© 2012 by MaryLu Tyndall
Print ISBN 978-1-61626-577-9
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62029-014-9
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62029-015-6
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotations markedNKJV are taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
For more information about MaryLu Tyndall, please access the author’s web site at the following Internet address: www.mltyndall.com
Published in association with the literary agency of WordServe Literary Group, Ltd., 10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, CO 80130
Cover Photograph: Margie Hirwich/Arcangel Images
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
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Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Author’s Afterword
Discussion Questions
About the Author
DEDICATION/ACKNOWLEDGMENT
No book is written on an island. I owe my undying gratitude to so many people. First of all, to my publisher, Barbour. Thank you for believing in me and continuing to publish my stories. Many thanks to my agent, Greg Johnson, for his support through all the years. Thank you, Traci DePree, the best editor on the planet! Sending hugs to Rel Mollet and Michelle Griep, who read over this manuscript when it was raw and unpolished. And they still liked it! I thank my family, who has always been there for me. And I especially thank my Motley Crew for hanging with me during the storms. You’re the best crew any captain could ever have!
Dedicated to everyone who has longed to be one of the “in” crowd.
The fear of man brings a snare,
but whoever trusts in the LORD shall be safe.
PROVERBS 29:25 NKJV
CHAPTER ONE
Barbados, the Caribbean, December 10, 1811
If Althea got caught, Sir Walter would whip her to death. It was why her heart hammered in her chest and her breath seized in her throat. It was why she stood at the top of the stairway unable to move. Darkness coated the main corridors of the house like molasses, so thick it nearly forced her backward down the long hall to her chamber. Where she belonged. Where she was usually locked behind a bolted door. But not tonight.
Not ever again.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed her valise against her chest with one hand, gripped the banister with the other, and began her descent. She slid her boots over marble, feeling for the edge of each tread, careful not to jangle the chains around her ankles. Careful not to even breathe too loudly lest she awaken anyone and her only chance to escape—the chance she’d planned for years—would dissipate like her childhood had the day she’d arrived on this plantation.
Her shackles rattled. She cringed. Slowly now. Take your time. Her breath huddled in her throat. She slid down another step. The tread creaked. The sound echoed through the house like an alarm. She halted, listening. Only her ragged breathing filled the air. No, wait, voices—whispers. But at well past two in the morning, all the servants and slaves should be asleep. She inhaled silently. No, it was just the wind whisking past the windowpanes. Warning her to go back to her prison or cheering her onward, she couldn’t tell which.
Starting down again, she rounded the curved stairway. Firelight coming from the parlor licked the foyer tile, evidence that the ravenous monster slept within. Sir Walter Miles. Althea had amused him with rum and sweet smiles until he toppled like a felled tree onto the sofa.
She eased down the rest of the stairs, then halted before the open parlor door, bracing herself to hear his voice—his insolent, mad voice, beckoning her. Or worse, doling out some cruel punishment for being out of her room at night.
But instead, all she heard were his snores, deep and blubbering as they always were when he was besotted. The smell of rum and smoke bit her nose. Perspiration spilled down her back. Slipping past the parlor, she clipped the ring of keys from her belt—the ones she’d used to open her chamber door—and set them on the side table. She only wished they’d held the key to unlock her shackles as well. A tall shadow on her left gave her a start. Pressing a palm over her heart, she brushed past the grandfather clock, its tick-tock tick-tock hurrying her along, reminding her she hadn’t much time to escape. Thunder rumbled in the distance. She stopped at the front door. Normally, there would be a guard on the other side as there was at each exit of the house. But tonight, Althea had overheard Sir Walter order the man to accompany the overseer into Bridgetown for an early morning slave auction. He’d already been well into his cups by then and had failed to post another servant there.
Or at least she hoped he had.
Gripping the handle, she took a deep breath and swung it open. The hinges squealed. A burst of rain-laden wind blasted over her and swept a whirlwind of leaves into the foyer. No one barred the exit—no man armed with a pistol to keep her inside. Emboldened, Althea stepped onto the wide veranda porch, shut the door, and hobbled down the stairs. Shadows dripped over the vast expanse of Sir Walter’s plantation. A line of tall palms swayed in the breeze like henchmen waiting to capture her.
But not this time.
Clutching her valise, she gripped her skirts and shuffled down the dirt path, nearly stumbling over her chains. Iron bit her skin. Clink-clank, clink-clank, the vexatious sound reminded her of Sir Walter’s voice: “You won’t get far with those shackles on, my dear, so I would abandon all thoughts of escape. No. No.” He laid a finger on his chin, a malicious glint in his tiny eyes. “You are mine. Forever. I will never let you go.”
Althea trembled. She would not be his anymore. She’d rather die. She wished she had died with her sister, Delphia. Then she’d be at peace and would be with Mother and Father. But perhaps God would shine His favor on her this night. Hurrying across the open drive, she slid next to the vine-drenched shrubbery lining the pathway. Better to remain out of sight should anyone be out at this hour. Wind tore at her hair, loosening strands from their pins. Above her, fluttering palm and eucalyptus leaves laughed at her attempt to escape. Thunder growled. Branches and leaves slapped her face, scratching and stinging. She swatted them away. Nothing would stop her now.
&nbs
p; Each step she took toward freedom loosened the fetters enslaving her soul until they began to slip away, one by one. All but the ones around her ankles. They grated her skin and jangled so loud she was sure Sir Walter’s men would catch her at any moment. But then the wind picked up, drowning out the sound. Perhaps God was looking out for her, after all. Ignoring the pain, she pressed onward. She passed through the front gate and shut it behind her with a resounding clank, then stood frozen in place. Unsure, unsteady on her feet, for it was the first time she’d been outside the Miles Sugar Plantation in seven years.
Lightning scored the sky, flashing an eerie gray over the jungle. A jungle she had to traverse in order to get to Bridgetown by dawn. Where she hoped to find passage on a ship. No, she must find passage on a ship leaving early in the morning. Or all would be lost.
Thunder rattled the iron bars behind her. Althea jumped and swerved around. Just a gate. Not Sir Walter. Not his men intent on dragging her back to hell. Rain pelted the ground—her head. Catching her breath, she plunged into the lush forest.
Two hours later, as dawn’s glow began to chase away the night, Althea emerged from the sopping jungle to the outskirts of Bridgetown. Water dripped off leaves, plopping and splattering into puddles. Her wet gown clung to her. Mud lined the hem of her skirts. Her sleeves were tattered from batting branches away.
And she could no longer feel her feet.
Which was a good thing by the looks of the rings of blood soaking her stockings at her ankles—blood that now trickled into her sodden shoes. Slipping into the shadows, she opened her valise and withdrew a bonnet, gloves, and a handkerchief. After wiping the leaves and dirt from her gown and ensuring her skirts covered her ankles, she pinned up her wet hair and placed the bonnet atop her head, lowering the veil over her face. She’d often been told that the quarter of her that was Negro was not evident in her features. But how could she be sure?
She hoped no one would recognize her. She hoped she could pass for a lady.
Instead of a slave.
Snapping the valise shut, she clutched it beside her. It contained everything she owned and yet more than she had owned in years: the money for her passage—money she’d hidden away bit by bit over the past three years—dried beef, bananas, and bread Cook had given her; pouches of dried herbs; her Bible, the only book Sir Walter had allowed her to keep; another chemise and gown; and her mother’s pearls—the pearls Althea had retrieved from Sir Walter’s room just before she left.
Her stomach growled. Her legs ached. Pain screamed from her ankles.
But she was free.
With chin held high, she made her way into the heart of the city, past the shops just opening for the day, the vendors setting up their carts, the sleeping taverns. A dog bounded toward a cluster of chickens, sending them squawking into the air. A pig snorted through a pile of garbage. A man and a woman argued in front of the drapers. The scents of tropical flowers and cou-cou, a cornmeal porridge native to Barbados, drifted past Althea’s nose. A man tipped his hat in her direction, and she nearly fell backward. She’d never had a gentleman acknowledge her so politely.
Turning a corner, she headed for the docks, thankful the noise of the city covered her rattling chains. Soon, tall masts of ships poked above warehouse roofs. Ducking toward the other side of the street, she passed the now-vacant slave auction where Sir Walter’s overseer would no doubt soon be found. She hoped to be long gone by the time it opened.
Further ahead, fishmongers slapped fresh marlin and tuna onto wooden racks. She drew a hand to her nose at the smell. The sharp clank of bells competed with the soothing rustle of water against pilings. Glittering sheets of sunlight swept across the bay in between roving clouds above. Even with the veil protecting her eyes, Althea squinted. Bare-chested slaves, hoisting barrels and crates onto their backs, tromped down the wharves, unloading goods from a recent arrival. Adjusting her skirts, she hobbled along as elegantly and swiftly as her shackles would allow and slipped inside a small clapboard shack that belonged to the port master.
A man sat on a stool behind a counter, shoving porridge into his mouth. Graying hair spilled from his queue onto a stained waistcoat.
“I would like to book passage to America.”
The man continued eating, not looking up. “There’s a ship leavin’ for New York later today that’s still takin’ passengers.”
Her stomach tightened. “That will not do, sir. I need to leave this morning.”
He lifted his gaze. A drop of porridge slid over a jagged scar on his chin. He swiped it away, his eyes flickering delight at the sight of her. “Where are you heading, miss?”
“It matters not. Just away from here.” Althea realized her mistake when the man gazed at her suspiciously. He glanced out the door.
“Are ye travelin’ alone?”
She swallowed. “What difference does that make?”
Standing, he set down his bowl and scanned her. “I meant no offense. Just curious. The only women who travel alone, miss, are … Well, miss, they are a bit more scantily dressed, if ye know what I mean.”
Heat flooded her face, even as anger stifled her fear. Footsteps sounded behind her.
“Ah, there’s yer man, miss.” The port master gestured over her shoulder. “Captain Faraday be headin’ to Charleston this morning. Aren’t ye, Captain? Ye’ve got a passenger here if ye’ve a mind to take her.”
The captain brushed past her, handed the port master a paper, and said, “I don’t take women on board. Bad luck,” before he exited the building again.
Althea followed him outside. Scrambling, she stepped in front of him. “Captain, please. I beg you. I must leave this morning.” Only then did she glance into a face that reminded her of crinkled vellum—aged and crumpled—and wearing a scowl that nearly sent her reeling backward. Instead her gaze was drawn over his thick shoulders to Sir Walter’s overseer, Mr. Milson, who was headed their way.
Acid welled in her empty belly. Ducking behind the door to the port master’s shack, she waved a hand of dismissal toward the captain. “Never mind. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as they swept from her to the oncoming overseer. Understanding flickered across his face. He pulled from her hiding place, flung an arm over her shoulder, and eased her down the wharf, trumpeting in a loud voice, “I’m so sorry to hear that, Mrs. Pragin. A tragic death. And so sudden. Let me escort you to your husband.”
Stunned, Althea played along, expecting Mr. Milson to come upon her at any moment. But thankfully, no sound of boots stomping on the wooden dock met her ears. Instead, one glance over her shoulder told her he had entered the port master’s shack.
Her breath returned. “I must thank you, Captain Faraday.”
“I ne’er could resist a damsel in distress.” He chuckled. “Besides, I know that cur, Mr. Milson, an’ I’m sure he’s up to no good.” Stopping before a group of sailors loading supplies onto a small boat, he faced her, squinting into the rising sun. “Now what sort of trouble could a young miss like you be in to cause that brute of a man to be lookin’ for you?”
Althea lowered her head and swallowed. “It is … it is a private matter, sir. But rest assured, if you do not take me aboard your ship, I shall be dead before noon.”
He scratched his gray whiskers then snorted. “Well, I don’t want that on me conscience, do I?” He held out his palm. “That’ll be three pounds, miss. An extra pound for the bad luck ye’ll no doubt bring. An’ I won’t be feedin’ ye neither.”
Three pounds. Over half her money. But it couldn’t be helped. She glanced at his crew ogling her from the boat. Neither could she help but place her trust in these men to bring her safely to Charleston.
But the alternative was unthinkable.
“Very well, but I will pay you half now and half when we get to Charleston.” Opening her valise, she counted out the coins and dropped them in his hand.
He grinned. “Smart lady,” he said before helping her onto
the boat.
An hour later, Althea stood at the starboard railing, her heart in her throat, as the brig weighed anchor, raised sails, and drifted out of the harbor. She fully expected to see Sir Walter storming down the docks after her, his fist in the air, or perhaps ordering the fort to fire a cannon at them. Or worse, rowing out to the brig to drag her back home himself.
Instead, all she saw were the people and buildings of the town growing smaller and smaller until they blended into the green hills of the island before being swallowed up by the turquoise sea. Barbados had disappeared. Her home. The only home she’d ever known.
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