Six

Caitlin closed the back door with authority, but her confidence ended there.

She stood on the brick path, her gaze wandering across the farm, her mind grasping for what to do next. She'd finished the work she'd planned for today. It was too late to start any big projects and too early for the milking. The cows and the mare were grazing in the far pasture, the pigs snoring away in the hot sun. Hud and Greg were harvesting and stooking in the field, while Finn saw to the threshing and winnowing. She could hear the dull thud of the flail as he pounded it into the barn floor. None of them had need of her help.

On any other day, she'd go back into the house, melt the wax that had stuck in the mold, and press the honey from the combs she'd collected last week. But with Dunn bathing, that was out of the question.

The sound of something heavy scraping against the floor came from behind her. He was pulling the metal tub out of its nook in the pantry.

He'd be out any minute to collect water. And wouldn't she look the fool, just standing here? The last thing she wanted was to face that blank expression of his again so soon, his surly silence. The hopelessness of it, and the awkwardness.

A sudden flush of anger rose, but not at Dunn. This wasn't his fault. It was hers. What had she been thinking, to take a man into her house? Even if he'd turned out the perfect secretary, it was her house. The one place in the world she could simply be, without pretense. And here she was, locked out of it, fretting and antsy on her own back stoop. Perhaps it was for the best that he was unsuitable. Just a few more days, and he'd be gone.

Her gaze fell on the garden, the patch of lush green fenced in by woven sticks. The turnips could use a thinning, especially after the rains yesterday. She'd eat the greens for her evening meal—or they would. Dunn would be there too, wouldn't he?

Gor .

She set her basket down then pushed away from the house, passing through the yard and letting herself through the gate. Indeed, the bright green turnip leaves grew thick in their rows, crowding in on each other. The carrots and leeks too. She hunkered down and began the work.

A small breeze had picked up, a balm to her heated skin. The damp black earth cooled her fingers, and the small plants slid from the ground without any resistance at all. The ease of it, and the peace, was soothing. Her hands fell into a rhythm. Pull this one, leave that one. Pull these two, leave this one . . .

A bee buzzed by, landed on a melon blossom and began its busy dance, filling its legs with powdery, bright orange pollen.

Caitlin smiled at it working away. How happy it seemed in the usefulness of its simple labor.

It flew off again.

The sound of the back door opening and closing floated past on the wind. Caitlin held her breath. He'd never see her, stooped low as she was, and she had no desire to be seen. Next came the creak of the pulley at the well, the splash of water pouring into a bucket. Then the opening and closing of the door once again.

She exhaled and tossed an uprooted turnip onto the growing pile.

She'd given him the impression that there was a chance he might stay, hadn't she? Selfishly, so at least it would seem to Mr. Flemming that she'd tried. But it was a cruel thing to do to a man like that . . . to give him hope. She had no choice, of course. She couldn't afford to take on a charity case, nor could she afford to offend her buyer for candles. But still . . . ‘Twas such a shame, what this place did to a person. And she had so wanted to learn to read.

The bee returned, or perhaps this was a different one. It buzzed about aimlessly, then zoomed away.

What would she do now? She wasn't any worse off than she'd been before all this. Yet somehow it felt that way, now that the notion of learning had seeded itself.

Perhaps she might find someone else to teach her. Her assigned men knew a bit more than she did, but not by much. Mr. and Mrs. Flemming were too far away, and her neighbors were less than friendly. None of them had called when John had died, nor spoken with her at his funeral. Except for one—the new owner of the farm just to the east, who'd introduced himself only to tell her how delighted he'd be to acquire Swindale.

There was no one. And that was the truth.

The only real friend Caitlin had known in her years here was Jedda, the native woman whose family camped nearby and who'd sometimes brought her baby to play in the yard. Caitlin had been new to the farm, then, and new to the colony, too. They'd barely understood one another at first. Yet they'd spent hours under the gum trees, trading songs and playing silly games with the child. . . But, of course, Jedda and her family had left years ago.

Or they'd been driven out, was more like it. Caitlin only hoped they were alive. If they were, that baby girl would be a full-grown woman by now.

The door opened again. Then the sound of the pulley. The bucket. The door.

She inhaled the scent of the damp earth, the richness in the air. There was a sense of things growing—she could hear it, almost, feel it in her bones.

The strong, sure line of plants that she'd left in the ground extended behind her. Even, neat, and tidy.

And next to it lay the heap of discarded turnips, the filaments of immature roots and the thin green leaves already wilting under the sun. Just a moment ago they'd been thriving, vibrant and full of health.

How quickly life could change. For better or worse.

She turned back to her task, firmly pulling out the small plants and leaving only the large, the dominant, the strong.

She would at least have Dunn read John's letters and look over the ledger books before he went. Surely, he could accomplish that. And perhaps there was someone in Windsor, someone who might agree to teach her in trade for vegetables or milk or eggs . . . the smith's daughter, perhaps? She'd gone to school . . .

Caitlin worked and waited for what seemed a very long time. At last, when she was certain the new man would be finished with his bath, she made her way back to the house.

Dunn was sitting at the table reading a newspaper. He looked up as the door opened, and Caitlin froze on the threshold. The transformation was remarkable.

Without the thick layers of dirt and whiskers, he wasn't a bad-looking man. His thick brows curved over high cheekbones and full, well-formed lips. His damp hair curled nicely, dark gold with little wisps of light where it had started to dry. He'd changed into clean, respectable clothes—crisp white linens, wool trousers, and a coat with a light blue waistcoat underneath.

Studying him now, she could well believe he was educated, and even that he'd once been a gentleman.

Except that his eyes still gave him away. His sharp blue gaze lanced her with that scared, wild desperation. And his expression—set, and rigid. As if he'd forgotten how to smile or frown.

He glanced away quickly. The way he sat there, so expectant and nervous and lost . . . Caitlin wanted nothing more than to turn around, to go back to the peace of the garden.

She set her jaw. Just a few days.

"You have a paper with you." She pitched her tone somewhere between polite and exacting.

"Yes. Davey—Mr. Flemming gave it to me." Dunn sounded defensive, though it had hardly been an accusation.

Caitlin took a few steps into the room and softened her tone. "I'd like you to read it to me later. I so rarely get any news."

Dunn nodded quickly. "Of course."

Caitlin held up the basket she carried. "I thought we could have boiled turnip greens for our dinner. I've a pork bone to cook it with, and some new potatoes."

Without warning, Dunn sprang forward as if to take the basket, and Caitlin impulsively drew back.

"What—"

"Oh—"

They spoke at the same time. Then they froze, eyeing one another.

"I—I'm sorry," Dunn stuttered. "I thought you wanted me to cook—"

" Cook? " Caitlin raised her eyebrows. "You know how to cook?"

"I cooked for Mr. Flemming and me, when we lived together." Dunn's speech took on that rigid, defensive tone once more. His blue eyes, darker now that he stood in shadow, flicked to her, then away.

The man was nervous as a hen on a hot griddle. She'd only meant to tell him what she planned to make for the evening meal, but it had sounded like a directive, hadn't it?

"No need to be sorry." She walked past him to set the basket on the table and caught a whiff of lavender on the way—the same soap she made and used herself. "I'd be glad for your help. Why don't you ready these for the pot?"

Dunn seemed relieved to have something to do. Or perhaps it was Caitlin who was relieved. He folded his paper and set it aside, then began tearing the turnip roots from the leaves while Caitlin put the pot on to boil with the bone and fetched the potatoes and a knife.

She sat across from him and began to cut. "Tomorrow morning I'll show you the ledgers." She cleared her throat. "And there are some letters I'd like you to read."

Dunn looked up, only for a fraction of a second, but enough for the biting pain in his eyes to lash at her one more. He nodded quickly, then dipped his head back down.

Michael was falling. Falling and falling through endless blackness. He flailed his limbs, desperately reaching for something, anything to hold on to, but only smooth, wet stone slipped past his fingers, evading his grasp. He screamed, but there was no sound, only a raw strangling pain in his throat.

Then a sudden jerk, and all was still. He lay on his back, breathless, his blood pounding horror through his veins, the floor cold as ice beneath him.

It was dark. Silent like a grave.

No. This couldn't be happening.

He struggled to his feet, extended his arms before him, feeling for a way out. A door. He reached a wall, the same stone, great blocks of it, slick and clammy to the touch. He followed it, hands desperately searching and searching and searching for a way out . . . fingernails scraping against stone . . . but there was none.

He was trapped.

He blinked, but he couldn't see. He screamed, but there was no answer. The darkness was moving in. Cold terror crushed him. He would die—

Michael awoke with a start.

Shit . That goddamned nightmare. It was a wonder none of the other men had clouted him awake to shut him up.

As the terror of the dream faded, another kind of fear took its place. The sky outside was streaked with light, and it was eerily quiet. He could hear his own heartbeat, fast and loud. There were no snores coming from the other men beside him. In fact, he couldn't hear them at all. They'd left already.

A cold sweat broke out on his brow.

Why had they not woken him? Any minute now, the guard would come and kick him in the gut.

Panicked, he rolled himself over, carefully keeping his feet together so the irons wouldn't bite into his flesh as he stood—

Irons. He wasn't wearing leg irons.

He froze, half sitting, and slowly took in the room around him.

There was a paned window open to the morning air, whitewashed board walls, and a sloping, low ceiling with a tin roof above. He was lying on a straw tick. A real bed.

He practically sobbed in relief. The widow. He was at the widow's house. Mrs. Blackwell's.

Suddenly weak, he sank back onto the mattress and lay still, allowing his pulse to slow.

A magpie began to sing outside the window, a bubbling, throaty air, as if the creature hadn't a care in the world. Only a bright, wondering joy at the day to come.

He'd never heard bird song in Moreton Bay. Or had he? He couldn't remember. Perhaps it had simply been drowned out by the crack of the whip and the clanking of chains.

A gentle wind filtered in through the window, drying his sweat and sending a chill through him. He couldn't go back there. Not to Moreton Bay, nor to Sydney, nor to the grog houses or the barracks or Davey's pitying looks . . . to the constant fear of being clapped back in irons.

Somehow it hadn't dawned on him yesterday, in the confusion of everything that had happened, but the truth came rushing in on him now. He wanted to stay here. More than anything in the world, he wanted to stay here.

A door opened, then slammed shut. He could hear footfalls in the kitchen.

His employer. The woman knew nothing of him and cared even less. All she expected was that he be useful. Teach her to read and write—something he'd learned as a child. It seemed such a simple thing, yet he'd made a terrible impression yesterday. Today, things must be better.

He got out of bed and dressed quickly, taking the time to comb his hair before leaving the small room.

She was standing by the hearth, dipping a spoon into a steaming pot. Porridge, it must be. She'd cinched an apron around her waist, and her black hair hung down in a long plait. Seeing her from behind, he realized she wasn't all angles as he'd thought yesterday. There was a graceful, long curve to her figure, pleasing to the eye . . .

She glanced over her shoulder. "Good morning." All thoughts of softness were lost to her cold expression and curt tone.

"Good morning." Michael edged toward the door that led to the yard and the privy, suddenly conscious of the fact that she was a woman. He couldn't just announce the need to piss. "I'll just—I'll be right back."

A look flitted across her face. Almost an amused one, but . . . no. "Breakfast'll be ready when you get back."

It was a relief to be outside, alone again. The sun had just crested the horizon, painting the wispy clouds in pale pinks and purples. The air was cool, the breeze sweet and fresh. The magpie still sang, as if in ode to the rising sun, joined now by the cackling laugh of kookaburra.

He relieved himself, then stopped by the well pump to wash. The cold water stung his cheeks, waking him fully.

When he came back in, two bowls sat on the table, full of yellow mash. An earthenware honeypot sat between them, and a pitcher of cream rested alongside a steaming pot of tea.

"It's only maize," Mrs. Blackwell said, sitting down. "I've not had any of this year's wheat milled yet, and even then, I only keep enough for a bit of bread."

"It's fine." In fact, the maize porridge looked almost too good. Michael didn't trust it to be real—so fresh and golden, and as much as he could eat. He poured cream in, then reached for the honey and drizzled some on top. It flowed in a shining column, dark and rich, then disappeared into the thick yellow cream.

His stomach growled.

Feeling his ears grow warm, he slowly twirled the honey stick to catch all the drips before returning it to the pot. Then he nervously glanced at his employer.

Sure enough, she was watching him, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced, brows raised in disapproval.

He looked down quickly, summoning the kind of words that used to come so naturally. The polite nonsense that had been drilled into him as a child. "Pardon me, Mrs. Blackwell." He attempted a smile in her direction. "The porridge looks so delicious my stomach can't seem to wait. Thank you."

Her eyes widened. "So, you do know how to talk, then?"

Again, he forced what he hoped was a smile, though his face felt stiff with it. "I once did."

Her brows lowered at this, as if in confusion. And for a moment, Michael was sure she'd speak. But she simply readied her own breakfast and began to eat.

Michael picked up the spoon, scooped up some cream and honey and maize, and brought it to his lips.

Sweet. Rich. Hearty. Like heaven and earth combined. He swallowed, and the food traced a path of comfort down his throat to his belly.

It was too good to be real, but in this moment, he didn't care.

They ate the rest of their meal in silence.

"I'll show you John's study now." Caitlin turned away from the basin where she'd just piled the breakfast dishes and wiped her hands on a towel. Then she led Dunn into the corridor.

What to make of this man? There'd been a flash of something different at breakfast. Something more like the person he used to be, most likely . . . But now he was back to that sullen silence, avoiding her gaze.

She led him into John's study, a small closet attached to her bedroom—the bedroom she had supposedly shared with John, though she could count on one hand the number of nights her husband had spent here in recent years. He preferred to stay in Sydney between voyages and had only come to the farm to take care of necessary business.

That had been fine with her. It was bad enough dealing with him when he was here, bossing her about like some scullery maid, acting as if he knew better than her how to run a farm, and expecting her to put up with it like an obedient cur, dependent on its master for food and shelter.

And she had put up with it, hadn't she? Just like a stinking dog, she'd had no choice.

She tightened her jaw. No, she did not need another man here, not even if Dunn recovered himself somehow. She'd been foolish to even consider it.

"You'll get more light in here." She stopped short of the door and waved Dunn inside the small room. "But if you prefer, you could bring it all to the sitting room or the kitchen. There's more space out there."

He stepped past, then surveyed the room, John's desk, the sideboard. "This'll do."

As soon as he'd said it, Caitlin wished she'd insisted they bring the books into the kitchen. This room was entirely too small for two people.

Never mind. She'd be gone in a minute. She pushed past him, doing her best to ignore the brush of her shoulder against his coat. Then she opened the desk drawer and pulled out the books. "Here are the ledgers. This one's the most recent." She handed him the book with the bright red cover, and he accepted it without comment. Then he stepped back, holding it to his chest as if it might put more distance between them. He too, must have been feeling the closeness of the room. "And these are the others." She set them on the desk. Ledger books going back twenty-two years, to when John had first been granted the farm.

There was an awkward pause. Caitlin felt a flush creep up her neck. It truly was hot in here. She turned and opened the window.

"What would you like me to . . ." Dunn spoke to her back.

"Just look them over." She straightened up. "Acquaint yourself."

He nodded.

"And those"—she gestured to the small pile of sealed papers on the desk—"are the letters I spoke of. They've all arrived since John died, and I have no idea what they say. Perhaps they're important."

She stepped back, expecting Michael to take her place by the desk, but he just looked at the letters, then back at her. They were close enough now to touch, and there was something about him . . . the way the sun shone on his fine golden hair . . . Just as when he'd arrived on her doorstep, she was reminded of a young boy. A boy who'd been hurt and was trying desperately to hide it.

Or a man. Caitlin swallowed. She'd never be so rattled by the presence of a boy.

She cleared her throat and edged toward the door. "I must go see to the chores. I'll be back in an hour or so, and you can read to me then."

"Of course." His mouth did that thing again, just as it had at breakfast. The corners turned up into what looked like a sarcastic, bitter kind of smile. Caitlin was starting to suspect it was the closest he could come to a real one.

She returned his look with a tight smile of her own, then held her breath and ducked past. He squeezed himself against the wall, the book still clutched to his chest, and this time she managed to avoid brushing against him.

But when she finally reached the cool dark of the corridor, her cheeks were still burning.