Gage managed a tolerant smile. “Newportes Newes is but a babe compared to London, madam. Still, there are other cities in this land that are becoming quite impressive even in their youth. Williamsburg, for instance. The governor’s palace is representative of a more gracious way of life than you will see here in this port. As for myself, I enjoy living on the river, and I treasure the space and freedom of this area. The spirit of adventure thrives in this land and appeals to my heart.”
Gertrude wasn’t very appreciative of the tenets of a backwoods colonial, especially one whom she could only presume was low-born. “I’m sure you must be overwhelmed with excitement in this savage wilderness, sir, but I much prefer the civilized refinement of England to this small, filthy hamlet. Of course, only an enlightened Englishman would esteem his cultural heritage.”
Her sneering tones worried Andrew. The child had heard about witches from his playmate, Malcolm Fields, and was afraid he was seeing one right now. Stumbling around, he hid his face against his father’s buckskin-clad thighs, desperately wishing the ugly, gruff-voiced woman would go away.
Gage combed his fingers idly through his son’s hair as he offered a reply. “I know London very well, madam. I grew up there and worked nearby building ships for my father. I’ve met aristocrats who thought themselves knowledgeable beyond the common man. Granted, some were, but more than not, I sensed the views they expressed originated from a narrow-minded prejudice.”
Gertrude sniffed arrogantly. Such a clod needed to be set in his proper place, and what better way to accomplish that feat than to demean his ancestry. “You say your father is a shipbuilder, sir, but I wonder if anyone in England has ever heard of him. You’d not be living here in this backwoods settlement if he were all that successful. What may his name be?”
“William Medford Thornton,” Gage answered, preferring to leave off the title of lord.
Gertrude shook her head, unable to recall anyone by that name, but she failed to consider that her own world was painfully narrow, her circle of friends even more so. In supercilious pride she posed another supposition. “I’m sure you’ve heard of my father. He’s quite well-known among the best of circles. Almost everyone in the shipping trade knows J. Horace Turnbull.”
Gage lifted a brow in amused wonder. “J. Horace Turnbull, did you say?”
“Then you have heard of him.”
“Oh, indeed!” His reply was emphatic though somewhat cryptic.
Gertrude smiled smugly, pleased that she had proven her point. “ ‘Twould seem his fame has spread even here. But tell me, Mr. Thornton, how is that you know of my father?”
A dark brow twisted dubiously upward as Gage met her gaze. “I’m not sure that I should tell you, madam.”
“Oh, you must!” she insisted. “I’ll not have it any other way.”
Gage glanced down at Shemaine, who had sidled close to him, as if unconsciously seeking safe refuge, like Andrew. His answer would probably be the only revenge the girl could ever savor. He squeezed the thin fingers reassuringly.
“Ten years ago or so my father sent me on a mission to find your father, madam,” he said, once more bestowing his attention upon the matron. “Before the occurrence of that event, J. Horace Turnbull had taken possession of a ship he had ordered from my father and had left a chest of coins as payment in full. The contents were carefully counted before the agreement was sealed, but after your father sailed away on the ship, the chest was taken to a London bank. When it was opened, musket balls were all that it contained. At some place and point in time, your father had managed to switch two trunks that were exactly alike, except for their contents, a connivance which we later learned he had planned with Lendon Crocket, once one of our most trusted men.”
Pausing as Gertrude gasped an outraged denial, Gage noticed that Captain Fitch seemed peculiarly elated by the tale. The woman’s stuttering attempts to convince him of her father’s integrity were slowly silenced as Gage continued. “Though Turnbull had assured Lendon Crocket that it would be the bankers who’d be held accountable and no one would ever know of the healthy bribe he had been given, it seemed his real purpose was to let our man take the blame. Mr. Crocket was wise enough to realize that he had been duped and told all, shortening by some degree a very lengthy sentence in Newgate.
“Though I was only a couple of years past a score of age at the time, my father sent me out on a ship manned with an extra crew with orders to hunt Turnbull down to the ends of the earth if need be. We found the vessel taking on supplies as near as Portsmouth and waited ‘til the eve of the scheduled sailing, when most of the men were enjoying a last fling in the taverns. While they were doing so, we slipped aboard the ship, threw the rest of the crew over the side and sailed her back to the River Thames. My father sold the cargo and kept the profit as usury for what your father had tried to steal from him. Turnbull was enraged and tried to call it thievery, but he forgot about our man in Newgate, who was willing to testify in our behalf. Turnbull had enough wealth to buy his freedom and was released to carry on his shipping trade. Needless to say, it was the last time we ever built a ship for your father.”
“I’ve never heard of anything so preposterous!” Gertrude squawked indignantly. “I don’t understand your purpose, Mr. Thornton, but I do know your story is nothing more than a vicious, slanderous lie!”
Her eyes flared with unsurpassed fury as they settled on Shemaine. “You little trollop! Somehow you convinced your master to tell these lies against my father.” Despite the frantic shaking of the fiery red head, Gertrude snarled in contempt, “What did Mr. Thornton require to see it done? A night’s toss in bed?”
“That’s enough!” Gage barked sharply. “Shemaine had nothing to do with this! You insisted on being told, and I obliged you, madam! If you’re so set on accusing someone, then talk to your father the next time you see him! Perhaps he’ll tell you the truth. But leave the girl out of this! She’s one nothing!”
“Ha!” Gertrude scoffed. “She’d do anything to see me shamed!”
“You shame yourself, madam,” Gage accused brusquely. “You abuse others out of malice and then judge them by your own despicable character. I assure you, madam, that whatever shame or slander you or your father reap in this world, you’ll have brought it down upon your own heads. Now good day to you.” Releasing Shemaine’s fingers, he slid a hand beneath her elbow and gently guided her toward the door. Feeling her trembling, he wanted to pause long enough to quietly reassure her, but there was no privacy to be had, for the cobbler awaited them in his shop and, behind them, Mrs. Fitch still stewed.
Andrew cast a frightened glance toward the large woman as he trailed behind his parent. In his pair of years on earth, he had never seen anyone look so mean or turn such an ugly color. Tottering hurriedly through the doorway after his father, he tugged at the elder’s breeches, winning Gage’s immediate attention. Fearfully he pointed toward the matron with the liver-hued face. “Fat witch mad, Daddee?”
His son’s anxious question did much to relieve the tension that had beset Gage since their arrival in the hamlet. Even as he looked back at Gertrude Fitch, he had difficulty subduing his mirth, and by the time he swung the portal shut behind them, he was guffawing out loud, amazing Shemaine, who stared at him in wonder.
“Whatever has taken hold of you, Mr. Thornton?” she asked, startled by his mirth. It was totally unlike the man, whose smiles were far too sparse and rarely glimpsed.
“Fat witch mad,” Gage mimicked, and inclined his head toward Gertrude, who still mouthed threats at them through the small, square panes of glass which made up the larger window that stretched across the front of the shop. “Would you say that’s an understatement?”
Shemaine felt a strange, burgeoning contentment rise up within her as she glanced toward the fuming woman. After all the abuse she had suffered at Gertrude’s hands, she found it rather satisfying to have witnessed the puncturing of the shrew’s overly inflated pride.
They’ll bot
h pay for this! Gertrude silently promised herself.
Whether her subconscious summoned forth an evil incantation or, more farfetched, providence yielded to her beck and call, a silky voice queried from behind her, “What’re ye gonna do ’bout them two, Mrs. Fitch? Ye ain’t gonna let Sh’maine’s lover get away with callin’ yer pa a thief, now are ye?”
Gertrude turned her bulk stiffly about to face the woman who posed such a question, and with a confident smile, Morrisa Hatcher sauntered from the doorway of the adjoining building, where she had deliberately tarried to hear the whole exchange. The last Gertrude had seen of Morrisa was when the harlot had strutted away from the ship with the bawdily garbed older woman who had bought her. In high spirits, Morrisa had thrown kisses to all the sailors who had called to her and had invited them to come visit her at the tavern.
“What does it matter to you, Morrisa?” Gertrude asked haughtily.
“ ‘Tain’t none o’ my concern, Mrs. Fitch, but it just seems ta me ye ought ta see ’bout silencin’ all them lies they’re tellin’ ’bout yer pa,” Morrisa replied with an indolent shrug. She had been displeased by Potts’s recent failure to deal a death blow to her adversary and could now see a need for another monkey on her leash. Gertrude Fitch had served her well enough on the ship, albeit through Potts, but if handled right, the old crow could be a useful ally. According to what Gertrude had said while liberally lauding her father aboard ship, it would only be a matter of time before he docked somewhere north of Virginia. “If Lord Turnbull was right here today, I’d bet me last shift he’d set his mind on doin’ somethin’ ’bout them two.”
Against the shrewd wiles of a skilled manipulator, Gertrude was as pliable as rain-soaked mud. Her pride swelled at the harlot’s deliberate magnification of her parent’s importance, and she deigned to consider her suggestion. Gertrude knew that within a fortnight or two her father would be sailing into the harbor of New York on the Black Prince, no less than the biggest and best of his merchant ships. Perhaps if she were to arrange for a message to be awaiting him when he arrived, he’d be willing to sail south and deal with this Thornton fellow. Once they faced the wrath of J. Horace Turnbull, the colonial and his bitch of a bondswoman would soon realize the insanity of telling their vindictive lies about him!
Gertrude conveyed her gratitude with a crisply cynical smile, the best she could manage for the slut. “You needn’t fret yourself over such matters, Morrisa. I’m sure ere long they’ll both reap their just recompense.”
Morrisa emulated solicitude with a troubled frown. “Seein’s as how Mr. Turnbull is so well-known an’ admired, m’liedy, it just seems a bloomin’ shame when a common yokel like that colonial can sully yer pa’s good name.” She smiled and waved coyly at Captain Fitch, making him bluster in red-faced discomfiture. Easing his plight only slightly, Morrisa took her departure of Gertrude with the same light fluttering of her fingers. “A right good evenin’ ta ye both.”
Gertrude jeered in distaste as she watched the fancy-garbed harlot saunter leisurely toward the tavern. Then she cast a glare toward her husband, who had carefully fixed his gaze on some insignificant spot in the opposite direction. The fact that Gertrude hadn’t let him out of her sight since leaving England saved Everette the odious task, of answering a lot of angry accusations. He had been as much her prisoner as had the convicts on the London Pride.
Once again lending her attention to the young woman in the cobbler’s shop, Gertrude frowned menacingly and shook a fat finger as if chiding a naughty child. “You filthy little bogtrotter. I’ll make you sorry yet.”
Shemaine shrugged off the muffled threat and faced her master again. “I think you deliberately provoked the woman, Mr. Thornton, and I could kiss you for it.”
Gage leaned forward slightly with a broader grin. “If that’s a promise, Shemaine, I’ll collect when we get home.”
“Well, I really wasn’t . . . I mean, I was only . . .” Shemaine was rather astonished at the colonial’s ability to unnerve her, for she couldn’t recall ever being flustered in Maurice’s presence. And her betrothed was a marquess, for heaven’s sakes!
Becoming aware of the cobbler waiting expectantly, Shemaine indicated the man in helpless confusion. “Shouldn’t we order the shoes now so we can get back to your cabin before dark?”
Lifting a hand, Gage bade the man to draw near. “Miles, I’ve got a girl here who needs to be fitted for a pair of shoes. Can you accommodate us?”
The gray-haired man hurried forward eagerly. “Sure thing, Gage.”
“Shemaine . . .” Gage politely made the introductions. “. . . Mr. Miles Becker. Miles . . . may I present Mistress Shemaine O’Hearn.”
Miles Becker nodded a jerky greeting. “Miles, if you’d prefer, Miss O’Hearn,” he offered with a fleeting smile. Motioning for her to take a seat in a chair, he settled on a stool in front of her and slipped one of the oversized shoes off. He admired the trimness of her stockinged foot for a moment before he raised his gaze to the greenest eyes he had ever seen. A seasoned bachelor, he was rather astounded by his suddenly racing pulse as he stared into those sparkling orbs. He didn’t dare trust himself to speak as he measured her foot and traced an outline of it on a piece of wood. Yet he could not entirely ignore her effect on him. It was tantamount to the giddiness derived from strong libation, which he felt in great need of at the moment.
Gage’s brows gathered slightly as he detected the shoemaker’s sudden confusion, for it was not difficult to discern the reason for it. Being within close proximity to Shemaine O’Hearn certainly had its disadvantages, he realized. Indeed, if she was able to stagger the wits of a bachelor like Miles Becker with nothing more than an innocent stare, then no man would be safe from her beauty and guileless charm, least of all one who was ever near.
“What kind of shoe will you be wanting, Miss O’Hearn?” Miles inquired, his voice quavering. He cleared his throat nervously, hoping she wouldn’t notice his discomposure.
“Something serviceable,” Shemaine answered, marveling at the change in herself. Not so long ago she would have ordered the costliest silk or the softest leather for her slippers without suffering the slightest concern over how they would last. But that had been when she could rely upon her father to pay for all her clothing and accessories. Now she had to consider the limited resources of the man who owned her and refrain from being a burden. “They must wear well and not cost too much.”
“I’ve got two styles that fit those requirements,” Miles informed her as he stepped to his workbench. After sorting through a small, jumbled pile, he brought back two different kinds of shoes which he was sure would serve her well. “These are rather bulky and not much to look at, but they’re extremely durable, miss.”
Shemaine was somewhat distressed at the ugliness of both and wondered how she would be able to wear them for any measurable length of time without the stiff leather blistering her feet or their burdensome weight causing her legs to cramp. Unfortunately, she couldn’t allow herself to worry about such minor details. She was a bondslave, she reminded herself, and indentured servants could ill afford to be choosy. “If it’s all right with Mr. Thornton . . .”
Two pair of eyes lifted inquiringly to Gage, drawing his attention away from the girl. Chiding himself for being no less vulnerable to Shemaine’s allure than Miles Becker, he took a shoe in each hand and examined them side by side, then tested the pliability and weight of each before handing them back with an admonition. “You’re not shoeing a horse, Miles. The girl will need something lighter and more flexible than these cumbersome clogs.”
“A better leather will cost you more money, Gage,” the cobbler advised, “and may not last as long.”
“Did I ask you to worry about the size of my purse?” Gage questioned testily. “Now let me see what else you have. I’ll not see Shemaine hobbled by those clumsy things.”
Miles complied, and they finally settled on a more suitable pair that was also better looking. Gage counted out c
oins for a deposit and then, with a nod of farewell to the cobbler, lifted Andrew in his arms and followed Shemaine outside.
Dusk had settled, and lamps had been lit in the tavern a short distance down the boardwalk. Boisterous laughter and a lively plucking of a stringed instrument drifted from its doors and flowed into the street beyond.
“Daddee . . . me . . . hungee. . . .”
“So am I, Andy,” Gage replied, realizing he hadn’t stopped long enough to eat anything since the morning meal. “Too hungry to wait until we get home to eat.”
Glancing at Shemaine, he jerked his head toward the establishment. “It’s not a proper tavern or a coffeehouse like some I’ve visited in the Carolinas. There’s usually a lot of drinking and revelry going on inside, considerably more than a well-brought-up young lady might feel comfortable with. But in Newportes Newes, it just happens to be the best place to get a cooked meal outside of a private home. But if you’d rather not . . .”
Shemaine gave him a brief glimpse of a smile. After her confrontation with Potts, she hadn’t felt like eating anything at Mrs. McGee’s. “Actually, I’m starving, and as long as there’s food inside, I wouldn’t care if the place were an old barn.”
“We’ll probably meet up with more sailors from the London Pride,” Gage warned. “It’s a place that’s often frequented by seamen and their ladies.”
Undismayed by his information, Shemaine responded with a casual shrug of her shoulders. He was apparently trying to fortify her against the possibility that some unseemly event would take place on the premises, but she wondered if such an incident could be any worse than what the prisoners had been subjected to during the ocean crossing. Being caged with Morrisa for three months had been a very enlightening experience, one she wished never to repeat. “I think I could even tolerate another encounter with Mrs. Fitch if it meant having a meal.”
Petals on the River Page 18