Two

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Mr O'Bryan was a bright spot in an otherwise dismal week. Rose's lateness returning home that night had been overshadowed by the American nephew's crimes of being a Papist, a gold miner, and an uninvited dinner guest. She escaped with no more than an extra fifteen minutes on her knees, and the linen closet to turn out. She managed to read the book Mr O'Bryan had saved for her in the week before it was due for return, keeping it in her apron pocket, stealing moments at the clothesline or in the kitchen when Aunt Agnes was occupied with the ladies' church committee.

On Thursday, Mr Hackerton came to dinner. A widower and an elder at the Congregation of the Elect meetinghouse, he was looking Rose over for her potential as a wife and housekeeper. Rose shuddered. Imagine: a lifetime of being called 'Laura', and being touched by those cold, pudgy hands.

On Saturday, the entire house had to be cleaned from top to bottom, and the next day's food cooked, so the day could be spent in prayer and meditation, when not at one of two long church services conducted by Uncle Campbell and the other elders.

And on Monday, she saw Thomas O'Bryan again. She was coming back from shopping, nervously skirting the noisy camp in the Octagon, when he materialised beside her, tipped his cap, and held out a hand for her basket.

"Let me carry that for you, Miss Campbell. It looks heavy." He fell into step, saying cheerfully, "As I thought. Far too heavy for a little bit of a thing like yourself."

"I thought you would have gone to the fields by now, Mr O'Bryan," she said.

"There now, you have been thinking of me!" Something in his grin made her insides feel peculiar, and she looked away, feeling the heat rise in her face.

"I have business to attend to in Dunedin, but I've passage booked on the coach tomorrow," he explained. "And what are we shopping for, this fine, crisp, spring morning?" He lifted the corner of a package, and shifted another sideways, ignoring her anxious fluttering. "Is there another book concealed beneath the potatoes, Miss Campbell?"

"Don't say that," she darted her eyes about, hoping no one who knew her uncle had overheard. They were all strangers, intent on their own affairs, and Mr O'Bryan was regarding her with chagrin.

"I was only teasing, Miss Campbell. No one heard, and your secrets are safe with me. The old crow and his wife object to you reading?"

She flushed to hear her secret description for her nearest living relations on the lips of this irreverent man, but something about his clear interest tugged a murmured admission from her. "Uncle says the Bible is the only proper reading for a pious woman."

"Which bits?" Mr O'Bryan enquired with interest. "The Song of Songs? The story about Lot's daughters? Or Tamar?"

"Mr O'Bryan!" He could not possibly know of her minor rebellion, seeking out the most shocking stories she could find in the Bible, whenever her uncle set her reading.

"What?" He tried to keep his face bland, but one corner of his mouth twitched, and his eyes twinkled.

By now, they were out of the shopping area and approaching the turn into Frederick Street. "Thank you for your escort, sir," Rose told him. "I can manage from here."

"I am visiting my aunt, Miss Campbell, so I'll do myself the honour of seeing you home."

Thomas was surprised to hear himself say so. He'd intended to steer clear of his aunt and her poisonous husband, despite his attraction to the niece. Unusual for him to be attracted to a little mouse; though, he had to admit, she had backbone, sneaking books into the house under the old man's nose. There was more to her than met the eye.

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