Two

Caitlin stepped into the shop to find a line of customers snaking its way through the maze of barrels and crates that cluttered the floor. Mr. Flemming was at the counter, sweat dripping down his face as he helped each person in turn. When he finally spotted her, she hastily explained her errand, and he waved her into the back where the family lived. Emily knew as much as he did about wheat buyers, he said, and she'd be happy for a visitor anyhow.

Emily greeted her with a warm smile, her infant daughter, Margaret, perched on her hip. She ushered Caitlin into the kitchen, then put the kettle on and excused herself to go lay the child down for a nap.

Caitlin waited. After a few minutes, the other woman emerged, poured tea, then sank into her chair, wincing as if in pain.

"Are you hurt?" Cailin asked.

"My back. ‘Tis nothing new." Emily waved her hand, bringing air to her heated face. "That lass is getting too big, is all."

"She's a pretty little lump." Caitlin couldn't keep the wistfulness from her tone. Emily's daughter reminded her so much of Mary, her own youngest sister, toddling about the farm in Goleen, teasing the pig and making all kinds of mischief. She'd run Ma ragged. "She'll be walking soon."

Emily chuckled. "And then we'll have a new host of problems, willna we?" She took a sip of tea. "So. You're in need of a buyer for your wheat?"

"I am." Caitlin exhaled. "I—the man John used is no longer available, and I'm afeared I don't know anyone else. I thought you might."

"I know of several." Emily rose, bracing her back with her hand. "I'll just fetch paper and pencil and give you the addresses—"

"Oh, that's not—" Caitlin broke off, not knowing how to finish. She'd not told Emily, had she?

Emily stopped and cocked her head in confusion. "But I thought you needed a buyer."

"I do. It's just . . ." Caitlin hesitated. "Perhaps you could tell me the addresses. I've a crack memory. I'll remember." She felt the heat creep up her cheeks.

"Of course." Understanding dawned on Emily's face, along with a bit of pity. But she was too kind to say anything. She sat back down and began speaking slowly. "There's Mr. Campbell on York Street, just two blocks down, across from the blacksmith's. He's the one we buy our flour from, when he has it. He's fair, though I'm not sure how much room he'll have at the moment."

Caitlin nodded, committing the name to memory. Campbell. York Street. Across from the blacksmith 's.

"Then, there's Mr. Gordon up on Clarance."

"Where's—"

" streets north, then three to the west. Right before the military barracks. Gordon's just recently emancipated, and keen for new business, I've heard. He may be a good one."

Gordon. Clarance Street. Military barracks.

"Why dinna you try those two, and if you need more, you can come back? I'll ask around, if need be, or Davey may know some I don't." Emily set her empty cup down and sat back in her chair. "I do wish you luck. ‘Tisn't easy being a woman alone, I can imagine."

Caitlin lifted her chin. Of course the other woman meant well. But somehow, the way she said it, as if Caitlin were to be pitied, it felt like an insult. Being a woman alone was exactly what Caitlin wanted to be. No men telling her what to do.

"I'm unfamiliar, is all." Emily's head tipped to one side, eyes widening at the clip of Caitlin's words. Caitlin softened her tone. "I—I'm much happier to stay at Swindale, if you want the truth."

"Oh, I understand that." Emily crossed her arms, and a wry smile played on her lips. "Once Davey gets his pardon, we'll be leaving. We'll set up shop in Parramatta, or farther out in one of the new towns. This is no place to raise a family." She set her hands on her knees and levered herself up. "Now then, Luke and Ewan will be home soon. I'll just—"

"One more thing, if you don't mind." Caitlin fished the now-folded contract from her pocket. "I wondered if you'd read this to me?" She held out the creased page.

"Of course." Emily accepted the paper. She squinted as she read the messy hand. "‘Tis a contract." Her gaze rose to meet Caitlin's. "For wheat."

"It is. And what's the price?"

Emily scanned the page. "Ten shillings a bushel." She exhaled softly. "That's awfully low, isna it? I heard ‘tis going for at least fourteen this year, maybe more."

"That nipper ." The anger from earlier started to rise again, and Caitlin forced a long exhale. "He told me it said thirteen. Same as John got last year. But John said he'd been promised fourteen."

"Oh . . ."

"What's it say about payment?"

Emily read silently until she found the place. "‘Twelve months. . ." She let the paper fall. "I'm so glad you didna sign this."

Caitlin drew a breath. How on earth could she run the farm if men like this could take such advantage? She couldn't, that's what.

"How did you know?" Emily handed the contract back.

Caitlin shook herself. Such thoughts did no one any good. "I had a feeling, is all. I didn't know if I was right or not." She pressed her lips together. "John did all the—all the business for the farm. ‘Tisn't easy without him." She wished she could eat the words as soon as they were out. The way she'd said them—it sounded as if she'd liked the man.

Emily's gaze softened. "You must miss him dreadfully."

"Nah." Caitlin snorted. Emily gave her a look, and she thought a moment, searching for the right words. "I miss his abilities. Not his company."

"Ah. Did he come as a bonded man, then?"

"Not him. Came as a purser on an East India ship. Governor King gave him the grant to Swindale in turn for—" She shrugged. "Some favor." She still didn't know what John had done to get such a plum, though she suspected it was a settlement of a gambling debt. "He wasn't a farmer."

"But you are," Emily observed.

Caitlin nodded. "I grew up on a dairy. In County Cork." Not that life there had prepared her for farming here. It had taken her years to learn the cycles of this strange land. "John wanted to go back to sea and needed someone to look after the farm. He picked me from a lineup."

Emily nodded her understanding. It was a common enough story. A free settler could have his pick of convict wives, and it was in his favor to do so. A wife's term of service didn't run out like a male convict's would.

And at least until he tired of her, Caitlin had been a warm body in John's bed whenever he did return to the colony.

But now she was a widow. Free of him and all other men. She'd just have to find a means to keep it that way.

"I'm surprised he didna teach you to read." Emily's head cocked to one side.

Caitlin shrugged, doing her best not to let the loathing soak into her words. "He never saw the need." She finished her tea in one gulp, then rose. "I'm off, then. Thank you."

Emily smiled. "You're most welcome."

An hour later, Caitlin stood with Mr. Gordon, a kindly old man with watery eyes and a warm smile, watching his laborer unload the wheat from her dray. Just as Emily had predicted, the trader was keen to fill up his almost empty warehouse. He'd readily agreed to pay fourteen shillings a bushel, and he'd promised to buy all Caitlin could sell him over the coming months, the quality being so good.

Just as the worker hefted the last bag, a grand carriage rumbled by, drawing his eyes, and those of everyone else in the vicinity—the street urchin lingering nearby, the two ladies coming out of a shop. The coach was sleek and black and pulled by two beautifully matched horses. A rare sight indeed in the colony. Caitlin caught a quick glimpse of an old woman's weathered face within.

She looked to Mr. Gordon, who was gazing at the retreating coach. "Who was that?"

The carriage disappeared around a corner, and Mr. Gordon grinned at her. "Mrs. Johnstone, of course." He spoke the name as if she should recognize it.

She didn't. "Mrs. Johnstone?"

"Aye. Used to be Abrams. Esther Abrams, Johnstone's mistress. Macquarie forced them into respectability a while back, though the old man's dead now."

"Oh." Caitlin looked back up the street, suddenly wishing the coach would come back. She did know of Esther Abrams. Like Caitlin, Esther had been sent to New South Wales as a convict, and had become an officer's mistress during the crossing. Except in Esther's case, that officer had been Lieutenant George Johnstone, a prominent member of the New South Wales Corps and a giant in the colony. For a brief period, he'd even served as governor. By all accounts, they'd fallen in love. They'd had children together, and while Johnstone dithered in politics in Sydney and England, Esther had raised their brood and run their farm—quite profitably, if what Caitlin had heard was true.

"Well, good day to ye, Mrs. Blackwell," Mr. Gordon's voice filtered through her thoughts. "It's been a pleasure."

She smiled at the old man. "Good day, Mr. Gordon. I'll be back with more in a week or so."

The trader went back inside, and Caitlin hummed a happy tune, a bounce in her step as she climbed up to the driver's box. Mr. Staples could go hang. Just like Esther Abrams, Caitlin would prove to them all what a lowly woman could do.

She'd just lifted the reins when Emily's oldest son, Luke, came bounding up the busy street.

"Mrs. Blackwell," he gasped, out of breath. "Ma and Da want a word with ye. Back at the shop."

Caitlin's good humor dimmed. She scanned the sky. It was well past noon. If she hoped to make home before nightfall, she must be off. She opened her mouth to give her regrets, then met the boy's bright eyes and closed it again. The Flemmings had shown her nothing but kindness. The least she could do was give them a few minutes of her time.

"All right, but it must be quick."

The shop was empty, save for Mr. and Mrs. Flemming, who were waiting for her behind the counter.

"Oh, Mrs. Blackwell." Emily bustled around, leading her husband by the hand. "Thank you for coming. I know it's late, but we've had an idea." She beamed, clearly excited.

"An . . . idea?" Caitlin struggled to return the woman's smile. "Everything is well. I've sold the wheat to Mr. Gordon, and I'm—"

Emily lifted a hand. "Just hear us out. If you dinna agree, we willna be offended. We just—we've a friend in need, you see, and I thought . . . Well, you might be able to help each other . Luke." Emily turned to her son. "See to the shop while we talk to Mrs. Blackwell."

Luke took up his post as Emily ushered Caitlin through the back door into the kitchen. Mr. Flemming followed, pulling the door closed behind him.

The hopeful look on Emily's face made Caitlin's skin prickle. She was in no position to help anyone. It would be all she could do to hold on to the farm.

"Tea?" Emily asked brightly.

"I can not, thank you." Caitlin did her best to hide her impatience. "I must be leaving soon."

"Of course." The other woman smoothed her skirts. "You want to be home before dark."

"I do."

"Well then, I'll get to it." Emily took a step closer. "You see, our friend—Davey's, to be precise," her eyes darted to her husband, still lurking by the door, then back to Caitlin, "is due to come back from Moreton Bay next week. We've been told he'll be assigned to a building crew or some other government work, but we thought—he can read, you see. He's educated. He ran Cowper's warehouses for a time. He may be able to help you with contracts and the like. If he were assigned to you, it would be a much better position for him, and . . . it would benefit you ." Emily stopped, her face expectant and hopeful, her eyes never leaving Caitlin's.

Caitlin had no idea what to say. She didn't want to disappoint—Emily had been nothing but kind—but there were a hundred reasons this plan wouldn't work.

"He's a good man." Mr. Flemming strode forward and stood next to his wife. "Loyal and dependable."

"He's . . . at Moreton Bay?" Caitlin asked. Only the worst convicts got sent there. Men who had reoffended during their sentence, murderers, thieves, the ones that couldn't be controlled and weren't fit to work in the colony.

Mr. Flemming's shoulders sank a bit. "Not by his own fault. Though, to tell ye the truth, he can be a bit of a drinker."

"Tell her how he came to be there," Emily prodded.

"Aye." Mr. Flemming heaved a sigh. "Mikey and I stayed together when we first came here. And before that, on the ship, he cared for me when I was ill. Saved my life, I do believe." He put his arm around his wife. "But after Emily and the boys came out, he left, and . . . went to live in The Rocks." He shook his head. "We didna see much of him. I believe he lost himself a bit to the grog houses. Then one night, he—"

Mr. Flemming stopped, obviously uncomfortable, but his wife elbowed him. "Go on. I'm sure Mrs. Blackwell's heard worse."

"He came across a man takin' advantage of a lady, in the wee wynd behind The Black Dog . According to Mikey, the lady was cryin' out and tryin' to get away, but the man—he struck her. Wouldna let her go."

Caitlin shuddered, and despite the heat, a wave of cold washed over her. She'd known such alleys in Cork. Though, after that first time, she herself hadn't tried to get away. After Ma and Da had died, such encounters had become her only means of feeding her younger siblings.

"Mikey got the polecat off and left him in a sorry state," Mr. Flemming continued, "but in the dark, he didna see who the man was."

"Who was it, then?" Caitlin held her breath.

"George Phelps."

"Who's—"

"First clerk to the superintendent of police." Mr. Flemming shook his head as Caitlin stifled a gasp. "He was doomed, Mikey was. There was a sham of a trial. Phelps denied any lady existed. Said Mikey was roarin' drunk—which I dinna doubt was true—and attacked him, meanin' to rob ‘im."

"But didn't the woman vouch for him?"

"She ran away as soon as Mikey got her free." Mr. Flemming shrugged. "Disappeared. Can hardly blame her." He pulled his wife closer. "He's an honest man, Mrs. Blackwell. And after all that's happened, I believe some peace would do him good. He willna get that as a government man."

Caitlin gazed at the couple. Clearly, they cared about this man. And what Mr. Flemming said was quite true. Life as a government laborer in Sydney would mean backbreaking work, poor rations, and—for a man with a weakness for drink—constant temptation. Such a life would do nobody any good.

But Moreton Bay. It changed men. What if Dunn had become the thieving sort, or worse? What if he tried to come at her?

"Is he violent when he drinks?" Caitlin was surprised at her own boldness, but she must know.

"Heavens, no." Mr. Flemming chuckled. "I was shocked to know he had it in ‘im. He's a bit gruff and stiff. He's a toff. A gentleman." He rolled his eyes and gave a small affected bow. "But he's not violent. Ye'd be safe with him."

A gentleman.

Caitlin's mind was racing. To have a man who could read and write at her disposal . . . If he'd run a warehouse, he must know how to keep ledgers too. And there was that pile of letters on John's desk. She had no idea what any of them said.

Perhaps she could even have this man teach her to read.

"And you're sure he could be assigned to me?" she asked. "I've got three men already, and I've not a right to more than that. One of them's due for his ticket though, so perhaps—"

Davey waved away her concern. "I used to work in the secretary's office. I've friends there still."

"How long does he have on his sentence?"

"Just one year more. ‘Tisn't long, but I do think he could be a help to you, Mrs. Blackwell."

It was a risk, but she'd had plenty of rough men on her field crew over the years, and the Flemmings were vouching for him. That meant something.

"You can always return him to the barracks if he proves unsuitable," Mrs. Flemming added, her face taking on that hopeful look again.

Caitlin bit the inside of her lip. It sounded like nothing but trouble. But if she was to be an independent woman . . . and the idea of learning to read . . . "Very well. If you can secure the assignment, I'll take him on. Or I'll try."

Emily's face lit up like a match on tinder. "Oh, thank you. Thank you."

A shiver crawled down Caitlin's spine. She tried to smile, but her lips felt stiff and tight. What was she getting herself into? "You're quite welcome." She turned toward the door. "Now I really must be going."

The smile faded from Emily's face. "Of course. Have a safe journey home."