Five

Caitlin pulled back the curtain and peered out of her bedroom window.

Beyond the smudged pane, there was still just the empty road leading out through the tunnel of gum trees, muddy from yesterday's rain.

Good. She was behind. Adding new frames to the hives had taken more time than she'd expected, and she'd only just come in to change into a clean dress and finish with the candles.

She glanced at the clock. Half past one. If they'd left Sydney early as Mr. Flemming had planned, they'd arrive any minute now. She must be quick.

She let the curtain fall, then hurried to the kitchen, tying on an apron as she went. She quickly stoked the fire, put the kettle on, then began carefully pulling the tapers out of the molds. Mr. Flemming had ordered eight dozen to bring back with him, and she hadn't enough made to allow for any mistakes.

It was warm in the kitchen. The sun had moved to the other side of the house, and a breeze filtered in through the open window, but it wasn't enough. A bead of sweat dripped between her shoulders.

Something about this day felt frenzied. As if there were too many things to do and not enough time. But everything was in order. She'd readied the new man's room, put the kettle on, changed her dress, almost finished with the candles. There was nothing to fret about—

Damn.

A wick broke, leaving the wax stuck in the brass. She'd have to melt it to get it out, and there was no time for that.

What was wrong with her? She usually had steadier hands.

Oh well. Seven dozen and eleven it would be.

Slowing down, she carefully pulled the rest of the candles, stacking them neatly on the table as she went.

A gentleman. A toff. Mr. Flemming's account of Michael Dunn had been stirring in her mind all day.

Was he the kind of swell who'd turn his nose up at the room she'd prepared for him? It was meant for a dairy just off the kitchen, and she used it to press honey as well . . . it was a lot to give up. But it wasn't large, and it was sunken into the ground, a bit musty. The bed was only straw. Not the kind of place a gentleman would be accustomed too.

But he'd been at Moreton Bay. Hardly a place of luxury.

Finally finished, she lifted an empty crate onto the table and began setting the candles in, counting as she went.

Two, four, six . A full row. Eight, ten, twelve . Another.

Something about the scent of the candles mixed with the sharp camphor of the gum tree leaves she used to pack them in settled her mind. And the counting. She liked this task, the way the smooth tapers fit together when she stacked them, one layer nested perfectly on the last.

Fourteen, sixteen, eighteen . Her hands were sure at this task and quick, and the counting became a song, a lilting tune sung under her breath. Twenty, twenty-two, twenty-four.

There. The crate was full.

She pivoted to take up the next one—

A knock sounded on the front door. Bugger. She'd almost finished.

Caitlin eyed the pile of candles waiting to be packaged. Another knock came, more insistent this time.

She heaved a sigh, untied her apron, and hurried toward the door.

"I'm on me way," she called. She took a moment to straighten her dress, smooth her hair, and school her face into that of Mrs. Blackwell, the employer. This new man might be a gentleman, and he might be educated, but she was in charge. She'd learned from experience that it was necessary to make that clear from the start.

She pulled open the heavy wooden door to reveal Mr. Flemming, hat in hand. His fist was poised as if he'd been about to knock again. Behind him stood a man.

But that couldn't be—could it?

Dunn, if that's who he was, was older than Caitlin had supposed, or he looked older. It was sometimes hard to tell with men who'd lived hard. His face was turned toward the ground, but she could make out his tan and the thick stubble of white blond whiskers covering his cheeks and neck. He wore dirt-streaked trousers with holes at the knees, the kind that buttoned up at the side to allow for shackles, a ripped, blue-striped shirt, and flimsy shoes that his big toe had poked a hole through. He clutched a small sack.

Melia murder , what had she got herself into?

He wore no hat. His hair was a pale yellow, almost white. Its fine, curly strands blew gently in the breeze, reminding Caitlin, oddly, of a little boy. It looked just like her brother's hair—wee Gerry, the youngest of the four she'd left behind on the streets of Cork—

"Mrs. Blackwell." Mr. Flemming cleared his throat. "‘Tis a pleasure to see you again." His words sounded forced, overly polite.

Caitlin started. She'd been staring at the stranger. She nodded at the shopkeep. "And to you, Mr. Flemming."

"I . . ." Mr. Flemming moved his gaze to the man standing behind him, as if inviting him into the conversation, but the convict ignored him. After an awkward pause, the shopkeep cleared his throat and looked apologetically at Catlin. "This is Mikey—Michael Dunn. He's not had a chance to clean up yet, I'm afraid."

Mr. Flemming nudged the man, and he finally raised his gaze. Caitlin caught her first look at his face, and her heart sank.

This would never work.

Worn, ruddy skin obscured by dirt and whiskers. A hard line of a mouth. Piercing blue eyes. They met hers and flashed with a lightning strike of anger and fear—as if he were a wild animal, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

Caitlin had known men like this before, so hardened by life in the colony that they'd turned feral. They could rarely be tamed.

She pinched her lips together and gave him a tight nod. Then she brought her eyes back to Mr. Flemming and forced a smile. "Do come in. I was just packing up your candles."

She led the two men into the sitting room, her mind racing.

She could send him away. He could go back to Sydney and be the government's problem. They'd made him into what he was, anyhow. ‘Twas only fair for them to deal with the consequences.

But Mr. Flemming was her buyer for candles and honey. Her only real contact in Sydney. And this man was his friend. If she sent him back, she'd be jeopardizing all of that.

Perhaps he wasn't as bad as he appeared?

The sitting room felt airless and hot. Sunlight poured through the windows.

She closed the curtains, trying to bring some relief from the heat. "I'll just go finish up. May I bring you some tea?" She kept her attention pointedly on Mr. Flemming and away from Dunn, though an odor wafted to her in the heavy air. The pungent smell of a man gone far too long without a bath.

"I'd love to stay, but I canna," Mr. Flemming replied, fanning himself with his hat. "I promised Emily I'd be home for a late dinner, and she doesna like to be kept waiting." He winked.

Caitlin smiled politely at her guest, then allowed herself another quick glance at Dunn. His blank, angry expression hadn't changed from the moment she'd opened the door. His gaze stayed trained on the cold hearth.

Could he even talk?

And again, that smell.

Caitlin smoothed her hair. "I'll just be a minute, then." She tied her apron back on, strode back to the kitchen, and hurriedly packed the rest of the candles.

How stupid she'd been. She'd been so excited by the idea of learning to read that she hadn't given weight to the facts. The man was fresh from Moreton Bay. Mr. Flemming could say what he liked, but even if Dunn had been an angel before, that place would have changed him. Men committed murder at Moreton Bay, just for the chance to be shipped back to Sydney and hanged for their crime.

She should have known better.

"Mrs. Blackwell?" Mr. Flemming's head poked into the room. "May I have a word?"

"Of course." She offered him a strained smile and a nod.

"I—" He broke off, then came in, quietly closing the door behind him. He took off his hat, clutching it nervously. "I ken he's a bit rough. He only got back to Sydney yesterday, ye see, and the pass I got was only for today. There was no time to—"

"It's no matter." Caitlin's voice sounded shrill. "I'm sure he'll—"

" No . It does matter." He shook his head, as if in disbelief. "To be quite honest, he's in much worse shape than I ever imagined. I dinna ken what they did to him. He willna talk to me. But he—he doesna seem himself."

Caitlin turned her attention back to the candles. "I suspected as much."

"With a little time and kindness . . ." He paused, and Caitlin glanced up to meet his gaze. "I believe he'll come ‘round. But—" Again, he hesitated. "But if he doesna, of course you must send him back to the barracks. I would never want you to keep him here on my accord if he isna any use to you."

"I do appreciate that, Mr. Flemming." Caitlin shot him another smile, a real one this time, a relieved one. "I shall do me best with him, but . . . but I do appreciate that."

The shopkeep nodded quickly, then edged toward the door. "I'll be gettin' back to him, then." He opened the door and paused. "Thank you, Mrs. Blackwell. It means a lot to Emily and me. We're in your debt." He turned and disappeared into the dark of the hallway.

Caitlin carefully placed the lid over the first crate, positioned a small nail, and began lightly tapping it in.

Michael Dunn was done for. She'd put a wager on it. And, anyway, she hadn't the time to waste on him. She'd have to send him back.

It was too bad. Mr. Flemming obviously cared for the man. But such was the way of this place . . . it was everyone for himself. It had to be. Mr. Flemming knew that as much as she did.

But she wouldn't send him back today. That would be too much of a slap in the face—and it wasn't as if she had anything to fear from the man. He was sullen, to be sure, but she could see nothing dangerous about him. She needed to bring another load of wheat in next week, anyway. She'd bring him along then, and at least she could say she'd tried.

"Eight dozen?" Mr. Flemming sprang up from where he was perched on the settee.

Caitlin carefully set the two crates down onto the floor. "Almost . . . One stuck in the mold, I'm afraid." She smiled wanly at the shopkeep, hoping he'd understand. "Seven dozen and eleven. There's two more crates in the kitchen."

"Close enough." Mr. Flemming grinned. "You can take payment in credit at the shop, or ready money next time you're in town if you like."

"Credit would be lovely."

Mr. Flemming turned toward Dunn, as if expecting the convict to say something, but Dunn still hadn't moved. Caitlin suspected he hadn't spoken a word in all the time she'd been in the kitchen.

"Just let me know if any are damaged on the drive." Caitlin said. "I'll replace them and the missing one when I come in next week."

Mr. Flemming chuckled. "If they break, it's because I'm a lousy driver. I canna ask you to pay for that, now, can I?"

He might be in her debt, but she wouldn't stand for poor business. "If they break," she said sternly, "it'll be because I didn't pack ‘em tight enough. Just let me know."

"I'll send a note." Mr. Flemming grinned at her again.

A note. A spark of something akin to excitement rose in her chest. Caitlin's inability to read had meant that, until today, Mr. Flemming had to rely on a messenger boy to bring news. But now . . .

Her eyes swung again to Michael, who was still glowering at the hearth, ignoring them.

The spark died.

She swallowed. It would be a long week. "I'll just fetch the rest, and you can be off."

Michael helped Davey load the crates. Then he stood silently beside the widow and watched his friend drive away. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. It wasn't his place, and she'd made it clear with her stern glances and clipped words that she expected him to stay in his place.

Somehow his uneasiness dimmed a little as the wagon juddered down the long drive. The widow had no ideas that he should be a man of his own. Her only concern was that he follow orders. He could do that. Or he could try, at least.

She was an angular woman, that was sure. Younger than Michael had supposed, but older than him, tall and thin with a flat chest and an oval-shaped face. Her dark hair was streaked with silver and pulled into a tight bun, though a few curls sprang loose. Her clothes were plain but clean, and an Irish lilt clung to her speech. Not the thick brogue of an Irish right off the boat, but of someone who'd been in the colony for a time. She had the air of a woman accustomed to hard work and authority.

The wagon grew smaller and smaller, then finally turned the bend and disappeared behind the trees.

The widow cleared her throat and turned to him. She spoke in that same stern voice she'd used earlier—so different from the tone she'd taken with Davey. "Come. I'll tell you of your duties."

He followed her through the front door, down a dark corridor and into the kitchen.

The sitting room had been bright, hot and tidy but layered in dust. A room rarely used. In comparison, the kitchen was dark, airy, and positively filthy. The floor was littered with candle wax, dried bits of food and dust. The windows were grimed with dirt. The hearth was cluttered, and a heap of old ash sat before it.

"Sit." She nodded to a chair.

Keeping his eyes on the gray boards of the worn wooden table, he obeyed. The table was covered in candle molds and wax. Clearly, she'd just finished making Davey's tapers.

The widow ignored the mess. She sat across from him and poured herself a cup of tea—without offering him one. "Mr. Flemming said you can read and write." She arched a disbelieving brow.

Was he really so depraved looking that she couldn't believe he could read?

Yes, he probably was.

"I can."

"And where did you learn?"

He stared at her. What was he supposed to say? "M-my tutor Mr. Lance taught me."

"In England?"

"Yes."

The widow took a sip of her tea. "And can you do ciphers as well?"

"Yes."

"Complex ones? I've many different crops here, as well as livestock and the candles, and honey, of course. All at different prices with different buyers. ‘Tis a lot to keep track of."

An indignant heat rose in Michael's chest. A lot to keep track of ? This was a farm, and not a large one. He'd achieved high honors on the Tripos at Cambridge. Run Cowper's warehouses for years. But as soon as it flared, the anger dimmed. She clearly didn't believe he was capable, and she had good reason. "I—I believe I can, ma'am." He spoke slowly, each word even with the last.

Despite his effort, the widow's cheeks flushed. "Are you mocking me?"

Michael froze. Two minutes in her company, and he'd already made a mess of things. "N-no. I . . ." He lowered his gaze. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Blackwell." He kept his eyes trained on the tabletop, tracing the lines between the boards, waiting for her to reprimand him.

She would send him back. If not now, then eventually.

There was a long pause before she spoke again, sternly. "Look at me, Dunn." Here it came. Michael held his breath as he raised his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes narrowed at him. "I'm not certain you will stay here, and that's the truth. But Mr. Flemming has vouched for you, and I owe it to him to give you a chance." She paused, tilting her head in emphasis. "If you do stay, your duties will be as follows." She ticked the items off on her fingers. "You will take dictation and read things to me. You will keep the ledger books up to date."

That would be easy enough, though it would hardly keep him occupied—

"And you will teach me to read and write."

Michael felt his brows raise.

"Can you do that, Dunn?" The heat of her attention burned into him.

"I—uh." His tongue felt thick and clumsy. "Do you have a reader, Mrs. Blackwell?"

"A reader?" She scowled.

"A book that lists the alphabet and simple words and rhymes. It . . . it could help."

"I do not," she snapped, and for the first time, Michael spied something behind her tight demeanor. A fear, or nervousness. "Do I need one?"

"No."

She took another sip of her tea. "I understand you took a salary at Cowper's. I have no money for such things, you know that?" She shot him another severe look, but now that he'd seen it, he couldn't ignore that unease behind her eyes.

She was as uncomfortable as he was.

"Of course."

"As long as you do well, you'll have a supply of tobacco and tea, and you'll eat well. We've fresh meat regularly, honey, and vegetables." She rose and began clearing the table, placing the candle molds into a basket before sweeping the excess wax into a pile and off the table into her hand. She ignored Michael, as if he'd been dismissed.

"Mrs. Blackwell," he began. "Where will I—"

"You will sleep in the dairy." She didn't look up as she spoke, and her cheeks turned vaguely pink. It was a brave thing for her to do, to let him stay in the house and trust that he wouldn't come at her. And beyond that, such an arrangement would make people talk, even out here. Though Michael had no illusions that this stern, thorny woman would take him into her bed. "Just through there." She pointed with her chin to a door leading off from the kitchen. Then she dropped the bits of wax into her basket, picked it up, and started toward another door in the back that must lead to the yard. "We'll eat dinner at half five," she called over her shoulder, balancing the basket on her hip as she pulled the door open.

She disappeared, only to poke her head back in a few seconds later.

"You'll be needing a bath, I should think." Michael winced. He must stink to high heaven. "There's a tub in the back pantry and soap"—she pointed to a door—"and the well's just out here." She motioned toward the yard, then turned and shut the door behind her.

A bath. That would be good.

Michael rose and got to work.