The King's Mercy

by Lori Benton

  As Alex took up the nearest, weighed it in his hand, fingers curling round the looped handle, the dream that had visited him on his fever’s trailing edge blazed across his mind.

  He might have been brandishing a sword.

  “Aye, I do.” He met Captain Kelly’s gaze, canting his head toward Moon. “Mind, it’ll take us both—his brain, my hands—but I expect we’ll manage.”

  Alex stepped back, letting the pair sort the details. When Captain Kelly left the smithy, Moon called Jemma in and joined them at the forge. “We’ll finish the blades tomorrow. Let’s sort through our scrap, see what’s serviceable for spikes.” A wry twitch touched the corner of his mouth as he caught Alex’s gaze. “Your hands and my brain?”

  “As it’ll be for a while yet. Or d’ye think your life’s work a thing I’d master in a month?”

  Snorting at that, Severn’s former smith made for the scrap iron leaning against the wall, leaving Alex wondering if he’d imagined that twitch had nearly folded into a smile.

  * * *

  Supper preparations were underway in the kitchen. As Joanna strode the bricked walk to the house, details of the meal flew her mind, replaced by words from the previous night that wouldn’t cease pestering: “If ye draw lines between yourself and folk, the least ye can do is keep to your side of them.” Twice she’d come near to telling Alex MacKinnon what she wished to do with those lines, and twice they’d been interrupted.

  On impulse, she turned down the lane to the workshops.

  Mister MacKinnon was at the forge, Elijah close by, absorbed in what they were crafting. It was Jemma, standing on a block to reach the bellows lever, who spotted her. “Miss Joanna!”

  When both men snapped their heads her way, Joanna hesitated. She couldn’t address the subject so much on her heart in front of Elijah. Or Jemma, else the entire plantation would know of it before the day was out.

  “Mister MacKinnon, I’d like a word with you.”

  Elijah frowned. “Happen this can wait, Joanna? Kelly needs these spikes, and we’ve a long way yet to go.”

  “I’ll wait. By the pasture fence. When Mister MacKinnon’s through with that spike, send Jemma for your supper. I’ll not keep him long.” Not waiting for an answer, she crossed the yard and the short stretch beyond to the pasture fence.

  Her stepfather didn’t keep many horses, but those he did were of fine stock, graceful and long-limbed. One mare had a colt, not as gangly as it had been but full of romp and spirit. It trotted to her, making her wish she’d brought something from the kitchen. All she had were willing fingers to scratch the base of its bristly mane and fondle its thrusting nose.

  Behind her the ring of hammering ceased. Moments later footsteps approached. Alex MacKinnon appeared beside her. He leaned his forearms atop the fence rail, bringing his gaze almost level with hers. He’d removed his leather apron. His shirt was damp with sweat, though he’d washed his face. When he reached for the colt, she gave place, drawing back as the animal shifted toward this new source of attention.

  The afternoon air hung heavy and warm below a clouded sky.

  “Ye’ve my ears, Mistress. What d’ye wish to say?”

  He’d sounded wary despite his outward composure. Her heart was pounding. “I’m sorry to interrupt your work.”

  “I’m glad for the respite. I’ve hours of it ahead of me.”

  She moistened her lips, uncertain how to begin. Into her silence he asked, “Did the reverend pass an easy night?”

  “The fever hasn’t returned, but he’s worn.” Otherwise it would be to the reverend she spoke. But Reverend Pauling wouldn’t be there in the coming weeks. She needed an ally at Severn, someone who would see the merit in her vision. Perhaps even advise her in it. She hoped Mister MacKinnon would be able and willing.

  Trying to match his self-possession, she faced him. “What you said last night, about the lines between us, my family and the slaves—”

  “Wheest,” he interrupted gently, straightening but still gripping the fence rail. “I oughtn’t to have said such things, Mistress.”

  “Miss Joanna,” she reminded him. “And whether you spoke amiss or not, I’ve been thinking about it—even before last night. You’re right. I do find it difficult to keep from crossing those lines.”

  He leaned toward her slightly. “Can ye imagine a life without them?”

  The question rattled her with its perception. “I can. All of this…” She swept a hand toward the smithy and beyond. “It’s so much more than any three people need, isn’t it? I could live very well without most of it. The problem is I don’t know how to do that.” Alex MacKinnon gazed at her with an intensity that disconcerted. “Why do you stare so?”

  “Oh…it’s your eyes. They’re green in this light.”

  “Are they?” she asked, off-footed by the change of subject. “I suppose they are green.”

  “Not always. They’re as changeable as the sea. Green one day, gray the next, then blue as a rising storm. Just now I see flecks of brown in the green, like wee selkies—seals—gliding in and out of waves.”

  Joanna felt her jaw drop open, but she had no words. It was the most attentive, poetic—dared she think romantic—thing a man had ever said to her.

  The warmth in her face must have been apparent, for Mister MacKinnon laughed softly, seeming embarrassed in his turn. “They make me think of home.”

  A subject upon which she gratefully pounced. “Would you tell me about it?”

  He looked at her blankly. “What? Barra, d’ye mean?”

  She nodded. “Is that a town in Scotland?”

  “No. It’s the western isle where I was raised—by my uncle.”

  “Not your parents?”

  Something like a shutter slammed down across his face, stiffening his jaw. Though clearly reluctant to say more, at last he relented. “Both my da and mam died whilst I was yet a bairn. My uncle took me in, raised me.”

  “The uncle you lost, after the rising?”

  “Aye. My nearest kin.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “May I know his name?”

  “Rory MacNeill,” he said. “I thought it was Severn ye wished to speak of?”

  “It is.” She drew breath and plunged in. “A few nights back I had an idea—a vision, I suppose—for Severn, for changes I’d like to see. But I don’t know how to go about it. I don’t know if it would work.”

  “All right,” he said cautiously, as though feeling his way through her words. “And ye want to tell me about it?”

  “I do.”

  Though clearly wary of the conversation, he said, “Go on, then.”

  When it came down to it, there really wasn’t much to say. “I want to live a less complicated life here.”

  “In what way?”

  “Every way. I want to manumit our slaves, but only after we’ve found them a way to live, to support themselves—unless they wish to remain with us. Many are skilled enough to find work elsewhere, paying work.” She’d meant to say much more, but paused. Mister MacKinnon was staring at her as if she’d sprouted horns. She couldn’t gauge whether he found anything she’d said commendable, or was merely surprised.

  “Have ye told your stepfather any of this?” he asked.

  “No.”

  His brows danced high at that. “Why not?”

  “Papa has poured his heart into Severn, made it what it is, and all his plans have to do with maintaining the status quo, or building more. I don’t know what he’d say to my wanting…well, less.”

  “But why are ye telling me? I’m a traitor. A rebel. Why would anything I have to say matter to ye?”

  Though she couldn’t decipher his expression, he’d asked the questions with apparent sincerity.

  “Mister MacKinnon, I understand what you did and the punishment you’ve endured, but I
don’t think it right or true that you be defined by a single choice. Your life began long before the Rising.” Warmth crept into her face. “I only meant to ask whether the life you had on Barra, before all that, might possibly have resembled…well, what I have in mind for Severn.”

  His mouth twitched as he asked, “Are ye trying to ask was I a poor man compared to your stepfather?”

  “That’s putting it bluntly,” she said, the warmth intensifying. “Perhaps modest is the word I’m looking for.”

  “Again I’m asking, why?”

  “I thought—depending on the manner of living you had, of course—perhaps you’d know what could be done, what steps taken, to create a simpler life here at Severn. That you’d be willing to help me present a reasonable and workable plan to Papa.”

  One he mightn’t shoot down half-fledged.

  Alex MacKinnon studied her for an uncomfortably long moment, then said, “Would ye care to hear my first impression of Severn, as I was being brought upriver on the boat?”

  “I would,” she said, hoping it meant he was willing to help her.

  “I saw the house first, ken, standing tall and white above the river, and I thought as how the thatched croft I was raised in might have fit inside it about a dozen times over. So I need to ask ye, all this…” He echoed her earlier gesture. “It’s all ye’ve ever kent?”

  “I remember my home with my mother, before she married Papa. It wasn’t as large as Severn…”

  “But not a one-room croft with a goat in the corner and nothing but a peat fire to warm ye or cook your food? Speaking of which, d’ye ken how to get along without a bevy of slaves in the kitchen to do for ye?”

  She opened her mouth to say of course she did—it was marginally true—but hesitated a split second too long as her mind scrambled for how to bring the exchange back on track to her purpose.

  “MacKinnon!” Elijah called from the smithy door. “Jemma’s brought supper. And Joanna, your presence is requested in the house for your own.”

  Joanna hoped she only imagined the relief that flashed across Mister MacKinnon’s face at the interruption, before he made her a slight bow.

  “Pardon me, Mistress. I must eat a bite, then return to my work. Good day to ye.”

  Disappointment held her mute, but when he was a few strides away she noticed something stuck into the waistband of his breeches. “Mister MacKinnon?” she called, even as his hand snaked behind him and felt the thing.

  Turning to stride back to her, his mouth curved faintly. “I almost forgot this,” he said, and held out to her what she saw was a corn-husk doll. “I thought maybe the wee lass might like it.”

  “Charlotte? Well…yes, she loves dolls,” Joanna said, forbearing to add that her sister’s dolls were of a very different sort. She took the corn-husk creation in her hands and examined it closely. It was one of the better such specimens she’d seen. Far more than a crude stick figure, it was shaped like a properly gowned young woman, well-proportioned and graceful. It even sported a head of hair gathered into thick braids, the exact brown of her own. “Is this horsehair?”

  “Aye. It was the only thing I could think to use.”

  “You made this?”

  His smile broadened at her surprise. “With help from Mari, who found me one to use for a pattern, glue from the carpenters, a bit of twine. I’d seen a few bairns about with such dolls and thought…well, that day your sister was so upset at the smithy…I just wanted to do her a kindness.” His gaze, which had been on the doll, rose to meet hers. “I thought, if ye fancy the notion, ye could make a wee gown and cap for her?”

  She’d never seen such a look on the man’s usually stern face, self-consciously proud of his creation, hopeful it would please not only Charlotte, but her as well. She was unexpectedly moved.

  “Mister MacKinnon…this is very thoughtful. Thank you. Yes, I’ll make her a gown. Perhaps one to match something of Charlotte’s. I know she’ll like this doll. Very much.”

  Even if she didn’t, Joanna was thoroughly taken with it.

  “Aye, then, Mistress,” he said, pleased, and bowed to her again. A few strides away he paused, turning back. “Miss Joanna, I mean to say. And ye dinna need to go on calling me Mister MacKinnon. Alex will do, if it please ye.”

  * * *

  Seated on Joanna’s left, Captain Kelly cut into the braised beef on his plate, then paused his knife when there came a lull in the discussion Mister Reeves had been having with her stepfather, about the latter’s impending trip downriver.

  “Mister Reeves,” Captain Kelly began, “might I make a particular inquiry into the events that brought about your…disappearance from the Severn?”

  Mister Reeves had been reaching for his wine glass. He took a sip then, eyes dark in the candlelight, curled his lip to smile at the man seated across the table. “What do you wish to know, particularly?”

  Despite the cordiality of his tone, Joanna sensed he’d bristled at the question. Because of the captain’s hesitation before the word disappearance?

  “I’ve acquainted Thom with the broad strokes of your history, Phineas,” her stepfather explained. “But left the specifics for you to share, should you so desire.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Mister Reeves replied, never taking his gaze from the Joanna’s captain. “I’m happy to acquaint Mister Kelly with whatever he wishes to know of me since our parting.”

  Captain Kelly stirred in his chair. “One of those broad strokes being that you were actually taken off the Kingston quay by pirates. Captain Carey will not know, having already left His Majesty’s service—I cannot recall how long before—but as first lieutenant I led the crew in an exhaustive search throughout Kingston, cursing you the while for a deserter.”

  “Two years and a six-month,” Mister Reeves said. At Captain Kelly’s quizzical look he added, “From the time Captain Carey left the Severn in the hands of Captain Potts to that day in Kingston of which we speak.”

  “You make it sound like a prison sentence,” Captain Kelly said, then with a grudging note of concurrence addressed Joanna’s stepfather. “I’ll admit, sir, Captain Potts didn’t run the tight ship you ran.”

  “Potts was a scoundrel,” Mister Reeves said. “No better than the pirates who abducted me.”

  Joanna’s eyes widened as she stared across the table. Mister Reeves appeared to be clenching his teeth. His face had whitened, bloodless skin pulling taut across the bones of his cheeks.

  “Here now,” Captain Kelly said. “That’s taking it too far. The man wasn’t completely derelict in his duties.”

  Mister Reeves clearly had something to say to that, but he gave a slight jerk of his head and asked, “Was there a question in your original observation, Mister Kelly?”

  “As noted,” the captain replied, “we made a thorough search of the Kingston waterfront. There were no pirates rumored to be in the vicinity. What was the name of the ship that took you aboard?”

  “The Isis.” Mister Reeves said the name with more than a tinge of bitterness. “I was taken off the quay as I was returning to the Severn with the crate of limes I’d been sent to procure, manhandled into a boat and rowed some distance—with a sack over my head and my mouth gagged so I couldn’t call out. And no, I cannot prove my claim.”

  Papa raised a placating hand. “No one is doubting your word, Phineas. Are they, Thom?”

  “Of course not. I was merely curious as to the unfolding of Mister Reeves’s life since our parting in Kingston.”

  Joanna was thankful Charlotte had taken her supper earlier, and that Reverend Pauling was resting, not bearing witness to this strained exchange. “Mister Reeves, perhaps you could tell Captain Kelly the manner in which you acquired Demas. That is an interesting tale.”

  “The hulking slave who shadows you?” Captain Kelly glanced toward the door as if expecting to see Demas, tho
ugh the taking of meals was one of the few times Mister Reeves didn’t keep him close.

  “I met him, a slave, aboard the Isis,” Mister Reeves said. “We found common cause in our desire to escape. He couldn’t have done so without me. Afterward he chose to serve me over life as a fugitive.”

  Frustration tightened Joanna’s brow. Mister Reeves had omitted every exciting detail of his and Demas’s escape. He’d made it sound a grand adventure when telling her and Charlotte. Uncertain how to redirect the fraying conversation, she reached for her glass, only to find it empty. In seconds Sybil was there to refill it.

  Sybil, she recalled, had complained of a stomachache that morning. Joanna caught her gaze. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes ma’am.” Sybil made a curtsy before moving away to fill her stepfather’s glass.

  Joanna caught Mister Reeves eyeing her, mildly disapproving. He thought slaves should serve at table unacknowledged, but she could never disregard the presence of another human being in the room. What would Mister MacKinnon have thought of the small solicitude? Perhaps he’d have condemned it too. It seemed he’d been about to oppose her notions of change, out by the pasture fence, yet he mustn’t be completely put off by the ideas she’d raised, or by her. He’d bid her call him Alex, and had somehow found the time to make a doll for Charlotte. She hadn’t showed it to her sister yet. She’d gown it first. Scraps remained from the last petticoat she’d made for Charlotte. A sprigged gown in green and pink—

  “Joanna?” Papa’s voice penetrated her reverie.

  “Mister Kelly addressed you just now,” Mister Reeves said, looking amused. “I don’t think you heard him at all.”

  Joanna flushed. “Forgive my woolgathering, Captain.”

  Thom Kelly nodded. “I only wished to know the cause of your most charming smile.”

  “Was I smiling?”

  “A Mona Lisa smile, if I might so boldly name it.”

  That banished the amusement in Mister Reeves’s gaze.

  “Nothing of consequence,” she hurried to say. She met Papa’s gaze across the table. “I’ll bid you good evening, Papa—Mister Reeves, Captain—and go check on Reverend Pauling before I help Charlotte to bed.”