by Lori Benton
“No, I was only remembering,” she said, then gave him a wistful smile. “When we first came here, Rosalyn and Mama and me, I thought Seona and I . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I just wish things might have been different.”
The weight on his chest pressed him tenfold. A straggle had fallen from the coil of Judith’s hair. He lifted a heavy hand and tucked it, clumsily, behind her ear. “I know ye were drawn to her, and she to ye, as lasses. She told me.”
Judith blinked, looking sad but pleased. “I’m glad she remembers.” After a moment’s hesitation she ventured, “Ian, do you know where to find this Quaker?”
“If he’s still in Hillsborough, aye.” He and Thomas had ridden with Benjamin Eden to the home of his cousin, with whom the man had meant to bide. “Why d’ye ask?”
“Could you not post a letter?”
Of course. At the rate he was mending, a letter might reach Hillsborough faster. Even if it didn’t, the exercise would ease the frustration of doing nothing.
Judith read the relief in his face and rose, smiling. “I’ll just fetch my lap desk.”
While rain pelted the window, Hugh Cameron took up the letter that had come in prompt reply to Ian’s, posted scarcely two weeks past, and read aloud:
“I knew of this matter pertaining to the Jars of Clay, with which our mutual Acquaintance was concerned. I met with our Acquaintance lately at the Mill at Chesterfield, by Providence’s Design, and was able to aid in the Return of the unfortunate Soul there most cruelly misused. I regret that a Child discovered the Wagon’s Burden, but I did not wish to show myself to thee or thy Kin, for it was during this aforementioned Meeting with our mutual Acquaintance that the Subject of the Jars of Clay was newly broached, and my Aid enlisted for a proposed Plan for their Transferral. We set Time and Place, but our Acquaintance failed to keep the Assignation. Until thy Letter, I had presumed a Change of Heart or some Impediment to his Plan had prevented. I must now conclude that he has undertaken the Endeavor without my Aid. I wish them Godspeed and every Kindness on the Journey and regret I cannot be of further Help or Intelligence to thee in seeing these Vessels come safe over Jordan. Yours &c . . . A Friend.”
His uncle let the letter fall to the desk and studied Ian, banyan-clad in a bedside chair. “For a folk with claim to plain speech, the fellow speaks in riddles. I take ‘our mutual acquaintance’ to be Thomas. But this . . .” He tapped a finger on a line of script. “‘Jars of clay’? What the devil does he mean by it?”
“Earthen vessels.” When his uncle’s frown deepened, Ian quoted, “‘We have this treasure in earthen vessels.’ From the Epistles—Judith guessed it straightaway.”
The name of one particular vessel remained unspoken, though it might have been scrawled in the moisture condensing on the windowpanes for all her presence filled the room.
His uncle pushed the letter across the desk. “The fellow admits having no notion where the pair of them might be, and ye’ve done all ye could to find her—minus a public hue and cry.”
The last thing either of them wanted was a manhunt that might further endanger Seona, so no broadsheet had been printed, no descriptions posted at the county courthouse or tavern. Apart from that, had he done all he could?
Ian hunched his shoulders, feeling the itch and pull of healing wounds, the weakness of wasted sinew. “I’m at a loss where to go from here.”
His uncle arched a brow. “Ye’re fit to go nowhere, lad. Though I see ye havena given up the notion.”
“Have ye?”
“Perhaps ’tis best we do. Best for Seona, if this is her choice. But before ye set some ill-considered course, there’s a thing or two I’d say to ye.”
They were come to it at last, the get thee hence part. He couldn’t have made a bigger mess of this chance to make something useful of his life had he set out to try. Ian braced himself to receive his uncle’s dismissal, wondering how soon he’d have the strength to obey it. The silence between them was a lifeless weight, despite the patter of rain and the fire’s noisy crackle. Into it his uncle spoke.
“I’ve the letter from Robert at last.”
“From Da?” Ian said, startled out of resignation. “When?”
“Four days since. John Reynold brought it when he stopped to look in on ye. I dinna think ye kent he was here.”
“No.” He was still sleeping far more than was normal, his body healing. Ian wondered how much John had been told about Seona, how much he’d guessed, what he must be thinking. But at that moment it mattered less than what his father had to say.
“What was Da’s answer?”
“Ye were right about the one thing. He’s agreed to open his home to Seona. Lily as well, if she wishes it.”
Ian swallowed back his frustration that such grace could not now be received, but it was some moments before he could speak. “Have ye told Da that you mean to send me away?”
Uncle Hugh’s gaze was unflinching. “I havena written back. What I tell Robert when I do, that I’ll leave to ye.”
“What d’ye mean?”
“B’fhearr leam gu fuirichidh tu, a charaid.”
Ian’s jaw hung slack as he translated the words. I would have you stay, O kinsman, his uncle had said.
“With a few matters straight between us,” he added. “Lucinda urges I insist on the publishing of marriage banns. She’d see ye wed to Rosalyn, so the land stays with her line as well.”
Ian couldn’t help his grimace. “Does she think me more likely to manage her daughter than her slaves?”
Uncle Hugh ignored the bitter remark. “I’ll not force ye to a marriage ye dinna want. But if ye choose Mountain Laurel, then ye’ll give yourself to it, body and soul. No more half measures.” Something like a smile twitched his uncle’s whitened beard, but there was no humor in it. “Now that ye ken the cost.”
Ian opened his mouth, changed what he meant to say twice. Finally shook his head. “I cannot give ye answer yet.”
“Good,” his uncle said. “I dinna want a hasty answer. I’ll write to Robert of Seona, if ye think Boston’s where Thomas might take her. I’ll ask him to do what he can to find her, give her shelter if—”
“No, Uncle.” Ian sat up straighter, wincing. “I’ll write that letter.”
Beyond the window thunder rumbled. Rain came in a sudden spate, a gray curtain cutting them off from the world beyond the streaked panes. With a pull in his chest, Ian wondered for the hundredth time where Seona was, if she was warm, dry, if they’d found kindness on their journey as Eden wished them.
Seeing those same thoughts in his uncle’s eyes, he felt a fleeting kinship with the man that went deeper than blood—a kinship of suffering, self-inflicted.
His uncle rose. “See to it, then. And, Ian, dinna leave room for doubt, whatever ye decide—for as I stand here breathing, after this there willna be another chance.”
His sister’s desk rested under canvas on the workbench. Ian pushed aside the covering, exposing the carved front panel, and trailed his fingers over the delicate vines that coiled like Seona’s hair. Twisting and treacherous, like the doubts that entwined his memories.
Seized by grief and something darker, he grabbed for the nearest tool—an adze—and swung, but instead of bringing it down on the desk, at the last second he hurled it through the shop’s open door, past the nose of the figure who stepped into view.
Judith cried out, hands flying up in defense.
“Did I hit ye?” Ignoring the throb of his mending arm, Ian snatched up his knapsack and rifle. Pulling the shop’s door shut behind him, he stepped outside and reached for Judith, who cautiously lowered her hands.
“I’m all right.” Her eyes darted to the knapsack. “You missed. But . . . where are you going?”
“Away.” He was desperate for distance between himself and his kin, whom he couldn’t avoid, and the slaves who seemed bent on avoiding him. Grief hung over the kitchen-yard like a pall, a reproach heaped upon him. Lily hadn’t returned to te
nd his wounds since he’d clung to her, begging for . . . what? Direction? Absolution?
“Not for good,” he added when argument rose in Judith’s eyes. “Ye see I’ve not saddled Ruaidh? Or packed up my shop?”
Not yet.
His cousin did not appear reassured. “Away where? To look for Seona?”
His jaw tightened. “No.”
“The Reynolds’?”
“No, Judith. Just away. I need solitude, aye? And time—to think.” To come to terms with what he’d lost. And the choice his uncle had set before him. To decide no less than the course his life would take.
Judith followed his glance toward the wood. “You’re going to do your thinking up on the ridge? In this weather?” The clouded sky wasn’t weeping rain presently, but it would again, and soon. “But you aren’t yet well, Ian.”
“And never will be if I let ye go on cosseting me.” She flinched at that. She’d been the one to tend him in Lily’s place. Brought his meals. Sat with him while he ate. Read to him. Left him only when he feigned sleep.
He sighed. “Judith . . . I’m grateful for your kindness, but ye’ll be kinder still to let me go without a fuss. I’ll be back. I promise.”
She reached for him, but he stepped aside, leaving her hand raised to empty air. He turned from her worried eyes, making for the trees.
“Ian?”
Boots squelching the sodden ground, he paused but didn’t look back. “Aye, Judith?”
He heard a sniffle, but her voice was steady. “If you must go . . . then go with God.”
30
In the distance dogs were barking. Seona huddled where she hid, praying they hadn’t been set loose on her. Mister Gibbs, the sawmill overseer who’d paid his scant hard-earned last coins for her, didn’t keep dogs, but the planter he worked for did. She’d seen them sniffing round the mill that time she toted over victuals, forgotten back at the cabin in the tall pines. Mister Gibbs had taken what she’d brought and scowled her off, back through the pines to her work.
Those lanky hounds had eyed her meaner still.
Her empty belly threatened to heave at the thought. Clapping a hand over her mouth to keep from gagging, she shut her eyes to better hear that barking. Angry-sounding, but too far-off to be concerned with her.
Besides, it was raining. That made it harder for dogs to track a body, didn’t it?
Peering through dripping leaves clinging dead to limbs, she tried to see down the track she’d followed in the night, but with the rain and fog drifting about the patchy woods, there was little to see in any direction.
She hunkered in tight, poked by branches, bone-chilled and soaked with the drizzle that had fallen since before she found the thicket, just after dawn. What she wore was little shield to either cold or wet. She could see her skin in spots through the threadbare homespun. She no longer had her own petticoat and short gown. Missus Gibbs had taken them off her straightaway, saying no slave of hers was going to parade around her kitchen-yard better dressed than she. Seona wore the woman’s shapeless castoffs over her shift.
At least she had back the shawl that had been her own, the old arisaid, taken from the kitchen, where Missus Gibbs left it lying.
Craning her head, she peered with longing at the abandoned cabin off through the trees, a bit down the road. She hadn’t dared go inside it. Too likely a place for a runaway to hole up. And what if it wasn’t abandoned? What if someone returned and caught her there?
The far-off barking stopped. A musket fired, making her jump. The report echoed until it was swallowed up by rain-patter. A hunter, must be.
Out of exhaustion she dozed, to be jarred awake by the clop of horse’s hooves. She didn’t move, though her cramped limbs cried for it. Her nose was running. Rain dripped down her face while her heart drummed thunder. The horse snorted as it passed, but the rider had a hat pulled low, his mind apparently on getting wherever he was going. He didn’t notice her. Didn’t feel her watching him.
No one else came along the road, but Seona was too chilled to sleep again. She thought of eating the hunk of bread she’d tucked inside her gown when she fled in the night, but truth to tell, for the past two weeks she’d barely kept down a bite as she dragged herself from chore to chore around the cabin-yard.
Missus Gibbs worked her dawn to long after dusk, cooking, scrubbing, boiling wash, hanging wash, putting dry wash back on squirming little bodies, chasing after those same bodies—all six of them save the littlest that wasn’t hardly crawling yet. Between chores she was wiping noses and bottoms, pushing food into mouths, toting babies around when they cried from teething or skinned knees or a yanked braid or a slapped face. There was always quarreling in that cabin. Always someone wailing their head off.
With another baby starting to show, Missus Gibbs had looked as spent as a candle set to gutter when Mister Gibbs ordered Seona down off the wagon that carried her to his cabin, there to stand in the pine straw–covered yard for his wife to approve.
As if the woman was going to turn away another set of hands to work. Seona had known right off this was where she’d be staying. Until Ian found her. She’d clung to that hope and borne it nigh a month, waiting for him to come, before she’d grown desperate enough to run in the night and start on her own for home. Or try to.
What else could she do? She’d prayed he’d get back to Mountain Laurel, learn what happened, and track her down quick. Then they’d go get Thomas and be home safe and it would all come to light what the Jackdaw—Miss Lucinda, too, she was sure—had tried to do. But Ian hadn’t come. Lying in her cold corner of the kitchen cabin with her thinning memories for warmth had grown a torment. Memories of that dark workshop, Ian telling her he was going to do this last thing for his kin; then he and she were going away together. Man and wife. And something about a son one day being master at Mountain Laurel, but she found no comfort in that, so she set that part aside, holding to the memories of his arms around her, his body pressed close. Shelter. Home. Warmth.
Surely he was searching? Maybe he was finding Thomas first. Thomas had been sold off before her, to men making up a slave gang to take back east. She’d memorized every word those men said in her hearing, in case it was the only means they had for finding Thomas—once Ian found her. But Thomas had no idea where she’d wound up. He’d been hit over the head when the Jackdaw dragged them off that night, knocked clean out of his wits. Not until they were miles away, trussed in the bed of a wagon, had he come round to understand what had happened. There’d been no chance to find out what he’d had in mind to do, who he’d wanted her to see. They’d not been allowed to talk to each other.
She’d been a fool to listen to him in the first place. All those doubts about Ian he’d tried to sow in her thinking . . .
Even so, she’d lost hope in waiting. She’d finally taken her chance in the night and made a few miles at least, before the dark lifted. The rain had let up some with the morning, but the sun never showed. She thought it was still close to midday when hunger like she hadn’t felt in weeks cut through every other worry. It gripped her belly sudden and hard, her mind even harder.
Before she half knew what she was doing, she’d wolfed down the bread she’d taken from the Gibbses’ kitchen, soggy bits and all. When she kept it down—wonder of wonders—she figured she best move while there was something in her belly to lend her strength.
She was south of Mountain Laurel. How far south she didn’t know. It had been more than two days by wagon, but had it been three, four? They’d traveled down one main road. The Cape Fear, she thought. All she need do was follow it back north, hiding as best she could. She’d no food now but she could last a week without. Longer even. Maybe she’d find something.
That old cabin. There could be a garden over yonder, or the remains of one. Something overlooked. She could dig up a turnip. A potato.
Hunger assailed her again, until all she could think on was potatoes and turnips hid like treasure in moist red clay. She wouldn’t care if they w
ere covered in dirt. She’d eat them straight from the ground. Her mouth watered.
It came into her head to wonder at the fierce hunger, when all this time she’d had no appetite. She’d put it down to this frightening thing that had been done to her, to her fear of the Gibbses, and to missing Ian and Mama, her desperation to get back to them, all the unknowns lying between. What if it did have to do with Ian, only not as she’d thought? What if there was someone else she had to be worried about now?
She shoved that thought deep down, fixating instead on thoughts of food. She had to wait for dark. The days were shorter now, this one clouded thick. She could last. If only every minute wasn’t a torment.
Maybe she could slip out of hiding, hunt around behind the cabin, out of sight of the road. . . .
Best stay hid and hungry. But potatoes. Or carrots. There might be carrots.
She couldn’t stand it anymore. She left her hiding place, snagged, begrimed, moldy as a mushroom sprung up after the rain.
She didn’t make it to the cabin, much less spot a fallow garden, before they rushed out at her. They’d been concealed behind the structure, waiting all the while. No dogs. Just Mister Gibbs and another man she recognized from the sawmill, brought along to help hunt her down.
Seona screamed, but Mister Gibbs’s big hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off the sound. Arms like barrel staves pinned her tight no matter how she thrashed.
“Be still now,” he said into her ear. “Or I won’t be gentle.”
She’d been too panicked to be still. Now she throbbed with the bruises his hands had left on her face, her arms, even around her neck, where finally he’d squeezed until she’d no breath left to fight him. They’d dragged her down the road to where horses waited, got her up on one, and brought her back.
“How far’d she get?” Missus Gibbs asked in her worn-thin voice as Seona was yanked off the horse and deposited in the yard. The children clutched at their mama’s skirts, noses running in the evening’s chill. Staring like she was some battered animal their daddy had brought home.