A jumble of new questions rendered Merry speechless.
“That being said, I must make some inquiries. The charge of which you were convicted was larceny?”
“Yes.” Merry looked away. She would ever be bound by the accusation, whether physical chains chaffed her wrists or not.
“Please tell me about it.”
Merry did, as concisely as possible. Mrs. Benning’s mouth quirked again, but not with a smile, when she heard Merry’s protests of innocence. No doubt every convict in Virginia heralded their innocence. At least her new mistress had the consideration not to laugh.
When Merry came to the end of her recital, Mrs. Benning regarded her for a long moment. Could she see anything beyond the filth of the convict hulk?
Was there anything else anymore?
“My woman, Jerusha, will show you what is expected.”
The slave woman led the way from the sitting room. Acutely aware of her grubbiness, Merry licked her lips and smoothed her skirts. Nervous fingers tried to push the stray locks of hair back from her face, but without a glass it was difficult to say whether she was making matters better or worse.
On the third floor the slave woman swung open a door. “Here’s the nursery. You’ll sleep in here with the children.” She indicated a thin pallet in the corner.
Jaunty yellow walls were broken by a series of tall windows that allowed light to stream in. Two narrow beds were covered with white coverlets and fluffy bolsters. A spindly chair sat between the beds. In the middle of the room a tiny table complete with miniature tea service sat atop a pretty floral carpet. A dollhouse sat in one corner near a rocking horse. Toy soldiers were scattered about, apparently where they had fallen in battle.
“This is very nice,” Merry said.
“I’ll see about finding you something to wear.” Jerusha patted Merry’s arm.
The human contact was almost more than Merry could bear. Tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you.”
She took a seat in the rickety chair, which held up better than she had feared. Absently she stroked the soft coverlet. Mayhap the staff would disapprove of the notion of placing impressionable children in the charge of a convicted felon.
In her heart, she scarcely blamed them. Who could be expected to embrace a thief?
With Jerusha’s help, Merry found new clothing and water for a bath.
Delight of delights.
Merry scrubbed with lye soap until her skin was raw and her fingers shriveled. It took an age, but at last she felt as if she had rid herself of the gaol’s stink. Between the bath and Jerusha’s kindness she felt nearly human again.
She turned as a slight slave girl shepherded the Benning children into the nursery, though she was little older than they.
The children had the same brown hair and gray eyes as their mother, but vivacity gave them a unique comeliness.
Gentle hands turned the children to face Merry. “Emma, John, this is Merry. She’s gonna take care of you.”
“I don’t want her, Hattie. I want you.” Little John whirled back to the girl with outstretched hands.
Graham stood on the deck of the King’s Favor, staring back at Portsmouth’s harbor. His fingers clutched the ship’s rail as Merry’s had clutched the railing of the dock.
Was he utterly daft? He had asked the question of himself at least twice a day since deciding on this rash course of action. Even as he had made the many preparations required before abandoning his magistracy to a temporary replacement.
Despite the most diligent search, he had been unable to determine much of Merry’s fate. The intelligence had left him little choice; the hunt could not be picked up on this side of the Atlantic. But rather than search for a reliable agent to continue the quest in Virginia, Graham had known with a certainty that defied explanation that he must finalize the matter. He would never rest until his error had been made right.
His mind drifted to the last time he had planned a meeting with Merry. Yes, that last visit to the Lattimore house still rankled. Mrs. Lattimore had skewered him with a glare as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel even as her lips bent in an unwilling smile.
“I’m sure you understand, Mr. Sinclair. I have my heart set on this match. As a true friend of this family I know you will also want the best for Merry.”
In the pocket of his waistcoat the ring he had purchased so hopefully seemed to singe his flesh right through the cloth. It gave rise to a painful flush that scalded his cheeks as if he were a schoolboy guilty of some monstrous prank.
She continued. “Lord Carroll and his father, the earl, have been more than willing to talk terms. Merry and Dr. Lattimore are down at the Dabney estate in Kent even now, and as you know, her father has determined to settle a very handsome dowry on her when she marries.”
Her fan stirred the air, and dust motes scattered to escape the vortex she created. Graham focused on those tiny points of light, trying to maintain his sanity as she prattled.
“I thought you ought to know what was happening. I’ve noticed how she has led you on. But really the two of you would never have made much of a match. You can see that, I’m sure. She’s set her cap for Lord Carroll, and in time you’ll be as happy for her as I am.” Her voice had turned as pointed as her gaze. “I’m sure you will do nothing to mar her chances. This will mean everything for her.” She broadened her smile. “Won’t you stay for tea?”
He croaked some reply and all but stumbled from the house in his haste to be away.
He blinked. Even now it pained him that Merry’s mother had fended off his advances, as if he weren’t a friend but some overeager fellow who needed to be beaten off with a stick.
“You’re not brooding again.”
“Not at all.” Graham rounded on his companion. Trust Connor to hit the nail on the head. Particularly if it was aimed at something sensitive.
Connor placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing.”
Graham breathed deep, sucking in the freshening breeze. “My thanks, friend.” He smiled. “There is still opportunity for you to turn back if you wish.”
“Not I. Who would keep you on the straight and narrow if I’m not there?”
“You make an excellent point.” Graham slapped him on the back.
As the last bit of land disappeared from the horizon, Graham led the way belowdecks. What would Merry say when she saw him again?
Chapter 3
September 2, 1773
Williamsburg, Virginia Colony
Merry sat on the edge of the bed, holding a porcelain bowl near John’s small, flushed face. Abigail Benning bent over her son, her face a study in worry as she administered a dose of ipecacuanha.
The emetic worked quickly, and Merry handed Abigail a clean linen towel, which she used to wipe his mouth. His languor clenched at her heart even more than the flush that bruised his cheeks an ugly purple-red. Everything had been done. He’d been bled; wrapped in cool, damp flannels; sweated; and purged, yet nothing seemed to loosen the fever’s hold. That morning they had undertaken the journey from the Bennings’ plantation, where they spent summers, back to town in the hopes that a change of air would affect an improvement.
Another fit of the miserable, whooping cough pushed him forward beneath its weight. Merry glanced up and met Abigail’s gaze. “We must resort to the laudanum.”
Mrs. Benning raised a hand to rub her forehead, but she nodded.
Merry hurried to the large closet that had been set aside as a stillroom. She had brewed the laudanum in anticipation, though she had hoped not to need it. Her hand shook as she took up the dark brown bottle.
In the nursery, Abigail took the bottle in hands that trembled even more than Merry’s. She dosed her son then collapsed in the chair between the beds, looking from one child to the other and back again. Her lips moved soundlessly in prayer, as if her fear was so deep she could not bring herself to utter it aloud.
Emma’s dinner tray was brought in, and Abigail waved Merry a
way, busying herself with helping her daughter eat. Perhaps it was just as well Merry had never been graced with her own family. The naked ache in Abigail’s eyes was too raw to endure. Merry didn’t know if she could have survived such grief.
Merry opened the jar of garlic salve and rubbed a generous amount onto John’s wrists and feet, wrapping them in strips of cotton so the virtue would not be lost. The laudanum had already proved effective. He slept through her ministrations. His breathing was easier, and he seemed in a deep sleep. The coughing was noticeably absent. A good thing. His little body needed rest.
Emma fell asleep after eating a portion of gruel. Her mother knelt by the bed and stroked the girl’s soft cheek. As if the weight of her own head had grown too heavy, Abigail leaned her elbows against the counterpane and dropped her head down against her balled fists.
“I can’t do it.” She turned her haggard face toward Merry.
“Ma’am?”
“I cannot lose another child.” The harshness of her tone lanced the sickbed silence of the room like wind sweeping away a fog.
Merry knelt beside Abigail, wishing, longing to be able to comfort her in some way, but she could not find the words. Could not offer hope when she held so little herself. She smoothed the stray hair away from Abigail’s face, much as the woman had so recently done for her daughter.
“We will do all we can and leave the rest to God.” A hard fate as far as Merry was concerned, but Abigail needed to hear something.
October 6, 1773
Williamsburg, Virginia Colony
Merry rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. The danger had passed, but her body ached as if she had been in a bare-knuckle ring with the disease and taken a beating.
Emma held out her slice of bread. “I want jam.”
“I don’t think so, sweet. It wouldn’t sit well, and you don’t want to be sick again.”
Emma pursed her lips, obviously weighing the matter. Her thin little shoulders heaved in a sigh. “When?”
Merry tapped her bottom lip. “Perhaps tomorrow if you are strong enough.”
“Promise?”
“I promise to try to make sure you’re well enough.”
“I want jam, too.” John’s lower lip pushed forward, and Merry welcomed the sight. He hadn’t had the strength to be pugnacious in days, poor lamb.
She reached out to stroke his hair. “I shall make the same terms I made with your sister. No more, no less.”
His lips pursed for a moment; then he nodded. “Tell us a story.”
“Which one would you like to hear?”
“‘The Lion and the Mouse.’”
“Very well then.” Merry resettled in her chair and smoothed her skirts.
From out in the hall came a rustle and a thump. Merry turned her head toward the noise. Someone must have stumbled and dropped something.
John tugged on her sleeve.
“Once upon a time there was a mighty lion—the king of the jungle. One day he was out hunting when he captured a tiny little mouse.”
A strangled sob and hissing whispers pricked Merry’s ears. She put up a hand. “Just a moment.”
She padded on silent feet to the door and eased it open. Jerusha’s son, Daniel, stood in the hall, head bent close to Hattie’s. Misery weighed down his features, making him look a wizened old man, rather than a thirteen-year-old boy.
“What’s all this?”
They whirled to her, faces etched with terror. Merry glanced down the hallway in both directions. “Come in here, both of you.”
Hattie’s shoulders still shook, but she and Daniel did as bidden.
“Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Mas … Master Benning.” Hattie hiccuped. “He’s selling Daniel.”
Merry covered her mouth with her hand. “When did you hear this?”
Hattie bent over, hand covering her mouth to stifle her sobs.
Daniel took up the story. “Master and Missus were in the garden, and Mama sent Hattie to take Mrs. Benning a shawl. She overheard them arguin’ ’bout it.” Merry could well identify with the pain that brimmed in his eyes.
How would Jerusha bear it? This boy was her life’s blood. If he was sent off somewhere, they might never see each other again. It would kill her.
“Does your mama know?”
He nodded, and then his chin began to tremble and he dissolved into tears. John and Emma came in behind her and clutched at her skirts, staring at the older children. Merry had thought her tears were spent, but apparently this was one thing the Lord meant to pour into her with abundance.
John and Emma began to cry then, too, though they did not know the reason. Gathering all four children to her along with the shreds of her emotions, Merry murmured meaningless soothing noises, until the worst of the storm passed.
The old questions that had plagued her sprang back to mind, poking and prodding. How could God allow such a thing to happen?
As the children subsided into hiccuping and sniffling, she settled them all around the nursery table with milk and biscuits. If Mr. Benning found the slaves eating and drinking in common with his own children, she would likely be sent to the tobacco fields, but it mattered not. They were all children in need of comfort.
“Daniel, where is your mother?”
The boy shrugged. “Slaves’ hall maybe.”
“Children, I’ll be back in a bit. Be good and obey Hattie.”
Merry found Jerusha in the slaves’ hall, sitting stock-still in an old, oft-mended rocking chair. Her gaze was trained out the window, past the gardens and woods, out to the tobacco fields that stretched to the horizon. She was not weeping, but her eyes were red-rimmed, and she held a sopping wet handkerchief in a claw-like grip.
A bevy of slave women outside the hall tried to prevent Merry’s intrusion, but she insisted that she must see her friend. In the five months since she had arrived in Virginia, it had been Jerusha who had kept her sane. The woman had sheltered and taught and helped Merry as she found her footing in this new land and station in life. Jerusha had made the staff accept her by sheer force of will. Without her, Merry was certain she’d have succumbed to despair.
“Jerusha.” The single word seemed to get lost in the gulf of grief that surrounded the slave woman, even though she was only a few feet away.
Merry ventured another step into the room. “Daniel told me what’s happened. What do you want to do about this?”
The question turned her head. “Do? What can I do? My boy …” Jerusha bent over her knees. The bones and tendons of her fingers stood out in stark relief as she dug into the material of her skirt.
Merry approached and knelt by the rocking chair, encircling Jerusha with one arm and offering her free hand. Jerusha clutched it, hanging on as if it were the whipping post. Faced with another mother about to lose her child, Merry once more found herself unable to speak. She could only be there to hear the words when, and if, they came.
When the torrent of sobs finally quieted, Jerusha released her hand and buried her eyes within her handkerchief. Hand hidden in a fold of her skirt, Merry flexed her fingers. They would be bruised later.
“I never thought this would happen. Not to me and my boy.” Shredded by mourning, Jerusha’s voice rasped.
Merry remained where she was, unspeaking and unmoving.
Jerusha crumpled the sopping handkerchief. “We’re good workers. Never complain …” Her eyes had a dreamy quality to them as if she were speaking from a great distance.
Merry covered Jerusha’s hand with her own, wanting to anchor her somehow.
Jerusha pulled away as if the contact hurt. “I see now how hate can crawl into a person’s heart. It just finds the cracks from where it’s been broken.” She turned her face away, returning her gaze to the window. Desperation gleamed in her eye, and she gripped Merry’s arm in talon-like fingers. “I can’t lose him.”
Merry rose on her knees until she was face-to-face with Jerusha. “You’ve told me that God
works everything to good. You hold on to that. In the meantime, we have to think.”
“Think about what?”
“I’ve heard that the Quakers of Pennsylvania have no heart for slavery.”
Jerusha sat back as if she had been slapped. “What are you saying?”
Merry hardly knew herself. It was mad, impossible. Dangerous. For a moment the words wedged in her throat, too treacherous to be allowed voice. She thought of the children sobbing in the nursery, and the words spilled out of their own volition. “Take Daniel and run away.”
A jolt of the cart nearly knocked Merry from her perch. She clutched at the seat and the precious parcel of medicines as she righted herself, but not before her wild gaze caught sight of a familiar face. She shook her head. Mayhap she was going mad. Graham Sinclair could not possibly be in Williamsburg.
But surely there could not be another such as he. His features had burned themselves into her memory with the intensity of a branding iron on a convict’s thumb. His russet hair and dark eyes had been designed to melt an impressionable girl’s heart. Hers had never stood a chance; and indeed, she had never attempted to guard it from him, but had welcomed his friendship and hoped for more.
When she was twelve and had found a bird with a broken wing in the garden, he had helped her tend it, and thus had sealed his heroic stature in her eyes. He had been Jason of the Argonauts, Sinclair the Great, and William the Conqueror rolled into one. She had believed him infallible and conformed every thought and opinion so that it mirrored his. At least, until he had abandoned her to care for her ailing father by herself, and then condemned her in his courtroom.
Merry blinked away the memories. She couldn’t have seen him; therefore, it had just been nerves. She had a great deal to do, much of which could land her back in gaol for abetting a runaway. She pushed away thoughts of a phantom to focus on the task at hand.
In the morning she would claim that Jerusha and Daniel had come down with scarlet fever and insist they be quarantined in one of the outbuildings. She would see them away and keep up the pretense of treating them over the next week or so. Then she would pretend to discover their absence. That ought to give them plenty of time to evade a search party.
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