?”

  Molly looked into the sky. “Hmm.” She licked her lip for a moment until her eyes filled with a spark normally reserved for Shadrach’s winks. She turned to Finella.

  “Fancy things.”

  “Fancy things?”

  “Yes. Like your …glass.”

  “My magnifying glass?”

  She nodded. “And your brush.” She swept at the left side of her head with the back of her soapy hand. A tiny bubble stuck on her temple just above an old scar. It sl
ipped down her hairline almost tracing the same path to Molly’s earlobe.

  Sadness stabbed at Finella. She wondered how many feminine accoutrements the girl went without. Her simple dress lacked length and she determined to let the hem down as soon as she could. Her new home screamed bush bachelor, and who knew how long she’d worked beside her mother, hunched over a washtub with little else to fill her days?

  “We could look for something pretty for the house each day?” Finella remembered her hunt for wildflowers. “And in my boxes I have a few fancy things you may like. How about a cheerful cloth for the table? We could start there.” A rumbling of storm clouds threatened from overhead but she would not be thwarted. “And tonight we’ll have sweet smelling pillows on our bed.”

  Instead of eyes filled with anticipation the young girl looked up with tears and shook her head.

  “Shad doesn’t like fancy things. He says fancy things bring trouble. To run from the tem…tem…”

  “Temptation?” Finella finished off her sentence.

  Molly nodded.

  Finella returned to her sheet stabbing. What could be so tempting about a cloth square on a tabletop? Surely his hut wasn’t so austere because Mr. Jones believed simple comforts a sin?

  “Perhaps we can show your brother not all fancies are terrible temptations. He may even learn to like them for himself.”

  Molly shook her head. “Don’t think so. Shadrach knows lots of things.”

  “I’m sure he does.” Finella yanked at the sheet with the paddle and lifted it high to let the steam escape. “But he may wish to learn something new from time to time.”

  She dumped the dripping sheet into a tub of fresh water at her feet, and smacked it so hard, the rinse water splashed onto her neck. “And you Molly dear, will be just the one to teach him.”

  10