by Bonnie Leon
Stepping on patches of new grass and avoiding puddles, Rebecca walked toward the barn, hoping Daniel would be working inside. Since the weather had changed he’d kept closer to home. They had even spent mornings drifting from sleep to wakefulness. Sometimes they would lie in each other’s arms and talk about their future—the hope of children and one day even grandchildren. On such mornings Rebecca could imagine she loved Daniel.
Her mind carried her to the previous day. Again she felt the pang of regret.
Daniel had climbed out of bed and gone down to bring up their morning tea. When he returned he handed her a cup and saucer.
“Thank you,” Rebecca had said. “I could have gotten it, or Callie would have brought it up.”
“Sometimes it feels good to do something nice for the one you love.” He’d climbed in beside her, careful not to spill his own tea.
Rebecca had leaned against propped-up pillows. She was still unable to tell him she loved him. She knew he longed to hear the words. I can’t lie about something so important, she’d thought. Taking a sip of tea, she’d said, “It’s moments like this that I’m glad I came to Australia.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“I’m still adjusting, but I’m getting used to it.” She’d set her cup in the saucer. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you. I’ve been feeling a bit guilty.”
“And what is that?”
“Well . . .” Rebecca had hesitated, fearing Daniel’s reaction. Still, he needed to know. “I’ve been teaching Callie to read. She’s doing very well,” she’d hurried on. “She’s quite bright.”
Daniel had sat up straighter. “Now, why would you waste your time teaching a black?”
“Why not?” Rebecca had felt her defenses rise.
“She’s a grand person, all the blacks here at Douloo are. They’re loyal and hardworking, but they don’t have the intelligence they need for learning things like reading and writing.”
“But she is learning. She can read.”
“It’s either some kind of trick or it’s the white blood in her. That must be it. She has a white father, you know.”
Rebecca had been outraged. She’d sat up so quickly she’d spilled her tea. “You really believe that? I know Callie’s smart, and it’s not because her father’s white. Aborigines can learn just like we can.”
“Well, you can waste your time if you like,” Daniel had said, rolling out of bed. “But all your hard work will lead nowhere. And, hopefully, you’ll soon be too busy caring for our own child to spend time with her.” He’d leaned down and kissed Rebecca. “I’ll see you at afternoon tea.”
In just a few moments, Daniel had managed to extinguish Rebecca’s kind thoughts about him and Australia. His prejudice was a disappointment. How could an intelligent, compassionate man believe such things?
And what about children? He’d mentioned his expectations more than once. Watching him disappear into the dressing room, her mind had ruminated over why she wasn’t pregnant. They’d been married nearly six months. What if there were no babies?
With a sigh Rebecca wandered into the barn, unconsciously resting her hand on her abdomen. There was no one about. The smell of animals and hay wafted over her. Birds flitted among the eaves, and one of the barn cats rubbed against a wooden barrel. Rebecca’s eyes traveled to a pile of hay. A memory from childhood tickled her thoughts. Should she dare? She crossed to the hay pile, turned her back to it, and with her arms outstretched, dropped straight back, falling into the soft, sweet-smelling pile. It gave beneath her, nearly burying her in the fragrant dried grasses.
Smiling, she lay quietly looking up into the rafters. The barn was well built. There were no cracks or gaps. She watched a bird dart back and forth. Was it trapped or searching for a nesting spot? For some reason, Rebecca felt she needed to know its mission.
A noise came from the back of the barn. Quickly Rebecca pushed to her feet, brushing hay from her dress and hair. She didn’t want to be caught in folderol, as her aunt Mildred would have called it. Bertram would certainly think such behavior foolish.
When she considered herself presentable, Rebecca followed the sound to the back of the barn. Jim was mucking out a stall. Rebecca stood quietly and watched him. Their budding friendship had faded. Both knew Daniel and his father disapproved of any tie between them. What can a friendly chat hurt? Rebecca thought, stepping up and leaning against the gate.
Jim glanced up. “Oh, Rebecca. Hello.” He straightened and leaned on his pitchfork. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long.”
He lifted his hat and, using his shirtsleeve, wiped sweat from his forehead. “Seems like it’s cool until you start working. Then the humidity gets to you.”
“I’m beginning to doubt it will ever truly be cool.” Rebecca stepped up onto the lowest board on the gate. “Can I help? I don’t have anything to do right now.”
“That probably wouldn’t be a good idea. I’d hate to see Mr. Thornton’s face if he caught you mucking out a stall.”
Rebecca nodded, then said, “He won’t find out. I didn’t see him or Daniel anywhere near the house. And it would give me something to do.” She fiddled with the gate latch. “I envy Cambria. I even envy Meghan. They can ride when they want, and they work alongside the men. They’re real Australians. I want to know what that’s like.”
“It’s overrated,” Jim said with a crooked smile. “I’m sure there’s more you can do besides this.”
“I used to work with Willa in the garden, but the rain drove us out. And of course there’s needlework and reading, but that’s becoming tiresome. Even cooking with Lily is growing tedious. Riding is out of the question—the weather, plus I rarely have anyone to ride with.”
“This weather won’t last long. It’ll soon dry out.”
Rebecca sighed. “When I lived in Boston I thought my life was restricted. I had no idea what that really meant. Mr. Thornton barely lets me breathe. He expects things should be done a certain way—his way. It . . .” Rebecca knew she was about to stray beyond what was proper, but she hadn’t talked to Cambria in days and she needed to share her burdens. “It might change if Daniel would stand up to his father. And defend me.”
“Never happen,” Jim said matter-of-factly.
“Why not?”
“Daniel’s a good bloke. I like him. But he doesn’t have the strength to tackle his father. It’s always been this way . . . always will be.” He jabbed the pitchfork into the filthy hay. “Daniel’s not the type to take to the road the way Elton did.”
“What really happened? No one’s ever told me.”
Jim compressed his lips. “I probably shouldn’t either.” He rocked the handle of the pitchfork from one hand to the other. “Elton and Daniel were always very different from one another. Daniel was the ‘good son’ and Elton, a thorn in his father’s side. He was kind of like you.” Jim grinned. “He wanted his own life.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
“I didn’t say there was.” Jim pushed the pitchfork deeper into the hay. “Anyway, one day Elton and Mr. Thornton had an argument. It was one to beat all.” He dumped a pitchfork full of hay into a wheelbarrow. “Started out civilized enough, but grew and grew until the two of them were screaming at each other. Mrs. Thornton tried to intervene. It didn’t do any good. The whole thing ended with Elton leaving and Mr. Thornton disinheriting him. Elton never returned. And Mr. Thornton’s never mentioned his name since.”
“How awful!”
“Yeah. Real sad.” Jim scraped the sole of his boot against one of the pitchfork tines. “Daniel’s a good man, but he won’t chance that happening to him. He’s not about to let go of his inheritance. He loves this place too much.” He lifted the pitchfork. “I better get back to work. Hate to be caught lollygagging.”
“And I’ve got to get back to . . . well, nothing in particular.”
Feeling down, Rebecca wandered toward the house. Daniel said h
e loved her, but was the station more important to him than she was? I guess if it were me and I knew my husband didn’t love me, I’d make sure to keep my estate a priority.
Her mind wandered to their conversations about children. If she and Daniel did have children, would Daniel allow his father to bully them like he did everyone else? Could Daniel stand up for his children?
No matter what Daniel thinks, I will never allow Mr. Thornton to rule my children. Not ever.
That night at supper Bertram seemed in a worse temper than usual. Willa made an unsuccessful stab at conversation, then conceded there would be no banter and ate quietly.
Callie started clearing away the soup bowls when Bertram said, “There’s no wisdom in teaching blacks, ya know. Waste of time. They lack intelligence.” He looked at Rebecca.
A tremor traveled through her. Taking a breath, she said, “Well, sir . . . that’s not exactly true. In fact—”
“Yais, yais. I know. Ya’ve been teaching Callie. Well, ya’ll stop. There’s no good purpose in any black knowing how to read or write.”
Callie showed no emotion.
“Sir, I must differ with you,” Rebecca said. “There is good reason. All people should know how to . . .”
“Did ya hear me? I said no teaching the blacks. It’s a waste of yer good time.”
“I don’t have anything better to do,” Rebecca said, taking another track. “You’ve given me no responsibilities.”
“There’s plenty of work to be done, woman’s work.” He watched Callie walk toward the kitchen. “Ya’ll have our neighbors up in arms before ya know it. They don’t hold with educating blacks any more than I do.” He stood. “And furthermore, I don’t like ya keeping company with a black. They’re heathens and hold to beliefs that can contaminate yer Christianity.”
Willa turned pale but said not a word.
Allowing herself time to think, Rebecca slowly let out her breath. “I respect your opinion, sir, but in this I must protest. In God’s Word it’s clear that Christ spent time with the wicked, even eating among thieves and beggars. He came to save the lost. Aren’t we to do the same?”
“If God meant ya to be a missionary, ya wouldn’t have married my son. And I don’t believe God called the blacks to salvation. He is sovereign, and we must respect his choices.” Bertram squared his jaw and knit his brows. “It’s my responsibility to protect my flock.”
Rebecca was flabbergasted. “You can’t possibly believe the blacks have no hope for salvation.”
“What I believe is . . . it’s God’s sovereign choice who is saved and who is not.”
“But, sir—”
“Not another word.”
Rebecca couldn’t keep quiet. “Sir, you and Woodman have been friends since you were boys. He’s your friend. Don’t you care about his eternity?”
“Woodman has nothing to do with this.”
Rebecca looked to her husband. “Daniel? Do you agree with this?”
Daniel sat stone-faced.
“Please, say something.”
He looked from Rebecca to his father. Finally he shoved back his chair and stood. “I have work to do,” he said and trudged out of the dining room.
In disbelief Rebecca stared at his back as he left.
Daniel settled on his chestnut stallion and touched his flanks with his heels. The animal trotted through the corral gate and into the yard. The evening air was cool, the near darkness welcoming. He leaned forward and clicked his tongue, and the horse broke into a canter, heading toward the road.
A butter-colored half moon hung in the sky, providing enough light for a leisurely ride but not enough to give his horse his head. He longed to escape into the open, dark emptiness where he could yell and shriek away his frustrations and anxieties.
Rebecca’s brown eyes haunted him. When he’d first met her, they’d been filled with the sparkle of anticipation and mischief. Now they were pensive and troubled. Rebecca was unhappy. The conflict between her and his father was growing, just as it had with Elton. And she didn’t love him. If she did, she would have said something.
He’d hoped love would grow. She still treated him as a friend rather than a husband. Her response to his lovemaking was obedient rather than passionate. And he knew she expected him to stand up to his father. How could he? He’d never stand for it. And if I don’t will she leave?
“Lord, what am I to do? My father’s squeezing the very breath from us.” His mind reeled back over the years—countless confrontations, countless disappointments, and countless agonies. His father had never held him in high regard, and Daniel had never learned to stand his ground. All his life he’d existed within his father’s shadow. While he worked, Bertram was there; while building his reputation, he was there; while . . . loving, he was there. His father was overseer of his life—every move, every thought.
Daniel rested his hands on the saddle horn and closed his eyes. A groan rose from deep beneath his ribs, growing into an agonizing bellow. The chirruping of cicadas quieted. Then stillness fell over the plains once again, and they took up their song. Daniel opened his eyes and gazed at the stars. A flicker of a boyhood memory touched his heart. He and Elton and his father had lain beneath this same sky counting stars, a fanciful goal for sure but one attempted just the same.
“Father, my dad is a godly man. He seeks you at every turn. And your Word is always on his lips. That Word says I am to listen to him and obey him. But I’m a man. How do I live fully as a man and still obey my father?”
The sight of Rebecca’s plaintive eyes wrenched his heart. How many times had he seen that same look on his mother’s face? This night Willa had disagreed. He’d seen it. Yet as always, she’d remained quiet, obedient. Is that what he wanted from Rebecca? Is that what he expected of her?
From the beginning, her bold spirit had drawn him. If she was forced into a mold of his father’s making could that spirit survive? No, came the whispered reply.
If he wanted her, what choice did he have but to leave Douloo? Even as the thought touched his mind, he knew he couldn’t go.
20
With the passing days and weeks Bertram became more dictatorial and, seemingly, more angry with Rebecca. She couldn’t please him. And the harder she tried, the angrier he became. Gradually resentment moved into her heart, and she closed herself off to the possibility of a congenial relationship.
For the most part, the two avoided each other. However, there were essential activities that forced them to interact. Evening meals were the most difficult. Hostility between Bertram and Rebecca often bristled, and supper was wrought with, at the very least, uneasiness and, at the worst, open hostility.
One evening after supper Daniel stopped Rebecca in the foyer. “This must stop.”
“What must stop?” she challenged.
“This . . . thing between you and my father.” He rested his hands on her upper arms. “I know he can be difficult, but can’t you simply relent and obey?”
“How can you expect me to bow to him? You saw how I tried to comply with his wishes week after week. It made no difference. He sees what he wants. The only thing that will satisfy him is if I forfeit my very soul to him.” She straightened her spine and folded her arms over her chest. “I refuse.”
“You’re making too much of all this. He can be overbearing, but you’re wrong about the rest; he doesn’t want your soul. He wants what’s best for you.”
“No. He wants what’s best for him. And as for overbearing? I’d say tyrannical is a more accurate description.”
“Please, Rebecca. He won’t give in. I’m telling you.”
“If you stood with me, he might.”
“No. He won’t. He believes he’s doing God’s will. And in that he’s unwavering. To him you’re a rebellious child who needs disciplining.” Daniel took Rebecca’s hands. “Please, do it for me. I can’t stand to see you hurt.”
“You say you love me? Then stand up to him.” Rebecca disengaged her hands. “If you don
’t, he’ll always control your life—you’ll never be free.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Yes, it is. He’s been angry with me from the moment I arrived, but it began long before that, and only you can stop it.”
“It’s not that simple. And if you follow this course, it’s you who will suffer.”
“I admit, I may have deserved some of his barbs. I have done some things wrong. I know I can be bold, even rebellious, but I can’t fit into your father’s mold, and neither should you. I need your partnership. When we married we were united, and we are to esteem one another above all others.”
Daniel stared at Rebecca, then took a deep breath and said, “I can’t go against him. No one can change him. It would take an act of God.”
Rebecca stepped back. “Then so be it. We’ll leave it in God’s hands.” Tears blurred her vision. “What hope is there for us?” With a resigned shake of her head, she turned and walked away.
This was not the conversation she’d intended to have. After supper she’d planned to tell him about the baby. She’d missed two cycles. There was no other explanation but that she was pregnant. Now she didn’t feel she could tell him anything.
The following afternoon Rebecca stood on the veranda. Heavy clouds hung over green fields. The weather had been cool, with occasional rain showers. The fields had been cut, but lush grasses had already shot up. Cattle grazed in a nearby pasture, and a foal kicked up its heels in one of the corrals.
She contemplated how she would tell Daniel about the baby. After last evening’s quarrel, it all felt so complicated. They’d not spoken to each other. Resting a hand on her abdomen, she wondered how she could raise a child in this house.
Her eyes continued to roam over the landscape, and she breathed in clean-smelling air. Douloo was beautiful. And when one looked at it from the outside it must appear serene. She knew better—there would be no serenity here as long as Bertram was alive.
