Longings of the Heart (28 page)

Hannah woke the next morning with a sense of anticipation. Today would be a new beginning for her and Thomas. After John and Quincy left to do some doctoring on the sheep, Hannah spooned the remaining porridge into a bowl. “Thomas, your breakfast is ready,” she called up the stairs. There was no response, no sound of footsteps. “Thomas?” Still no answer.

Hannah set the bowl of hot cereal on the table and headed up the stairs. At the top of the steps she stopped and gazed about the large room. The bed was empty. “Thomas?” She found him standing at the window. “I called. Why didn’t you answer?”

He continued to stare outside and didn’t respond.

Hannah felt the old irritation rise and tried to quiet it. “You don’t want your cereal to get cold.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want it. I wanted to go with John.”

“I thought we decided that I need you here today. I could use a hand in the garden.”

He wheeled around and glared at her. “That’s women’s work. I shouldn’t have to do it.”

Patience, Hannah. Patience.
She moved into the room. Doing her best to remain calm, she said, “It’s not women’s work at all. It’s farmwork. And we all must do our share. I’ve got to make candles today, we’re nearly out. I don’t have time for the garden.” When Thomas continued to stare outside and ignore her, she continued, “John said he’ll take you fishing when he returns this afternoon.”

His brows furrowed and his lips formed a pout, Thomas folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t need him to take me fishing. I can go on me own.”

“No. You’ll wait. I need you to eat your breakfast and to help me first.”

“You can’t tell me what to do. I’m not yer son.”

“That’s right, you’re not, but you are my charge.” Hannah could feel herself getting angry. “And you’ll do as you’re told.” Although she steeled herself against it, she couldn’t keep her voice from rising.

“I’m going fishing.” Thomas charged toward her and tried to push past.

Hannah grasped his arm, squeezing hard. “There’ll be no fishing today.” Keeping hold of his arm, she headed down the stairs, dragging him with her. She set him in a chair at the table. “Now, I’ve made you a fine breakfast. I expect you to eat it. And then you’ll do the gardening.”

Thomas glared at the porridge.

“I said eat.”

He propped his elbows on the table and stared at the bowl. Hannah went to work on the dishes, hoping he’d give in to her wishes.

Thomas pushed the bowl away.

“Thomas, we’ll not waste food in this house.” She picked up the spoon on the table, put it in his hand, and pushed the bowl back in front of him. “Now, eat.”

“I don’t have to.” He put the spoon down hard.

Hannah wasn’t sure what to do. Now that she’d made an issue about the meal, she felt she had to win the argument. “Eat. Or you’ll go without the rest of the day.” She took the spoon and dipped it into the cereal. “It’s good; I made it just the way you like it.”

“I wanted to go with John.”

Hannah put the spoon in his hand. “Please, try it.”

Thomas flung the utensil across the room.

Stunned, Hannah shouted, “Pick that up!”

“I don’t have to do anything you say!” Thomas stood, knocking over the chair. “I hate you!”

Hannah felt a swell of sorrow and failure sweep over her. Her voice resolute and quiet, she said, “If you hate me so much, then perhaps you should live elsewhere.”

Dead quiet cut through the room.

Thomas bolted for the door.

“Thomas. I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not. You never wanted me ’ere.” He yanked open the door and ran outside, leaping from the porch. He ran hard, heading for the fields.

“Thomas! Thomas!” Hannah went after him, but he was too far ahead of her. He kept running until he disappeared among the deep golden grasses.

Gulping air, Hannah stopped. It was useless. She couldn’t catch him.

Staring at the place she’d last seen him, she pressed her hand against her stomach.
Oh, Lord, what have I done?

20

Heavy of heart, Hannah added wood to the hot coals beneath a large iron pot of tallow. Thankfully John had placed it over the fire before leaving that morning, but the task of making candles was hers. She’d misjudged how many candles they’d need to carry them through the summer months, and now she was forced to make more in the midst of the hot season, something she’d never done before.

It was early in the day, but the air was already sultry. Working over a fire would soon make it intolerable. But Hannah had no other choice. It must be done.

Flies buzzed about the pot, and as the day went on, Hannah knew there would be more of the beastly insects. She shuddered.
Despicable creatures.

She looked toward the garden. It needed tending, but without Thomas she didn’t know how she’d manage to look after it and see to the candle making. Planting her hands on her hips, she gazed out over the open fields and down to the road. Where was he? Had she driven him away for good?
Certainly
not. He’ll be back.

She considered what had happened and recoiled over what her impatience had caused. Although Thomas had been misbehaving, she should have maintained her composure. Her sharp words had only made things worse.
When he returns,
I’ll speak to him. If only he’ll listen.

Using a large wooden paddle, she stirred the tallow. It wasn’t hot enough, so Hannah set up drying racks, then cut wicks and draped them over a candle rod. When she’d finished, she checked the tallow again, but it still wasn’t ready. She decided that while it heated she’d spend some time in the garden. Perhaps Thomas would be back soon and could finish.

She stood at the end of a row of turnips overrun by weeds. She placed a box on the ground beside her and set to work, pulling the unwanted vegetation. Every few minutes, she’d look up, hoping to see Thomas trudging toward the house. He never came.

She hadn’t gotten very far down the row when it was time to check the tallow again. She sat back on her legs and brushed hair out of her face. Once more, she looked across the golden fields, crackling beneath the hot sun. Still no sign of Thomas. A pang of alarm pulsed through her. He’d been gone quite a long while. It was hot, too hot. He’d not taken any food or water with him.
He’s probably at the river. It’s cooler there.

She still had candles to make, so she pushed to her feet and brushed dirt from her hands and skirt.
He’ll be back soon. I’ll
apologize.
She closed her eyes and turned her face skyward.
Please help Thomas to forgive me.
With one last glance at the river, she moved toward the house where the pot of tallow cooked in the shade of an acacia.

The unpleasant odor of rendered fat tainted the aroma of heated grasses that usually wafted through the yard. Swatting at flies buzzing about the edges of the pot, Hannah picked up the paddle and stirred. The tallow was now melted and hot— ready at last.

After adding more wood to the fire, she wiped her damp face with her sleeve. If only she had help. She needed Thomas.

Frustration stirred inside, but she caught hold of the undeserved irritation and cast it aside. He was just a child, a hurting little boy. She turned and looked down the drive, praying she’d see him walking toward the house. It was empty and so were the fields.

Letting out a discouraged sigh, she used her apron to wipe sweat from her neck and then rolled up her sleeves. She climbed the front steps and dipped out a tin of water from a barrel beside the door. Her mouth was ready for something cool and refreshing, but the water was warm and brackish. Perhaps when John returned, he would bring up fresh from the river.

Feeling overly warm and already dirty and damp, Hannah poured water into a bucket, then went inside for a washcloth. The house was stifling hot. She’d have to open the windows and leave the door ajar, which meant flies would descend upon the room, but there was nothing that could be done about it.

After opening up the house, she returned to the porch, dipped the cloth into the cool water, and washed away the dirt and sweat from her arms and neck. The sensation was momentarily refreshing. Kneeling beside the bucket, she splashed water over her face, then patted it dry with a towel.

She stood and looked at the cooking pot waiting for her. The idea of working over the fire and fighting flies all day was tremendously distasteful. Hannah vowed she’d never again do this during the summer months.

She immersed the first set of wicks into the fat and lifted them out, holding them over the pot so the extra tallow could drip off. Then she draped the newly born candles over a cooling rack. It would take several more layers of tallow before they’d be complete. She cut more wicks and bathed them in the hot fat and hung them to dry.

Hannah checked the first ones she’d dipped. They didn’t look quite right, but she dipped them again. She continued working, but the candles were misshapen and not solidly congealed. She held up a candle rod with the droopy candles hanging from it. They were in such poor condition they’d be unusable. “What did I do wrong?” And then it struck her—the heat. It was too hot for the tallow to set up adequately.

She returned the useless candles to the rack and stared at her hard work—all for naught—another lesson of living in New South Wales. Her back and legs ached and her dress was soaked with perspiration. Every place her skin was exposed, there were welts from biting flies, and she’d accomplished nothing.

Disheartened and feeling foolish, she walked to the front porch and dipped out a cup of drinking water, then sat on a wooden chair. She wanted to cry. Instead, she drank the water and then closed her eyes, enjoying a soft breeze that cooled her damp skin. “I should have known. How could I have been so featherbrained?” She looked at the miserable racks draped with the ugly, useless candles.
What shall we do now? They’ll
need to be done over, but when the weather is cooler.
Hannah hated the thought.

She hung the cup from a bracket above the water barrel and turned to gaze at the land. Heat waves rippled above thirsty fields and multitudes of cicadas whirred. Hannah didn’t remember it ever being so hot. Worry tightened in her gut. It was too hot for a little boy to be wandering about. He should be back.
Where is he?

Hannah considered taking her horse and going to look for him, but knew it would be unwise. She had no idea where to begin.
Perhaps he’s with John. He’s probably helping him and
Quincy.

It’s not safe for any of them to be out in such brutal heat.
She’d expected John and Quincy to return earlier in the day.
What
will they think when they see my dreadful candles?
She’d already received a lesson in humility but knew there’d be more. The men couldn’t bear to pass up an opportunity for a laugh.

The sun sat low in the sky, turning strands of clouds pink. “John, where are you?” Fear spiked through her. There were so many things that could go wrong, and soon it would turn dusk.
At least the night will be a reprieve from the blazing sun.

Hannah scooped out another cupful of water and unsuccessfully tried to satisfy her thirst. Replacing the cup, she wondered what she ought to do with the pathetic candles. They would have to be rendered down again. In the meantime, she’d have to see about purchasing some. With a glance toward the road, she walked indoors. She’d been so intent on her candle making that she’d given little thought to the evening meal. Eggs would have to do.

She took a basket and gathered eggs from the chicken yard. The multitude of insects and longer days made for more successful laying. The hens produced more eggs than the family could consume. By the time she returned to the house, the sky had deepened into red and the rasping song of the cicadas had quieted, though there were many who still chanted to the coming darkness. Hannah scanned the countryside surrounding her home, hoping to see John, but there was no one.

She remained on the porch for a while, waiting and expecting to see her family at any moment. She finally set the eggs on the chair and walked to the stock pen. The air remained heated, but the breeze was cooling. Hannah rested her arms on the top rail of the pen and studied Patience. She needed milking. Without her calf to feed, she had an abundance of milk. The thought of the bull calf handed over to Deidre sent a rush of anger through Hannah. Deidre had simply turned around and sold him.
At least we haven’t heard anything from her recently.
We can be thankful for that, I suppose.