The King's Mercy

by Lori Benton

  “Demas left him lying before the hearth,” Alex was saying. “No more blood was spilled than had been—mostly mine. Though by now,” he added, “Moon and the others will have carried him out.”

  Joanna never wanted to lay eyes on the man again, even dead. It would bring no closure, serve no purpose. Alex looked as though he wanted to say more. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I only wondered, the two of ye…Did ye marry the man?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m undefiled—in that way.”

  His grip on her hand tightened. “In no way are ye defiled, lass.”

  She pulled free. “I am. And not just me. The house. This place. I’ll have no more of it. I wish I could turn back time and run away with you. I made the wrong choice.” Tears spilled as Alex rose from the table and came to stand before her.

  “No. Ye stood firm. Ye didna leave the place the Almighty had ye no matter the storm that beat. No matter even I called ye weak. I’m ashamed of it now, calling weak the strongest woman I’ve ever kent.”

  “Alex…”

  He knelt before her. “Will ye forgive me for abandoning ye in the teeth of that storm?” He took up both her hands in his. “For choosing my own freedom, and my pride, over your well-being, over everything?”

  Forgive. She could choose to do it, though she might need to make the same choice again. And again. But which of them didn’t need an equal measure of mercy? They had it from the Almighty, more than enough. Phineas Reeves had gone beyond receiving it, but dare she withhold it from Alex?

  “I do forgive you,” she said and saw the wash of relief in his gaze before he lowered his head to her lap and rested it there.

  Her tears fell onto his hair.

  They might have floated in a bubble, the two of them, suspended amid all that remained of the world that had done its best to keep them apart—until he lifted his face and looked at her, clearly with more on his mind.

  “Ye said ye want an end to it? To Severn, d’ye mean? Ye dinna want to be here any longer?”

  “I don’t know what will happen to us. How I’ll care for Papa and Charlotte—much less anyone else who chooses to stay, but I never want to set foot in that house again.” She would, of course. Papa and Charlotte had had enough upheaval for the present.

  “In every ending,” Alex said, “there’s also a beginning. That’s a thing I’ve learned.”

  That drew her thoughts up short. “What do you mean?”

  “Dinna worry how ye’ll care for them. Let me take that worry, with the Almighty’s help.” He raised a hand to her face, the hand that had fought for her and carried her heart’s treasure out of danger this night. A hand most capable and strong. “Joanna, when your heart is healed—as it will be, one day—will ye give it to me to hold, and have the keeping of mine? Besides my heart, ye’ll have the sweat of my brow for as long as I can lift a hammer, or anything else I must needs do to provide for ye, if ye’ll have me.”

  She put her hand over his, turned her lips to his palm, and kissed it. No matter how long she waited, how much she healed, that answer wasn’t going to change.

  “I won’t ask how, then, but where will we live?”

  At that question his tired features lit. “I’ve a place in mind,” he said, with that crooked smile of his tugging at his mouth. “First I want to do this proper. I need to speak with your stepfather. I saw he’s much diminished. In body, though, not in mind?”

  The reminder of Papa’s crippling, as well as what lay between him and Alex—a broken indenture, theft, abandonment—ought to have dashed her like a bucket of cold water. It didn’t.

  “He’s still there. I don’t know what he’s thinking. About Severn. You…”

  “We’ll ken that soon enough, and meet it together. For now I think we both best sleep, if the morning hasna yet come.” He rose and opened the door to find the night still dark without.

  As if in a dream, Joanna saw him hold out a hand to her. She had no memory of taking it, only that she was floating, suspended as if on the sea’s embrace. He carried her, she realized, easily, as if she weighed no more than Charlotte. And there was Charlotte, asleep in the cabin. She was lowered beside her sister, Alex bending over her, brushing her hair from her face. Leaving her with a kiss on her brow.

  45

  Joanna woke late in the morning to find the sun risen, Sybil in the kitchen starting breakfast, and Elijah gone to the camp where Severn’s runaways were living. He meant to bring back Azuba, Marigold, and Jory—the only three he was certain would return.

  “Not that Demas,” Sybil told her. “Not after what he done. Ain’t no one see him since you all left the house. Reckon he gone for good?”

  For good or ill. Joanna shivered in the kitchen’s early chill, recalling what Alex had told her in the night about Demas and Phineas Reeves. An appalling bond had linked that pair, but she was thankful it had held.

  Alex and Moses had buried Mister Reeves early that morning, Sybil informed her. There was much to distract Joanna from that knowledge, such as wondering who Elijah would bring back, who would vanish into forest or swamp to follow their own path to freedom. She wished she might have sent Elijah with the promise of manumission.

  Severn’s slaves would weigh the risks and make their choices.

  For now, Charlotte needed breakfast. Papa, too, though he proved to have scant appetite when she delivered it. Joanna reassured him Charlotte was well, still unaware of her peril.

  “Phin…”

  “Gone beyond harming us,” she answered before he could get out more than half the name. Such guilt and regret flooded her stepfather’s gaze, she was relieved when he closed his eyes.

  “Papa,” she said, coming to sit on the edge of the cot and grasping his left hand. His fingers curled around hers, cool and dry. He opened his eyes.

  There was frustration in his gaze, so much he wanted to say, but couldn’t. “Mac-Kinn…?”

  Despite everything, Joanna couldn’t suppress the joy. “Yes, he’s here. He rescued us, he and Elijah. But Mister Reeves didn’t die by his hand. It was Demas, Papa. He’s gone now as well. We don’t know where. I know that needs explaining, and it will be, but Alex and I talked last night of other matters, and that’s what I want to tell you about.”

  She paused. Papa swallowed, tried to speak, then simply nodded.

  “This is all I know,” she said, marshalling her thoughts. “I still have that vision of a life for us, one very different from what we’ve had here. A simple life, but a good life—for you and Charlotte, and Azuba, Elijah, Mari, and as many others who want to share it. I believe Alex is the man who will help me build it. I know he betrayed you, Papa, but he’s changed. He’s been with Reverend Pauling, the two of them made captives of the Cherokees. Alex brought him back over the mountains in need of some care, and he’ll come to us soon. But Alex couldn’t wait. He’s here and he wants to speak with you. I don’t know all he means to say, but I’m asking…will you give us your blessing to build that life together?”

  She’d said all she could and so fell silent, looking down at their clasped hands. Papa squeezed hers once, then turned his face to the wall, where the clay between the logs needed patching.

  * * *

  Alex was waiting on the path outside, in possession of a walking stick that looked newly carved. He leaned it against the cabin and draped the disreputable coat he’d been wearing last night over it. Morning sunlight caught his eyes, intensifying their blue. Joanna caught her breath.

  “How is he?” he asked, stepping near, sleeves rolled high, grubby from grave-digging. Not caring, she slipped her arms around him, thrilling at the welcome warmth of his embrace, more so when he pressed a kiss atop her head.

  Papa hadn’t answered her question, and every heartbeat now was a prayer. She breathed in the s
cent of the man she wanted to share her life with, the tang of oak leaves, the muskiness of earth, the smell of sun.

  “It’s hard to say.” Reluctantly she stepped back. “How long will Elijah be, do you think?”

  “If he brings women and children with him, aside from Mari and Jory, it’s hard to say.” He smiled, echoing her words. “It’s maybe too soon but…d’ye ken what your stepfather means to do?”

  “I don’t know if he does. Is that for him?” She nodded at the stick.

  “Jo…ann…?” Papa’s halting voice called before Alex could reply.

  She went to the cabin door to peer inside. He’d put the breakfast tray aside, spilling its contents a little, and was sitting on the edge of the straw tick, bare feet planted on the dirt.

  “Papa, you shouldn’t—”

  A garbled growl erupted from his lips, but she took his meaning.

  “All right,” she said, trying to feel encouraged that he wanted to try to rise. He was still in his nightshirt and banyan, but Sybil had brought a suit of clothes from the house. “Do you want to dress?”

  “My…self,” he said.

  Unwilling to fight him, yet certain he’d need her aid, she laid out the garments on the cot within his reach, then stepped out of the cabin, leaving the door ajar.

  Alex had donned the coat, brushed and made slightly more presentable. “Where did you come by that?”

  He tugged at a too-short sleeve. “Hugh Cameron.”

  “Your friend at Mountain Laurel. I’m glad you found each other.”

  He nodded at the cabin and asked softly, “Can he walk?”

  “With help, barely.” She glanced at the carved stick still propped beside the cabin door. “Did you make that?”

  “Aye. I thought maybe, when he’s ready and able…”

  “He’s ready now. I don’t know about able.”

  They waited in silence, looking at each other, hearing Charlotte’s voice from the kitchen, where she’d wanted to stay and help Sybil prepare whatever would be their next meal. At last she heard the thump of shoes on earth.

  “You managed it,” she said, looking in to see her stepfather had donned all but coat and neckcloth while seated on the side of the bed. He waved away the neckcloth but would have the coat. She helped him to his feet and held the garment for him. Once a snug fit, it now hung on his frame.

  The labor of dressing had tired him, but he wasn’t through with his demands. “Smi-thy,” he said.

  “Papa, it’s too far.” Ignoring her protest, he took a wobbly step, nearly falling from her grasp. “Wait. Alex fashioned a stick for you.” She fetched it from beside the door. He accepted the crude but sturdy cane with flattened mouth and leaned his weight upon it. Again he wobbled and she steadied him. “Why do you wish to go to the smithy?”

  Alex’s tall frame darkened the doorway. “Is it me ye want, sir? Ye dinna need go anywhere. I’m here.”

  Papa’s gaze drilled him hard. “Smi-thy…you.”

  Alex glanced at her, sought and gained her reluctant permission, then stepped forward. “Aye, sir. We’ll get ye there.”

  He wouldn’t be carried, despite Alex offering. It was a laborious process, Joanna walking to one side of Papa, Alex the other, supporting him more than they tried to let on, Papa shuffling, face grimly determined. Behind his back they communicated in glances, certain this had been ill-advised, but Joanna knew better than to try to stop it.

  He made it to the smithy.

  Though Alex had slept in his old cot for the few hours’ rest he’d gotten, the smithy smelled deserted, cold ashes and charcoal dust.

  They settled her stepfather on Elijah’s stool at the workbench, where he spent some moments catching his breath, Joanna hovering. She gave him a kerchief to mop his sweating brow.

  Alex moved about the shop, looking at the forge, the tools on the bench, touching nothing, as though he hadn’t the right. Joanna wanted to tell him he’d every right, remind him that choices could be remade. Broken hearts mended.

  And broken indentures?

  “Jo-ann…go.”

  “Papa? Whatever this is about, I want to know.”

  “We’ll be fine, lass,” Alex said. “I’ve things to say to your stepfather, things he needs to hear before anyone else. Ye’ll be next to hear them.”

  Before she could respond there came a throat’s clearing at the smithy door—Moses, who nodded respectfully to Joanna and her stepfather but addressed Alex. “Man put in at the dock. Neighbor from upriver. I mind him from the gathering with the preacher last year.”

  “Ye get a name?” Alex asked.

  “Him with all the chilluns—McGinnis. Got one with him now. Oldest boy, I think.”

  The ease of their exchange struck Joanna, and she realized a thing she’d noticed from that first conversation overheard between him and Elijah. They were drawn to him, other men, willing for him to lead them.

  Her stepfather had been such a man, in his day. Would he find it in him now to let another lead?

  Joanna sent Moses ahead of her. “Please see they’re tended in the kitchen. I’m coming.” She shared a look with Alex, willing him to know she’d be praying—and beside herself with impatience—then left them to it.

  * * *

  Though Edmund Carey had initiated this, Alex knew he’d be the one doing the lion’s share of the talking. The man’s diminishment was a shock. It pained Alex, watching him struggle to form the simplest words, remembering that first evening when Severn’s master strode into the smithy to assess his new indenture, straight and strong, in command of his domain. Which, he realized, was exactly why Carey had insisted on this pilgrimage. So Alex might bear in mind what he still was—master, commander, patriarch, laird—though outwardly he no longer resembled that vigorous memory.

  “Thank…you, Mac-Kinn…”

  Thoughts cut short by the last words he’d expected from the man, Alex said, “Ye’re thanking me, sir? For what?”

  Carey’s recalcitrant lips worked until his half-strangled voice produced, “Them…”

  His daughters’ lives.

  “Aye, sir. I had to come back. Reverend Pauling and I learned things werena well with ye here. And Jemma, afore we left the Cherokees, she told me about Reeves and…”

  At Carey’s grunt of protest, Alex halted the account. It was agitating the man, trying to take it in. “Da-a…vid?”

  “I left him at Mountain Laurel. He’s been ill, but…” Seeing the questions swimming in Carey’s gaze, he pulled over a block chair and sat. “How about if I start from the beginning, tell ye why I left, where I’ve been, and why I’ve come back. The whole tale start to finish. Then I suppose ye’ll decide what’s to be done with me.”

  Carey’s knuckles tightened on the cane he kept firmly planted. He nodded, expectancy in his eyes. Alex knew the man wouldn’t last long ere he needed his bed. He’d have to keep his recounting brief.

  First he needed something cleared between them.

  “Ye ken, sir, I didna set fire to the mill? And that it was Reeves released me from the smokehouse, in hopes I’d do exactly what I did—run?”

  Again Carey nodded. He made a choked sound as he gazed pointedly at the tools hanging in their places, the question clear.

  “I stole from ye,” Alex admitted. “Tools, iron. The clothes I wore. I’ll return it to ye, or repay. All but the one thing I took never meaning to.”

  “Jem…?”

  “The lassie followed me that night, trailed me for days before I caught her. She’d tell ye she stole herself, did ye ask her, but I can say I left her settled, content with a new life.” He paused to see if Carey wanted more on the subject of Jemma. He seemed content for the moment.

  Alex launched full into the tale then, from his and Jemma’s meeting with Hugh Cameron, the brief stay at Mountain Laurel
, the sojourn into wilderness, the birth of Jemma’s son—that made Carey, swift to draw conclusions, flush with outrage—their capture by Blackbird and her warriors and the trek overmountain.

  “We found the reverend a captive of the Cherokees since the autumn.” He told of Jemma’s adoption, Pauling’s preaching, the illness that forced his and the reverend’s return. “I got him safe out of the mountains, back to Mountain Laurel. He was looking stronger when I left. I had to leave him, sir. I knew by then what Reeves intended. I’d have come back anyway, but…”

  He fished in his coat and brought out the letter he’d carried from Mountain Laurel. Through all the misadventures since, the seal hadn’t so much as cracked.

  “The reverend’s written to ye, sir.”

  Carey’s gaze fastened on the letter.

  “Before ye read it I want to say…” Alex forced himself to look straight into Carey’s eyes. “I ask your forgiveness for breaking my word to ye. Not just depriving ye of my service but leaving ye to the malice of a man I suspected even then meant ye no good. I oughtn’t to have done it, and I repent me of it with all my heart.”

  Worn and battered as a storm-swept ship, Carey was still sound of mind. “Re…pent?”

  “I dinna choose the word lightly. I’m ready to return to ye, serve out my years—or submit to whatever punishment ye deem fitting.”

  “No,” Carey managed, holding his gaze. “I…failed…you.”

  “Sir,” Alex began, but the man made an adamant noise and he hesitated. Carey dropped his gaze to the letter. Alex relinquished it.

  Carey managed the seal one-handed and unfolded the page. He pressed it to a knee and set to reading, continuing in silence until he’d finished. A tear rolled down his gaunt cheek and fell upon a line, marring the ink. “You…?”

  “Did I read it? Not a word.” He half-hoped Carey might let him read the letter now, but the man made no show of offering it.

  “This…life,” Carey said, concentrating so keenly on forming the words he was sweating again. “Done.”