by Amanda Deed
Jane could argue to the contrary. Any company was good as far as she was concerned, and she didn’t want him to hurry home because of his mood. ‘Did the church people upset you yesterday?’
Mr Moreland let out a half laugh, looking out over the river once again. ‘Yes.’ He scuffed at an exposed root with one foot. ‘I should tell you why it bothers me so much.’
Yes, please. Jane wanted to learn more about this American, but she didn’t want to force him. ‘Only if you want to.’
Mr Moreland crouched to the ground. Picking up a stick, he began to draw in the damp soil, scratching lines and circles—nothing particular. Jane spotted a fallen gum close by and sat upon it. It was slightly damp, but her dress was in no special condition to warrant concern. It wouldn’t make much difference. Moses hopped down beside her and began tearing at the bark.
‘Fifteen odd years ago, there was a war in my country. Not against a foreign enemy, mind you. We warred against our own countrymen—North versus South. Folks may argue this, but essentially the fight centred on the keeping of slaves.’
Mr Moreland glanced up at her. ‘You see, I am quite familiar with racial prejudice. People in my country have owned slaves for hundreds of years—treated black African men and women as work animals. And even now, after the war, when slavery has been outlawed, white folk and black folk don’t mix.
‘It grieves me when I meet with this kind of attitude. The divisiveness of such bias struck at the heart of my family.’ Mr Moreland straightened and turned back to the river. Jane saw the muscles in his jaw flex. ‘My father kept slaves. He believed—still believes—that black people are meant for slavery. He will even quote Scripture on it. His brother, my Uncle Loren, believes the opposite—that all men are equal in God’s eyes. I grew up with the children of our slaves, and to me they were a part of the family. I didn’t understand the war that came, young as I was.
‘My father left us to fight for the southern states, leaving us unprotected and our land exposed. Ma sent me and my younger brother to stay with Uncle Loren while she and my sisters went to her parents in Washington. For the next four years, while I was growing from childhood into a young man, Uncle Loren was more of a father to me than Pa. He taught me that God loves all mankind.’
Mr Moreland stopped and swallowed hard. ‘We never knew from one day to the next if my father would return alive. And all because of his stubborn belief that he had a right to keep slaves. It was years before the war ended and Pa did come home, but our relationship was never the same. He can’t or won’t see things through my eyes and I refuse to bend to his convictions.
‘I came here to try and make a difference. To share God’s love with folk in Australia. But, now I find the same biases I learned through my adolescence: That other races are less than we are. I don’t know …’ Mr Moreland broke off then and turned his back to her all together.
Sympathy rose in Jane. He would be shunned for mixing with the Chinese if he wasn’t already. If there was anything she understood, it was exclusion. What should she say to him? Part of her wanted to go and lay a hand of comfort on his arm, but she dared not touch him. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No. I’m sorry.’ Mr Moreland turned around, his mouth pressed into a grim line. ‘I should not be burdening you with my troubles.’ He held out his arm. ‘Shall we head back?’
In turn, Jane held her hand out to Moses. ‘Come here, boy.’ The cockatoo flew to her hand and she transferred him to her shoulder. She didn’t want to go back. She could stay out here all evening with Mr Moreland. Why, she had been unaware of the fading afternoon light. By the time she arrived at the homestead, it would be dark. It was a good thing Mr Moreland had noticed.
She took hold of his elbow again and they began to walk. Jane should tell him what she needed to, although it would make him feel worse now. She worried her lip for a few minutes before blurting it out. ‘Mother says we shouldn’t associate with you anymore if you continue to befriend the Chinese.’
‘What?’ Price spluttered, stopping in his tracks to look at Miss Jane.
Her eyes darted to his for the briefest of moments, but he recognised fear in them. Miss Jane’s head then dipped, her gaze on the ground.
‘I—it’s all right. I’m not going to listen to her.’
Price clenched his teeth together to refrain from blurting out in a fit of anger and frighten her more. He drew in a deep lungful of air and breathed out through his nose. ‘While that is very brave of you and I appreciate your support, I cannot ask you to defy your parents.’ He forced the words past his lips, though they lacked any conviction. Truth be told, he hoped Miss Jane would ignore Mrs O’Reilly’s decree. Not that dishonouring her family would make things right. Aargh! His logic tracked in frustrating circles.
‘I don’t have any parents.’
The fierceness of her tone startled him. His eyes darted to her face and he caught a glimpse of surprise there, too. It was as though the words had burst out unbidden from deep within. In an odd expression, she shrugged, and he suspected she wanted to hide her true distress. Whether she showed it or not, he felt the weight of her pain. No one should travel through life neglected as she clearly had been. The question left unanswered was, why?
‘My mother died when I was seven and it is as though my father died at the same time. He’s never been the same. My stepmother has never acted as though I were her daughter. I am more of a household servant to her. So, when it comes to whom I spend my time with, I shall decide for myself.’
Miss Jane looked directly in his eyes this time and he saw the light of conviction and determination burning in their green depths. Combined with a rush of compassion for her losses, a wave of desire swept over him without warning. Price wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. Surprised by the strength of this sudden yearning he took a step backward. If he acted on that impulse, he would scare her away for good. While Price still battled with the flames taking over his heart, her gaze faltered and she turned to continue walking.
‘Anyway, Aunt Ruby wants you to come by tomorrow at midday with those American scones you promised her. Mother, Harriet and Nancy will be out visiting, so it is quite safe.’
This announcement brought Price’s focus back in an instant. He jogged a couple of steps to catch up to her. ‘Hold on a minute. Did you tell her you were meeting me here?’
Colour rushed into Miss Jane’s cheeks and a shy smile touched her mouth as she glanced across at him. ‘No. I suspect you will find a letter from her under your door when you return to your shop.’
‘Well now, I think I might take an extended dinner break tomorrow.’ He grinned back at her. Price needed very little excuse to be near this captivating girl again. Once more, he held out his elbow for her to take. Her grip was feather light and she would let go the moment he moved away. But he enjoyed the slight pressure of her long fingers on his arm and the closeness it brought while it lasted.
They walked in silence until they arrived at the graveyard. Miss Jane then said a hasty goodbye as the sun now sank close to the horizon. Orange-red colours spread across the sky and reflected off the red curls that poked from beneath her bonnet, making them glow as fiery embers. His fingers ached to stroke her smooth cheek and twist one of those unruly locks. Instead, Price tipped his hat to her and tucked the image of her fresh face in the sunset into his memory for safe keeping until he would see her next. Tomorrow seemed a long time away.
As he walked away, Price could not help but wonder at the change that had taken place between them in the past few days. He had taken the time to give her an ear and show interest in her life and her thoughts, and she had in turn opened up. Perhaps now, she might even trust him enough to call him a friend.
Oh, but he wanted more than that. The more time Price spent with her, the more his attraction grew. Was Miss Jane aware of his increasing affection? Had she picked up the few light h
ints he had tossed her way? She hadn’t shown it, but then, her behaviour was always hesitant and bashful, so how could he tell?
His thoughts turned grim as he remembered Mrs O’Reilly’s disapproval. If she indeed forbade Miss Jane to see him, what would their future hold? Clandestine meetings might be exciting, but in truth, they were not only dishonourable, but dangerous to Miss Jane’s reputation. And he had promised her he would be respectful.
What then could their options be? Should he approach Mr O’Reilly and ask for permission to court his daughter? Price shook his head as he strolled along the riverbank. It was still too soon for that. He let out a long sigh. Perhaps an idea would present itself tomorrow. Mrs Ferguson might be able to explain the situation to him. With any luck, Mrs O’Reilly’s prejudice did not run as deep as the image she presented yesterday.
13
Price arrived at the farm the next day more perturbed than ever. The night before he had whistled as he prepared the batch of scones to take with him, happy in anticipation of seeing Miss Jane once again. The invitation from Mrs Ferguson had indeed been slipped beneath the door of his barbershop, just as Miss Jane said it would.
Ah, but this morning had been unpleasant to say the least. Reverend Peters entered his shop while Price had been trimming the hair and beard of a customer. The reverend was happy to wait until Price finished his work, but uneasiness exuded from his presence to the extent that Price began to dread what the minister had to say.
Once the customer went on his way and Patrick had been sent to the back to wash a few implements, Price turned to Reverend Peters with a curt greeting. ‘What can I do for you, Reverend?’
The minister didn’t smile, but cleared his throat in a nervous fashion. ‘A few of my board members have approached me since Sunday’s service.’
His words didn’t bode well to Price’s ears. That kind of beginning signified the herald of bad news. He clenched his teeth to brace himself.
‘I have been asked to … er … request that you no longer bring any … ahem … Chinese to The Hay Chapel.’ The man looked uncomfortable, and a flush of shame spread on his neck.
‘Why not?’ Price wasn’t about to concede that easily.
‘They … er … make people uncomfortable.’
Price snorted. ‘And what of the gospel? Didn’t Christ come for all mankind? Who are we to refuse admittance to certain races?’
Reverend Peters shuffled his feet and cleared his throat again, following that with a pronounced swallow. ‘The board insists.’
‘What? You have no say in this?’
‘I—they, they can …’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘It is not that simple, Mr Moreland.’
‘But this is wrong. You must see that.’ Price barely restrained his fury. Righteous indignation coursed through him, making his blood run hot. How did people profess to love God, then turn their backs on their fellow man? ‘Don’t the Scriptures teach us to accept all of mankind?’
Reverend Peters stared at him. His mouth opened and closed a few times. He had no argument to offer by the expression on his face. ‘Please heed their request. That is all I can say. Good day Mr Moreland.’
With that, the minister hurried out the door, leaving more than a sour taste in Price’s mouth. How could they? How dare they?
Now, as he sat at Mrs Ferguson’s work table in the cookhouse, the poor woman bore the load of disappointment he delivered upon her round shoulders. Miss Jane had not come in yet from exercising Essie, and Old Darcy’s arrival was unexpected until it was time to eat. So, Price was free to vent his frustrations to the cook. She remained calm, listening to his diatribe as she worked and Price was grateful for that small mercy.
‘The worst part is, Mrs Ferguson, that this is the church—God’s sanctuary—and they are turning it into an elite clubhouse of sorts. Excuse my blunt description.’ Price experienced a twinge of guilt over the way he spoke against the house of the Lord.
Mrs Ferguson let out a heavy sigh. ‘Unfortunately, a very strong status hierarchy exists in Hay and one social group cannot accept another. What is more lamentable is the same attitude creeping into the church. I’d wager the same would have happened if you’d taken a very poor man to church with you.’
‘Are you serious?’
Mrs Ferguson nodded.
‘Don’t the Scriptures teach us to feed the poor?’
‘Aye. But the poor can’t feed The Chapel coffers, and that is more important.’ The red-cheeked cook wagged a finger at him and rolled her eyes in an expression of disdain.
Price stared at her in shock as her words found their way to his heart. ‘Well, I’ll be hog-tied. What kind of place has the Lord led me to?’
She gave him an enigmatic grin. ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’
As though he’d never heard that phrase. Uncle Loren said it every other day. Price preferred the future spread out before him as a map, easy to follow, with an X to mark the treasure of fulfilment at the end. Would such a map have Jane O’Reilly written on it anywhere?
‘Tell me, Mrs Ferguson, the O’Reilly’s, are they of the same opinion as the rest of the town?’
The cook stopped stirring her pot and looked up to the ceiling for a moment, then sighed. ‘My sister is, unfortunately. Harriet and Nancy follow whatever their mother says. Seamus—Mr O’Reilly—rarely speaks his mind, so I can’t be sure of his sentiments. And Jane, well …’
‘She’s already told me what she thinks.’
‘Has she now?’ Mrs Ferguson’s eyebrows shot up. ‘So you’ve got her talking then?’
‘A little,’ Price nodded. ‘The problem is now I’m an outcast in town and not welcome on this property any longer. At least, not by the O’Reilly family.’
Mrs Ferguson walked past him to collect a plate from the buffet and patted him on the shoulder as she did so. ‘You’ll be happy to know that not every church in town has been infected with the keep-out-unless-you’re-white-and-wealthy disease.’
Price’s head jerked around to where she was working at the stove. He opened his mouth to utter a sound of astonishment, but then closed it again. He’d not even attempted to test any of the other churches. Not since he’d seen Miss Jane that first Sunday. Warmth spread beneath his collar. He’d chosen The Hay Chapel without so much as a single prayer heavenward on the matter. Price based his choice not on the quality of the services, but on the attendees—one attendee to be true.
Tugging at the stiff fabric near his throat, Price tried to banish his embarrassment. He could dwell on his lapse in judgement later. ‘Which church do you attend, Mrs Ferguson?’ It never occurred to him either, that she didn’t fellowship at The Chapel with her own sister.
The cook’s eyes twinkled as she turned to answer him. ‘One that would happily accept your Chinese friend.’ Mrs Ferguson went back to stirring her pot. ‘I’ll not be party to such narrow-minded snobbery.’
‘Well now, that is a relief.’ Price meant it. More than he could say. He had endured several scathing looks over the past couple of days. It was a pleasant change to be around someone who didn’t mind that he associated with the Orientals. But now his dilemma grew worse. If he changed churches, he would not just be unwelcome here at the O’Reilly’s, but he would no longer meet Miss Jane at church every Sabbath. How was he ever to spend time with her?
‘What’s a relief?’ Old Darcy had entered the cookhouse as Price breathed out his gratitude. He shuffled over to the stove and bent to inhale the aroma from the pot. ‘Smells delicious.’
Mrs Ferguson greeted her husband with a large smile. ‘A nice hearty soup for you, my love. And don’t forget we have Mr Moreland’s American scones to accompany them. We’ve just been discussing the difference between our Mission Hall and the Hay Chapel.’
‘I understand. The difference between grace and hypocritical piety.’ Old Darcy lowered himself into a cha
ir.
Price pressed his brows together. ‘Why do I feel like I’ve been blind since I arrived in town?’
The couple exchanged a glance he was unable to read.
‘Well, it will all change now.’
‘Good for you, sir.’ Old Darcy nodded his approval.
‘Well, this food is done. Did you see Jane before you came in?’ Mrs Ferguson tapped her wooden spoon on the edge of the pot, before laying it aside to collect a large iron ladle from a hook on the wall.
‘Aye. She’s just finishing up with Essie. She’ll be along in a minute or two.’
Jane ran the grooming brush over Essie’s coat one last time, then led her back out into the yard where the horse would spend the rest of the day. Back in the stable, with Moses in tow, she proceeded to tidy up the stalls. She made sure the tack was in its place and that there was plenty of food in Essie’s tubs. Old Darcy had already mucked out her stall while Jane was out riding.
‘C’mon, Moses.’ The bird was pecking at pieces of straw in Essie’s stall. ‘Time for dinner.’
With a squawk, Moses flapped to her shoulder and Jane headed for her veranda-room to wash. She chewed on her lip as her long legs carried her across the yard. Yesterday, she had blurted out several things to Mr Moreland. How was it he managed to elicit those admissions from her? Even to her own ears she had sounded defiant. She had denied her father, right to Mr Moreland’s face.
Guilt assailed her from the moment they had parted ways. Dear Ma’s words came back to haunt her once again. ‘Always be good for your pa.’ Would the Lord punish her for going against her stepmother just this once? Mother was doing the wrong thing by being hateful towards the Chinese. But did that make disobedience right?
