Dream Time (historical): Book I by Parris Afton Bonds Read Free Book Online

She needed a friend, even if it was an aborigine woman.
    “Talk to me, Pulykara. Distract me.”
    Pulykara talked of sandalwood trees with wood so heavy it would barely float and of great herds of seals, the whereabouts of which only her tribe knew, and of course of the Dreamtime. For her, it was a real place.
    For Nan, it was an endless journey, this Dreamtime. An imaginary place where one might find oneself. Like the outback, Pulykara’s Never-Never, this Dreamtime must be a deep interior where the soul was free in an inner outback, a land beyond Disappointment and Good-bye and Alone.
    Hours later, as Tom was returning from duty, she gave birth. Pulykara turned with the infant in her arms to Tom. He put away his scabbard and his shakar hat. With wonder, he stared down at the squalling mite of a human being.
    From the bed, Nan said weakly, “Tis a girl.”
    “Are you a ll right?” he asked, taking his gaze off the baby to fix on her. “You don’t look well, Nan.”
    “I’m tired. That’s all.”
    “What will you name her?”
    Nan turned her head toward the palisaded wall. “I won’t. I’m giving her away.”
    “You cannot be serious about this,” he said. “The babe will die without your milk.”
    Nan’s breasts ached with their heavy fullness, although scarcely six hours had passed since she had given birth. “No, the baby won’t die. Pulykara says she knows of someone who has breast milk.”
    Tom stared at the aborigine, who was tearing strips of muslin to bind Nan’s breasts. “Pulykara knows,” Nan said. “I don’t understand how news is passed along by these people with nary a written word, but some woman gave birth yesterday to a stillborn.”
    Tom asked, “You are certain the mother will want this child?”
    She shrugged. “She’s a mother who has lost a child. She’ll want the—”
    “But so are you.” Perplexity puckered his thick brows. “I’m stupefied. I can’t understand how you would so easily give away your own flesh and blood. It’s unnatural.”
    “Come here, Tom.” She stretched out her hand to take his and draw him down on the bed beside her. She had to convince him of the wisdom of her decision. Should he doubt her at the beginning of their marriage, she would never be able to steer their relationship through threatening waters that would undoubtedly besiege their marriage from time to time.
    She rubbed his pal m, feeling the calluses and comparing it to Miles’s smooth one, the palm of a gentleman. Bemused, Tom watched her fingers. “Tom, dearest, the baby deserves the best possible upbringing.” Her voice lowered, as did her lids. “I cannot help the pain I feel when I see her and remember . . . remember that the man”—she drew a ragged breath and went on—“the man who was responsible for fathering her was also responsible for my imprisonment.”
    “You have told me so little about what happened—”
    “I was beguiled, Tom. Like a foolish woman who has never been courted, I let my heart overrule reason. I wrote pamphlets that infuriated his mentor’s rival—Pitt.”
    “Not William Pitt!”
    She was glad Tom momentarily forgot the issue of the child. “Aye. I was accused of being a Jacobin, and Pitt neatly arranged for me to be found guilty of treason. By loving a scoundrel of a man, I lost not only my freedom, but I was left to bear the child of a man who had used me only for political purposes. Should I keep”—she nodded toward the squalling infant—“the baby, I think I would always look upon it with resentment. For me, it represents the treachery of love and, worse, the demeaning of my soul and . . . well, another woman will love the baby far better than I.”
    He shook his head and rubbed his lantern-jawed chin. “I don’t understand you, Nan. This child is healthy and what’s another mouth to—”
    “Tom, think of the baby.”
    With a sigh, he rose. “I suppose you’re right.” He picked up his saber. “Tomorrow, I’ll go and talk