“My pleasure, Miss. Although, I have to say, working around Molly wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done. The little chit hung onto every last article of yours and fought me like a terrier. Took all my strength, and Shad’s, to get her off your bed for that quilt. In the end, we tied her to a chair at the table and she fell asleep with her head on the tablecloth. Which,” he looked around the room at his audience, “we also had to pry away and she was not happy about that either.”
Finella cringed. Mr. Tripp could not have wounded her more if he’d entered with a whip and flicked her with it.
“I can only imagine.” She whispered, more to herself than the man at the door. When the ever-present tremor of her lips gave way, she excused herself for the bedroom where she could cry herself to sleep, as her dear Molly did, when life bore down on them.
Heartsick with separation, and miserable with loss, Finella never expected the untimely death of George Gleeson would pale into a sweet goodbye, compared with the fresh ripping away of Molly and Shadrach Jones.
January 3 1876
I cannot erase the picture of Shadrach holding Molly back as I screamed pain at them. Stained. I yelled it over and over, until I couldn’t see through my tears. Stained, like the napkin. Covered in blood, always destined to carry the mark. The sins of the father. Hadn’t I been warned? Why was it such a surprise?
I don’t know when I stopped yelling, but I must have. Aunt Sarah took over and Goliah drove us away. How they calmed me down, I’ll never know. But I saw myself in the hallway mirror of the little church house. The madness in my eyes. My mattered hair. My shaking, which didn’t stop for hours.
I remembered how Shadrach had once before carried me there in haste to see the last flicker of life in George Gleeson. The hush which covered me when all those inside tiptoed around me like an invalid from the darkest asylum.
And here I sit again, in the same room with little to show for my time in this country but heartache of the worst description. There is no fingerprint of God worth recording here. Nothing, from the highest firmament to the dustiest core of this land is worth holding onto. Even the measly flowers I’ve added here, mock me with withered faces and dead stems.
*
Agatha Ashe crept into the room. She cradled a small ceramic bowl and clean towel. Finella pushed aside her Everlasting and made room on the edge of the bed.
“You’re not napping?” Agatha settled onto the mattress.
“I can’t. I keep seeing Molly’s frightened face and Shadrach’s stony glare. They’re like ghosts I can’t get rid of. Even with my eyes closed.”
“And it’s for those very eyes, puffed and sore, I’ve made you a balm. Sit back and I’ll apply some while you rest.”
Finella closed her eyes and let Agatha press the cool mixture to the skin above her cheekbones. “It smells sweet.”
“My mother’s recipe. A grated raw potato and two heaped spoons of applesauce. She had enough practice with me when I was at home. Much crying led to many applications. I think she kept a potato in her pocket most days just for me.” Finella heard the smile in Agatha’s voice.
“Did you nurse a broken heart?”
Agatha padded her eyes with the towel. “You could say that.” She shifted off the bed. “My parents were not in favor of my affections for Goliah. They tried their best to keep their only daughter from marrying the least likely candidate.”
“Goliah? Least likely? You make a team I can only envy.”
Agatha laughed softly. “We do now. But we fought hard for the privilege.”
“I can’t imagine why your parents objected. Goliah’s a fine gentleman. No one could find fault in him or his generous ways.”
“Oh, yes they could. And they did. Loudly and for years.”
“But why?” Finella lowered the towel and opened her eyes.
Agatha settled back on the bed. “I’ve waited until now to tell you, Finella. I knew you wouldn’t be able to hear it until you’d calmed down some.” She took the towel and folded it in half.
“My dear Goliah is the son of not one, but two convicts. His parents were transported here, separately, served their sentences and found each other after they’d obtained their ticket of leave.”
Finella’s pulse thundered against her temples. Goliah Ashe? The son of convicts? She twisted in the bed for a better look at Agatha.
“And you still wanted to marry him. Even after you learned that, and your parents disapproved?”
“You’ve seen him Finella. He’s a charmer. And I couldn’t help myself. I learned very quickly his parents’ sins had nothing to do with the Goliah I knew.”
“And that’s where we differ.” Finella let her head sink back onto the pillow. “Shadrach’s father’s sin has everything to do with me. He’s the one who took my mother away. He stole, he killed. And Shadrach is no better.”
“Shadrach? He didn’t even know about it until you pieced it all together.”
“It doesn’t matter if he knew or not, anymore. It matters that he’s the son of such a man. Don’t you see? It’s in his blood. It’s what Shadrach’s tried to tell me himself, only I wouldn’t listen. It’s not just me that thinks it. He’s the one who thought it first.” The balm dribbled and she took the towel from Agatha to wipe her cheekbone.
“And is that what I should think about my own husband?” Agatha tempered her voice with caution. “He’s the son of two felons. His father stole a barrow of turnips from market. Harmless enough you might think, but the weight of the law carried him across the sea into jail for his trouble.”
“And his mother?” Finella wanted to know more.
“His mother was a young lass when she had a baby on the wrong side of the blanket. She drowned it in a tub after it wouldn’t stop howling one night.” Finella sucked her breath in at the horror.
“She lived with an uncle who hardly lifted his head from his drinking. The neighbors knew he’d been the one to leave the baby in her belly, and testified she’d been misused by the drunk for years. She was so young, about Molly’s age I’d guess. The magistrate must’ve taken an extra dose of pity on her that day and transported her instead of sending her to the gallows. Quite the miracle if you ask me. But then, God needed her to be a mother to Goliah, so I shouldn’t be surprised He spared her.”
Finella recoiled at the miserable tale. “How awful.”
“That’s how these stories go. No one ends up a convict for pretty reasons. Some fall, others are pushed. Australia’s offered many a place to find their feet and new start. Goliah’s parents for one.”
“But not Shadrach’s father. He never paid for his crime. He returned with my mother’s rubies and passed them onto his wife as a gift.”
“And you want Shadrach to pay?”
“He could never make up for what his father did.”
Agatha smiled. “Exactly. Because it’s not his fault, and he shouldn’t be held accountable. And neither should he or you or anyone else make him wear the mantle of sinner because of what his father did.”
“But he’ll always be that man. The son of the scoundrel who ruined our lives.”
“Only if you allow it. Shadrach is his own man. So is Goliah. Neither will give an account to God for anyone else’s sins but their own. And you won’t have to for any but your own.”
“But aren’t you afraid, Agatha? What if your children carry the curse?”
The preacher’s wife’s green eyes sparkled. “Goliah made me learn a scripture from the Psalms when he told me about his parents. One he holds onto as closely as I do. The mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting, upon them that fear Him. And His righteousness unto children’s children. I have nothing of the past to fear, and everything of the future to look forward to.” She patted her belly and blush turned to grin. “God is a restorer, my friend.”
Finella stared at Agatha’s hand, rubbing the flat of her stomach.
“You can close your mouth, now.” Agatha tapped playfully at Finell
a’s chin with her fingertips. “Yes, we’re expecting our first child and I couldn’t be more hopeful for its future. If you lined up a hundred and one men born of free settlers, I couldn’t pick a better father for my child. I mean that, Finella.”
Finella wrapped her arms around Agatha’s shoulders. Fresh sobs held back her words, and she hoped the embrace conveyed what her heart wished for her friend. A long and happy life with the man she loved and the babies they would share.
A life Finella could never hope to taste, for in turning away from Shadrach Jones, she’d turned away from the only man who’d stolen her heart and killed her dreams.
39
Shadrach poured another bucket of water around the newly planted mulberry tree. He’d watered it for weeks in the barn where he’d kept it hidden and wrapped in hessian, but Finella’s Christmas gift was never presented the way he imagined. Molly appreciated her rabbit blanket, well enough, but no one had taken pleasure in the tree he hoped might shade Finella’s mulberry cordial and tea drinking days.
Instead, he planted it alone near the oven he’d made. Also for her.
Not that she’d see that, either. The Christmas Finella had promised and prepared for had come and gone. Delivered by Shadrach to Molly in the hasty opening of the blanket bundle just before bed. He hadn’t wanted her to miss out on a Christmas day completely, but had almost nothing in his possession to fill it with. So he’d waited until evening to drag out the present he’d worked on all year. In every other regard, the day looked no different to the one before it and the few that had passed since.
He kicked the empty watering bucket away and looked at the sky. No rain clouds threatened today. All that threatened, he held inside. Like a raging firestorm, crackling and incinerating from within.
A few short steps took him to the door of his house where Molly napped. She’d slept a lot these last few days and complained about a sore head. He wished he could sleep so easily. At least in his dreams he didn’t have to wrestle with his own shadow about how he deserved to lose a girl like Finella. How he was never worthy of her in the first place. A man like him. The son of his father. Shadrach Jones.
He peeked into the lonely room. The table held no cloth. The floor didn’t wear her rag rug. Extra shelves he’d added to the wall boasted none of her lemonade cups. Even the lace she’d put on the window had been folded up and returned to her.
And he hated the nakedness of this room without her. What he wouldn’t give to have her back with all her fancy things, and more. All the fancy he could buy her.
He moved to Molly’s bed. His eyes adjusted to the shadows, and he nudged the covers only to feel a loose sheet against his fingers. Where was she now?
He swung around and headed outside again.
“Molly.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and called. “Molly. You’d best be hiding well, Miss, because when I find you you’ll be in the deepest trouble.”
He stormed around the farm looking for, but never finding his sister. Deep silence hung over his fields and no sound of her came from the tracks into the scrub by the beach. If she was paddling in the rock pools, why he’d…
He’d what? Tie her up to her bed every time he needed to fetch a pail of water? Weariness heavier than he’d ever imagined pressed on his shoulders. Finella was right. What kind of home was it when your own brother had to tether you up like an animal to keep you safe? It pained him to think even Finella wouldn’t want to take her now.
He reached the sand in no time, looking for signs of Molly. He scoured the beach and found nothing of her in either direction.
Where had she disappeared to now? He trod the track to his fields and orchard. Perhaps she’d tried the road?
A blow hit him in the chest. Surely she wouldn’t try to…? No. He shook the thought away. She knew she’d never make it through the bush to Cowes. Not by foot. Half the time he drove her there she dozed on his shoulder. She wouldn’t even know the way… would she?
He hurried to where his shells paths stopped and the red road took over.
*
Finella walked the length of the jetty and back again. Her heels tapped little smacks on the boards and waves underfoot swayed and kissed the footings of the pier. She quickened her pace. Anything, to drown the noise of crew loading her belongings onto the steamer to Melbourne, under the watchful orders of Aunt Sarah.
She wasn’t the only one searching for something over the water. Holidaymakers from Melbourne strayed from their guesthouses to promenade, lazy and carefree. Finella overtook a trio of older women, intent to plod arm in arm, in time with the slow splash of the water.
She wasn’t sure why she needed to pace. Just that she did. Like the tide, she yearned for a new tomorrow to pull her away. Only, there would be no more tomorrows on this island.
The steamer bounced on a wave. As if it strained like a horse at the starting gate. As if the ropes knew they would only hold her there a while longer.
How she hated the notion of another sea journey and yet, it was her only choice. Aunt Sarah never failed to reassure her of the life they would make together in London, even hinted at a possible match for her there.
Finella cared very little for talk of a match. She had nothing to offer anyone, anymore.
She turned her back to the open waves and faced the little cove of Mussel Rocks where Mrs. Lawson lived. Aunt Sarah said goodbyes only brought more grief. She insisted a clean break would bring Finella the quickest healing and help her look forward.
Finella wasn’t sure about Aunt Sarah’s wisdom, anymore.
The island coastline dipped out of view to the west. To where the sun set each night, and Shadrach’s farm called to her.
Shadrach Jones. A name she loved and loathed. She pressed her fingernails into her palms. How had God let her search for freedom only to end in such bondage? She longed for the voice of reason, but reason had a way of twisting her insides and her heart couldn’t take another dose of what Agatha preached. Not without it changing her.
She sucked in the sea air as if it were the last breath she’d take. Was there time to pay a call on Mrs. Lawson before they left? She owed the dear lady that much.
The smell of the sea filled her lungs. But her heart refused to be calmed. Why did that napkin have to be mixed in with Mrs. Jones’ sewing? Why hadn’t a washerwoman, an expert in stain removing not brought that cloth to near new?
Heavy steps took Finella back to the steamer. Everything else in Shadrach’s mother’s possession was old, but clean. If anyone knew how to rid a napkin of blood, surely Bessie Jones did? So why did she hide the blood stained napkin when she could have starched it and used it herself? Finella’s head hurt to think about it as much as her heart did.
“There’s no time for dawdling, dear. Time to board.” Her aunt fastened the clip on her travelling case. “They’re about to loosen the ropes.”
They moved past busy seamen and slower passengers until they secured a seat on the upper deck where long benches offered the last view of the island.
Finella closed her eyes. She didn’t need to look. Like a scar she’d never outrun, miles of sandy beaches, the dirt road, tea tree scrub twisting up the hill, and village buildings were all scratched deep within her.
Loud voices from the top of the road caught her attention. She peered at the base of a croft of pines on the hill. Jon Tripp poked his head out of the bunkhouse and did the same. A small gathering of villagers pointed westward and their voices carried down to the shore.
“Young Molly Jones disappeared again, did you hear?”
Molly?
“Been gone hours, they say. Shadrach’s called for a search party.”
Molly!
Finella sprung off the seat and leaned into the steamer’s top rail. She strained to hear more, but her ears filled with a whoosh of blood and panic, she could only stare at the growing circle of villagers.
“Sit back, Finella.” Aunt Sarah’s voice stiffened with instructions. “It’s not your c
oncern, now. I’m sure Mr. Jones will find his sister, soon enough.”
Finella’s stomach heaved. “She is my concern. I’m tired of pretending she’s not. I love her and if she’s lost, I care very much to know where she is.”
A crewman uncoiled a rope from the last bollard.
“They’ll find her, dear. Don’t make this worse than it need be. Sit here before the sway knocks you off your feet.”
Finella looked at her shoes. Mud free and polished only that morning before they farewelled Agatha and Goliah, she stood shod for whatever life brought next. But she didn’t want clean shoes. Not anymore.
“It’s too late, Aunt Sarah. I’ve already been knocked off my feet.” She pushed into the narrow stairwell and down to the steamer’s gangway. But the plank no longer offered passage off the vessel. Someone had lifted it away in preparation for departure, and a blue chasm of water widened between her and all she longed for in this world.
She hitched her skirt and stepped onto the edge of the boat.
“Miss? We’re pulling off.” Someone called from behind her.
“Finella!” Her aunt called from the top deck.
Someone blasted a horn and cut off all sound. All except an inner voice which sounded very much like Molly calling her name.
Finella launched from the vessel and landed like a newborn foal in a clumsy squat just shy of the pier’s edge.
But she didn’t stay there long. Long enough to steady her legs and check she hadn’t twisted a limb, but the pulse which pushed her off the steamer raged and carried her on. She ran along the pier and up the sandy track, far from the frantic calls of her aunt and the cursing of the steamer master, barking furious orders to throw ropes back to the jetty.
She ran as fast as her clean shoes could carry her and reached the fringe of the villagers in a breathless stop. They talked over one another and hardly noticed she’d joined them.
Mr. Spencer shushed the crowd so they could hear Jimmy Callahan share the news.
“Molly hasn’t been seen for hours. Shadrach begged us to check the village and tell anyone along the way to look out for her.”
Carry Me Home Page 27
