JoAnn Wendt (24 page)

“Over.”

Mary wept in relief.

“Dead?”

Flavia nodded tiredly.

Mary lay back in the hay, staring blankly at the dark rafters where horse harness and tools hung. The night was passing. Dawn was near. Eerie gray light crept into the barn, elongating shadows and changing the shapes of things.

“I’m glad!” Mary whispered passionately, the hay rustling viciously under her. “May God forgive me, but I’m glad.”

Flavia squeezed her hand, understanding.

“Mary? The baby must receive a burial.”

Mary Wooster’s eyes grew luminous with fear. “Jane, no. They’ll say I birthed a bastard and killed it. They’ll hang me!”

Flavia shuddered. Mary was right. An indentured woman who gave birth to a stillborn was at the mercy of the court. Depending upon the caprice of a jury of men, she could be exonerated or she could be sentenced to death.

Flavia rose wearily. Straw crunched underfoot as she went to the horse stall and took the horse blanket from its cubbyhole. When Mr. Byng discovered the blanket missing, he likely would blame gypsies. Wrapping the infant in the blanket, she collected a shovel and then the wide-eyed Neddy. They buried the bundle in an isolated copse, halfway to the creek.

The sky was beginning to lighten as she helped Mary up to the low loft above the sheep pen. It was smelly there. But the rank odor was an ally. Mr. and Mrs. Byng never willingly visited the sheep pen.

She was tired when she finally slipped back into the kitchen. As tired as she’d ever been in her life. Her ankle throbbed. Coals still glowed in the fireplace. She sprinkled kindling slivers upon the coals. The kindling caught. Fire hissed up. She added logs and swung the kettle trivet over the flames. She made tea, warmed a leftover potato stew and carried all out to Mary. In the barn she quickly forked clean hay over the birthing spot, then paused to cover the sleeping Neddy with a blanket. She flew back to the house in a limping run, shucked her soiled outermost petticoat, scrubbed it in a basin of water and stretched it over the hearth to dry.

She was just in time. She was just measuring cornmeal into a cracked blue bowl when Mrs. Byng emerged from her bedchamber.

“As to yesterday, Jane,” Mrs. Byng began irritably, “I shall speak to the magistrate. He shall be persuaded to indemnify me for the lost hours you was away. Oh, yes, indeed, girl!”

She waited for a response. When Flavia gave her none, refusing to be baited, Mrs. Byng’s eye twitched in vexation.

“As to your wicked sinfulness,” she went on, her voice rising, “you had best remember the penalty for whelping a bastard. Oh, indeed, missy, you are a wanton one.” She smiled in cold satisfaction, adding, “You shall dance at the public whipping post one of these days. Mark my words!”

* * * *

She hid Mary Wooster for almost two weeks while word spread through Chestertown that a bondwoman had bolted. A notice of reward for capture went up on the church notice wall, on a tree at the market square and at the Rose and Crown. The notices had to be repenned often, as they tended to disappear. At Sabbath services Flavia learned why.

“Poor Mary Wooster!” Elizabeth Simm whispered during
Mr. Byng’s long windy sermon. “She’s but a child. I hope she runs and runs far. I told Jimmy Barlow, I did—’Jim
,
were the notices about poor Mary to disappear, I should feel obliged to throw my arms around you and kiss you’—”

Betsy’s furtive whisper was cut off as a pole jabbed her between the shoulder blades. She swung her head round, spearing the church warden with a haughty look. The warden backed off, reddening in confusion, and Flavia smiled inwardly. So he, too, had heard that Betsy Simm would be the next wife of the very rich and powerful planter, Ira Gresham.

The cold sleeting rains of November began. Tentatively at first, then with wintry determination. Gray rain bludgeoned the countryside, dragging the last foliage from trees and swirling colorful heaps of autumn leaves into sodden, mud-colored mounds. The goldenrod was gone, the showy bright yellow blossoms washed down to the creek. House yards flowed with mud. Flavia couldn’t leave the house to do chores without wearing wood pattens over her shoes. Even so, the awkward stilt-like pattens flicked cold wet mud up her stockings as she walked.

Inside the house, spits of rain shot down the chimneys, sizzling like hot fat in a fire. On a night after especially heavy downpours, she’d gone to bed to find her blankets wet. A drip had sprouted in the loft roof.

The barn roof was sound, but the wetness of the outside air pressed in. The air grew musty. Absorbing the moisture, the hay sent up a thick strong odor. One couldn’t breathe the air without coughing, and Mary Wooster lived in terror, fearing Mr. Byng would come in and hear her cough. She was determined to run as soon as the rains abated.

Her heart aching for the girl, Flavia listened to Mary’s childish plans for escape. The plans were inept, unworkable, the wishful fantasies of a young girl. She knew she had to obtain help for Mary. But from whom?

From Jimmy Barlow? From Elizabeth Simm? Flavia sighed sadly. She might as well announce Mary’s whereabouts from the pulpit as use those two. Dennis? No. She couldn’t ask so much of him. Aiding a runaway bondslave was a crown offense. In January Dennis would begin life anew, a free man, a respected schoolmaster. She couldn’t ask him to jeopardize his future.

Her mind flew to Raven and as quickly fled him. Raven would help if she asked. Somehow, she felt certain of it. But Garth’s brother seemed given to grand, cavalier gestures. Raven would try to play the hero and make hash of it. Mary could only end up the worse off...

If only... if only. . .
No.  No.
Dear heaven! Never!

But her aching heart flew there again, and she was forced to consider it. Her pulse raced erratically, blood thundering in her ears. Garth ... if only she could send Mary to Garth.... His keen eyes would read and understand Mary’s woebegone face in a glance. He would sense her awful plight and he would help. She knew it! Knew it as certainly as she knew she adored him. Garth’s help would be mature. Decisive and discreet. Unlike Raven, he’d feel no need to play the hero. He would hide Mary aboard the
Caroline.
He would take her to safety, to another colony, or to England—anywhere she could start free.

It was a foolish fantasy, she admitted sorrowfully. It was dangerous. More foolish and dangerous than any of Mary’s childish plans. She pushed it from her mind. But it kept coming back. She was forced to consider it. Two nights later, serving supper to Mr. and Mrs. Byng, she was jerked into urgent action.

“I heard noises again, Mrs. Byng,” Josiah Byng began in his nasal voice, carefully buttering all sides of his corn bread. “In the barn. I wonder if gypsies—”

Flavia’s breath caught.

“‘Tis rats, Mr. Byng,”
Mrs. Byng interrupted, delighted to be consulted. “Rats driven into the barn by the weather.”

“I wonder...”

“Oh, indeed, sir. ‘Tis rats, I do assure you. What is wanted, Mr. Byng, is a Rat Kill.”

Flavia’s hand trembled as she ladled more stew into Mr. Byng’s dish. In her nervousness she flicked a speck of gravy to the white linen cloth. Mrs. Byng sent her a killing look, then sweetened her countenance and smiled across the spotted cloth at her husband.

“Perhaps the boys of the parish would enjoy a Rat Kill, husband. We might give a prize. Oh, nothing of value, of course.”

“Of course,” Mr. Byng agreed, brightening at the prospect of ridding his barn of rats at no expense. “I shall attend to it, my dear. When the weather clears.”

“It clears tomorrow,” Mrs. Byng pressed. “Mr. Franklin’s Philadelphia
Almanack
predicts it.”

Flavia felt ill.

“Then I shall attend to it at once,” Mr. Byng insisted. “Neddy can drive the animals to pasture. The boys shall bring their cudgels. I shall set smoke lamps in the barn. When the smoke rises, the rats will run.” Pleased with himself, Mr. Byng leaned back, basked in his wife’s admiration and signaled Flavia for another helping of stew.

“As to the prize for the champion rat killer, my dear. A leather pen wiper? Eh?”

“A
felt
pen wiper,” Mrs. Byng countered, mentally counting her pennies.

When the Byngs retired, Flavia stole parchment, ink and quill pen from the study. Quickly she penned the note that had undergone a hundred mental revisions as she’d sat knitting winter stockings, waiting for the Byngs’ first yawn.

Dear Captain Garth McNeil,

If ever you have known the joy of true love, honor the memory of that love by helping this girl.

One Who Beseeches You

She held the letter to the fire to dry it. She folded it in thirds and addressed it to Captain Garth McNeil of Williamsburg and Hampton. Slipping it deep into her apron pocket, she scavenged food for Mary’s supper and went out to the barn.

Mary Wooster left the following night with Flavia’s letter in her pocket. The rains had blown out to sea. Wind and a day of sunshine had made the mud roads solid enough to support a human, but not so solid as to allow horse or cart. Conditions were ideal. No rider would be out for a day or two.

She went with Mary to the fork in the road, just beyond the gallows field, south of Chestertown. She’d taken a stout sack, packed it with food and put in a book that Mr. Byng wouldn’t miss. Mary could sell the book. Or trade it for passage across the Chesapeake Bay to Hampton.

They parted at the crossroads, embracing as the chill November winds slapped at their cloaks. Flavia hugged the girl for good luck.

“Remember, Mary, you carry my life in your hands,” she warned. “I can’t explain. But my life will be in danger if
anyone
discovers I sent you.”

Mary Wooster’s freckled face shone strong and determined in the watery moonlight.

“A man wrote the letter for me,” she said firmly. “A traveler I met. I never saw him before. I don’t know where he was atravelin’ to. I don’t remember what he looked like.”

On sudden impulse, Mary threw her arms around Flavia and hugged her tightly.

“Don’t worry, Jane. Depend on me. I owe you my life. I shall die before I say aught that might hurt you.”

Behind them, in the road toward Chestertown, a faint light began to twinkle. Taverngoers were wending their way home, carrying a lantern.

Flavia urged the food sack into Mary’s arms. The girl gripped it, shaking with frightened excitement.

“Farewell, Jane,” Mary whispered passionately, turning and running, her cloak slapping in the wind. “We shan’t meet again! God be with you.”

Flavia put a hand to her thudding throat.

“And God be with
you,
Mary,” she called softly. “Farewell!”

Chapter 14

It was militia day in Williamsburg. Every able-bodied male between sixteen and sixty was expected to turn out.
That
includes shipmasters, McNeil wryly reminded himself, blinking against the sharp shaft of sunlight that was knifing its way over the sill of the east window in his bedchamber.

He burrowed deeper under the goosedown coverlet. The November morning was chilly and the featherbed was warm and appealing. Not the least of its appeal was the woman sleeping next to him.

Lazily, he shifted up on one elbow, studying her. She looked particularly fetching this morning. Black hair, loosed of restraining pins and combs, fanned out upon the pillow in silken waves. He smiled, spotting a single silver hair among the glossy tresses. He wondered how she would react when she found it. The dark luster of her hair was repeated in her thick, sooty lashes. The lashes flickered slightly, as though the approach of morning carried her up to the level of dreams. Her lips were parted, and one hand—naked and oddly childish without its usual array of jewels—curled around the edge of the coverlet, clutching it.

She slept in her chemise, a gossamer-soft garment of thin peach-colored silk. The warmth of her body mingled with the exotic scent of her perfume, sending a delicious invitation to his waking senses. He had the sudden urge to kiss her, but he didn’t. Quietly he lay back on his pillow, hands clasped behind his neck. Let her sleep. They’d been out late.

They had gone to the theater to see the Hamilton-St. James troupe perform. The celebrated Mrs. Hamilton-St. James had been an abomination as Lady Macbeth, but in
Flora; or a Hob in the Well,
she’d found her footing. The actress did comedy tolerably well. However, he suspected that her best role was “Mrs. Hamilton-St. James.” He doubted there’d ever been a General Hamilton-St. James, to whom the supposedly widowed actress tearfully dedicated each performance.

Forgetting the actress as quickly as he’d thought of her, he let his mind drift over the other events of last evening: late supper with a crowd at the Governor’s Palace, an hour or two of dancing at a public dancing assembly, and Annette’s squeal of surprise at the ball when her ticket won a Negro in the raffle.

Lazily, his eyes roamed the bedchamber. He’d been back from Europe a week, but he was not yet used to the room. All was changed. Much to the better, he admitted with a sleepy grin. In her bold, commanding way, Annette had decided to refurbish his Williamsburg house in his absence. She’d plunged into the project like a chicken plucker diving to her work. Blithely, she’d sent all bills to Raven. She’d begun with the bedchamber. But
that,
he thought, grinning, was only natural to the baroness.

Everything was freshly painted in white and robin’s egg blue. All of his furniture—including the four-poster bed in which he and Raven had been born—had been sent out to be refinished. The cherry wood glowed. Annette had done the bed curtains and canopy in red velvet, throwing red at the windows as well. New chairs flanked the fireplace.

Downstairs, Annette had attacked foyer, drawing room and dining accommodations with equal zest. She’d not spared his wallet. She’d used velvet, silk and damask as though it were as cheap as sackcloth. He’d come home to find himself the astonished owner of peacock blue silk draperies and a foyer floor of black and white checked marble.