by Amanda Deed
‘Perhaps you could ride back with us in our buggy?’ Mother offered. ‘We should be able to squeeze you in.’
Harriet and Nancy tittered behind their fans.
‘Unless you have your own transport, of course,’ Mother continued.
Mr Moreland chuckled, sounding good-natured. ‘No. I walk most places. I’ll be happy to ride with y’all.’
Papa sat up the front to drive the buggy and Mr Moreland should have sat with him, but for Mother’s manipulation, insisting he sat in the back with them. That meant that Mr Moreland ended up between her two stepsisters, while Jane sat beside Mother opposite them. Watching her sisters at work made her cheeks burn with shame. How could they be so bold? They almost pressed themselves up against him, although Jane was sure there was room to spare.
She could not watch. For the entire journey home, which seemed to take an hour rather than the usual twenty minutes, Jane kept her eyes to her lap, or on the passing countryside. There was little to catch one’s attention apart from acres of flat grazing land and the line of trees that marked the river on the right. And keeping her eyes away from the spectacle didn’t save her from hearing it. The way those girls giggled and teased was embarrassing.
Yet, from the occasional glance she chanced in his direction, Mr Moreland appeared either unaware or at the very least, comfortable, with their behaviour. If he was unaware, did that make him a dolt? And if he was comfortable with it, did that make him as bad a flirt as they? Did he enjoy the attentions of many girls? With those looks it wouldn’t surprise her. Although, his eyes, in the brief glances she’d taken, did not appear to show naivety or artfulness. Perhaps, then, he was trying to ignore their shoddy behaviour, so as not to insult them.
Either way, Jane itched to scold them. How did Mother allow them to be so brazen? Harriet and Nancy would earn themselves a bad reputation if this were how they behaved around gentlemen. A tight knot of frustration built up in her chest. Why should it bother her? It was not as though she were related to them by blood. And they did not hold her in any affection. But the Scriptures did teach that one should honour their neighbour and even love their enemies. Jane sighed. It would be easier to honour them if they were honourable. And it would be easy to love them if they cared for her in the least.
With confusion still whirling through her mind, the buggy pulled up at the farmhouse, dragging Jane’s attention back to the present. Mr Moreland stepped around Nancy and climbed down first. While Papa handed Mother from the buggy, Mr Moreland handed down Nancy first, then Harriet, then Jane. Her fingers tingled at his touch, and with her cheeks hot at his disarming smile, she mumbled a hasty thank you. How would she ever survive this day?
7
‘Well now, you have a grand looking ranch here, Mr O’Reilly.’ Price surveyed the building in front of him. The Misses O’Reilly had disconcerted him with their presumptuous ways in the buggy, and staring at the homestead helped him to feel grounded again. A wide veranda stretched the whole way around, or so it appeared—something he’d seen often in Australian homes.
Mr O’Reilly shrugged. ‘It’s comfortable.’
Miss Harriet tittered. ‘Except we don’t call it a ranch, Mr Moreland. It’s just a farmhouse, or a homestead.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Price kept track of Miss Jane O’Reilly. The moment he’d handed her down from the buggy, she’d dragged her fingers—not smooth like her sisters, but rough—from his clasp and walked across the yard. Timber outbuildings framed what could be called a courtyard, except there did not appear to be any intentional layout. Smoke curled from a smaller stone building nearby, which Price assumed must be the cookhouse, and this was where Miss Jane headed. She rounded a corner, out of sight.
‘Did you live on a ranch in America?’ Miss Nancy asked as the family made their way indoors.
‘Well, not like the big cattle ranches out west, but we did have a large farm.’ Price glanced back over his shoulder to see if Miss Jane had reappeared. Where had she gone?
‘What kind of farm? Did you grow wheat the same as our father?’ Miss Harriet asked.
‘Horses mostly.’ Price shrugged. ‘Pa liked having the land and he bred horses as a hobby. But he made his living running a ship building company and later the railroad as well.’ He stepped onto the veranda and checked back toward the cookhouse again.
Ah, there she was, coming back with Moses perched on her forearm. That was where she had gone. He stood aside to allow the womenfolk to enter the house first, and more so to wait for Miss Jane. She was petting the bird as she walked and whispering to him with a soft smile. As she neared Moses chirped, ‘I miss you.’ Miss Jane smiled again. ‘I miss you, too.’ The cockatoo repeated his phrase and Miss Jane repeated her answer. Price guessed this had been the case the whole walk from the cage. The exchange was delightful to witness and Price could not hold back a grin.
‘C’mon Jane.’ O’Reilly tried to hurry her.
She ducked through the doorway and Price followed, leaving O’Reilly to close the door behind them. O’Reilly took Price’s hat and hung it, along with his own, on the hat stand, then led him to the dining room. Price was thankful to find he’d been seated to the right of O’Reilly and not in between Miss Jane’s sisters as in the buggy. Miss Harriet was on his right though and Miss Nancy opposite him. That left Miss Jane to sit diagonally across from him—not a position to make easy conversation with her. He noted that Moses now sat perched on a stand created for that purpose, and Miss Jane sat, with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes downcast.
Within moments, the door opened and a woman came in with a covered tray which she laid on the table then departed again, reappearing moments later with another.
O’Reilly nodded to her with a polite grin. ‘This is our cook, and Mrs O’Reilly’s sister, Mrs Ferguson. Ruby, this is Mr Price Moreland, the new barber in town.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’ She smiled, a much warmer smile in comparison to her sister’s.
It didn’t take him long to see that Miss Jane responded to her less guardedly than anyone else in the room, either. Mrs Ferguson was one person to whom she gave full eye contact and even spoke with openly. ‘And you Mrs Ferguson. Are you the one who baked those delicious biscuits Miss Jane brought out to the drovers’ camp recently?’
‘Biscuits?’ The woman’s brow creased. ‘Oh, you mean scones? That’s what we call them. Yes, I made them.’
‘That’s right. I remember they called them scones at the camp. I’ve never had them with jam and cream. Back home, our biscuits—er, scones—are usually served with gravy for breakfast. But what we call scones are harder, crunchier.’
‘Sounds like what we’d call a biscuit.’ The cook laughed. ‘Or a cookie.’
‘I’ll have to make you a batch and show you.’ Price offered with a wink.
Mrs Ferguson raised a brow. ‘You can cook then, can you? Well then, you make that a promise and I’ll make you some good strong Irish coffee to go with them.’
‘Sounds like we have a deal, ma’am.’ Price grinned.
‘I’ll look forward to it. For now though, I hope you enjoy our Irish dinner.’ Mrs Ferguson began to remove the covers. ‘We have colcannon—mashed potato with cabbage—mutton stew, tomatoes and green beans.’
‘Smells wonderful.’ Price acknowledged, watching as she uncovered a loaf of bread to go with the meal.
‘My sister is an excellent cook.’ Mrs O’Reilly announced. ‘We are very fortunate to have her here.’
‘Yes, well, I’ll leave you to it.’ Mrs Ferguson brushed her hands against her apron and headed back to the cookhouse.
Jane tried not to look at Mr Moreland while the family handed platters around the table. For a few minutes no sound but the clink of spoons disturbed the silence. That, and the ‘yes, I’ll have some’ and ‘can you please pass’ phrases that went along with it. She was
glad that Mr Moreland appeared to admire Aunt Ruby, but surprised by the praise her stepmother had just given her. Mother had never complimented her sister before, not in her hearing at any rate.
‘Seamus, will you give thanks please?’ Mother directed, once they had their plates full.
Pa stood to his feet. ‘Lord, for what we are about to receive, make us truly thankful. Amen.’
A chorus of ‘amen’ echoed around the table, and they began to tuck into their food.
‘You grow wheat, I believe, Mr O’Reilly?’ Mr Moreland asked Pa. This would be interesting, since Pa did not enter conversation with ease.
‘Aye.’
‘Yes, we have acres and acres of it, don’t we, Father?’ Harriet joined in, unsurprisingly, fluttering her hands as she spoke. ‘You should see when the fields stretch golden in every direction. So pretty.’
Mr Moreland nodded to her, but turned back to Pa. Jane kept her eyes on her dinner, but shot surreptitious glances from beneath her eyelashes every now and then.
‘What season are you in at present?’
‘Sowing. Just waiting for a good rain,’ came his short reply.
Again, Harriet tried to capture Mr Moreland’s attention, her eyes wide in an image of adoration. ‘Father is out from sunup to sunset. There is so much work to be done, isn’t there, Father?’
‘Aye.’
Mr Moreland nodded, although a small furrow appeared on his brow. He seemed determined to get Pa talking. ‘How long does it take for the wheat to grow?’
‘About six months.’
‘So you would be harvesting in November, December, then?’
‘Aye.’
This time Nancy spoke up, batting her eyelids and offering a shy smile along with it. It was enough to make Jane nauseous. ‘It takes him the best part of two months to harvest.’ She gave a dramatic shudder. ‘Cutting wheat is exceedingly messy work. Father comes in at the end of the day, covered in chaff. It makes me want to sneeze just thinking about it.’
‘My poor girls,’ Mother crooned, as she always did when she spoke of her ‘poor girls,’ meaning Harriet and Nancy, never Jane. ‘They are very sensitive to hay, except Jane, of course. She thrives on the farm. My girls need to catch husbands who are not farmers.’ She gave Mr Moreland a conspiratory wink.
Jane gaped at her, and noticed Mr Moreland looked shocked, too. The nerve of her stepmother hinting such a thing to him. She may mean well for her daughters, but why should she be so obvious about it? Jane’s cheeks warmed as she sensed Mr Moreland’s gaze rest on her, yet her sisters did naught but giggle. And Pa said nothing to curtail Mother’s boldness.
The rest of the dinner went much the same way. Mr Moreland tried to talk to Pa, his answers were brief and to the point, then either Harriet, Nancy or Mother filled in the details, often with flirtatious innuendo. Jane sat and ate, her focus directed to her plate, except when she slipped morsels of food to Moses behind her.
As soon as they finished dessert, Jane excused herself. She couldn’t bear a moment more of this charade, which embarrassed her to the core, and ducked outside before anyone could try to stop her. As the door closed behind her, she heard Mother draw his attention back to Harriet and Nancy, suggesting a game of cards in the parlour. Jane grimaced. Pa, not being a sociable person, would not offer him a cigar or port as gentlemen commonly did.
‘Poor Mr Moreland. What will he do?’ She whispered to Moses as they crossed the yard. Unless, of course, he enjoyed this blatant attention.
‘That young gentleman is a handsome one.’ Aunt Ruby greeted her as she entered the cookhouse.
Jane rolled her eyes. ‘Too handsome, if you ask me.’ She gestured toward the homestead. ‘Harriet and Nancy are all over him like mosquitoes after a summer storm.’
Aunt Ruby chuckled. ‘Lass, you have a wonderful sense of humour.’
‘Except that it’s not funny. It was humiliating to watch. I had to get out of there.’
‘I suppose so.’ Her aunt let out a wistful sigh.
Jane went to a corner and picked up the pail of vegetable scraps Aunt Ruby had collected from her dinner preparations. ‘I’m going to feed the chickens. I’ll be back later to get the leftovers for the pigs.’
Jane tried to remove the scowl from her face as she walked over to the chicken coop, Jem and Zai following at her heels. She was annoyed, although why, she could not fathom. She’d seen it often enough—the scheming ways of her stepsisters and mother—but Mr Moreland seemed genuinely nice. He didn’t deserve to be treated as though he were a prized trophy.
‘Hello, ladies. And Sir James, of course.’ Jane grinned at the rooster that strutted across the enclosure as she entered. ‘No, Jem and Zai. You stay here.’ She held the dogs back from the gate. Those pups would chase the chooks if they had the chance. Moses flew to the top of the hen house to stay out of the rooster’s way. Jane scattered cabbage leaves and vegetable peelings on the ground, while hens scurried out of her way with irritated squawks as they went.
If she owned the truth, she was envious of Harriet and Nancy’s ability to be bold, even if it were vulgar at the same time. If she had the courage, she would put them in their place. But asserting herself had never gotten her anywhere, except for punishment or ridicule. There was no point. She was safer to keep her tongue and suffer in silence.
Jane checked the grain and water in the feed troughs and topped them up, making trips across the yard for supplies.
It would be nice, though, if Mr Moreland had directed a question at her during dinner. Jane sighed in disappointment. He only tried to speak to Pa, and then with interruption from the others. She shouldn’t be jealous that he gave her sisters more attention. He didn’t really. They had stolen it. And they had talked so much of the farm and their lives that she knew little more about Mr Moreland than before dinner.
Jane closed the pen behind her and stood at the fence watching the chickens, while the two dogs bounded around at her feet. She remembered how nervous she’d been that morning and smiled to herself. Those butterflies had now been replaced with aggravation and tired frustration. She had been worried that she would make a fool of herself, and now she was more worried that her sisters would manipulate the man and trick him.
‘Fine flock of hens you’ve got there.’
Jane jumped with fright and bumped her knee on one of the fence rails. When had Mr Moreland come up beside her? With one hand on her pounding chest and the other rubbing her knee, she turned toward him.
‘I’m sorry. I scared you, didn’t I?’
‘I didn’t hear you coming,’ Jane managed to mutter.
Mr Moreland thrust his hands into the pockets of his pants. ‘I told them I needed to go to the outhouse.’ He jerked his chin toward the homestead with a grin. ‘It wasn’t untrue. But I did want to have that tour of the farm you promised me. I’m guessing farms here in Australia are much the same as the ones back home. I can see you have several animal pens. Perhaps you can show me around.’
Suddenly Jane’s anxiety returned with a rush, as though her stomach dropped into her toes. She tried to swallow her nerves. The sound of Mr Moreland’s American accent was pleasant and she would enjoy listening to him for a while. ‘Well, all right then.’ Her voice sounded small, even to her own ears. ‘These are the chickens.’ Idiot. He knows they’re chickens. ‘My dogs, Jeremiah and Isaiah.’
Mr Moreland’s face spread into a wide grin. ‘Isaiah, Jeremiah, Moses. My dog back home wasn’t so creative in name. A Coonhound called Brute. He was a big dog, although he was a mellow pup. I miss him running after me everywhere.’ He paused as though distracted by memories of his old dog. ‘Do you name all your pets after Bible characters?’
‘Um. Yes.’
His gaze shifted back to the chicken coop. ‘So, the hens? Let me guess. Mary, Elizabeth, Abigail, Naomi. Am I close?’
Jane shook he
r head and gulped back her nerves. ‘The twelve disciples.’
A small crease developed between his brows. ‘But aren’t the disciples men? I only see one rooster.’
Jane swallowed again. This would sound harebrained for certain. ‘I call the rooster Sir James. Then there’s Simone, Andrea, Johanna, Philipa, Thomasina, Jasmine, Petunia, Judy …’
Mr Moreland had begun with a chuckle, but was now outright laughing. Jane’s cheeks burned with mortification. He thinks I’m crazy.
He stopped laughing when she faltered. ‘What did you do with Thaddeus and Bartholomew?’
Jane breathed in deep. It was too late to pull out now. ‘Thadine and Bertha.’
‘And Matthew?’
‘Matilda.’
Mr Moreland shook his head and Jane was sure he would tell her how ludicrous the names were. Instead, he grinned at her again. ‘Ingenious.’
Jane didn’t know how to respond. One word of praise and she froze.
‘But what do you do when a hen dies? There were, after all, only twelve disciples—unless you count Judas’s substitute.’
Jane shrugged. ‘I give the same name to her replacement.’ There was no use getting attached to them when they would end up in the roasting pan eventually.
‘Well, I’ll be.’ He shook his head again. ‘The twelve disciples.’ He gestured toward the open courtyard and the rest of the pens. ‘Lead on, Miss Jane. I am eager to hear what you call your other animals.’
Price could not help but chuckle with delight at each new biblically named animal Miss Jane pointed out. Rachel the cow; Rahab and Jericho the goats; Ezekiel the cat; Mary, Martha and Lazarus the rabbits; and Boaz and Ruth the pigs.
‘I remember having the chore of feeding the hogs back home when I was younger. Ugh. Pig slops are awful. Do you look after all these animals by yourself?’
Miss Jane nodded with a shrug. ‘I don’t mind. Sometimes I have a lamb or two as well, but not now.’
