Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3

by J. A. Sutherland

  “I’ve work on my home farms and a thriving lumber trade, Mister Hulse. The lumber camps are but a half-day’s ride from the farm, but you’d be some days there when there’s work to be done. There’s a village growing quite near the farm with space for a cottage, if you’ve a mind, or a private room in my barracks.” Denholm could see that the man was wary, waiting for the part of the offer that would make or break the deal. He considered the total he’d have to pay to hire him — the cost of transport, the commission to the indenture broker, apparently there were some small debts back on Waheed that the broker had paid and then added to the total. “Seven years — room and board in the barracks or a stipend toward that cottage I spoke of — a land grant for it at the end of your time, if you’ve a mind to stay on — and two shillings a fortnight.”

  He could tell from the look on Hulse’s face that there was something amiss with the offer, but couldn’t imagine what it was. At a common laborers’ rate, to pay off the indenture broker, house and feed the five of them, and a bit of coin of a fortnight, seven years’ labor was a fair price. Unless Hulse felt he should be more than a common laborer, which Denholm suspected he’d one day become, but wasn’t warranted just now.

  “Thank you for your offer, Mister Carew,” Hulse said, jaw set. “I’ll surely consider it.”

  Denholm frowned. He had the sense he’d insulted the man, but couldn’t see how. He thought to offer Hulse his hand, but felt it wouldn’t be accepted, so he simply nodded and turned to go. He left the rope stall and consulted his tablet. There was no one else on his list to interview as a laborer. Which left only the other list, the one that broke his heart to think on.

  “Mister Carew, sir!”

  Denholm turned. Hulse was calling him back, his wife standing next to him with the infant still in her arms.

  “My wife tells me I may have misunderstood you.” He gave a little smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time she’s seen things clearer than I.”

  A pain ran through Denholm, but he forced a smile. It wasn’t Hulse’s fault that Lynelle was gone and would never again tell him that he was missing someone’s point. He forced the feeling down and walked back.

  “The man before you made an offer of three years.”

  Denholm pursed his lips. “Don’t see how he could. Three doesn’t cover half of what your broker’s asking.”

  “Three for him in the fields,” Hulse’s wife said, “three for me in the house, and three for each of the little ones when they’re of an age to work.”

  Denholm wasn’t shocked. It was a harsh offer but not unheard of to split an indenture over all the members of a family. Harshest for the children, though, for if Hulse signed the contract on their behalf now, they’d owe the three years and something for their room and board while they’d grown. And if that were the sort of offer Hulse was used to, then no wonder he’d been offended at Denholm’s seven — thinking Denholm meant seven years indenture for every family member.

  “I’d think you’d want to be home with your little ones, Mistress Hulse,” he said, “and their time better spent in schooling. Be a shame if Seth Diebach’s work on our learning core went to waste. Seven of your years, Mister Hulse, and I’ve no hold on the rest of your family.” He offered his hand to Hulse. “It’s no hard feelings on my side either way if you’ve no interest in the offer, sir, but I’m glad there’ll be no misunderstanding.”

  Hulse took the offered hand. “A cottage, you say?”

  Denholm smiled. “With a bit of land for a kitchen garden,” he said to Hulse’s wife.

  Hulse and his wife shared a look. “Seven?”

  “Aye.”

  “Done, then, and thank you, Mister Carew.”

  “Come along then and we’ll tell the broker.” Denholm hoisted two of their bags from the pile. “I’ve a wagon waiting near the chandlery gates.”

  After the indenture broker was notified and the contract recorded, Denholm walked them to his wagon and they loaded their bags.

  “We’ll be here in town until the Conclave is finished and then to my holding — I’ve tents near the amphitheater for us until then. It’s not the most luxurious, I’m afraid.”

  “After a ship’s hold, I’m sure it will be quite nice, Mister Carew, thank you.”

  “I’ve some … one last thing to do here.” He pulled some coins from his pocket. Hulse moved to wave it away, but Denholm held it out. “Two shillings the fortnight. Your first pay and a bit for a meal here in town while you wait for me to return — room and board, Mister Hulse, it’s in the contract, yes?”

  Hulse nodded and took the coins, raising a knuckle to his forehead. “Thank you, sir.”

  “There are food stalls down the street there beside the chandlery, but there’s a decent pub or two beyond. The Lion has a fine roast most days, if they’ve not kept it on the spit too long. Come back here to the wagon after. My last bit of business shouldn’t … it’ll not take but a short time.”

  Hulse nodded, but his wife frowned.

  “I beg your pardon, Mister Carew, but is anything the matter?”

  “Mercia —”

  “It’s all right, Mister Hulse, there’s no harm in the asking.” Denholm looked down and sighed. “My wife passed some months ago, Mistress Hulse.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. We’ve a son, Lynelle and I.” Denholm smiled. “He’s a fine boy, but I can’t watch him and work the holding both. There’re women to help, but they have little ones of their own.” Denholm paused. It was one thing to admit it was necessary, another to say the words, but there were things needed doing around the house that the women of the village hadn’t the time for. There was always work enough to fill everyone’s days. The thought of another woman in Lynelle’s house, though, even just to cook and clean and care for Harlyn … even that felt like a betrayal. “I’ve thought to find someone to help in the house and with the boy.”

  “There was a girl aboard ship, Mister Carew, that you may wish to speak to.”

  “Mercia,” Hulse said, “it’s not our place.”

  “No,” Denholm said. “If you know her well, I’d admire your recommendation.”

  “Not well, no, but she seems a good person in need of a place.”

  “What world did she emigrate from?”

  She paused. “The story’s hers to tell, I think, Mister Carew, but you’d do well to speak with her. Don’t judge her by the broker’s records.” She laid a hand on his arm and nodded to him. “Speak to the girl.”

  Denholm left the Hulses and went in search of the woman they’d spoken of. He reviewed her file on the way and was unimpressed despite the couple’s words. This Levett woman had been transported, which was strike against her to begin with, but the charges were such that he didn’t see how the Hulses could think he’d invite her onto the farm let alone into his very home.

  Theft, assault — and against her employer, no less.

  Moreover, she’d been aboard the indenture ships for almost a full year — near a dozen different colony worlds as the ship made its circuit around the Fringe, moving criminals and hopefuls from world to world. But to be so long aboard those ships? The cost of her indenture grew with every week aboard and to have received no offers?

  Some holders on the Fringe would take murderers who’d barely escaped the gallows to work their lands.

  Just how poorly did this girl interview?

  Twenty-Three

  “No.”

  Denholm froze. He was barely a step into the roped off square where the woman, girl, really, the record said she was but seventeen, sat on a canvas bag. She was reading from a small, well-worn tablet and hadn’t even bothered to look up as he approached.

  “I —”

  “No,” she said again, this time looking up at him. “I’ll not take an offer from you.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Move along with yourself.”

  Denholm blinked, still frozen in place. Of all the reactions to his appro
ach, of all the introductions he could have imagined, being told to move along before he’d spoken a word hadn’t even entered his mind as a possibility.

  “Miss Levett, I think —”

  The girl held up a hand to stop him. She set her tablet on her bag, stood, and smoothed her skirts.

  “I’ve been a year aboard ship, sir — from fair, to fair, to fair — and there’s much I’ve learned. First of it is that there are things, positions, worse than life aboard ship —” She gestured up at the sky “— with occasional fair days to read in the sun.”

  Denholm frowned. What on Earth was the girl talking about? He’d made no offer at all, no overtures, certainly not anything untoward.

  “Miss Levett, I’m afraid you misunderstand —”

  “I learned my lessons in the servants’ quarters before all this — how hard it was when I had even a little power and options. Now? No, sir, my only power is whether to take a contract and I’ll not be gulled again.” She began ticking things off on her fingers. “No families with young men, none where the man leers while his wife stands by and ignores it —” She looked Denholm over. “— and certainly no bachelors.”

  Denholm almost laughed.

  “No bachelors, sir. Your shirt’s stained, your trousers are torn and go unmended, your beard’s untrimmed, and I’ll wager were you to slide off those boots I’ll not see a matched pair of stockings. It’s clear to me there’s no woman in your house to take care of you and I’ll be no man’s doxy … nor thought to be rescued for courtship. So …” She frowned. “Sir, are you unwell?”

  Denholm had found her reaction amusing at first, that she’d think he sought to buy her indenture for such nefarious purposes, but the litany had undone him. Had he really let himself go so much without Lynelle to care for him? And what would she think of it? Then those thoughts drove home to him that she was gone. That she’d never chide him for what he wore and send him off to change, never again.

  He’d cried more than once since she’d passed, but always in private. Never where the hands or villagers could see, certainly not amongst his peers, not even at the funeral — it simply wasn’t done. But there were tears on his cheeks now and he could feel the stares of those passing. They’d lose respect for him, a gentleman didn’t show such emotions in public, but he didn’t care — or if he did care, he couldn’t make himself move to change it. He simply stood and cried until a single sob escaped him.

  “Oh, sweet lord, what’ve I said?” The girl took his arm, looking around frantically. “Come here, sir, come here.” She pulled him to her bag. “People’re staring and I know your sort, you’ll not want them to see this. Sit.” She fairly shoved him down to sit on her bag and forced his tablet into his hands, then knelt a little distance away. “I’m sorry, sir, for whatever it is I said. Look down at your tablet and no one’ll see. We’re discussing terms and you’re calculating the indenture, see? They’ll never know different.”

  Denholm struggled to control himself.

  “I am sorry, sir, I never meant for …” She looked away and shook her head. “Oh, Julia Levett, if your wits were half as sharp as your tongue you’d have an easier life, no doubt.”

  Slowly Denholm gained control of himself. He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes, finally able to look up and glad to see that there was no large crowd of fellow holders staring at him as he’d feared.

  “My apologies, Miss Levett, I don’t know what came over me.”

  “No, sir, it’s I who should …” She half-smiled. “There’s a powerful lot of sorries here and no end to them if we keep on, I think.”

  “Aye.” Denholm wiped his eyes again and looked around, happy to see no one even staring. “And thank you. I’ve to spend the next few days in Conclave with these men, and I’d not have them see me so.”

  “It’s a bit of silliness, it is, but I understand the way of it.” She reached out tentatively, as though unsure, then grasped his arm. “I suspect now the particular mess that might be on the boot I’ve just tasted, but would you tell me?”

  Much to his surprise, Denholm found himself talking. Not just the bare facts, but of how difficult life had been since Lynelle’s death and his fears as well — things he’d told no one, not even Sewall Mylin, his closest friend on Dalthus. His fear for Harlyn growing up with a different woman from the village in the house to clean and watch him each day, his fear that anyone he brought into the house to care for the lad would be seen to take the place of Lynelle, that his fear of that would mean the boy grew up cared for by those who didn’t truly love him. He knew how to be a father to the lad, to teach him the land and what to be a man. He’d never thought Lynelle wouldn’t be there for the other things. More to his surprise than the words was that there were no more tears.

  When he’d finished, Levett rose to her feet and held out a hand. He took it and stood. She picked up her bag, then frowned and looked him over.

  “All right, then, let’s be about it.” She held her bag out for him to carry. “And I’d be pleased did you call me Julia, sir, if I’m to keep house for you.”

  “There was no theft,” Julia said as they left the indenture agent, having made their agreement in a whirl that caused Denholm to wonder what it was he’d just agreed to, and made their way through the crowds to where Denholm had left the Hulses, “but, aye, there was assault — if defending myself must be called that. It was the son what tried to take what wasn’t his to take and me defending from it. Course that was turned all around when we’re before the magistrate and it’s me accused of stealing some trifle and attacking him when he found me at it. So it was prison or transport for me and I was fed full of the Harnsey system for good and all.”

  For some reason Denholm believed her. She had a stiff, no nonsense feel about her that didn’t lend itself to thoughts she’d do something like steal from anyone, much less an employer. That and her trying to send him on his way at first, saying she’d not take a place with a bachelor, oddly made him trust her word. He started to speak to tell her there’d be none of that sort of thing happening in his household, but she waved it away.

  “I’ll not steal from you and you’ll not take liberties. So long as we stick to that there’ll be no assaulting, neither. So may we leave the matter lie?”

  Denholm nodded. He began to get the impression that the incident she described had gone a bit further than liberties before she’d managed to beat off her attacker, but also that she had no wish to speak of it.

  Twenty-Four

  The open-air amphitheater on the outskirts of Landing was almost full when Denholm arrived. He made his way through the crowd to where he’d arranged to meet Sewall Mylin.

  “I didn’t think you’d make it,” Mylin said by way of greeting.

  “Almost didn’t bother,” Denholm said. “We could handle all these decisions with votes from our homes, why gather everyone together?”

  Mylin looked at him oddly. “There’s some like to see their peers in person once in a year. Or their neighbors, come to that.”

  “I —” Denholm sighed. “You’re right, Sewall, I’m sorry. I’ve been a poor neighbor these last months … and a poorer friend.”

  Mylin grasped his shoulder. “You’re grieving. Elora and I understand, but we do wish you’d let us help you more.”

  Denholm nodded. He understood Mylin’s desire to help, he’d feel the same if the situations were reversed, but he did wish people wouldn’t seem to dwell on it so.

  He gestured with his tablet to change the subject.

  “Still, could we not have voted on some of these from our homes? First is a motion to rename Landing for Bailie Arthur — while I’m glad to have our port no longer named the same as so many other worlds’, and certainly to see his sacrifice honored, is it something we all need to gather together to decide?”

  “There’s a bit more than that on the agenda, have you not read it?”

  “Not all, no.”

  “Well, Harting’s made a proposal that’s no
t minor — and that my Elora’s like to skin him for.”

  “Harting? That dog of Coalson’s?”

  Mylin nodded.

  “What’s he on about then?” Denholm searched the Conclave agenda and soon found it. He read and frowned. “Is the man mad?”

  “You’ll not support it then?”

  “Of course not. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Some don’t see it so. There was enough support to bring it to a vote — it was a close-run thing, but it’s on the agenda now.” He looked away. “Another respected voice in opposition might have made the difference there.”

  Denholm felt the sting of the rebuke, but Mylin had a point. This change might affect his family and Denholm hadn’t even been aware of it. If he’d paid even a bit of attention to the notices the last several months, then he might have spoken out about it. He’d not even bothered to vote on whether it should be brought before the conclave — something that took only a simple majority of those voting, not the two-thirds the change to the Charter would require to pass.

  “Loftus is speaker this year?” Denholm asked as a man walked onto the stage and took his place at the podium.

  “His name came up,” Mylin said with a shrug. “Not many want the job.”

  They quieted as Loftus at the podium called for attention and brought the Conclave to order. The first bits of business passed with little or no discussion — renaming Landing to Port Arthur, a special assessment of the Holders to order a new communication and positioning satellite constellation to replace those destroyed by the pirates, and a series of notices, more courtesies than anything else, from holders planning to open up new lands for development.

  “Item number sixteen on the agenda,” Loftus called out, “prompted by the Charter, a motion for the Conclave to change from annual to every five years. This measure requires a two-thirds majority to pass. Speakers for or against?”

  Loftus’ call was met with silence. The colonists understood the need people had to fill up their time and appear useful. They’d seen enough of full-time legislatures who felt they had to justify their existence through ever more detailed laws and regulations, and had no desire to repeat the pattern on their new home. Even though they were both the legislature and the electorate, as only the original shareholders had a say in the running of the colony, they knew some of them might be tempted to fill their time with making laws if they met annually forever. They’d written into the colony’s charter that one of the items on each annual conclave’s agenda would be a motion for them to say enough is enough and space their sessions out more.