Hannah whirled around so her back was to Mrs. Goudy. Hurt and outrage boiled through her. She pressed a closed fist to her mouth.
How could he? John would never
. . . But even while Hannah tried to comfort herself with how noble John had always been, she also knew he was just a man. And recently, he hadn’t been acting like himself.
“I’m sorry, dear,” Mrs. Goudy said and hurried out of the room.
Feeling as if her feet were glued to the floor, Hannah stood in the kitchen, unable to comprehend the possibility that John had been unfaithful.
What should I do? How can I go out there
and face him? Face them? They probably all know.
“Hannah?” John called.
The sound of the door closing carried from the front of the house. His steps echoed across the vestibule and the wood floor in the dining room.
“Ah, there you are. I was wondering . . .” He stopped and stared at Hannah. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Hannah glowered at him. “How could you?”
“How could I what?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t.” He moved to Hannah, but she pulled away.
“I trusted you.” She looked at John through a blur of tears. “And with Deidre? Why Deidre?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know. Mrs. Goudy told me. She saw you and . . . and her. Others have seen you too.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been seeing that woman! Stop acting innocent!”
John looked stricken. Hannah had hoped he’d deny the charges, explain that it was all just a misunderstanding. Instead he turned pale and said nothing.
“So. It’s true, then.” Hannah thought she might be sick.
“No. It’s not what you’re thinking. I was there, but I’m not interested in Deidre O’Neil, not like that. I could never be.”
“Then what have you been doing at her house? And why have you been giving her gifts? And all without telling me.”
John stared at the floor for a long while. When he finally looked at Hannah, his amber eyes were bleak. “I know it looks bad, but I’ve done nothing wrong.” He hesitated, then added, “Except that I’ve kept something from you.”
“You admit it, then.”
His eyes bore into hers. “Of course not. I’d not lay a hand on Deidre O’Neil.” Then so quietly that Hannah could barely hear him, he said, “She knows.”
“What does she know?”
“She knows about Judge Walker, about the baby . . . she knows everything.”
The room spun and Hannah grabbed for something to steady herself. John took hold of her arm and guided her to a chair.
Hannah’s mind was awhirl with questions. “How can she know? Who told her?” Her eyes focused on John. “And what has it to do with you?”
“She threatened to tell the elders. I couldn’t allow her to besmirch your name. She’s been demanding goods from me . . . otherwise she’ll speak to the reverend and the church leaders.”
Hannah’s shock swelled into fury. “How dare she?” Hannah stood. “Where is she? I’ll speak to her!”
“It will do no good. I’ve tried to reason with her. I even tried to bully her, but nothing made a difference.” John gently grasped Hannah’s arms. “I didn’t want you to know. I’d hoped that she’d let it go, but she continues to demand goods for her silence.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ve botched things terribly.”
“No. It’s not your fault. And I’m sorry I thought you and she . . . were . . . well, you know.”
“I can see how someone might think that. But I thought you knew me better.”
“I do. I’m sorry.” Hannah let out a heavy breath. “How does she know? I told no one except Lydia and Catharine.”
“Perhaps she overheard a conversation.”
Hannah thought back to the day she’d talked to Lydia in the main dining room. Deidre hadn’t even been living here at the time. Catharine would never say a word. “If she asks for anything more, don’t give it to her.”
“Hannah, you don’t know what she’s like.”
“Oh, there you are,” Lydia said. “I was wondering—”
Hannah’s anger flared and she turned on Lydia. “Did you speak to Deidre? Did you tell her . . .” She quieted her voice. “Did you tell her about Judge Walker and the baby?”
Lydia’s eyes grew large and she pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Did you?”
Lydia looked at the floor. “When she first came, I . . . She acted so nice . . . and when she asked what was troubling you, I told her.” Lydia hurried on. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to break a confidence, but she seemed to be a thoughtful, kind person. I never—”
“I trusted you.” Hannah felt betrayed to her core. Unable to look at Lydia, she said, “John, we’re leaving.” She kept her eyes straight ahead and walked toward the front of the house. What excuse could she give the Athertons?
“I’m sorry, Hannah. Has something happened? Did Deidre say something?”
Hannah turned on Lydia. “Oh yes! She’s said something! She’s threatened to tell the elders if we don’t keep her larder full! I’ll be ruined.” The hurt was so deep and powerful, it seemed to choke Hannah. She couldn’t speak.
Lydia stepped toward her.
Hannah moved back. “How could you?”
“Please forgive me. I . . . I never intended any harm.”
“I don’t care what you intended. It’s what you’ve done. Not only have you placed my reputation in jeopardy, but John’s as well.” She glanced toward the veranda. “Mrs. Goudy believes him to be an adulterer.”
“Oh.” Lydia’s hand went to her mouth. “I’ll make sure to set her straight.”
“How can you do that without telling her what’s happened? I’d say your mouth has caused enough trouble already.”
Lydia looked befuddled. “I can’t tell ye how deep my regret is. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
“I can’t forgive you. Not ever.” Hannah swept out of the room.
As John approached Patrick Roberts’s cottage, his stomach felt as if it had been tethered with a leather band. All was quiet and it seemed no one was about. He slowed his horse and studied the small, drab house. It was made of bark planking and had a thatched roof. The family obviously had little means. An extra mouth to feed would be a burden.
Patrick Roberts had been Charles Davies’ closest friend, and when Thomas was orphaned, he and his wife had taken in the lad. The word about the district was that they couldn’t manage and sadly were forced to find another home for the child.
John sucked in a breath and considered turning about and going home. No one had seen him. They wouldn’t know he’d been here.
I’ve not given this enough thought. I’ve not even talked to
Hannah.
Ever since hearing about the accident, John’s thoughts had often traipsed to Thomas, wondering what had become of him. When he heard the Robertses were looking to find a home for the boy, he’d acted on impulse and come here straightaway.
I ought to speak to Hannah. I’m sure it’s not necessary, she’ll
want him. She’s been pining for a child.
John knew he was simply putting off asking the Robertses, afraid he was too late and someone else had already come for the boy or that the Robertses had changed their minds and decided to keep him.
He stared at the house, hoping someone would open the door while at the same time afraid that they would. John pulled the reins over the horse’s neck and turned him back toward the road and moved away.
No one is here, at any rate.
He wondered if he’d ever seen Thomas. He didn’t remember the boy.
I wonder what he looks like.
He imagined a strapping young lad with a quick smile.
It doesn’t matter. He’s a lad who
needs a home. And Hannah and I need a child.
Hannah had been especially lonely since her falling-out with Lydia. Plus another month had passed with no baby. Perhaps this boy would be the balm she needed. Although John had hoped for a child of his own, he was beginning to believe it would never happen. He feared God truly was holding Hannah under discipline. They had been married nearly a year with no pregnancy.
Perhaps this is our child. This is the one
God has chosen.
He glanced over his shoulder, then turned the horse around and trotted back to the house. When he reached the porch, he stopped, swung out of the saddle, looped the reins over the porch railing, and stepped up to the front door. He listened for any sound from inside. Nothing. He stared at the door and then lifted his hand and knocked. No one answered. He knocked again.
“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice finally asked from behind the door.
“John Bradshaw. I’m here . . . on personal business.” He heard a latch lift and the door creaked open. A bird-thin woman dressed in a faded green gown peered out from the dark interior. “What can I do for ye?”
John managed to smile. “I heard you and your family took in Charles Davies’s boy.”
“That we did.” She opened the door a bit wider. “Why do ye ask?”
John removed his hat. “Would you mind if I came in?”
Uncertain blue eyes studied him. “I guess it would be all right.” She moved back and opened the door wider.
John stepped inside. The room was clean, but contained only necessities—two wooden chairs, a small table, a mat on the floor, and a rope bed partially hidden behind a quilt. The only exception to the starkness was a delicate china cup and saucer, which sat on display on a wooden mantel.
“I’m John Bradshaw, ma’am.”
“I’ve seen ye ’bout town. Ye work for Mr. Atherton, don’t ye?”
“I used to. I’ve my own place now, me and my wife.” It felt good to be able to say he owned his own property. “We’re not far out of Parramatta.”
The woman nodded. “I’m Mrs. Roberts. Me husband’s not ’ere just now.”
Even without Patrick Roberts there, John had to speak his mind; he just didn’t know exactly what to say. Mrs. Roberts relieved him of the responsibility.
“Are ye ’ere ’bout the boy?”
“Yes. I heard about what happened and that he’s in need of a home.”
“He’s not to be used for labor. He’s a fine lad and deserves better than that.”
“No. Of course not. I—”
“Ye best talk to me husband. He’s the one to make such decisions. He’s in the back pasture.” She opened the door and stepped onto the porch. “Just go ’round the house and follow the trail.”
“Yes, ma’am.” John replaced his hat and moved outside. Mrs. Roberts wasn’t exactly the friendly type. He wondered if he’d misunderstood about their wanting to find a home for the boy. He moved to his horse.
“Do ye have other children?” the woman asked.
“No. We don’t. We’d like to, though.”
Mrs. Roberts nodded. “Ye best speak to me husband. He’s out there with our two, and Tommy.”
“Thank you.” John climbed into the saddle.
“He’s a fine lad. I wouldn’t want him going to someone who’d be harsh with him. He’s had enough hurts in his life.”
Her concern warmed John’s heart. “I’m looking for a son, not a hired hand. And it would seem he needs a father.”
Sorrow touched the woman’s eyes. “Good, then.” She started to close the door, then stopped and said, “We’d keep him if we could.”
“I understand.” John tipped his hat. “Good day to you.”
He followed the trail leading to the back pasture. The sun was hot and flies swarmed, but John barely noticed. He could feel hope growing inside and imagined how he and Thomas would get along, how they’d work side by side, go fishing together, and build a friendship, and one day, if God were good, Thomas would see him as his father.
Don’t be hoping for too
much
, John cautioned himself.
The trail followed a broken-down fence where hungry-looking cattle grazed on tufts of grass. There was little natural feed to be had. John wondered why any man would stake out such a poor piece of ground.
He hadn’t ridden far when he saw a tall, thin man and three boys unloading posts from a dray. They stopped and watched him. Two of the youngsters were tall and thin, like the man, and the other was short and stocky.
“Good day,” the man said.
“Good day,” John replied.
Swiping his hat off his head and gazing up at John, he wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “What can I do for ye?”
John dismounted. “I’m John Bradshaw. I have a place north of here.”
“Patrick Roberts.” The man offered John his hand. He looked scrawny, but his grip was strong.
“I was hoping I could have a word with you . . .” John’s eyes went to the boys. “About a personal matter.” He tried not to stare at the stocky lad. “Could we speak in private?”
“That we can.” Mr. Roberts resettled his hat on his head and turned to the boys. “Allen, ye can drive the dray up a ways by that tree there, and then the three of ye can unload the rest of those posts.”
“Right, Dad.” The older of the boys clambered onto the seat of the cart, taking the reins in his hands and slapping the hind end of a mule, while the other two youngsters clambered into the back.
John and Patrick watched them move along the fence line. “The work never ends. But they’re good ’uns, all three of ’em.” Patrick turned pale blue eyes on John. His faced was tanned and lined from years of working in the sun. “So, what is it ye wanted to speak to me ’bout?”
“Thomas. I understand he’s in need of a home.”
“That he is. He’s a fine lad. Wish we could keep him with us, but we’ve not enough to feed another mouth.” Patrick folded his arms over his chest. “Why is it ye want him?”
John felt uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to sharing his private life with a stranger. “My wife and I have been married nearly a year and we’ve had no children. In time they may come, but with Thomas needing a family, I thought we might be of help to each other. I’ve a farm not far from here. Hannah and I don’t have a lot, but we’ve more than enough to share with a young lad.”
John’s eyes went to the boy. “Is he the smaller one with the blond hair?”
“That’s him.” Patrick’s voice seemed to catch.
“He looks strong.”
“He is and a hard worker too.” Patrick scrutinized John. “Ye a God-fearing man?”
“I am, my wife too. We rarely miss Sunday services.”
Patrick watched the boys and then turned to John. “Ye wouldn’t be lookin’ for free labor, would ye?”
“No. That’s got nothing to do with wanting to take Thomas into our home.”