The Proposal

Elizabeth sat wringing her hands, quite obviously feeling stressed. 

“Bessie my love, it is quite simple, I love you and you love me.  Who is to say that is wrong” Charles said pleadingly.

“But Charles, we are both already married!” Elizabeth cried, before bursting into tears again.  “Just because my William ran off and your Elizabeth is still in England, doesn’t make it so we can just start afresh!”

“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, I’ve been out here seven years now and your William well, he’s dead for all we know so you are a widow and I’m a bachelor.” 

Charles now had Elizabeth’s attention.  “What is this seven year thing Charles?”

“Well, Bessie I heard talk of it when I was living down south, near Hobart.  Folk who have been out here, not voluntarily, you might say;  after seven years and with no hope of going back home can find a new wife and get on with their life.  Why should we honest folk be any different Bessie?” 

Charles went on, knowing he was near to convincing her, “I love you Bessie and want to be with you; that can only be a good thing.  As for Elizabeth, she has the girls and family back in Bruton and she probably has herself a new husband by now too!”

Elizabeth rose from her chair and moved to Charles, he embraced her tenderly “I love you too Charles and yes, you are right, we should be able to move on with our lives too.”

The Orphanage

Bill Smith tried to ignore his gut as he knocked on the front door at the orphanage.   He told himself he was doing the right thing, the brat wasn’t his and if that whore Mary was going to keep running off why should he be left with the kid. 

The door was opened by a large and imposing woman.  She wore a brown calico dress with a coarse and grubby apron over the top.  The apron looked as though your hand would stick to it if you touched it.  Bill took a step back from the woman, a bit surprised by her appearance.  She jangled as she moved and his eyes wandered down to the large black ring holding a variety of keys, nestled at her enormous waist. 

“Ahhh, s’cuse me Missus, but I come with me convict’s kid; Charles, his mum is Mary Neale.”  The matron’s eyes took in the little blonde boy at his side, no more than three years old and dirtier and scruffier than her current wards, if that was even possible.  She moved aside and let Bill and Charles in the door, without uttering a word.

As Bill’s eyes adjusted to the dark of the room he realised that his gut was trying to speak to him.  He knew this was not a good decision but he fought the feeling as he listened to the matron make her spiel and he signed the paperwork with his mark.  The last thing he noticed was the silence, not a sound to be heard, and this struck him as strange for a home apparently busting at the gills with children.