City of Dreams (79 page)

There was a hint of curiosity in the slave’s voice. Squaw DaSilva wasn’t surprised. To eat or drink she’d have had to lift her veil. “Nothing, thank you, Sarah. I left my coachman waiting outside. I shall return home at once. And don’t be fooled by Master Luke’s screams. They are a natural accompaniment to surgery. Master Andrew did a remarkable job. My brother has every chance of recovering.”

Andrew couldn’t keep back his anger any longer. “If your damned son had any loyalty or family feeling, my father wouldn’t have needed surgery.”

Squaw didn’t turn around. It was as if she hadn’t heard him. “Thank you, Sarah. That drying cloth’s exactly what I need.” She used the crisply ironed piece of linen with careful motions, wiping each of her fingers separately. Finally she said, “Morgan did not start the brawl between your father and Caleb Devrey, Andrew. Nor had he any role in the treachery that was behind it. Caleb made an arrangement with James De Lancey to take the hospital post that should have been Luke’s. I sent Morgan to warn you and your father, but unfortunately he was too late.”

She was right. Morgan had arrived long after the trouble began. And Devrey was— Christ Almighty!

Andrew realized what he was doing and shook his head as if to clear away a dream. He was agreeing to a lie simply because this damned woman said it was the truth. “That’s not how it was. Morgan had a chance to pull one of them clear. He chose Devrey.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Andrew. Morgan was guided simply by the positions of the two men.”

“I am not mistaken. I saw the entire thing. If Morgan had wanted to save my father, he could have. He didn’t. He chose that black-hearted bastard Caleb Devrey. Now my father’s lost both his legs and Morgan is to blame.”

“You are upset, Andrew. It is entirely forgivable. And of course you’re very tired. We’ll speak more of this when you’re feeling calmer.”

“Damn you! Why don’t you take off that veil and look me in the eye? You won’t because you’re lying and you know it!”

“You must rest,” she said quietly. “Sarah, see that Master Andrew eats and gets some sleep. I will send ample provisions for the household within the hour, and medicine for Master Luke. Now, you must get this young surgeon out of his bloody clothes.”

Her own dress was as drenched in blood as Andrew’s dark-stained shirt and breeches. She could feel the sodden, sticky cloth as she gathered up her skirts and left the house.

“What did you tell him?” Morgan was sprawled in the chair across from his mother, staring across the tops of his polished boots into the fire. It was the day after the operation—talk of which was all over New York—and he’d spent most of it going from room to room of the house studying the burning logs in a variety of fireplaces. As if the jagged flames had answers to the questions that tormented him.

“I told Andrew he was mistaken.”

“It’s not true.”

“Yes, it is true.”

“Damn it, it is not true! Andrew is not mistaken!”

“I find the ease with which your generation curses at women quite tiresome, Morgan. Your cousin does the same thing. Please learn to guard your tongue when a lady is present. What I told Andrew was the truth because I said it was the truth. No other standard is required.”

He stared at her as if she were a stranger. “What kind of creature are you? What’s really hidden behind that black veil?”

She had been writing a note for Jane when he came in and forced her to tell him of the confrontation with Andrew. Now she put down the pen and stood up. “The kind of creature life has made me. I thought you understood that.”

“No.” He stared at her. “I don’t understand anything. I could have saved my uncle, whom I love and respect. I didn’t. Because I heard your voice in my ears, I saved a man I despise.”

“As well you should despise him.” She put her hands on the desk and leaned toward him. The sour smell of her hatred overcame the lavender-scented Hungary Water she always wore. “Would you have preferred to grant Caleb Devrey the release of an early death? He cost you your father!”

“In God’s name, how can it have been the fault of Caleb Devrey that my father elected to sell guns to the savages and was castrated by them?”

“All your life I’ve raised you to understand. How can you be so stupid now, when the sweetest revenge is almost in our grasp? How many times have you seen the skirt stained with the soot of—”

“The soot of the ruin left behind after Devrey’s mob burned your house. Holy Savior Almighty, you’ve showed me a dozen times. The tales of that God-cursed fire were my bedtime stories. But look what you’ve got!” Morgan stood up, striding the perimeter of the room, possessed by a passion to make her admit the folly he had finally acknowledged.

“This,” he said, using his cutlass to lift a length of the gold embroidered damask that hung at the windows. “This!” The cutlass tapped the rosewood marquetry of the table beneath the window. “And this!” He slid the blade along the edge of the ornate marble fireplace. “Is this place not a thousand times more grand than what was torched by a scarecrow coward and his band of Jew-hating rabble?”

“Do you think it’s about a house? Is wealth a repayment for a stolen life? For the brothers and sisters you could never have? For the loving husband I lost to—”

“To the Huron, for Almighty God’s sake! Yet you persist in this relentless pursuit of the man you’ve decided is your enemy. Truth is what Squaw DaSilva says it is. Disagree and you’re dead.”

She didn’t acknowledge that for the first time in twenty-three years he’d called her by the hateful name the rest used. She tapped her fingers on the elegant, marble-topped desk in a repeated rhythm, keeping time with a melody that played only for her. “Caleb Devrey will not die until I am ready to allow him to die. If you remember nothing else in your life, Morgan, none of my lessons, remember that.”

For a few seconds they stared at each other, both of them aware that they stood at the edge of a black hole of loss, and that if they once tumbled into it there would be no way to climb back out. Morgan felt a great weight bearing down on him. She was his mother; they had faced the world together as long as he could remember. When he broke the silence he spoke in a harsh whisper, his voice thick with emotion. “Tell me only one thing. Swear it. Tobias Carter, the rest of the crew who sailed the
Maiden
home with me, I can find none of them. Swear to me you had nothing to do with their disappearance.”

“I swear it.”

It was too swift. He knew she was lying.

He mastered the anguish and the fury that warred inside him. “Not even an oath,” he said, his voice flat and his eyes cold. “Not even that stops you. The only thing that matters is getting your own way. And God forgive me, I’ve helped you all my life. No more.” He turned and started for the door.

“Morgan! Where are you going? Wait, you must listen to me. I’ll make you understand.”

“I understand everything. Far too much and far too late, but I do understand.”

Roisin was in the hall, pressed to the wall, hiding in the shadows and listening to every word. The oval piece of soap she’d made to give to Squaw DaSilva was still in her hands. Earlier the strong, sweet smell of roses she’d captured in it had delighted her. She’d been sure it would convince Squaw DaSilva she had other uses besides whoring. Now the scent seemed overpowering. It made her ill.

Morgan had been like an animal the night before, using her as if she could somehow absorb all his anguish, as if repeatedly exploding inside her would somehow cure his pain.

Later when she pretended to be asleep because she had no idea what to say to him to drive away his devils, he’d stood beside the bed muttering to himself. “We’ll go away from here, Roisin. Why shouldn’t a whore go to sea as the captain’s lady when she’s as pretty and pleasing as you? I’ll take the
Maiden
on another voyage, and I’ll bring you with me. Anywhere, as long as it’s away from her.”

She’d dismissed the words as part of the madness that had possessed him since the accident at the almshouse. Lying between the rumpled sheets, her flesh bruised by his mindless lovemaking, she remembered what her mother used to say: all men forgot in the daylight the things they whispered in the dark. The night before, in his frenzy, one of the whispers had included the word “love.” It truly had, she’d heard it.
Ah, Roisin girl, don’t be a fool. It’s only yourself you can count on for protection now
.

She pressed herself to the wall outside Squaw DaSilva’s private parlor, heard the tramp of Morgan’s boots heading for the door, and knew he’d meant every word. He truly intended to sail off on God knew what kind of voyage, and to take her with him. But he’d tire of her sooner rather than later; and what would happen then? Holy Virgin Mother of God, for the sake of the Women of Connemara, protect me.

Roisin shoved the soap in her pocket and gathered up her calico skirt and her petticoats and hurried to the back stairs, a few yards away. She was out of sight when she heard Squaw’s door open and bang shut, and Morgan Turner’s boots clattering down the broad steps of the main staircase.

Mashee, the scullery maid, had taken Roisin with her to the root cellar a few days before, to help carry an armload of turnips. Now it was the only hiding place she could think of. Morgan Turner was unlikely to know that such a thing as a root cellar existed.

The door was cut from a single slab of maple, fitted with beaten iron hinges, and set into the ground at a slight angle. Its weight was almost too much for Roisin, but urgency gave her strength. She lifted the door.

She had no candle. She’d have to feel her way down the stairs and close the door above her head when she could no longer reach high enough. No, there was a light at the far end of the stone-lined pit. Too steady for a candle. It had to be a lantern.

Cuf’s face peered at her in the pale glow. “Let the door go,” he said. “Whatever you’re hiding from, you’re safe here.”

Roisin allowed the slab of wood to settle into place. Despite the lantern, it was much darker after that. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust; then Cuf came into focus. He was sitting on the ground. A blanket was spread in front of him, piled with pewter goblets and plates. The polished metal gleamed. “What are you doing down here?” she asked. “What’s all that?”

“My business. Nothing to do with you.” Cuf began wrapping the treasure in the blanket. “Who’s after you, Tilda or Mistress Flossie?”

She shook her head. “Neither.”

“Who, then?” He produced a length of rope and started to tie his bundle.

“Morgan.”

Cuf smiled. “I thought he’d already caught you.”

She hated it that he knew. That they all knew. “It’s not as you think.” She spat the words at him. “None of you understand. It was his bed or the pit.”

“I know. I wasn’t blaming you. There’s plenty of things worse than whoring. But what’s wrong now? You look as if you’ve seen the devil.”

Roisin shook her head. “He means to sail away and take me with him.”

“No, you’ve got it wrong. His ship’s to be auctioned.”

“You’re the one has it wrong. Morgan Turner’s had a flaming row with his mother over what happened to his uncle. And something about his crew. He’s going to sea again and he wants me to go with him.”

“That’s foolish. The war’s all but over. Privateering is finished.”

“Plain piracy, then,” she said. “The way he’s feeling, he’ll settle for that.”

“And he wants you to go with him?” Cuf asked. Roisin nodded. “But you don’t want to go?” She nodded again. “Why not? What’s ahead of you if you stay in New York?”

“Squaw’ll either put me to work in one of her bordellos, or return me to the old biddy who bought my indenture.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “That’s what I was thinking. So why not go to sea with Morgan? If, as you say, that’s what he has in mind.”

“It’s in his mind, all right. And what will my future be if I sail off with him?”

Cuf stood up, hoisting his package of treasure. “Seems to me it’s better than the bordellos or the biddy.”

“No, it’s not. When he’s had enough Morgan will drop me wherever he next makes land. One of the islands, perhaps.” She shuddered, remembering what she’d heard about the islands of the Caribbean, where not to be wellborn was to be condemned to the life of an animal. “And that’ll be after he’s told his crew they can do whatever they like with me.”

Cuf shook his head. “Morgan would never do that. He’s a decent man. We grew up together.”

“Decent! He let his own flesh-and-blood uncle lose both his legs because a she-wolf has twisted his mind—”

“It’s not like that.”

“No? How is it, then? Are all the stories wrong? Will Dr. Turner be strolling along the Broad Way anytime soon?”

Cuf couldn’t meet Roisin’s steady gaze. He’d been sick at heart ever since he heard the story. Luke Turner had always been good to him. It was terrible to think of that tall man cut in half—if he didn’t die of the surgery. “The stories aren’t wrong,” he admitted.

“I didn’t think so. Ah, don’t look like that. It’s not your fault.”

Roisin settled on the bottom stair, hugging herself against the cellar’s chill, trying to decide what she could do.