“That’s all right, I needed to lose that baby weight, anyway!”
That from her eldest, Helen—named after Camisha’s mother.
“Something smells good in here,” her husband said sleepily, just behind her. “Making me hungry.” And then his hands came round her slender waist, pressing his hard strength into her womanly curves as he buried his nose deep in her throat and inhaled. “Ah, now I know what it is.”
As he kissed the nape of her neck, she thanked God for the blessedly dull routine of her time-traveling, revolutionary life. For the better part of three decades, each fourth Wednesday of November, as she began preparing their feast, her husband played this game with her. Apparently, she thought with a smile to herself, he had been conditioned to associate the smell of stuffing with … well, a more carnal stuffing.
Not that she was complaining.
She tilted her head, enjoying the feeling of him. Then, softly, “Ashanti?”
“Mhm.” His breath brushed her ear.
“I want to go to Rosalie for Thanksgiving.”
His progress came to a halt, but he hugged her hard. “Sure, why not. We’ve got the entire British Navy tearing up every house on Beacon Hill for firewood. We got a boy up to his ears in treason. And then there’s that baby-snatching habit you’ve developed. Now, my wife wants to take the family on a holiday voyage into Slaver’s Paradise. Such a meager request.”
When they’d first moved to Boston, this little scolding would’ve had her slapping his hands away and stomping into the kitchen to sulk for an hour. She had learned more prudent techniques.
She leaned back in his embrace, reaching up to stroke his face. “Let’s go back to bed.”
His laughter was low and soft. “Don’t play that game with me, woman. Why not let’s just agree that you’re going to win this argument and make it worth my while … say, tonight behind the woodshed.”
“I find nothing seductive about the idea of you pounding me during a blizzard.” Yet, with Ashanti, it would be unforgettable.
“Nonetheless, that’s the deal you’ve struck, for me to agree to go back into that den of demons.”
She turned in his arms, hugging him hard around his waist. She stroked his back, rubbing her face against the soft flannel of his nightshirt. She couldn’t feel them through the nightshirt, but her husband still bore the scars on his back from his first visit to Rosalie, as a young man.
And although they’d been lucky during their few visits since, they were both ever mindful that even as a family of free people visiting a Virginia tobacco farm where no slaves were held, they were in danger every moment they were there. On one side lay their enemy, the British; on the other, their enemy, those who would enslave them.
Forging loyalties these days was a tricky business indeed.
The heavy snow had smoothed the path of wagons and oxen making their way up the slippery hill toward the house where Raven’s family was staying—but it didn’t warm the men any. Snow frosted Hawk’s and Raven’s hair and eyebrows, and despite the scarves wound around their necks, their faces were so cold they couldn’t form words at times. The trip over land had been neither short nor easy.
The women they’d brought from Bermuda had quickly found entertainment in town—whether they would find husbands might be doubtful, but as long as the harbor was overrun with militia and Navy, they would find work.
As for Marley, she sat in relative comfort surrounded by blankets up to her ears, in a wagon piled high with provisions for the Adamses and their friends. Fresh-milled flour, peas, oatmeal, sugar, salt, salted beef and pork. No one could claim to like the salted meat that kept sailors alive for months at sea, but the men were uncertain what to expect when they returned to the blockaded city, so they had secured a selection of items, marking them as removed from the inventory of their prize. They’d avoided the heart of Boston where now lay only loyalists and soldiers’ families—fighting starvation.
In other wagons and on sleds pulled by teamsters they’d hired were firewood stacked on pallets as well as arms, ammunition, and a supply of black powder. They hoarded nothing, taking only what was needed to take care of their own and help those they could. Their mission had been to equip the militia, and they couldn’t have returned with a more bountiful prize to meet that need.
Militia from colonies around the area had surrounded the city in April after Lexington and Concord, and no one could enter or leave. Now, their numbers were joined by militia from other colonies, all understanding the importance of this conflict, the vital need to drive the British out of the city—though lacking sufficient firepower to match that of General Gage and Admiral Graves.
In a rare, sane moment, King George had stopped the import of gunpowder years before, claiming the colonies had no need for it, since the English Navy protected them.
In truth, he knew how to keep the American serfs powerless. A lesson Americans would never forget.
Hawk gazed toward the house near the top of the hill where fatwood burned in a cresset. Marley saw the smoke leaving the chimney—and thought she smelled the kind of home-cooked meal old Padraig simply didn’t have in his repertoire.
Hunger gnawed at her—at all of them, she knew. Unloading wood from the Delight, as well as a small supply of the ammunition and arms for their own defense, had taken the better part of a day, and transporting it to Dorchester Heights, another.
“Smell that?” Raven asked from the other team of oxen.
“Aye. Your mother’s cooking.”
“Please at least let me get out and walk, to ease the oxen’s burden,” Marley called.
Hawk spoke. “You are not properly dressed or shod.”
“Couldn’t have taken horses, could we?” This from Raven, his teeth chattering, craning his head toward the house. “Oh, no. ‘A long walk will do us good.’”
Hawk made no further comment.
Marley said, “My shoes are fine. My feet are toasty.”
“Do you hear that?” Raven pointed at her, his eyes wide. “That’s something my mother would say. Toasty.”
“Whose home is this?”
“’Tis a friend of my mother’s—and of Michael, whom you might’ve heard Hawk mention.”
She looked at Hawk; she could see the weariness in the grim set of his jaw.
“I can’t see a lot of details, but it looks quite lavish, in the darkness.”
“We shared in the plunder, and Michael sent most of his back to Toni and their daughter.”
The large house looked less like a New England saltbox or farmhouse and more like the grand house of a Jamaican sugar plantation. It was painted a light color—likely white—rather than barn red or slate gray. Storm shutters covered the windows. A deep wrap-around porch enclosed the two-story home, and Marley knew this porch had been created for laughing guests during long summer evenings.
Now, even Raven fell silent as they worked to get up the hill. The oxen, filled with a burst of energy, seemed to sense they were nearing the end of their journey. She went silent, too, watching the two men instead as they made their way across the last hundred yards or so to a stopping place beside the house.
When the oxen came to a halt, Marley threw back the blankets, scrambling out of the wagon and feeling the full force of the cold. Silently she thanked God that Hawk had kept her inside.
She heard the shrill scream of a woman as they turned the corner, and in the gathering darkness a woman came running toward them. The snow, piled deep, turned her run into a high-stepping prance.
“Mama, what are you doing?” Raven’s laughter overwhelmed him as he caught the woman up in his arms. “You in your house slippers.”
On the porch, he set her down again. The woman tried to speak, then shook her head as tears spilled from her. From beneath her dust cap, she dabbed at her eyes with a deep copper shawl.
Marley stood in the snow at the foot of the steps, watching the exchange in wonder. She saw Hawk’s fondness and amusement. She could only gu
ess his thoughts, but of one thing she was certain. This woman was dear to him, and he would kill for either her or her son.
With one arm she hugged her son again, extending her free arm and waving her fingertips at Hawk. He laughed and stepped forward, hugging them both.
At last, she stepped back and looked at the two men. The humor filled her face as she said in a tone both fond and mocking, “The Hawk and the Raven. You look like you’ve been living off of worms these past months.”
Hawk tilted his head. “Well, the biscuits—”
“Spare her. We had to live it, but Mother has no need to.”
She glanced at Hawk. “How’s your father? I’ve received only one letter from Ruth since I saw him at Christmas.”
“As confused as ever a loyal British subject could be in these times.”
“Still a loyalist, eh?”
“An Englishman’s loyalty for his country dies hard.”
“But your father is Welsh!”
“Aye, there’s that. Being born in Wales trained him well how to be a good colonist, pay his taxes for nothing in return, and never complain.”
A man appeared behind them, filling the doorway. Much like a harsher version of his son, he scowled at the trio clustered before him. Studious and preoccupied with the tragedies of life, he looked as if he rarely laughed on a normal day.
But today was no normal day.
“Group hug?” The innocuous words—startlingly modern—sounded more like an accusation than invitation, and Marley smiled at his gruff affection.
Twin shouts of laughter filled the hallway as the two younger men crowded into the open doorway to grab the older man between them. Then he, too, laughed and went into the family embrace.
At last, Raven’s father stepped back. “Son, it does this old heart of mine good to see you both, safe and sound. But who’s the little waif you’ve dragged home?”
Hawk smiled as he took a step down the stairs, then another, his eyes meeting hers as he covered one of her freezing hands in his. “This is Marley.”
The Adamses exchanged an uncertain glance, and Mr. Adams rubbed his cheek.
“Marley, this is Mr. and Mrs. Adams, Raven’s parents. The kindest, bravest people you’ll ever meet.”
Mrs. Adams peered at her shrewdly, gesturing. “Well, come on up here. You look like a little icicle standing there shivering.”
Hawk escorted her up the stairs as if she were a princess in silk and taffeta rather than a filthy ragamuffin in bedraggled men’s clothing.
And then the woman drew her into her embrace and hugged her tight.
“Oh, good grief!” Mrs. Adams grabbed Marley by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length, laughter lighting her beautiful face. “Those overgrown boys disguised you! I wondered about the way he was looking at you, but now I get it.”
Something about the woman unsettled Marley, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She seemed familiar—not a close friend, but as if they’d met once, casually. Perhaps, instead, it wasn’t her appearance, but her youthful attitude. To have been Raven’s mother, she had to be at least in her late forties, but she had the glow of a woman much younger, and when the man beside her burst with sudden laughter at her observation, Marley knew why.
That man closed the gaping door behind them, feeding the fireplace in the entryway. The entryway itself was grand, with double staircases on either side of the hall leading up to meet at a gallery above. And from that gallery appeared a young woman who raced down the stairs, squealing all the way, then barreling into Raven’s arms as if he were a rock star.
“I see you still haven’t fattened up,” Raven said, hugging her.
She only giggled and shook her head. “I eat like the swine, and yet nothing. Mama says I take after Daddy.”
“You could do worse,” said Mr. Adams.
She threw him a sassy glance. “There are lots of ways I’d rather take after Mama. Like her figure.”
“Parks!” Mrs. Adams scolded, amid the laughter echoing in the hall.
“Well, you did get her mouth,” Mr. Adams said.
Another young woman descended the stairs now at a more sedate pace, and Marley could tell they were Raven’s sisters, but he introduced them: Helen, the eldest after him, and Parks, the baby of the family.
To Helen, he said, “You, too, pretty as a rose bud and slim as its stem.” This he said as a compliment, but Marley saw the grim tightness at the corner of his mouth. “What aren’t you telling me, Mother? Father?”
His mother gave her husband a quick glance, then smiled at her son. “Tomorrow is soon enough for that. Tonight, we celebrate.”
“Where’s Eston? And Helen’s Taleeb?” Raven asked.
Their father gestured toward the harbor below. “Well, they’re where every other able-bodied man is. Down holding the line against the devil Brits.”
Hawk and Raven exchanged a glance.
“Perhaps we should join them.”
“No, sir.” This from Mrs. Adams. “You’re in much worse shape than they are. Tonight, you scrub and start fattening up those skinny selves of yours. And you,” she said, turning to Marley, “I for one would like to see how you look in a dress. And a bath.”
Startled at the sudden spotlight, Marley blushed and stammered, ashamed to say these rags were all she owned.
“Marley’s wardrobe was lost at sea,” Hawk put in smoothly. “And she’s dressed as I asked her to, for her safety.”
Mrs. Adams gave Hawk an exasperated glance, as if he were a dimwitted dolt. “Well, sweetie pie, the poor child’s on dry land now. Do you expect her to drag around like a little boy here, too?”
Hawk took her ribbing in stride and gestured grandly with a half bow toward Marley. “I defer to the judgment of this trio of lovely and entirely fashionable ladies. Outfit my lady as you shall.”
Marley’s face warmed. In this home of strangers, she felt a comfort and safety she’d not known her entire life. The ladies themselves were dressed modestly and neatly; but, had a stranger inspected, they would’ve noticed the worn seams at their wrists and the slight fading of the fabric. For so many years, this town had been at war, and the deprivation showed.
But despite that, they presented themselves with the breeding of royalty and the humility of self-respect.
Now, Mrs. Adams’ smile was kind. “Between Helen and Parks, they’ll fix you right up. Helen, isn’t Marley about your size?”
The young woman—perhaps Marley’s age—looked her over. “I think she is. Parks, why don’t you take her up to my dressing room and help her choose what she needs? I’ll get started setting the table for supper. Mind waking the children.”
As the younger girl took Marley’s hand in her own and hurried up one of the grand staircases, she heard Helen speak to her brother.
“Ray, the children tried to stay awake for you, but they grew overtired and I had to put them to bed. Are you hungry?”
At that, the group dissolved in laughter, with Mrs. Adams responding with a saucy retort she couldn’t quite hear.
Chapter Twenty
Marley noticed the bright, airy spaciousness of the gallery they passed through. She found herself wondering if Crispus Attucks had actually spent time here himself; somehow she doubted it. True sailors grew restless as soon as they made port.
“I hope the voyage wasn’t too frightening,” Parks said. She pointed at one room, her eyes wide in warning as she whispered. “That’s the nursery, where my nephews and niece sleep.”
“You girls really look like your mother,” Marley said as they walked through a spacious sitting room and into an inner bedchamber.
“You mean Helen does. My bosom is as flat as my father’s.”
Marley almost laughed, but she’d had friends who obsessed over shape, and she knew that for them it was no laughing matter.
“I meant your beautiful faces—the shape, the exotic structure, and the color of your eyes. Like shades of warm caramel.”
P
arks led her through the bedchamber into a dressing room. Opening a door, she held out her arm to the gowns there.
“Help yourself. Unfortunately Helen has a penchant for the dull and dreary, so you find mostly the colors of nature here. If you were my size, I could dress you in the colors of the skies and our flower garden in Beacon Hill.”
“Oh, anything is fine.”
Parks produced a golden gown for Marley’s inspection. “What about this?”
“That must be your sister’s favorite. It’s far too fine for such a quiet night at home.”
Back it went, followed by another gown, the color of bronze.
“Oh, that’s quite beautiful.”
“Ugly enough for staying at home?” Parks asked, the corner of her lip hooked in a smirk.
“Just a simple brown or beige is perfect. I’m afraid I might stain or tear one of your sister’s favorite gowns.”
An impatient breath came sputtering through Parks’ half-closed lips, an exasperated noise. She went rifling through the gowns.
“Brown, eh? What about dowager black? Would that be too pretty?”
Marley glanced at her, confused. She and Parks were as unlike as two young women could be, so she had no idea what she’d said to offend her.
“Have I insulted you? Please forgive me. I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world.”
The young woman thawed. “I’m sorry. ’Tis such a dreadfully long time since we’ve done anything truly gay. All anybody does anymore is pray and fast and figure out 150 ways to cook potatoes and pumpkins.”
“Potatoes and—?”
“I’m sorry, please don’t tell Mother. She worries so. There’s enough food now, but for the last six months—almost the entire time the boys have been gone—life has been so tiresome. No parties, no visitors. And even Sunday dinners! Sunday dinners are always like feasts, but now they’re simply awful.”
Immortal (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Book 2) Page 17