by Amanda Deed
Why couldn’t she be something other than she was? Once again she prayed the prayer that was ever on her lips. ‘God, please make me beautiful.’
The next day she watched her stepmother and sisters with a covetous eye as they dressed for an outing into town. Jane was not going with them, of course; they were having tea with another of the ladies from church. They did not invite her to join them, and they expected not to be questioned either. Once, when Jane had asked why she couldn’t go along, she’d been told in no uncertain terms how selfish and conceited she sounded. She never asked again.
Behind veiled glances Jane admired their day dresses, the jewels they adorned themselves with, the hair combs, the perfume—she took in every detail. How magical it would be to have a pretty bustle, pleated and tucked like Harriet’s and Nancy’s, or ruched like Mother’s? When it came to beauty, her stepsisters lacked nothing. Luxurious blonde waves cascaded down their backs from beneath feathered caps, and their waists narrowed by their corsets. Jane sighed to herself as they minced out to the buggy and climbed in, comparing them to her own shapeless form.
She watched until they were out of sight, then went back indoors. After a slight hesitation, Jane tiptoed to her sisters’ bedroom and opened their wardrobe. The house was empty, no one would hear her, yet she tried to be as quiet as possible. She sifted through the gowns hanging there to find the prettiest dress Harriet owned. Harriet was the closest to her height, but even then, she was at least six inches shorter.
Jane laid out the lilac silk taffeta skirt and bodice on the bed, then hunted for a spare crinoline and corset, to no avail. Not that she could put a corset on by herself in any case. She chewed on her lip, considering her options. Should she try the gown on without the proper undergarments? It wouldn’t hold its shape, of course, but at least she might have an inkling of how she looked in a pretty dress.
Jane discarded her worn, pale-blue cotton dress, slipped the heavy silk skirt over her drawers and secured it at her waist. As expected, the length came to well above her ankles. She shrugged into the bodice, which curved past her hips and fastened the buttons down the front. Mother had a large mirror in her bedroom, so Jane lifted the train of the skirt and crept along the hallway in her stockinged feet.
In the privacy of Mother’s room, she swished the skirt around in front of the mirror, lifting the bustle area of the gown to try and imitate its proper shape. Even without the crinoline, her figure showed feminine curves with the excellent cut of the fabric. If only I had such a dress of my own. Perhaps it might increase her chances of finding someone to love her.
Jane pulled her hair up tight to the back of her head and stared at her image, wondering how she’d look in full ball regalia. She tried to picture jewels hanging at her throat and a few choice curls draped over one shoulder. With a sigh, she let her hair drop. What was the use? The days of imagining herself as a princess belonged in the past, along with dreams of handsome princes. There wasn’t even a semblance of princess in her. Not one iota. And handsome princes were only interested in princesses, weren’t they?
The opportunities to dress up never came her way, and even at her best, she resembled a frump. Jane started back to the girls’ room, undoing the uppermost buttons as she went, when a voice called to her from the front of the house.
‘Jane. Where are you, dear?’
Aunt Ruby rounded the corner into the hallway and caught her wearing the dress. Jane’s face burned with embarrassment. ‘Sorry, Aunt Ruby. I was just … I …’ Her confession—that she’d succumbed to vanity—died on her lips.
Aunt Ruby didn’t laugh or scold. Instead, her face softened and a sigh left her mouth. ‘Oh, my dear girl.’ She shuffled towards her and put a tender arm around her shoulders. ‘Every young lady wishes for a pretty dress. Never you mind. Your secret is safe with me.’
‘Thank you, Aunt Ruby.’ Relief flooded Jane. She didn’t know what she would do if Harriet or the others found out. They would laugh her to scorn. Even now, she imagined them taunting ‘Plain Jane’ over and over in her head.
‘Right. Well, get yourself into your own clothes and come to the stables. Your horse appears to have thrown a shoe and she won’t let Darcy look at it.’
Jane had to smile at that. ‘Silly Essie. I’d say she’s cross with me because I didn’t visit her yesterday. She’s probably pulled her shoe on the fence again. I don’t know why she has to be so fussy with people.’
As she supposed, the large Waler had been pawing at the yard fence. Darcy handed her a claw hammer and wood rasp with a nod. ‘I’ll get on to Fred Hayley an’ get him out here to re-shoe her.’
‘Thanks, Darcy.’ Jane took the tools and entered the yard. Even Mr Hayley, the farrier, had found it difficult to get Essie to cooperate in the past. Jane needed to stand by her horse the whole time. She stroked Essie’s shiny black coat. ‘You couldn’t let Old Darcy pull the rest of it off for you, eh, girl?’
Essie nickered and pushed her nose into Jane’s hand.
‘You’re a big baby, aren’t you?’ Jane spoke in mothering tones. ‘Well, let me look at this shoe.’
She bent and lifted the front hoof, wedging it between her knees. Next, Jane rasped off the clinches, while Essie stood still for her. With the claw end of the hammer, Jane pried off the shoe until it came away from her hoof. ‘There you go, girl. All better.’
Essie let out a deep sigh and nuzzled into Jane’s rib cage.
‘I suppose you want a carrot now.’ Jane dipped her hand into the pocket of her apron and withdrew the treat. Essie took it eagerly, leaving a moist smudge on Jane’s hand.
Moses, who had been watching from his perch on the yard fence, flew over and landed on Essie’s back, waddling from her withers to her rump.
‘Cheeky boy.’ Jane scolded. ‘Watch out.’
Just then Essie flicked her tail, but Moses hopped aside before he received a lashing. It was amusing that Essie tolerated Moses much better than she did Old Darcy. It amused her no less that a horse that stood at sixteen hands could be afraid of a human less than half her size. With a chuckle, Jane stroked her horse one more time before heading out of the yard, with Moses now perched on her shoulder.
6
Price stretched his long frame out upon his bed as he woke to a variety of bird calls outside his window. The wonderful warbling sound of the magpies, the harsh caw of the crow, the laugh of the kookaburra and the squawking song of various parrots all clamoured for his attention. However, as Price tucked his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling, his musings centred on one bird, a sulphur-crested cockatoo known as Moses, or more particularly, that bird’s owner.
He’d never met a girl who climbed trees. Well, that was not exactly true. His two older sisters were both accomplished climbers in their childhood, but once they entered their adolescence, they put it behind them as precisely that—an accomplishment of youthfulness. He’d never known a grown young woman who still climbed, and often he suspected, high into the boughs of a tree.
Every time he met Miss O’Reilly she intrigued him even more. And he had as yet to draw a decent conversation from her. What mysterious thoughts flowed beneath that delightful mop of red hair? Did she regard him at all? Or, was she intimidated beyond sensibility by his presence. If so, he must remedy that.
Today was the day to do it. Today he would spend the afternoon at her farm and this time she couldn’t escape him. Price grinned at the ceiling. How he looked forward to learning her favourite pastimes, her favourite foods; did she prefer winter or summer, what did she do with her days? So many questions he had.
Price threw the covers off and pushed himself up from the side of the bed, humming a hymn of joy. He splashed water over his face at the washstand and combed his hair, oiling it so that it sat at its best. He opened his wardrobe and brought out the smartest frock coat he had, although he only had two.
A moment of regre
t stabbed at him. Back home numerous garments hung in his wardrobe, and in the latest fashions, too. But he had left most of them behind to travel to the other side of the world. No. I shan’t be sorry for the loss of material items. Price scolded himself. He had never hankered for riches or fame like others did and he didn’t intend to start. If Christ lived without an abundance of wealth, so could he.
Price glanced at his small writing desk. As yet, he had still not written to Uncle Loren, and another week had passed. Perhaps he should do it now, while it was fresh in his mind. He checked his fob watch. Yes, he still had plenty of time, although breakfast might be a crust of bread smothered in butter as he walked to church.
Sitting at the desk, Price withdrew a piece of paper and dipped his pen into the ink pot. He paused to consider his words, then began to write.
Dear Uncle,
I write to you from the wonderful country of Australia. Yes, I carried out my plan to travel to the mission fields and set up a barbershop, just like yours. I know you will understand my motives better than the rest of my family, so I will not keep them from you.
My decision became cemented last July when I had a falling out with Pa. It was the same old argument that we have had many a time over the years, but he still won’t listen to reason. He has no interest in my heart, or my vision for my own future. He would force me to follow in his footsteps if I stayed. It is not a life I wish to live and it turns my stomach if I even try to imagine myself in his position.
In my heart of hearts I believe God has called me as His witness, but Pa will not understand. I know you do. You have taught me everything I hold valuable and I have much for which to thank you. You showed me the Way and the Truth. How can I live and not spread that news to others? Indeed, I could not live with myself.
But here, I have met so many wonderful souls who need the love of Christ. I have much work to do, and it fills me with excitement for every day when I awake. I wish you could be here to meet these folks. Hard workers who have survived in difficult circumstances as they pioneered the land. They inspire me as much as I hope to inspire them.
I mostly wanted you to know that I am well and happy. Do not fear for me, or fret over me. Perhaps you can soften the blow by speaking to Ma, although they may even blame you. I hope they do not, because it was my decision to leave. I apologise if my actions cause you any difficulty, Uncle. But I did what I believed was right—what I felt compelled to do.
I remain your ever-affectionate nephew.
Price Moreland.
Price sat back, tapping his chin with the end of his fountain pen. He had not considered before that his actions might have caused friction between Pa and Uncle Loren. Guilt tied a small knot in his stomach. Dear Lord, I pray it isn’t so. Let me not be the cause of a greater rift. The two brothers had long been at odds over their beliefs and Price siding with Uncle Loren on that count hadn’t helped matters. Price bit on the end of the pen and groaned. Even on the other side of the world, these troubles beset him.
Tossing the pen onto the desk, Price got up and descended the stairs two at a time. He didn’t want to ponder his family problems back home any longer. Besides, if he didn’t hurry, he would be late for church again. With no time for tea or coffee, he gulped down a glass of water. He smeared butter on a chunk of bread and headed out the door, not forgetting to press his beloved hat on his head.
Along the way, Price met Mr Clark who walked beside an empty dray, guiding the bullock team along the street.
The carter doffed his hat with a grin. ‘Bobby Tuppence.’
‘How are you this fine Sunday, Clark?’
‘Just takin’ this mob home. Early morning delivery, ya see.’
‘On the Sabbath?’
‘Well, the boats come when they come. Can’t do much about it.’ Clark shrugged. ‘Where are you off to all dressed up like that?’
‘I’m off to church. Perhaps you’d like to join me.’
‘Church, eh?’ He shrugged again. ‘Don’t see the need. I’m not a bad person. Keep to meself. Never hurt anyone.’
Price grinned and scuffed at the ground with his shoe. ‘Well, none of us are perfect. And church ain’t just about whether you’re a sinner or not. It’s about meeting with God—getting to know Him.’
Clark screwed up his face at that. ‘Getting to know God? Isn’t he far off in heaven somewhere?’
Price breathed out a long breath and smiled as the truth bubbled up in him. ‘No. He’s right here.’
‘Where?’
‘Everywhere around us.’ Price spread his arms wide. ‘Beside us. And in us, if we let Him.’
Clark squinted at him in the bright morning sunshine, one eye closed. ‘Well, you seem mighty convinced of it.’
‘I am, Clark. I am.’
‘Sounds interestin’ I s’pose. But I can’t come today. Gotta get this team home and get their yokes off. Takes a while. Maybe another time, eh?’
Price lifted his hat. ‘Another time then. Good day to you.’
‘G’day to you, too, Bobby.’ Clark threw him a wink, then told his bullocks to ‘get a move on,’ smacking their hides with a thin switch.
Price waited for the dray to pass before continuing on his way to the Hay Chapel with hastened steps. He entered the small building just as the strains of the first hymn began to float out the doors. Late again. He glanced at his coat and noticed a few crumbs on the broad lapels. Late and dishevelled. He scowled at himself while trying to brush the offending crumbs off without being seen. Discretion, however, was a hard task in a small church with several unattached women, whose eyes found him without any apparent difficulty. Several times, Price had to pause in brushing his lapels to nod and smile at one girl or another.
Why was it that Jane could not help but keep looking over her shoulder since arriving at church? Even in the front yard she hadn’t been able to stop herself glancing in every direction for a glimpse of Mr Moreland. She pressed her brows into a frown as guilt assailed her. It had only been a few days since she discovered Danny had married, and already her heart skipped a beat at the mere notion of another. Granted, Danny never made her insides quiver like this American man, but it was still very wrong, wasn’t it? It must be sinful. Perhaps this was what the Bible called lust. Jane swallowed in horror at the idea, and forced her eyes to focus on the altar.
Her mother’s words sounded like a gong in her head. ‘Promise me you’ll always be good.’ This was not good. Jane closed her eyes and whispered as the first hymn began. ‘God, help me. Help me be good. Forgive my sinful ways. Please stop me from thinking about Mr Moreland.’
She opened her eyes when she sensed a commotion beside her. Nancy and Harriet were nudging each other and sneaking glances toward the back of the church. That could mean nothing except Mr Moreland had arrived. It took all her self-restraint to not imitate them and have a look for herself. No. Jane stiffened her shoulders and forced her attention to the words of the hymn.
Mr Moreland could wait. He was coming to their home for dinner in a few short hours. Jane’s stomach fluttered. No. I will not become an imbecile in front of him. Why should he pay any special attention to her anyway? Her sisters would, no doubt, monopolise his attention, and she would become invisible—the same as every other time a visitor was in the house. So, why the uncontrollable nerves?
Repeatedly, Jane forced her focus back to the service. But the knowledge of Mr Moreland’s presence in the room made it hard for her to concentrate. More than anything, she wanted to look at him, to drink in that melting smile. A single message from those twinkling eyes could make her heart sing, even if it meant nothing more than ‘hello.’ And, of course, it never would mean more than that. Jane looked at her just-presentable Sunday clothes and the points of the tattered men’s shoes that poked out from beneath her skirt. No man would look twice at her.
Jane bit her lip and forced the issue fr
om her mind. What was Reverend Peters talking about? Oh, yes. He continued from last week, a sermon on another of the Ten Commandments—keeping the Sabbath Day holy. It was certainly unholy to be thinking about a handsome man on the Sabbath.
Why did every train of thought lead back to Mr Moreland? Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. The sooner this service concluded the better. She would have the opportunity to spend time with him this afternoon—or at least be around him, listening to him—and get it out of her system. After that she would take Essie for a canter on the plains. Now that her mare had new shoes on, they were free to ride again.
Finally, with a relieved sigh from Jane, Reverend Peters closed the service with a prayer. She was glad church was over, but her butterflies grew worse. Jane turned to head outdoors. On glancing up, the first thing her eyes met was the disarming smile of Mr Moreland, who stood at the doorway. Jane almost gasped. Her heart dropped from her chest into her stomach, if not right to her toes. Thankfully, he slipped outside with the other parishioners, breaking his hold.
Any conviction she’d had that she wouldn’t make a fool of herself vanished. By the end of today Mr Moreland would think her more of the town lunatic than ever. She would be lucky to be able to utter a coherent sentence at the rate her nerves fluttered. Twisting her fingers together in front of her, Jane followed her family into the yard.
Although the sun shone bright overhead, it lacked the strength of the summer months. Jane shaded her eyes to see where Mr Moreland had positioned himself. Papa and Mother, of course, made a beeline for him, her sisters hurrying along with them.
‘Ah, Mr O’Reilly.’ Mr Moreland greeted first. ‘How are you today?’
‘Fine thanks, Mr Moreland. Yourself?’ They shook hands.
‘I’m well.’ Mr Moreland turned to Mother with a nod, then greeted each in turn. ‘Mrs O’Reilly. Miss Harriet, if I remember correctly. Miss Nancy. Miss Jane.’
Did Jane imagine it, or was his smile just a little broader for her? Not that she dared to look for long. She forced out a curt hello, then pretended to be distracted by children playing nearby.
