Read Online Whispers of Heaven by Candice Proctor - Free Book Online
Authors: Candice Proctor
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the proud line of his head and shoulders as he stared up at the evening sky, no missing the artless grace of his movements as he swung slowly toward the barracks. For one barely perceptible moment he paused, and she could see all of his pain, all of his desperation, all of his fear in the taut line of his back. Then he passed beneath the veranda and out of her sight. She was too far away for the slam of the barracks door or the noise of the bolts being shoved home to reach her. But she could hear it, in her mind.
Jessie's hands clenched around the brass handles of the French doors of her room, but she didn't open them. She had come upstairs to dress for supper, but something had drawn her to the windows overlooking the rear garden and the yard beyond it. Something she didn't understand and didn't want.
"The teal silk, Miss?"
"Yes, please." Jerking the dusky blue damask drapes across the windows, Jessie turned her back on the night. She watched the girl who had come to help her dress dart with a furtive kind of shyness about the room. She looked no more than sixteen, if that. She had a thin, sallow face and short, nondescript dark hair that stuck out from beneath her cap at odd angles. They always cut the women's hair when they put them on board the transport ships in London. The girl must not have been in Tasmania very long.
"What's your name?" Jessie asked.
The girl clutched Jessie's dress to her in a spasm of alarm and dropped into a frightened curtsy. "Emma, Miss. Emma Pope."
Jessie watched the girl duck her head and scurry across the room. Unlike the men, the house servants slept in two rooms in the basement, near the kitchen. But once they had finished their duties, they were locked in for the night, too, the same way the men were locked into the big stone barracks in the yard. Jessie wondered what they thought, what they felt, when they listened to the sound of the key grating in the lock, sealing them into the darkness.
With an awed kind of reverence, Emma spread Jessie's dress in shining teal glory across the plump white softness of the feather bed, with its tall four posters and damask hangings. They slept on hammocks in the men's barracks. Jessie knew that because as a child, she'd sometimes peeked through the open door of the big stone building when she passed it in the yard. She'd heard that the house servants slept on bunks when they were locked in their rooms at the end of their long day. But never in her life had she descended the narrow service stairs to the basement to see for herself.
"Is it comfortable?" she asked suddenly, as Emma unfastened her day dress. "Where you sleep, below stairs?"
Emma looked up, her pale blue eyes widening. "Yes, Miss."
Stepping out of her day dress, Jessie crossed the room to her dressing table and picked up her silver-handled brush. Her eyes met the girl's in the mirror. "Is it really?"
"Oh, yes, Miss. I ain't never been so comfortable in me life. I've a bed all to meself, with two blankets and all the food I can eat, every day. I ain't never known nothin' like it."
Jessie drew her brush through her long hair, her gaze still following the girl in the mirror as she went about her duties. She was a Londoner, her accent broad cockney. She'd probably grown up in some back slum, in an airless, windowless room crowded with anywhere from ten to twenty half-starved, ragged, lice-ridden brothers and sisters. Life as an assigned servant at Castle Corbett would seem comfortable indeed in comparison to such a life, Jessie thought. Perhaps it was only convicts like that Irishman, Gallagher, who found their situation in Tasmania so crushingly onerous. Perhaps convicts like Emma Pope didn't mind what had been taken from them. Their homes. Their families. Their freedom. And yet...
Jessie remembered something Old Tom had said to her that afternoon, when she'd gone to visit him at his hut. Old Tom had been Jessie's groom since she'd been old enough to straddle a pony. He'd been a
Jessie's hands clenched around the brass handles of the French doors of her room, but she didn't open them. She had come upstairs to dress for supper, but something had drawn her to the windows overlooking the rear garden and the yard beyond it. Something she didn't understand and didn't want.
"The teal silk, Miss?"
"Yes, please." Jerking the dusky blue damask drapes across the windows, Jessie turned her back on the night. She watched the girl who had come to help her dress dart with a furtive kind of shyness about the room. She looked no more than sixteen, if that. She had a thin, sallow face and short, nondescript dark hair that stuck out from beneath her cap at odd angles. They always cut the women's hair when they put them on board the transport ships in London. The girl must not have been in Tasmania very long.
"What's your name?" Jessie asked.
The girl clutched Jessie's dress to her in a spasm of alarm and dropped into a frightened curtsy. "Emma, Miss. Emma Pope."
Jessie watched the girl duck her head and scurry across the room. Unlike the men, the house servants slept in two rooms in the basement, near the kitchen. But once they had finished their duties, they were locked in for the night, too, the same way the men were locked into the big stone barracks in the yard. Jessie wondered what they thought, what they felt, when they listened to the sound of the key grating in the lock, sealing them into the darkness.
With an awed kind of reverence, Emma spread Jessie's dress in shining teal glory across the plump white softness of the feather bed, with its tall four posters and damask hangings. They slept on hammocks in the men's barracks. Jessie knew that because as a child, she'd sometimes peeked through the open door of the big stone building when she passed it in the yard. She'd heard that the house servants slept on bunks when they were locked in their rooms at the end of their long day. But never in her life had she descended the narrow service stairs to the basement to see for herself.
"Is it comfortable?" she asked suddenly, as Emma unfastened her day dress. "Where you sleep, below stairs?"
Emma looked up, her pale blue eyes widening. "Yes, Miss."
Stepping out of her day dress, Jessie crossed the room to her dressing table and picked up her silver-handled brush. Her eyes met the girl's in the mirror. "Is it really?"
"Oh, yes, Miss. I ain't never been so comfortable in me life. I've a bed all to meself, with two blankets and all the food I can eat, every day. I ain't never known nothin' like it."
Jessie drew her brush through her long hair, her gaze still following the girl in the mirror as she went about her duties. She was a Londoner, her accent broad cockney. She'd probably grown up in some back slum, in an airless, windowless room crowded with anywhere from ten to twenty half-starved, ragged, lice-ridden brothers and sisters. Life as an assigned servant at Castle Corbett would seem comfortable indeed in comparison to such a life, Jessie thought. Perhaps it was only convicts like that Irishman, Gallagher, who found their situation in Tasmania so crushingly onerous. Perhaps convicts like Emma Pope didn't mind what had been taken from them. Their homes. Their families. Their freedom. And yet...
Jessie remembered something Old Tom had said to her that afternoon, when she'd gone to visit him at his hut. Old Tom had been Jessie's groom since she'd been old enough to straddle a pony. He'd been a
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