The King's Mercy

by Lori Benton

  “What? Oh yes. Out beyond the orchard.” Reeves gazed about the shop. “Speaking of…Is Moon still above ground?”

  “Verra much so, but presently indisposed.”

  Reeves smirked. “Before the wind with sails out, you mean?”

  “I do not,” Alex said, though in fact he’d returned from toting the reverend up to the house the previous evening to find Moon nursing a flask. Severn’s former smith had yet to rise from his cot despite the hammering. So much for Pauling’s admonishments.

  “Whatever you say, MacKinnon,” Reeves said with a knowing gaze. “I’m just returned from dealing with our troublesome neighbor upstream. Are you yet aware of Simcoe and his machinations on our boundary?”

  Alex shrugged. “I dinna ken a thing about it.”

  “Count yourself fortunate. I’ll admit, this time circumstances didn’t present themselves as straightforwardly as Captain Carey might wish them to seem.”

  “What d’ye mean by that?”

  “That I’m unconvinced Carey’s slaves haven’t trespassed this time.” Reeves raised an inquiring brow. “You’ll know about tar-burning? It’s a thing we do in autumn after the hog-killing, requiring kilns to be built. What burns in those kilns to create the tar is lightwood—heartwood from the long-leaf pine.”

  “I expect ye’d need a deal of woodland to keep such an operation going long-term.”

  “Exactly the crux of the matter with Simcoe. He’s attempted to pilfer ours in the past, but this time it may need Captain Carey himself to sort it out…if he will.”

  Alex studied the man, suspicious of this unsolicited confidence—and the implication of Carey’s unwillingness to oversee the matter. Or indifference. “Seems ye’d do best to discuss it with him, aye?”

  Reeves produced an agreeable smile. “Right you are. I needn’t have troubled you.” His gaze shot past Alex. “Moon—feeling poorly, I hear.”

  Alex turned to see Moon in the doorway, squinting against the late-morning glare from the yard. “What evidence have ye,” he asked, voice a growl, “that our people trespassed into Simcoe’s wood?”

  A muscle in the overseer’s jaw twitched. “I never mentioned evidence—and MacKinnon’s right. It’s Captain Carey I must speak to of these matters. Besides, we cannot expect you to grasp what passes beyond the smithy yard.”

  Alex searched Reeves’s expression for the disdain such words implied, but found no hint, unlike the unconcealed dislike on Moon’s face as he returned to their room.

  “Before I take my leave,” Reeves said, as though Moon had never entered the conversation. “I presume Miss Carey has seen to your needs—she is diligent in her limited sphere—but do you find any lack in your present arrangement? Something I might provide?”

  An unexpected offer from the man who’d ordered him beaten and dragged off the Charlotte-Ann into the present arrangement.

  “I’ve all a man could need.”

  Reeves made a deprecating gesture. “I meant to inquire sooner, but first your illness, then the issue with Simcoe…Still, I’m back now, if not in time for the grand gathering. I’ve yet to meet this reverend with whom the Careys are so enamored. Missed him again, it seems.”

  “Ye havena missed him at all. He took fever last night. He’s abed in that room full of books.”

  “Is he?” Reeves’s expression flitted from mild displeasure to surprise. “Room full of…You mean Captain Carey’s study? You’ve seen it?”

  “I have.” For a moment Alex was back in that room with its reek of tobacco, its cluttered desk and map-covered walls—one map of the Cape Fear River, another of the entire colony. And Joanna Carey in the passage, coming toward him with that huge conch shell, face turned up in the candlelight. He’d swear the lass’s eyes were a different shade each time he saw them. Last night they’d been a peaty brown.

  Reeves was studying him. “Speaking of books…” He reached for the satchel at his side. “Do they interest you, MacKinnon?”

  “D’ye mean can I read?”

  “I’m aware that you can,” Reeves said while he rooted in the satchel. “I saw you do so when you signed the indenture. I meant do you enjoy the pastime?”

  “I’ve read a book or two in my day.” Rory MacNeill, as tacksman to their chief, had been allowed access to the library at Kisimul Castle. Alex had made his way through most of the MacNeill’s books—history, natural philosophy, half the works of Shakespeare—before he’d marched away to fight in Charles Stuart’s army.

  Reeves had found what he sought, a thick volume bound in tooled leather, which he proffered. “I had this from Captain Carey’s shelves. I never leave Severn without a book on my person.”

  Mindful of his sooty hands, Alex nodded toward the block chair by the doorway. “Set it there, aye? Till I’ve washed.”

  “Proving yourself a man who rightly esteems the written word. It’s Defoe’s The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, about a castaway who spends years on a remote island in the tropics before being rescued quite improbably by…But I’ll say no more lest the ending be spoilt.”

  Alex was torn. He’d heard of Robinson Crusoe but never had opportunity to get his hands, sooty or otherwise, on a copy of the narrative. “Captain Carey kens ye’re doing this?”

  “He won’t mind, but I’ll speak to him. Return it when you’ve finished. Choose another, if you will.”

  Alex hadn’t made up his mind whether to accept this reassurance before he was distracted by Jemma’s voice in the yard.

  “You oughtn’t to follow me here. I told you I got to work.”

  Demas, who’d stepped inside the smithy to sit on a block chair out of the sun, propelled himself to his feet.

  “You’d rather work than play with me?” It was the little miss, Charlotte, whose voice he’d heard from the stairs last evening, though he hadn’t glimpsed more than the hem of her nightshift.

  A scowling Jemma stepped into the doorway, cradling the cider jug he’d sent her to fetch. She stiffened, seeing Reeves, but when she caught sight of Demas looming an arm’s length from her nose, she nigh jumped out of her skin. The jug hit the earth and broke, sloshing its contents over her dusty feet.

  “Some chits ought to listen to they betters,” Demas muttered.

  Jemma bolted—away from the smithy.

  “Jemma, come back!” The owner of the pleading voice stepped into the doorway, stopping short of the broken jug to stare after Jemma.

  Alex stared too. He couldn’t help it. It was the figurehead from the Charlotte-Ann come to life in the form of a lassie in a pale frock, golden hair ringleted about her shoulders, blue eyes tearful in a face of both stunning beauty and winsome innocence.

  Reeves strode to the distraught girl and bent a knee. “Charlotte, you shouldn’t be down here on your own.”

  “Jemma left me.” The girl looked pleadingly at the overseer, who tilted his head in sympathy.

  “I’m headed up to the house.” Rising to his feet, Reeves held out a hand. “Come. We’ll find your sister.”

  The child took the proffered hand as Demas separated from the shadows and stepped across his master’s path. Reeves jerked his head back, leveling Demas a look. The big slave fell in submissively behind the pair as they passed from view.

  An odd man, Reeves. For all the cordial insensitivity he showed the rest of them, he’d seemed genuinely compassionate toward Charlotte Carey. But what was he playing at, coming a hair’s breadth from talking down Edmund Carey, who’d been so good to him, then all but forcing upon Alex the loan of the man’s book? Ought he to return it to the man unread? Or do as Reeves suggested: read it and return it to Carey’s study…where hung those maps he wanted very much to see again?

  * * *

  Halfway down the stairs Joanna heard her sister’s sobs coming from the parlor. In the doorway of the g
reen-paneled room, she halted. Just within stood Demas, arms laced across his massive chest. On the settee Charlotte sat. Before her knelt Mister Reeves, murmuring words Joanna couldn’t catch. “Charlotte—whatever is the matter?”

  Abandoning the settee, Charlotte rushed to Joanna to throw slender arms around her waist. “Why doesn’t Jemma like me?”

  With their guests’ departure, Joanna had half-expected this. She held her sister as Mister Reeves stood, tugged his coat straight, and tucked his hat beneath an arm.

  “I’ve only just returned, Miss Carey. I stopped by the smithy to check on MacKinnon, where I encountered Charlotte—and that girl who has distressed her.”

  Charlotte raised tearful blue eyes. “She ran off and left me.”

  Joanna swallowed back a sigh. Was she being too soft? Ought she to force Jemma to go on being Charlotte’s playmate?

  “They’re slaves, Joanna…”

  She would not do it. Not to Jemma. Or to Charlotte.

  She met Mister Reeves’s pained gaze. “It was kind of you to accompany my sister, and you just returned.” The reason for his absence recalled itself. “Did you meet with difficulty?”

  “I did, though it needn’t trouble you. Is Captain Carey in his study?”

  “Last I knew. With Reverend Pauling.”

  “Ah, yes. I hear he’s fallen ill.” Mister Reeves let out a sigh. “Miss Carey, I’d intended to return for the last day of meeting, knowing its importance to you. I regret I was prevented. Am I forgiven?”

  It flashed across her mind that Mister Reeves had been called away by some urgent need during Reverend Pauling’s last visit. Strange that it should happen again, but the man couldn’t be blamed for trouble with a neighbor stretching back before his arrival, and with the slaves involved it had been his responsibility to see it sorted. “There’s nothing to forgive, Mister Reeves. I do comprehend it couldn’t be helped.”

  While she was still speaking, the man made her a bow. “You are all grace and kindness, Miss Carey.”

  Joanna responded with a curtsy made awkward with Charlotte’s clinging. With a neat turn upon a heel, Mister Reeves left the room. Demas lingered long enough to cast her an inscrutable look before he followed his master in silence.

  * * *

  “Jemma’s not a little girl anymore,” Joanna said, having guided her sister to the settee and supplied her with a kerchief. “I know she’s scarcely bigger than you, but she’s nearly…” It struck Joanna that Jemma had reached the age when her own childhood had ended. The girl was twelve at least. “It may simply be that now she’s getting older, Jemma has come to understand how things are.”

  Her sister’s brows knit above puzzled eyes. “What things?”

  “Jemma is a slave, and there are certain…” She’d been going to say lines that mustn’t be crossed, but in her sister’s gaze, yearning for the hurt of rejection to ease, she saw herself reflected, seven years past.

  “Why, Azuba?” Joanna hated the whine in her voice. She was twelve. Old enough to possess herself. “I know I have to step into Mama’s place now, but it doesn’t mean Mari has to go work in the kitchen. She could learn to run the plantation with me, like you helped Mama. Couldn’t you teach us together?”

  Face shadowed with grief, Azuba looked for a moment as if she might reach out and embrace her. Joanna stiffened, knowing she couldn’t allow it or she’d plunge into a sea of tears and drown. Again. She must be strong for Papa. For Charlotte. For Severn.

  “Miss Joanna. Lots done changed with your mama’s passing. We all got to do things we don’t want to do. Hard things.” Her mother’s dearest friend, after Papa, focused her brown eyes on something far away. They seemed to harden, to flash, then they shifted back to Joanna, softening. “It’s the way things are, Miss Joanna. By and by you’ll understand.”

  Joanna understood, but the chasm between what was and what she wished could be had left its wounds. “Charlotte, I think it would be well if you and I spent more time together. Would you care to learn what I do with my days? Maybe help?”

  Charlotte’s pale brows rose. “You’re so busy.”

  Joanna’s chest tightened. Pressing upon her now was the need to check on the reverend, settle the time for dinner, inform Azuba, discuss a menu with Phoebe, make sure the cook knew Mister Reeves would be joining them…

  She wiped a stray tear from Charlotte’s cheek. “And so your help would be most welcome. Even more your company.”

  Charlotte sniffled. “All right,” she said, but when she started for the parlor door, Joanna stopped her.

  “Charlotte? What was Mister Reeves saying to you when I entered the parlor?”

  The child’s face brightened. “He promised to bring me another doll, next time he goes to Wilmington.”

  Joanna hoped the man would keep his word. But their attempts at consolation felt like ribbons tied round a bleeding gash. She’d failed to speak to the heart of her sister’s pain, and the reason was no mystery. The pain was her own, unassuaged after years.

  The sudden rise of voices from the study jarred her attention. Though she couldn’t make out Mister Reeves’s words, Papa’s voice was strong enough to penetrate a gale: “And you’ve waited until now to speak of it? Show me, Phineas—this instant!”

  Joanna reached the passage to see her stepfather fling open the back door, on his heels Mister Reeves, clapping on his hat.

  “What is going on?”

  Mister Reeves halted, features pinched, impatient. “Miss Carey, do not concern—”

  “Phineas!” Papa bellowed from the yard.

  Joanna motioned him on, hurrying down the passage. A glance into the study gave her pause. Reverend Pauling looked as if he meant to rise from bed. “Reverend, don’t. We’ll see to whatever this is.” She took a step into the room, relieved when he sat back, looking up with shadows beneath his eyes. “What’s upset Papa?”

  The reverend’s expression was grave. “It seems one of Edmund’s slaves has met with tragedy. Mister Reeves returned with his body.”

  Joanna sucked in breath. “Who?”

  “Edmund left before a name was uttered.”

  Joanna whirled toward the door and fled. She passed through the hedge, spotting Mister Reeves hurrying after Papa, headed toward the stables, where a cart stood, still harnessed to a horse. The knot of slaves gathered around it drew back at Papa’s approach, revealing something canvas-wrapped in the bed.

  The smell hit her. The stench of decay slowed her steps, but she came on, taking shallow breaths. All eyes were on the cart as Papa ordered Moses, his head groom, to unwrap what lay enshrouded in canvas. Broad features set in a rigid mask, Moses climbed into the bed. Around him rose a shifting cloud, black and buzzing on the air. Flies. One landed with a smack on Joanna’s cap. She brushed it away with a shudder, stopping near the horse’s head, daring to come no closer.

  Slaves came from shop and garden. Carpenters and coopers. Gardeners and stable boys. Laundry maids and weavers. Children pinched their noses or pressed them into worn skirts. The faces of the adults around her were facades that hid emotion, as the canvas folds were drawn aside. She saw Elijah approach without the wariness of the slaves, right up to the cart’s bed, saw his look of shock. Moses scrambled out of the cart. He staggered into the growing crowd, and Joanna knew a name was passing mouth to ear. Low moans went up.

  Bothered by the smell of death, the flies, the rising tension, the horse took a nervous step in her direction. The cart rolled. Papa stepped back and saw Joanna. Alarm came into his face as the horse tossed its head.

  A hand latched onto its headgear. Another stroked a broad, quivering cheek. “Air do shocair…,” a voice soothed. “Sin thu, a laochain.”

  Alex MacKinnon appeared as she’d last seen him, sweaty and disheveled from his work, but he wasn’t looking at her. Still soothing the horse in soft m
urmurings, he nodded at Papa, as though in answer to a question. At last he acknowledged her with a glance. “Mistress.”

  Flies buzzed above their heads.

  A wail went up from the direction of the kitchen.

  Mister MacKinnon stepped nearer. Strong fingers curved around her arm. “He’d have ye away from this, your stepfather. Will ye let me walk ye back to the house?”

  Joanna stared blankly as the wailing came on, growing louder.

  The slaves parted. Down the aisle that formed, Azuba walked, but Azuba wasn’t the wailer. Behind her came Phoebe and Sybil. Supported between them, weeping so violently she could barely walk, was Marigold.

  12

  It was Marigold’s brother, Micah, whom Reverend Pauling would lay to rest with words of consolation. Joanna wondered what those words would be as she made her way down the lane between the workshops. She’d no idea what she would say once she reached Marigold’s cabin, where the reverend had gone an hour past. Neither fever nor chills had returned, but if he didn’t rest for the time remaining until the burial, he mightn’t make it through.

  As she reached the smithy, which rang with evidence of Alex MacKinnon’s growing proficiency, Elijah stepped from within and beckoned. As she neared, Joanna searched his face for any hint of warmth, detecting only grief, anger.

  Inside the smithy the hammering ceased, but Elijah blocked her view within. “I’m hearing all manner of rumor about Micah. Happen ye know the truth of it?”

  “I’m not certain.” She knew only what Mister Reeves had told them, once Papa directed the grave dug and they were gathered in the study.