‘Now you are being blasphemous.’
‘Not at all. I am just pleased for a roof over my head and an invitation for dinner.’ Mr Hunt waved a hand at the dead bird. ‘If you want me to deal with—what did you call him? Chumley?—bring me the hot water and I’ll do the deed.’
‘Would you? Netty will be extremely grateful.’
‘Call it my contribution to the Christmas feast, Miss Adelaide,’ he said.
Miss Adelaide? Her heart lurched. She hadn’t been addressed as ‘Miss’ since she had walked out of her father’s house.
‘Have I said something wrong?’
‘I am not a “miss”.’
Mr Hunt frowned. ‘I apologise. It is a term of respect for ladies in the South. My mother was always called Miss Margaret.’
‘Oh, then if you wish to call me Miss Adelaide, please do so.’
‘I’d consider it an honour if you would call me Caleb.’
Adelaide hesitated. ‘Adelaide,’ she said, adding, ‘but only between us, not in company or in front of Danny.’
His mouth twitched. ‘You are a lady, Adelaide. You have my word as a gentleman, I would not presume on our friendship.’
Adelaide glanced at him and he smiled. She had few friends and, after having this man under her roof for so many days, she would like to call him friend. If only she could trust herself.
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play …
Caleb lay on the cot in Mick’s shed, staring at the chinks of light that worked their way through the roof of Adelaide’s ‘guest room’. The words of Longfellow’s poem turned over in his mind and the desolation and despair of the war years washed over him.
Thumpa, thump, thumpa, thump …
Beyond the walls the steady cadence of the mine battery echoed the beat of his heart.
He longed for the peace and quiet of the snowy Virginia countryside, the sound of familiar accents and the feel of cold, clear winter air on his face. Not this hard land with its raucous birds and harsh voices.
As if hearing his thoughts, an unseen bird burst into mocking laughter. Its boisterous jollity was joined by another and another until it seemed to Caleb as if the whole world laughed at him. He had lived on his wits and good fortune for so long but was it all going to end here in a mad venture?
The birds’ chatter died away and the bell of the Catholic church began to toll, calling the faithful to evening Mass.
And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
‘For hate is strong
and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, goodwill to men.’
In his heart he knew that what he yearned for belonged to a time long past, before a world that war had blighted forever, but the pain in his chest felt real enough and he allowed himself the luxury of wallowing in self-pity and something else—good old-fashioned homesickness.
A timid knock at the door made him start and his heart raced again. ‘Who is it?’ he snapped.
‘Me.’
Danny. Caleb ground his teeth. Much as he liked the boy, he wanted to be alone with his ghosts and demons. ‘Come in,’ he said.
Danny entered the room and stood in the doorway.
‘What can I do for you, Danny?’
The boy shuffled his feet. ‘I was wondering if you could come up to the house and help me make some paper chains? Mama and Netty are too busy.’
‘Paper chains?’ Caleb pulled himself up on the cot and regarded the boy with genuine puzzlement.
‘I have some special coloured paper.’
Once again Caleb was reminded of family Christmases before the war. On Christmas Eve, he and his siblings would decorate a small fir tree cut from a nearby wood with little candles and paper chains. Their Quaker father may have disapproved of the pagan nonsense but he never stopped them. Nathan Hunt had valued his family’s happiness above everything else.
There were no fir trees in Maiden’s Creek, and his brother and sister and parents were all dead. The knife twisted in Caleb’s heart and he wanted to roll over and continue to wallow in his loneliness, but the eagerness in the boy’s expression pricked his conscience. He hauled himself off the bed. Better to keep busy. It kept the dark thoughts at bay.
Danny had laid out strips of bright paper, glue and scissors on the parlour table. A scrubby branch of a eucalypt had been planted in dirt in a bucket beside the fireplace. Three small presents neatly wrapped in brown paper and string had already been placed beneath it.
Caleb hefted himself into a chair at the table, propping his injured leg on one of the spare chairs and considered the packages. It occurred to him that it would be politic to produce presents for the residents of the Maiden’s Creek Post Office.
‘Danny, is there a store in Maiden’s Creek?’
‘You mean Mackie’s General Store?’
‘I need to buy presents for your mother and Netty. Can you show me where it is?’
Danny frowned. ‘It’s a way up the street. Can you walk?’
‘Of course,’ Caleb replied with more confidence than he felt. ‘The exercise will do me good.’
The exercise nearly killed him. He arrived at Mackie’s General Store pale and sweating from the exertion. The thin Scotsman hurried forward with a chair and offers of water, probably concerned that his customer might die on the floor of his shop. As Caleb caught his breath, he looked around the well-stocked and immaculately kept store. Shovels and gold pans jostled for room with wash tubs and bolts of brightly coloured calico. Mackie seemed to stock everything anyone in town could want.
While Danny poked around the corner of the store that stocked toys, Caleb purchased a pretty lace-edged cambric handkerchief for Adelaide and some blue ribbons for Netty. He considered the back of Danny’s fair head, bent over a box of toy soldiers. Such a toy was beyond Caleb’s purse. What would a nine-year-old boy want?
He smiled. He knew just the thing. His father had given him one at the same age and it still served him so well today.
Nine
Christmas Day, 1871
The tiny wooden church of St Thomas on the Hill had plain-glass windows, the most basic benches and no pulpit, but Adelaide loved it for its very simplicity. She thought of the ornate church in Liverpool she’d attended, heavily endowed by her father’s wealth. Its magnificent organ raised music to the rafters. St Thomas had only a simple harmonium, and every Sunday, it was Adelaide’s responsibility to play while behind her the congregation growled the words of the hymns, familiar since their childhoods back in England.
The Reverend Johnson waited for his flock at the door to the church in his black robe and white surplice, a black stole flapping in the hot wind from the north. Despite the heaviness of his robes, he still managed a smile as Adelaide approached him.
‘A warm climb, Mrs Greaves,’ he said, holding out a clammy hand to her. ‘Happy Christmas to you and Miss Redley and Master Daniel.’
‘You are joining us for dinner today, Reverend?’ Adelaide asked.
Johnson smiled. ‘I have been beset with invitations, Mrs Greaves, but it will be my pleasure to accept yours.’
The Reverend Johnson had been in Maiden’s Creek since Easter, installed by Bishop Perry himself. In his early thirties and unmarried, he had quickly become the object of gossip among the matrons of Maiden’s Creek, who were inclined to link him to any eligible young woman in the congregation, the respectable widow Adelaide Greaves among them.
The small, well-polished harmonium stood in a corner of the sanctuary. Adelaide unlocked it with a key from her reticule, removed her gloves and ran her fingers over the ivory keys.
‘You always look like a drowning man seeing dry land when you open the harmonium.’ Reverend Johnson’s voice made her start and she turned on the stool to look up at him.
‘I miss my piano,’ she said.
‘You know you are always welcome to play the harmonium any time you wi
sh,’ Johnson said with a smile. He had a round, boyish face with a smattering of freckles across his nose and an uncanny knack for making her feel like she was the only person in the world he wanted to talk to at that very moment.
‘Thank you.’ She felt the heat rising to her cheeks. ‘It’s not quite the same as a piano though.’
He glanced at the keyboard with its limited octaves and nodded gravely. ‘I suppose not.’ He straightened and turned to face his congregation. The little church was packed with miners, spruced up for the day in their best clothes. Some had families with them, thin, work-worn wives and children in faded and darned clothes and cracked shoes. Their little smocks might be faded and darned, but they were clean. Across the valley at St Mary’s Catholic Church, Father O’Hanlon would be exhorting his flock to live a Godly life, as would the Reverend Macdonald in the Presbyterian Church, and Pastor Nichols with his Noncomformists, who met in the Mechanics’ Institute.
Adelaide opened her 1861 copy of Hymns Ancient and Modern, found the first hymn, and set her feet to pumping the harmonium. The congregation shuffled to its feet and began belting out the familiar and comforting words of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ with enthusiasm.
The Reverend Johnson concluded the service by wishing his congregation a joyous Christmas Day and the flock filed out of the church, dutifully shaking Johnson’s hand and chatting among themselves.
Adelaide pumped out the closing bars of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ then rose from the stool and began to pack away her music.
The Reverend, freed from the last departing parishioner, joined her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Greaves. The music was delightful today. There is something special about Christmas music.’
‘I was thinking the same thing, Reverend,’ Adelaide said. She glanced at the door of the church. Netty would have taken Danny and gone home as soon as the service ended to start on the lunch. Tucking her music folio under her arm, she walked out into the bright sunshine with the Reverend, who paused to lock the church behind him.
He turned to face the valley and made a gesture that encompassed the length and breadth of Maiden’s Creek. ‘A good congregation today. Indeed, they dutifully attend church on Sundays, Mrs Greaves, but the rest of the week God is not on their minds.’ He sighed. ‘May I walk with you?’
They strolled in companionable silence, the smell of roasting fowl reaching them as they turned down the path to the front door of the post office residence. The parlour was deserted but the sound of voices came from the kitchen at the far end of the hallway. Removing her hat, Adelaide left the Reverend in the parlour and hurried down to the kitchen to fetch water and see how lunch was proceeding.
Caleb Hunt sat at the kitchen table in his shirt sleeves with his leg propped on a stool. He and Danny were peeling and chopping vegetables while a perspiring Netty, her sleeves rolled above her elbows, laboured over the boiled Christmas pudding.
Their rowdy banter stopped as Adelaide stepped into the room and, with a pang, she realised that this was often the effect she had on people.
‘Everyone looks so industrious! Is there anything for me to do?’
Caleb smiled at her. ‘Felicitations of the season to you, Mrs Greaves.’
Adelaide felt her reserve soften under the force of his crooked smile. He had made an obvious effort with his appearance, wearing a clean but crumpled shirt and necktie under a scarlet and gold–patterned, double-breasted silk waistcoat. The fabric suited his dark colouring.
Netty put her hands on her hips and surveyed the crowd in her kitchen. ‘Out, all of you,’ she said. ‘Let me finish in peace. I’ll tell you when dinner is ready.’
Caleb rose awkwardly, pulling a dark woollen jacket from the back of his chair.
‘It’s too hot to wear that,’ Adelaide said.
‘I don’t wish to come to your table improperly dressed.’
‘One thing ten years in this colony has taught me,’ Adelaide said, ‘is that the rules we lived under back home do not apply.’
There was no sign of the staff he had been using as he limped slowly across to her. He put out his hand to support himself on the door jamb and his lips tightened for a moment. She was conscious of his proximity and a heady scent of sandalwood.
He smiled down at her. ‘After you, Mrs Greaves. Vanity has made me ditch the stick, but I’m afraid I need the wall.’
She stepped backwards, straightened and returned to the parlour, where the Reverend Johnson stood looking at her small collection of books. He replaced the book he had been perusing and faced them.
‘I didn’t see you in church this morning,’ Johnson said to Caleb.
Something flickered in Caleb Hunt’s eyes. ‘No, sir. Whatever my inclination, St Thomas on the Hill says it all. I can barely stagger between here and the bottom of the garden.’
The vicar held up a placatory hand. ‘Of course not. How foolish of me, I forgot. It is God’s blessing you were not more badly hurt, Mr Hunt.’
‘I’m sure he takes the credit,’ Caleb said, half under his breath.
Adelaide cast him a quick warning glance, but Caleb gave her a wide-eyed smile.
She frowned and shook her head at the infuriating American. She could not find the measure of this Godless man.
A knock at the door broke the strained atmosphere and Amos Burrell entered the room, running his hat between his hands. He had made an effort to tidy himself but he still brought with him the odour of horses.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘’ad to settle Mac. ‘e’s not been the same since …’ He jerked his head at Caleb. ‘’ow’s the leg?’
‘Mending,’ Caleb said.
‘Sherry?’ Adelaide changed the subject. ‘Would anyone care to join me, while we wait for Netty?’
Caleb leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously under his weight, and surveyed his empty plate. Since Netty Redley had started feeding him, he had let out his belt a couple of notches. He would marry Netty just for her cooking.
‘Might I say, Miss Netty, that was the best meal I have eaten in a long time.’
A fetching colour rose in Netty’s cheeks and she smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Reverend Johnson. ‘An excellent repast. Tell me, Mr Hunt, what would you eat at Christmas in America?’
Caleb shrugged. ‘Much the same, although I must confess, plum pudding eaten on a cold, snowy day does sit a little easier.’
Johnson wiped his forehead. ‘If I am to follow my calling, I will have to get used to warmer Christmases than this.’
‘Maiden’s Creek is not your calling, Reverend?’ Adelaide asked.
‘A step on the path, Mrs Greaves.’ His face tightened with sudden fervour. ‘It is my long-held ambition to go the dark centre of this continent and bring the word of God to the heathens. We also need to bring medicine. Sadly, they seem to fall prey to our Western diseases too easily—smallpox, measles, diptheria.’ The man’s fingers grazed his own face, drawing attention to the faint scars that told the story of a childhood brush with death.
Caleb narrowed his eyes. It had been just such diseases that had overwhelmed the Indian tribes of the Shenandoah and, in his short time in Melbourne, he had seen the Aborigines, as the natives of this country were called, living in appalling conditions. Smallpox could be survived but to bring it into a country like this and expose an innocent native population to its ravages was reckless and devastating. It struck him then that the word of the Christian God had done precious little for the plight of those poor people, thrown off their traditional lands and forced into lives of destitution and alcoholism.
‘And how do you intend to do that?’ he asked with icy politeness.
‘I will establish a mission, teach them reading and writing and basic skills that will equip them to lives as servants.’
‘Why?’
Johnson stared at Caleb. ‘Because they must be civilised.’
‘I’m sorry, Reverend, do I understand that you are a proponent of the a
rgument that those with skin of different colours to our own are in some way inferior to us?’ Caleb had difficulty keeping his tone neutral.
At the end of the table, Adelaide straightened and Caleb noticed her tightened lips and furious eyes.
‘Most people believe they are.’ Johnson seemed genuinely perplexed. ‘You are a Southerner, Mr Hunt. As a slave owner, surely you would have firsthand observations—’
‘My family did not own slaves,’ Caleb said with such force that everyone at the table visibly started. ‘In fact, my father was an abolitionist.’
‘But you fought for the South?’ Johnson mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.
‘Not all who fought for the South did so over slavery. I had my own reasons for taking up arms against the North—’ Caleb broke off, aware that the gazes of everyone at the table were fixed on him with expressions of surprise, horror and embarrassment. He adjusted the knife and fork on his plate and cleared his throat. ‘My humble apologies. I should not have brought such dark talk to this festive table.’
‘Indeed.’ Johnson pushed back his chair, while making a show of checking his pocket watch. ‘I am expected at the Russells’ to take tea. Please excuse me, Mrs Greaves, and thank you for a wonderful meal.’
Adelaide saw the Reverend Johnson to the door. Netty and Amos began to clear the table with Danny’s help and retired to the kitchen, leaving Caleb alone.
When Adelaide returned, she swept the cloth from the table, shaking it in Caleb’s direction with rather more force than the dispersal of crumbs required.
‘That was unforgiveable of me, I am sorry, Adelaide,’ Caleb mumbled, catching the end of the cloth and helping her fold it.
When she didn’t respond, deep regret settled on him. Christmas seemed to have brought out the worst in him.
‘It’s not you. The conversation showed me a side of Reverend Johnson I’d not seen before,’ Adelaide said at last.
Caleb handed her the folded cloth and sat, rubbing his leg. ‘When I was a boy, I had a friend on the neighbouring property. His name was William and we’d roam the woods and fields doing what boys do. He was smart but he had no learning, so I would teach him the things I learned in school. Then he started teaching me. He’d help me with my mathematics and he was much smarter than I could ever hope to be. Then one day, he didn’t turn up at our usual meeting place and when I asked my father, he told me William and his family had been sold to a plantation in Alabama. Sold. I had no concept that William was a slave or that he was in any way different from me. He was my friend. I never saw him again. If William had been white with all the simple privileges I enjoyed, like an education, he could have done great things. Instead, if he lived, he ended up in a field, picking cotton.’
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