by Amanda Deed
‘When he died, I realised that I had built my whole world around him. I didn’t know who I was or where I belonged. Thankfully, I knew the love of Christ deep in my heart, and that carried me through the hardship. But Jane doesn’t even have that. She needs to know that someone loves her besides Mr Moreland.’
‘You and I love her.’
‘It’s not enough.’
‘Seamus loves her.’
‘Oh Darcy, she doesn’t know that. He barely even looks at her.’
Jane’s heart hollowed out. It was true. Why Darcy believed Pa loved her she didn’t understand.
‘Have you taken a close look at that girl of late? She is the spitting image of her mother. Every time Seamus looks at her he sees his lost Maire.’
Another pause. Jane’s heart raced. What kind of new information was this? Her stomach churned with anguish.
Darcy let out a groan. ‘Seamus is drowning in guilt. I’ve tried to talk to him many times of his apathy. He is ashamed that he’s saddled his precious daughter with a mother who doesn’t or can’t care for her. He knows he jumped into a second marriage out of desperation, without ever considering the consequences, but what’s done is done. He can’t undo it, and he doesn’t know how to live with it.’
Aunt Ruby’s voice was laden with sadness as she answered. ‘My sister agreed to the marriage out of fear of being alone with two children. She knows how to control everything and everyone, but not how to love. But poor Jane bears all the suffering. She’s walked through life convinced that no one cares for her, until Mr Moreland came along, and now she’s hanging on his every word and action. I’m just worried that if something happened—I wish she knew deep down how much the Lord cherishes her, that’s all.’
‘Well, love, we’ll just have to pray for her. For all of them.’
Their voices went silent then and Jane didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping if they rounded the corner. She hurried in the opposite direction, circling the building to approach the lines from the other direction. Old Darcy’s and Aunt Ruby’s words rang in her ears. A fog of grief filled her head, clouding any clear or rational thoughts. Pain filled her as if her heart had been rent and now bled out into the rest of her body. All that she suffered had resulted from a mistake her father had made?
She dropped the basket of washing on the ground behind the cookhouse and paced beneath the line. It would be easier to forgive Pa if she believed he loved Mother in the slightest, but apparently he didn’t. Old Darcy seemed to be sure Pa loved his daughter, but Jane knew better. A loving father would not neglect his child.
Anger bubbled up from deep within her heart. Anger held at bay for years because she thought, no, she believed that somehow it was all her own fault for being ugly and useless. But Jane was not to blame. Pa and Mother should take the responsibility for the wrongs. Pa was neglectful and Mother oozed spite with every word she spoke.
Jane stopped pacing, but instead walked toward the fields, her steps becoming faster until she ran at full speed. She ran until the house disappeared in the distance and all that surrounded her was hay and grass. A roar boiled up inside her and, heaven help her, she let it out. As years of hurt spilled out, her bellowing became sobs.
In place of her pain, a hard lump grew in Jane’s chest. Trying to do the right thing over the years got her nowhere. She’d tried to earn her father’s love and achieved nothing. Any attempt to win her stepmother’s favour earned her more chores. God had never answered her prayers. Aunt Ruby might be convinced He loved her, but Jane knew the truth. She was alone, apart from Mr Moreland. He was the one light in her dark life, and there was no way she would ever let him go.
Price jerked awake to the sound of glass splintering and smashing across the floor below. He stumbled out of bed and, grasping for the nearest heavy object, lurched down the stairs in his night shirt, bumping and swaying as he went. The fog of sleep still clung to him as he entered the store from the back, but he was aware enough to be on his guard against any intruder. He held aloft the frying pan he had grabbed and edged into the salon through the surgery.
Nothing appeared to be moving in the store, though he saw the broken windowpane in the faint moonlight. He approached the debris on the floor and saw what looked to be a rock lying amidst glass shards. Who would do such a thing? Price bent to pick up the missile and his hand recognised the texture of paper wrapped around the piece of stone. His brows furrowed in puzzlement.
He turned to take the object back upstairs and gasped in pain as his bare foot encountered a splinter of glass. ‘Blast! That’s all I need.’
Price hobbled up the stairs, hoping he didn’t drip blood all over the place. Setting the rock aside, he fumbled in the darkness for his lamp and managed to light it with a taper from the sleeping embers in the hearth. The chill night air made its way through the shock and sleepiness and Price shivered. He threw a robe around his shoulders, then bent to examine his foot in the lamplight.
A decent cut oozed blood and when he held up the light he saw crimson footprints on the floorboards leading back to the stairs. Price released a heavy sigh. By the time he dressed his foot, cleaned up the mess and covered the window, most of the night would be gone and precious sleep with it.
As he worked, he tried to pray for his customers and friends. Prayer helped him stay calm, instead of growing angrier by the minute at the scoundrel who’d thrown a rock through his window. His prayers, by way of course, led to Jane. The lovely girl became more confident with him each time they met and he could now reveal a glimpse into his heart without scaring her off like a timid mouse. She glowed when he told her she was pretty, although he wasn’t certain he’d convinced her of it. At least she accepted that he thought so, even if it went no deeper than that.
Price winced as he cleaned his foot with antiseptic before strapping a light bandage around the cut. The more he got to know Miss Jane—her sensitive spirit, her love of animals, her quirky sense of humour, even her reticence—he became sure he’d fallen in love with her. But when should he tell her? Would she believe him? Or would she just think he offered blind sentiments that meant nothing? She did seem to have trouble accepting any compliments, except on occasion. It made him sad that she saw so little in herself. He must find a way to show her how much he esteemed her.
With gloves and shoes on and his lamp turned as high as it would go, Price carefully picked up the largest pieces of glass. He limped slightly as he carried them to a box, before returning with a broom to sweep up the smaller splinters. As he worked he recalled the last evening he and Jane spent together, four days ago now.
They’d eaten supper with Mr O’Reilly, with whom he’d managed a half decent conversation over the price of wheat. Even Miss Jane had added her own opinion, pleasing Price no end. After eating they’d moved to the parlour where a warm fire burned, and played several games of checkers, or draughts as she called it.
He smiled, remembering Miss Jane’s response to losing. ‘Again,’ she would say with a frown and reset the tiles for another game.
Price sensed that losing had a larger impact on her than it should have—making her feel less worthy than usual—so he’d pretended to not play so well from there on, allowing her a victory. Miss Jane didn’t gloat as others might, but her self-assurance appeared intact for the time being. Price shook his head at the memory as he tucked a few nails between his lips, ready to fasten boards across the gaping hole in the window.
Their fingers brushed often during those games, sending arrows of warmth straight to his heart, and when he lost the third game, he pleaded distraction.
‘What do you mean, you’re distracted?’ Miss Jane had seemed surprised.
Price captured one of her hands while she set the board again. ‘How am I supposed to beat you when all I can think about is how enticing that escaped curl at your throat looks?’
At once her face had flushed with colour
and she pulled her hand away, trying to tuck the runaway tendril back into the bun at the back of her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
Price chuckled and reached for her hand to pull it back again, this time entwining her fingers in his. ‘Don’t be sorry. It’s quite enchanting.’ He pressed a kiss onto the back of her hand, all the while wishing he could kiss those soft pink lips of hers.
Miss Jane’s face had clouded over then and she tugged her hand away again. ‘You don’t have to say that. I’m not enchanting at all.’ She glanced up at him, her eyes filled with innocent yearning. ‘I wish I were beautiful for you, though, Mr Moreland.’
Price’s heart ached for her then. How could she not be aware of her allure or wonderful nature? How could she believe she was not good enough? As though somehow she had to deserve his attention. ‘Dearest Jane.’ He’d reached up and brushed his thumb across her cheek. ‘To me you are beautiful.’
A sweet furrow had developed between her brows as she searched his face—probably looking for pretence or insincerity—and he wanted to kiss her, more than ever. Luckily a table stood between them, for only that stopped him from reaching for her.
Now, as he finished mopping up the bloodied footprints, ready to settle into bed again, he remembered the rock with the paper wrapped around it. As he sat on the edge of his bed, he unwrapped the stone and straightened the paper over his thigh. Unmistakable words scrawled across the page, even in the dull light from his lamp. ‘Nigger lover.’
With a sudden burst of anger, Price screwed the hateful message into a ball and threw it to the other side of the room. How could that accusation have followed him here to Australia? Repeated whispers of the same two words flashed through his memory, along with the looks of disgust that accompanied them.
And now he must face the same here? Why were the folk in this town so prejudiced? What was so wrong with a desire to befriend people of every type and status? Price didn’t understand that kind of attitude, even though he’d been surrounded by it his entire life. It was so unjust, so wrong.
So now someone condemned him for associating with people in the Aboriginal camp across the river. In the last two days, he’d ventured to meet the natives of this region. He’d found them to be rather friendly, once they passed their initial and understandable mistrust of the ‘big white fella’. When he told them that he’d grown up with Africans as friends, explaining that they too possessed dark skin, they had relaxed toward him.
Price had sat around their campfire with them and listened to them giggle and laugh as they told stories. They fed him cooked snake meat along with kangaroo. It tasted strange, but not unpleasant. He had spent an enjoyable few hours in their company. But now this.
It seemed the people of Hay wanted to run him out of town. He only wished to share the love of Christ with everyone, but he met with opposition at every turn. God, why did you lead me here? To be ostracised and beaten into resignation? In the three months he’d been here now, only one had converted. It was far different from what he had envisioned his time in Australia would achieve.
Well, he would have to inform the police of this incident. He refused to bow and accept this kind of abuse. Price lay on his bed. Morning was but a few hours away, not that he would be able to sleep after this night’s activities. Perhaps, if he prayed again, he might be able to relax. And then tomorrow, he could deal with the rock-throwers of this town.
17
With a slight limp in his step, Price sought out the local constable the next morning. He pulled his hat lower and his coat tighter as gusts of cold wind battered him. Dried leaves raced down the street as if running headlong from winter’s icy fingers. This morning seemed colder with the chill wind blowing as it was. Hopefully the lockup kept a fire blazing in the hearth.
Though not as warm as he’d wished, the police station gave him respite from the icy winter air.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’ The constable appeared cheerful enough.
Price launched into his tale, producing the rock and scrawled note for the officer to examine.
The constable appeared to be sympathetic as he listened, but then offered a shrug. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much I can do. With no more evidence than this and no eye witness to the fact, I can’t tie the incident to anyone in particular.’
Price blinked at him, surprised. ‘Surely there’s something you can do.’
The officer shrugged again and juggled the rock in his hand as though it were a cricket ball. ‘I have an inkling who might be responsible. There are a couple of youths who have been up to mischief of late. But aside from giving them a warning and keeping a watch on them, I can’t do much. They’re not likely to confess. As I said, without proof—’
‘Yes, I understand,’ Price interrupted in frustration. ‘What if they do it again?’
‘We’ll keep a watch on your store if that makes you more comfortable.’
‘I would appreciate that, officer. Thank you.’ Price turned to leave.
‘If it helps, I don’t think any real malice is behind this incident. More likely a prank—the youths are making sport of your attempts to befriend everybody in town. I don’t believe they’re out to harm you at all.’
Price offered him a grunt in response. It didn’t give him much comfort, even if there was no real threat in the attack. Price still had to find the money to replace the window. Money that he had intended to save for his future. He tried to push the disturbing thoughts from his mind as he left the lockup. He was late for church.
His stomach did a light flip as thoughts of the future turned his mind to Miss Jane once again. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to share a life with her? They would need a few acres of land to fill with all the animals she desired. Especially horses. Price missed the horses from the family property back home.
With his mind on Miss Jane and horses, Price noticed he was passing the hat maker’s store. He lifted his hand to touch his Boss of the Plains and sighed. Though he loved this hat, he needed a darker colour if he was ever going to get near Essie again. Come Monday, he needed to buy a new hat as well as organise a glazier to refit the window.
For now, though, he entered the Mission Hall where the pointed windows and steeple reminded him to focus on the Father above. Price settled into one of the back pews, glad to take the pressure off his sore foot. He gazed over the congregation and noticed Mr Clark with his entire family sitting a few rows in front of him. Price’s heart swelled at the sight. At least his time in Hay had produced some fruit. Mr Li also returned every week to hear more and Price was hopeful he grew closer to a conversion.
Fred Hayley and his family attended this church as well. Although his daughter, Miss Rachel Hayley, was not as forward as the day in his surgery, she still glanced at him often. He offered her a smile when she looked his way and noticed her cheeks fill with pink bashfulness as she quickly shifted her glance in another direction.
Old Darcy and Mrs Ferguson sat near the front, engrossed in the service. Did they have a letter from Miss Jane for him? Price looked to the altar. He should focus on the minister and his words. Indeed, the pastor sounded impassioned as he explained the heart of God for the lost—a reminder to Price that he should persist in his endeavours.
After the service, Price headed for the Fergusons.
‘G’day, Mr Moreland.’ Old Darcy shook his hand. ‘Didn’t see ya come in.’
‘No, I was late. Although this time for a proper reason.’ Price gave a self-conscious chuckle.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, someone threw a rock through my store window last night.’
‘Mr Moreland, that is terrible.’ Mrs Ferguson’s eyes widened.
Price lifted his shoulders, still unable to explain the reasoning of the townsfolk. ‘They didn’t like the fact that I spent yesterday among the Aborigines.’
‘That’s a nasty business now, that is.’ Old Darcy shook his head.
‘Have ya told the police?’
Price nodded and thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘Not much they can do, though.’ He let out a sigh. ‘It makes me wonder what I’m doing here. I’m not making much difference. More like stirring up trouble.’
Mrs Ferguson’s face filled with concern and she exchanged a glance with her husband. ‘You’ve made a difference to Jane.’
The mention of his lovely girl brought an instant smile to his face. ‘Well now, so I have. And she’s brought joy to me.’
Mrs Ferguson opened her mouth as though she had something to add, but then closed it again and instead opened her reticule to withdraw an envelope. ‘Here, I s’pose you’ll be wantin’ this.’
‘Now, how would you know that, Mrs Ferguson?’ Price winked at her, pulling his own letter from inside his coat. ‘Here’s one for Miss Jane.’
‘I s’pose we’ll be seein’ ya Tuesday night?’ Old Darcy wanted to know.
‘Even if I were at death’s door, you couldn’t keep me away.’ Price laughed as he exchanged notes with Mrs Ferguson and tucked Miss Jane’s inside his breast pocket.
As he said his goodbyes to the Fergusons, Mr Clark approached and invited him to join their family for Sunday dinner. So, it was not until late in the afternoon that Price could read the letter from Miss Jane. Ignoring his boarded-up window, which still had the power to make his blood boil if he let it, he went through his store and up to his living quarters.
Price removed his shoes, grateful to have the confining leather away from his injury. He sat in his grandfather chair and propped his foot up onto an improvised stool, then pulled the anticipated letter from his pocket. The first thing he noticed was a great number of crossed out lines and words, especially near the bottom. It was not like her usual letters, which were crisp and clean as though they had been re-written in final copy. In between the mistakes, however, she had displayed her heart. Perhaps she had hurried to put it in an envelope and given it to her aunt before she changed her mind.
