Immortal (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Book 2)

by Meredith, Anne

  “Mesu, this is my wife, Merrilea. Marley, this is Mesu. He’s been here as long as I remember. Mesu keeps the place in one piece, whether it’s a cloudless day, or whether there’s a hurricane blowing.”

  “Please, call me Marley,” she said, extending her hand.

  He bowed deeply to her and kissed her hand. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Madame Marley.”

  Within the home, they might have been at any colonial plantation, with its tastefully appointed decor. Everyone was shown to a guest room to relax after their long journey while their belongings arrived from the ship. With this chore complete, all the men of the Immortal were dismissed for holiday—save a handful who would serve as crew for the newlyweds’ belated honeymoon.

  Bronson’s exhaustion from the voyage caught up with him, and he napped while Marley read on the verandah outside their room, their door open. She had learned early on that her husband, who’d taken his first step on sea legs, slept soundest to the pounding of the surf.

  From their suite, she could look out on the Atlantic ocean and the thick, verdant foliage below the verandah. She sat there with her book open, enjoying the distant crash of waves against the rocks. An hour passed as she inhaled the strange scents—a combination of the salt air and the unique flora of the island. At last she understood why so many people loved beach vacations.

  She heard another door open down the way and looked up, happy at the thought of a chat with Camisha.

  Nan emerged from her room.

  Marley looked back down at her book.

  “Oh—I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were out here reading. I’ll leave you to it.”

  After a moment, Marley said. “It’s all right. You’re welcome to join me, or I can go inside—”

  Nan shook her head, her eyes wide. “Don’t be silly, Merrilea.”

  “Come and sit with me, if you like.”

  “They’re serving tea soon. Imagine. Tea to a gaggle of Americans. Some Brits don’t learn. I asked that they add coffee for the colonials.”

  Marley smiled, concealing the anger simmering within her.

  Her grandmother sat in the chair beside hers and rocked quietly back and forth, gazing at the horizon.

  “I have a question.”

  Nan glanced at her.

  “Can you understand the extent of the damage you did not only to Mom, to Dad—but to your own daughters, every single day of our lives?”

  “Merrilea, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re speaking of. But when one makes a decision, they make it once. Not every single day.”

  “That’s not true. Every day when I woke up, you chose again to look me in the face and lie to me. When I got old enough to wonder why I had the same name as your married name—rather than my mother’s married name—you lied again. My father suddenly became your son, rather than your son-in-law. And to do this lie, you denied you’d ever said otherwise, as if I were too stupid or absentminded to remember what you had told me. All the years, the countless lies, the mockery you made of me because I was my father’s daughter, loving the past. Nan, I loved the past because I was a part of it! My parents were born there! I deserved to know the truth! Instead, you created an awkward, fearful, broken bird of a human being who didn’t know her own name.”

  “Marley—”

  “Don’t call me that! If not for Bronson I would still be living in a darkened library, studying ancient manuscripts and imagining the people who lived in those times, feeling guilty for the old book that belonged to me rightfully.

  “No, actually—if not for Bronson, I’d be dead. He saved me, he breathed life into me, and he restored me to the full person my mother and father and Rachel created, full of bravery and laughter. Nan, I am sorry for the suffering you’ve known in life, but much of it, you’ve brought on yourself. And I earnestly hope Thomas Trelawney can forgive you, because I don’t know that I ever can.”

  She rose from her chair, tears spilling from her eyes as she returned to the room.

  Bronson sat in an armchair, leaning forward, his gaze on her pained. He’d clearly awakened during her tirade and waited. Now he rose, closing the door behind her and drawing the drapes.

  She rushed into his arms, and he held her silently as she wept.

  At last, he handed her his handkerchief, and she wiped her face and blew her nose.

  “Would you prefer I call you Merrilea?”

  “Call me what you like. One of my greatest joys is when you call me your Marley. The name on your lips only brings me happiness. As for Nan—this may change, but today I want nothing more to do with her.”

  He held her to him, stroking her hair and massaging her back. “Do you remember what Malcolm said? It’s been removed from her memory. Truly she has no knowledge of what you speak of.”

  The reminder somehow made it more difficult. In that moment, Marley wasn’t sure which was worse—living a dishonorable life and remembering how your misdeeds had made others suffer—or to exist without apparent consequence, to an empty world without knowing why.

  “Except you have to live with the fallout.”

  He kissed the nape of her neck lightly. “That’s why I’m here.” After a moment, he added, “You do know that I have a grossly unpleasant chore ahead of me?”

  “What’s that?”

  He hesitated, his gaze grim. “I shall have to kill this Manning fellow. He’s proven he will leave us no peace, no matter where we go. And I do not live my life looking over my shoulder. Or knowing that my loved ones must.”

  “Just let me know how I can help.”

  He stopped in his father’s room long enough to tell him goodbye—they would return for him next week, if he was of a mind to return to Virginia. As they left the house with the few belongings they’d brought, they found Rashall, too, leaving, carrying the bag a servant had just brought up.

  The two men stood on the porch regarding one another. Marley walked to a nearby cedar tree, leaning back and holding her hat as she gazed up idly.

  Bronson smiled grimly, gesturing at the bag. “You’re not coming along on our honeymoon, you know.”

  “I would show you up.”

  “Never make that joke again.”

  Rashall laughed, then slowly sobered. “I’m going to visit the parish church. See who’s there now. See if I can stay a few days.”

  “Ah. Should be a nice visit. It will be just a visit, won’t it?”

  A pained smile came to Rashall’s face. “I don’t know.”

  “You say this to wreck my honeymoon, out of jealousy.”

  “Truly, what kind of man waits five months to take his bride on a honeymoon, and then cuts it short after a mere week? Most come back from a honeymoon with a newborn.”

  “What kind of man goes off on holiday while his country is at war?”

  “One who’s fetching gunpowder. Need I remind you?”

  “What brought this on?”

  Rashall considered that. “Two men had to die in December, that I might live.”

  “As I recall it, two men tried to kill you. They were no sacrificial lambs, as well you know.”

  “The killing grows old.”

  “We do not kill unless a life is at stake.”

  “I need this time, my friend. I hope it will be enough to remind me of the job we have.”

  Bronson clapped Rashall on the shoulder. “Shall we walk you to the church?”

  “No. I still need to tell Mother and Father.”

  With that, they descended the steep porch steps to Marley.

  “You take care of this boy while I’m gone. He’s not used to being without his quartermaster. Deming’s capable, but you’ll have to step up to keep him amused.”

  Naturally, she had to have an explanation, and so he gave it. When he saw her surprise, he laughed. “You didn’t think I would put my dearest friend’s marriage on the hook by pretending to be an Anglican vicar, did you? I was ordained here one year, while I skipped a voyage to Polynesia.”

>   “I had no idea. Is there any way we can help, Rashall?”

  After a long moment, he hugged her. “You can pray for me, Marley, as I always pray for you both. Some wisdom on my part would be especially useful. Not all of us are blessed with the clarity of a burning bush.”

  “We will.”

  And with that, he turned back to the house. Climbing the steps, he disappeared inside.

  Marley hugged her husband’s waist. “He’ll be all right. He just needs some time to himself.”

  He turned, thoughtful as he gazed up St. Peter’s. The place that had always reassured his father left Bronson troubled. “This time, I think it’s more than that.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Marley descended the mahogany staircase with stubborn cheer, noticing her husband gazing gloomily at his pocket watch. For the past ten days—even while they were lounging naked on his quarterdeck, stargazing—he had been distracted. He’d sent a message to Rashall on their expected departure time after he and Deming had secured and stored the gunpowder. The boy had returned with the simple message of thanks.

  Only with Rashall gone had she realized what a hole he left behind. She had come to love him as a brother—as her husband did. Interestingly, the idea of him contemplating moving on as a man of God did not surprise her terribly. He was as good-hearted as they came. She had briefly entertained fond fantasies of him marrying her sister, and the four of them roaming the seas for the rest of their days—but apparently that was not to be.

  And if he was weary of life on the sea, this would perhaps be a good option. The main downside she knew was the American Revolution. Inevitably, Bermuda would become hostile to the new country and visiting might be difficult—if not impossible—for Bronson and her.

  “All well?” she asked, a phrase she’d come to fondly associate with him.

  He smiled absently. “Of course.”

  “An utterly fake smile.”

  “We lack the time for me to slice open a vein.”

  She gazed up at him, and he softened, taking her arm and escorting her from the home.

  As they exited, she saw Thomas ascending with his walking stick, no longer wearing the frock coat and hat he would’ve worn as a barrister in Williamsburg. Today, merely a white lawn shirt, buff breeches, and black boots.

  He was alone. Marley had no idea where her grandmother was, and she didn’t much care. Although she wasn’t yet aware, Bronson had said his goodbyes to Hannah earlier in the day, thanking her for raising a woman like his wife—and politely asking her to absent herself from their departure.

  He regarded his son with alert gravity, his lips tight. Neither said anything. Both knew the risk that each ran. Thomas, at nearly 77 years of age in a year when he had long outlived the odds. Bronson, less than three months from a birthday that a curse had determined he would never celebrate. Neither man apt to care much for superstition on this day. And nothing they could say this day would be new to the other man.

  They were not a pair who left things unsaid. Unlike many men, certainly unlike those of his day, Thomas had showered his son freely with affection, and the boy knew well he was loved. Unlike some well-born sons, Bronson revered his father and returned that affection openly. So on this day, they truly knew what was in each other’s heart: that this, more so than ever, may be their last goodbye.

  Bronson hugged his father hard, and Marley saw the awareness move over him as he gentled his touch, knowing his father’s frailty had increased since he’d last left him here.

  When Thomas leaned back, he briskly tugged at his son’s shirt collar as if he were once again a four-year-old lad, and he was teaching him how to dress. Bronson knew better, and he produced the cross and dove he’d worn his entire life.

  “They’re here,” he reassured him. “I never take them off.”

  Thomas gave a slight nod. “God be with you, my son.”

  “And with you, my father.”

  Thomas turned to Marley and held out a hand to her. “I learned late in my life how dear forgiveness is and how destructive it can be not only to those who seek it, but particularly to those who harbor bitterness and resentment. It is a cancer of the heart. I have forgiven Hannah for her misdeeds, as terrible as they were for all of us. I hope you, my dear daughter, can as well.”

  Marley was surprised to find herself in tears at his unexpected admonition. She tiptoed to kiss his rugged jawline, and he hugged her with sudden affection and strength. “I love you, dear Marley, and pray for you and my son each day and each night.”

  “I love you, Thomas. God be with you, kindest father.”

  And with that, the son returned to his wife and escorted her to the quay.

  Marley gazed around the harbor, taking in the moment before her. There, off perhaps a hundred yards or so, waited the Immortal, her white sails slack and golden in the afternoon sunlight, the sky perhaps the richest blue she’d ever seen. For a moment she wondered if it were only that way because it was this singular moment. The scent of sea mulberry filled her head, the unique aroma she had learned from her husband.

  The boarding party waited in the boat. Jem and George were excited to have been chosen to row—not a child’s job, after all—and Camisha and Ashanti waited with them, both withdrawn and silent, Camisha twisting a handkerchief. Bronson handed Marley in, and she sat beside the older woman, covering her hands lightly with her own pale, cool fingers. Sitting beside her, she could see the tear stains, could feel the heat of her hands. She disentangled one from the twisting and lightly held it in her own lap, stroking her forearm, soothing her.

  The wind rose, and as Bronson boarded, he gave Jem a nod.

  They were ten yards from shore when they heard: “Yo! Need another man to help you row, lads?”

  There stood Rashall, bag in hand.

  The boys shouted, “Aye, sir!”

  Camisha burst out in tears as the rest collapsed in relieved laughter. The boys quickly reversed course, bringing the boat back for their quartermaster.

  Rashall joined them, taking a spot on the bench beside Bronson and grabbing an oar as Bronson grabbed the other.

  “Just remembered I have one last job,” Rashall said, his old sparkle tempered with a new somberness.

  Camisha wagged her finger at him. “Uh uh—you do not ever say that ‘one last job’ nonsense.”

  “Wh—” He frowned at his mother, his lips pursed in question. Then he shook his head. “Never mind. I’m sure I do not want to know.”

  “No, you do not.” She leaned back, and Marley smiled as the older woman glanced over at her, shaking her head with wide-eyed emphasis. “No, he does not.”

  The Immortal arrived in Norfolk at midday at the beginning of May and slipped past the cowed British Navy undisturbed. Her captain had determined that indeed discretion was the better part of valor and had once again—the last time, he swore to himself—worn that navy’s colors. By dusk, she anchored across from Hog Island and sent ashore a party to alert the militia in Williamsburg of their arrival. In all due haste wagons returned to convey the gunpowder to the magazine.

  Camisha had insisted that Parks and Helen remain onboard, and the young women were happy to do so, looking forward to the time they could return to their home in Boston. Although Rashall had attempted to force his mother to remain as well, she had important letters to deliver and refused to obey. Ashanti and Bronson knew their wives better than to even attempt to influence them, and the landing party followed a safe distance behind the gunpowder convoy.

  The tidewater woodlands intoxicated Marley with their aroma. In one of those oddly distant moments—as if she were watching herself from slightly outside her own body—she again perceived that she walked beside her husband through virgin forest of this land, over two centuries years before she had been born. A finger stole along her spine, filling her with sudden fear.

  She clutched at his arm convulsively, and he glanced down at her. “Not to worry, my darling. We are quite safe here. The few na
tives left are friendly.”

  “It’s not that. It’s … ” She couldn’t describe the preternatural stirring within her—as if she had been completely wrong about her theory with the Adventurer being the ship that would be unearthed in another 240 years with a man’s skeleton and a cross and dove necklace identical to his in the captain’s cabin.

  As if fate itself would not deny Bronson the inevitable conclusion of the fear that had been visited on his family in the form of an ignorant superstition.

  He stopped, waving the others on, and cupped her face in his hands, lightly kissing her in that mesmerizing way of his for his simplest of kisses—always casual yet entirely erotic, his lips parted as they brushed and held hers.

  He gazed at her in the fading twilight. “I have much to live for, my darling. I will never leave you, and God has reassured me that I will live to teach our grandchildren how to tack a sail. If I had ever been destined to die young, I am certain that God’s delivery of you into my life has erased that event.”

  She smiled, soothed by his certainty. She had no way of knowing that he spoke more out of his own desire to reassure her than any divine message he’d received. They continued on their way into Williamsburg.

  No matter how many times Marley saw this town during so-called Publick Times, she never found it less than stirring. Market Square was still lively with merchants selling the last of the day’s fowl and livestock, and harried housewives and enslaved women hurried home to finish dinner.

  Marley and Camisha waited in the kitchen at Thomas’s home while the men went on with the group. They made tea simply for something to do, but still Camisha seemed distracted. She bustled about the kitchen, looking through the drawers. Then she moved into the living room, lighting a lamp and opening Thomas’s desk drawers.

  “Ah. Now you’re talking.”

  She withdrew a leather portfolio, a small container of black paint, and a paintbrush. She sat at the desk, neatly painting in large letters: 18.1.3.8.5.12.

  “What does that mean?”