JoAnn Wendt (34 page)

“Dear boy, where are you going?”

“Garth?” Eunice chirped in alarm. “Where are you going?”

He turned and gave the women a scathing look.

“Enjoy the hospitality of my house, ladies. Eunice, tomorrow I shall instruct my bank to honor any bills you might incur in my absence.”

 “Your absence, Garth! But where?”

He smiled tightly.

“I may not be a gentleman, Lady Wetherby, but I
am
a workingman. A shipload of barrel staves awaits delivery. Where am I going? For tonight, you may find me in my study. Tomorrow? You’ll find me in the Caribbean.”

 He shut the door with a satisfactory bang.

* * * *

With characteristic ill timing, Harrington barged into the study where he’d been brooding for an hour or more, staring out at the gently accumulating snow. He’d not been thinking of Eunice, but of Annette. Wondering what move to make. Annette would come round sooner or later, of course. She always did. He preferred sooner.

 “I know why she does it,” Harrington boomed jubilantly, ignoring McNeil’s black mood. McNeil sent him an even blacker look. Harrington refused to be discouraged.

“Cap’n, I know why she does it.”

McNeil groaned. Harrington had a bee in his bonnet. The signs were unmistakable. He lunged up to make a strategic retreat to the drawing room, but then dropped back into his chair with a sigh. Harrington would only follow him. “What the devil are you nattering about?”

Harrington rubbed his beaky nose, unknowingly polishing its ruddy color to a bright red glow.

“Her,
Cap’n.
Mab Collins.”
Harrington uttered the name as though it were sacred. “I know why
she
runs away. ‘Tis
her
child. A little daughter not more’n six year old. Child had to be sold, Cap’n, when Mab’s husband died aboard the
Schilaack. She
runs off because she wants to steal the tyke. The child, she be indenture-bound to a farmer near Hampton.”

McNeil closed his eyes in irritation, trying to sort out the disjointed story. Harrington was a first-class sailor; but on land and in conversation, he was a ship without rudder.

“So?” he said when he’d sorted it out.

“So ho, Cap’n!” Harrington hitched up his pants, his face splitting into a grin. “I mean to buy little Sarah Bess and fetch ‘er here. That is—” His booming confidence waned a bit. “That is, sir, if ye’ll have ‘er?” He paused, rushing on. “Why, Cap’n, a little girl don’t eat more’n a bird. She could bunk with Trent. Why, Trent and her—they’d sail plumb smooth together, they would.”

Garth frowned, considering it. Mab hadn’t totally proved herself yet. He was inclined to wait. His thoughts jumped to Eunice. Eunice would question the presence of one orphan in his house.
Two
orphans might be easier to swallow. The girl might deflect attention from Trent. An old diversion: When taking aim with one cannon, fire all the rest of the canon to confuse the enemy.

Harrington waited, scarcely breathing. Garth nodded his permission.

“Thank ye, Cap’n!” Harrington boomed.

“Does Mab know?”

Harrington shook his head.

“ ‘Tis my surprise,” he said proudly.

“Well, be damn quick about it. The
Caroline
sails tomorrow and I want you on it.”

“I’ll go at once.”

* * * *

The snow ceased during the night, leaving a fresh-smelling blanket of white. Garth rubbed steam from the kitchen window and looked out. Williamsburg’s dogs were cavorting as wildly as the boys who pelted them with snowballs. A rangy mutt leaped into the air, snapping at a snowball and catching a mouthful of cold shock. The dog shook his head and slunk away.

Avoiding the ladies, he was breakfasting early and in the kitchen. Cook fussed noisily at fireplace and oven. The steamy fragrance of simmering corn mush and chicken fricassee wafted everywhere. He ate standing at the window, one booted foot propped on a bench. Toad, Mab Collins and the scullery girl sat at table, chattering about the storm. Trent dipped into his breakfast between mad flights to the window. Trent was in a dither to go out and play in the snow. Mab would not allow it until his mush bowl was empty.

Garth glanced curiously at the back door as a muffled knocking began. Wiping hands on her apron, cook rushed to open the door. Harrington stomped in, big and blustery, an enormous bundle of rolled-up wolfskins in his arms. He stamped snow from his boots, looked around at the placid assembly and gave a loud bark.

“Here now, Mab Collins! Up, lass, and help me with this bundle.”

Mab glanced at him with bristling disinterest.

“Stuff it in yer cap,” she advised. “I ain’t yer slave.”

Garth chuckled. Harrington was the lone remaining recipient of Mab’s insults. At first Garth had assumed Mab had taken an instant dislike to Harrington. But the ensuing weeks proved his opinion premature. If anything, he suspected Mab liked Harrington too much and covered this weakness with insolence.

Harrington persisted with good humor.

“Come now, Mab Collins. This bundle is heavy. Me arms be ready t’fall off.”

“Stuff it in yer—”

The bundle wiggled. From within came a muffled cry. “Mama?”

Garth’s glance shot to Mab. Her face went white, all expression sliding away. Her spoon clattered to her trencher. She stared at the wiggling bundle.

“Oh ho, now,” Harrington boomed, setting the bundle down and unpeeling it, layer by layer. Fair hair was the first thing to appear, then blinking blue eyes, a small nose, thin lips.

“Mama?” she chirped uncertainly. “Mama?”

Mab’s bench hit the floor with a crash as she lunged up, diving for her daughter. She fell to her knees, grabbing the child and nearly crushing her to death.

“Sarah Bess—”

She pressed a hundred violent kisses upon the girl until Sarah Bess shrieked happily. McNeil’s eyes met Harrington’s in approval.

Not to be outdone, Trent scrambled from his bench, scooped up a toy soldier and ran to the girl, holding it out in a gesture of invitation. Sarah Bess giggled. Wiggling out of her mother’s arms, she dropped to the floor to play with Trent.

Mab panted. Swatting the tears from her cheeks, she tore her eyes from Sarah Bess and swung toward Harrington.

“Don’t you go thinkin’ you’ll bed me because of this!” she shouted belligerently.

McNeil’s breath caught sharply. Of all the damned ungrateful bitches!

But Harrington did not appear to be perturbed. “I’ll not be supposin’ that, Mab Collins,” he returned mildly.

Mab’s eyes flashed.

“And don’t think I’m pea-assed green grateful! Because I ain’t!”

“Course you ain’t,” Harrington agreed good-naturedly.

“I would of bought her indenture meself, sooner or later.”

“Of course you would of,” Harrington said.

Trent whooped something about finding more toy soldiers. He snatched Sarah Bess’s hand. The two ran gleefully toward his room. Mab stalked after the children, pausing in the doorway to throw one more spear.

“Don’t be thinkin’ it means anything to me. It don’t! I would’ve got Sarah Bess m’self, by and by. I kin take care of m’self, I can!”

“Of course, lass.”

His gentle agreement seemed to disconcert her. She jerked around to go. Then she turned one last time. Her lips trembled. McNeil could see her hard shell was cracking. She fought it, fought to retain her angry fire. But it was a losing battle. She threw one final desperate look round the staring assembly, then she flew across the room and into Harrington’s burly arms. He caught her as though she were as light as a feather and as welcome as sunshine in January.

“Oliver—” she cried out, using Harrington’s Christian name. “Oliver—oh, Oliver!”

What Harrington’s response was, McNeil never knew. Tapping Toad and the scullery girl upon their gawking heads, he ejected the staff from the kitchen with a curt, “Out.”

He shut the door firmly behind him.

Chapter 17

“Thee should not come, Jane.”

In the hushed stillness of gently falling snow, Dennis’s voice seemed large and cavernous. Flavia couldn’t answer. Instead, she took his arm for support as they walked on.

The falling snow lent an unreal quality to a day that was already horribly unreal. The snow dropped steadily. Without wind, each snowflake fell with vertical precision, as though following a master carpenter’s plumb line. Familiar landmarks were disappearing into dubious shapes. A white world was closing in.

She wanted to flee. Or scream until the world came right again.

“Thee hast been very ill. Thee should
not
come,” Dennis persisted.

“I must. For Neddy.”

She heard him draw a long breath of the cold, snow-sweetened air. Snow squeaked under their boots in somber rhythm.

“Ay,” he agreed softly. “Ay, thee must.”

The familiar walk to Chestertown seemed alien and endless. It was like moving in a dream. With every step she took, her heart cried out to turn and run. She forced herself on. When she faltered, Dennis’s arm came around her, strong and comforting. He brushed the accumulating snow from the shoulders of her cloak, then patted her cheek.

“Courage, Jane.”

But when they finally reached the small miserable jailhouse, courage fled. She stood in the snowy, empty street, too ill to go in. She clutched the oilskin packet of raisin cakes to her breast.

“Shall I take thee back to the Byng’s?”

She longed to respond to the compassion in his voice by crying, “Yes! Oh, please—yes.” But she could not. She must be strong. Stronger than she’d ever been in her life.

Shaking her head, she stepped out of the snow and up onto the creaking, uneven boards of the stoop. Dennis banged once on the rough-hewn door, then pushed it in. As they entered the jailer’s rude quarters, heat and the greasy smell of bear stew rushed toward them. The jailer and his disagreeable family were at their noon meal. Following lower-class customs, the jailer and his wife sat at the table while their four raggedly dressed children stood at the table. The children had no plates. They waited in obedient silence until it pleased one or the other of their parents to hand them a dripping hunk of meat or a bread sop. The family glanced toward the door without interest.

“Open the cell,” Dennis commanded without a greeting.

The irascible jailer showed no inclination to rise. Instead, he chomped steadily on a meaty bone, loudly sucking off the flesh.

“It ain’t time,” he mumbled, grease dribbling down his chin.

Worry shot through Flavia.

“Oh, Dennis—”

“Open it the cell
now,”
Dennis ordered.

The jailer threw them a sullen look. Then, seeming to judge that it wasn’t in his best interest to offend the respected schoolmaster, he got up, viciously snatched his key ring from a peg on the wall and lumbered to the cells in the adjoining room.

Flavia’s knees grew weak. She followed Dennis and the jailer, her stomach turning. The cells were cramped, windowless boxes accommodated with straw. Unheated, they were not fit to house animals. The gagging odor of unemptied chamber pots hung in the air. Sickened, she backed away, backed out to the jailer’s one-room quarters. She waited, throat tight with anxiety. She set the packet of raisin cakes aside. Five sets of greedy eyes flew to the packet.

At last, Neddy came forth. Straw clung to his hair, to his dirty, disheveled clothes. He blinked at the unaccustomed light, his eyes slow to focus.

“Neddy? I’ve brought raisin cakes this time.”

Her voice was queer, unnatural with foreboding. But he knew it at once. His eyes lit with happiness.

“Jane? Uh, uh, Jane?”

She went to him on stiff legs, taking him into her cold arms. He wiggled like a delighted puppy, and a fresh wave of terror coursed through her.

“Jane—uh, uh—doll—find doll—”

Her eyes misted. She nodded at Dennis.

“He’s lost his doll. Will you?”

A quick search of the cell turned up no doll. Dennis returned, his usually placid features contorted in anger.

“Who has it?” he snapped at the dining family. “Which of thee has taken Neddy’s doll?”

The jailer’s wife lifted her stringy, unwashed head. “That murderin’ lunatic don’t need no play-doll,” she drawled belligerently. “Now, me
own
girls—”

Flavia’s eyes roved about the messy crowded room. She spotted the cornhusk doll atop soiled bedding in the family bedstead. Untangling herself from Neddy’s affectionate embrace, she flew to get it. The two girls broke into petulant whines at her action, but Dennis glared at the jailer.

“Silence yer yaps,” the jailer growled at his daughters, “or I’ll slap ye silent. Ye’ll soon have the doll. He’ll not need it an hour from now.”

Flavia fought the hysteria that rose. She pressed the doll into Neddy’s eager arms. Her eyes flew to Dennis for comfort as Neddy dropped happily to the floor, crooning to his doll.

Dennis touched her shoulder.

“Thee hast done everything possible. Thee gave testimony at the trial. Indeed, thee put thyself in jeopardy, Jane. Thy testimony did not set well with the parish. It cannot set well with Mrs. Byng—the things thee revealed about Mr. Byng.” His forehead wrinkled in deep concern. “Jane, if Mrs. Byng and her sister are mistreating thee, I swear I shall—”

“No.” She shook her head tremulously. “At first, yes. But no more. Betsy Simm came to call upon Mrs. Byng.” She paused, attempting a wry smile but failing.
“Lady
Elizabeth, I mean. It seems Mr. Gresham is in the habit of granting a widow’s pension to wives of deceased clergymen. Betsy threatened to make Mr. Gresham stop Mrs. Byng’s pension if Mrs. Byng is in any way cruel to me.”

“Good for Betsy.”

“Yes,” Flavia whispered, looking down at the floor. She could not add that in those first days she’d been oblivious to Mrs. Byng’s cruelty. She’d been numb with grief over the news that her own precious baby had drowned in Germany. Mrs. Byng could’ve whipped her bloody, and she’d hardly have noticed.

Playing on the floor, Neddy laughed in sheer happiness. Her chin trembled at the sound, and Dennis patted her shoulder for courage.