Read Online Wanted: One Scoundrel by Jenny Schwartz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jenny Schwartz
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throat. “Do we need a carriage?”
She shivered at the inadvertent caress. “No. Angus has a shop on the outskirts of town. We can walk to it.”
And maybe the walk will shake me back into sanity . Her hyper-awareness of Jed was making her awkward and unnatural.
The view from the front of the house showed the harbor and the ships at anchor. The sooty marks of steamships smudged the horizon. Closer at hand, the town rang with noise and energy. Someone was learning to play the trumpet and sharp discordant blasts carried on the breeze.
She strode fast to the quieter, southern edge of Fremantle, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat. It was most unladylike, but it meant she could ignore the offer of Jed’s arm. Touching him would not be a good idea.
A derisive blast from the amateur trumpet player faded behind them.
The streets narrowed. The shops huddled close, smaller and interspersed with workshops and family homes. The smoke from wood fires curled up, fragrant and reminiscent of the country. Tiny plots of land held vegetable gardens. Lemon and orange trees were glossy green, occasionally starred with white blossoms already anticipating summer.
The familiar walk restored her composure. She took her hands from her pockets, relaxed enough to gesture naturally as she gave Jed some background.
“The native people live here. In their own language, they are the Nyungar. Some have adapted to European ways and gained artisan skills—like Angus, my printer. Others still live nomadically. I would like them accepted as full citizens of Swan River, regardless of their lifestyle choices.”
They passed a small school and heard a chorus of children’s voices reciting the multiplication table.
“Segregation,” she said sadly. “A lot of white people won’t accept that the Nyungar are equal.” She gripped his arm. “We must change that. These children should be free to follow their dreams.”
“The attitudes of hate that lie behind segregation are hard to change.” He covered her hand with his for a second. “But we’ll try.”
They walked into the printers. The floor of the wooden building shuddered to the sound of a printing press. Esme walked around the counter to the doorway of the workroom. “Hello, Angus.”
A large black man looked around with a smile. “Miss Esme.” He wiped his hands on a rag and came toward them, ushering them back into the shop and closing the door to the printing room for a bit of quiet.
“Jed, this is Mr. Angus Warren. Angus, Mr. Jedediah Reeve.”
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Reeve.” The printer extended his hand.
Jed shook it.
“We need more pamphlets printed,” Esme said.
Angus took out his order book, questioning numbers and timing.
“May I ask a personal question, Mr. Warren?” Jed asked.
“Go ahead.” The printer didn’t look up from his copperplate note taking.
“At home, in America, the black people are mostly former slaves or their descendants. Much of their culture was lost and they’ve had to rebuild it. But how do you, living in your own country, reconcile your traditional beliefs with all this?” His gesture encompassed the printing office, town and the whole goldrush explosion of activity.
“It’s not a question many people ask.” Angus straightened from the desk. “The missionaries still think we’re godless heathens. We’re not. I’m Christian-baptized. But I’m also me, son of my father, child of the Dreamtime. I say my people make their lives with old beliefs, but new practices.”
“In a way, that’s what I hope for all of us,” Esme said. “The best of the old and the new, and a strong sense of who we are, of pride in being part of Swan River Colony.”
Angus’s smile was tolerant.
Esme’s hand tightened on her purse. “I know you think I can’t understand your struggles, Angus, seeing as how I’m white and wealthy. But all of us have to fight to be the person God intended us to be.”
“That is true, and He
She shivered at the inadvertent caress. “No. Angus has a shop on the outskirts of town. We can walk to it.”
And maybe the walk will shake me back into sanity . Her hyper-awareness of Jed was making her awkward and unnatural.
The view from the front of the house showed the harbor and the ships at anchor. The sooty marks of steamships smudged the horizon. Closer at hand, the town rang with noise and energy. Someone was learning to play the trumpet and sharp discordant blasts carried on the breeze.
She strode fast to the quieter, southern edge of Fremantle, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat. It was most unladylike, but it meant she could ignore the offer of Jed’s arm. Touching him would not be a good idea.
A derisive blast from the amateur trumpet player faded behind them.
The streets narrowed. The shops huddled close, smaller and interspersed with workshops and family homes. The smoke from wood fires curled up, fragrant and reminiscent of the country. Tiny plots of land held vegetable gardens. Lemon and orange trees were glossy green, occasionally starred with white blossoms already anticipating summer.
The familiar walk restored her composure. She took her hands from her pockets, relaxed enough to gesture naturally as she gave Jed some background.
“The native people live here. In their own language, they are the Nyungar. Some have adapted to European ways and gained artisan skills—like Angus, my printer. Others still live nomadically. I would like them accepted as full citizens of Swan River, regardless of their lifestyle choices.”
They passed a small school and heard a chorus of children’s voices reciting the multiplication table.
“Segregation,” she said sadly. “A lot of white people won’t accept that the Nyungar are equal.” She gripped his arm. “We must change that. These children should be free to follow their dreams.”
“The attitudes of hate that lie behind segregation are hard to change.” He covered her hand with his for a second. “But we’ll try.”
They walked into the printers. The floor of the wooden building shuddered to the sound of a printing press. Esme walked around the counter to the doorway of the workroom. “Hello, Angus.”
A large black man looked around with a smile. “Miss Esme.” He wiped his hands on a rag and came toward them, ushering them back into the shop and closing the door to the printing room for a bit of quiet.
“Jed, this is Mr. Angus Warren. Angus, Mr. Jedediah Reeve.”
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Reeve.” The printer extended his hand.
Jed shook it.
“We need more pamphlets printed,” Esme said.
Angus took out his order book, questioning numbers and timing.
“May I ask a personal question, Mr. Warren?” Jed asked.
“Go ahead.” The printer didn’t look up from his copperplate note taking.
“At home, in America, the black people are mostly former slaves or their descendants. Much of their culture was lost and they’ve had to rebuild it. But how do you, living in your own country, reconcile your traditional beliefs with all this?” His gesture encompassed the printing office, town and the whole goldrush explosion of activity.
“It’s not a question many people ask.” Angus straightened from the desk. “The missionaries still think we’re godless heathens. We’re not. I’m Christian-baptized. But I’m also me, son of my father, child of the Dreamtime. I say my people make their lives with old beliefs, but new practices.”
“In a way, that’s what I hope for all of us,” Esme said. “The best of the old and the new, and a strong sense of who we are, of pride in being part of Swan River Colony.”
Angus’s smile was tolerant.
Esme’s hand tightened on her purse. “I know you think I can’t understand your struggles, Angus, seeing as how I’m white and wealthy. But all of us have to fight to be the person God intended us to be.”
“That is true, and He
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