Whore? Verbena lost her breath in shock. She backed up, missing the door, and thumped against the wall. The look on his face frightened her, black with rage, his eyes bloodshot. He had been angry so many times, but this promised worse. “Edeline sent a letter for me early this morning,” she said, words rushing out, trying desperately to reach beneath the remnants of drink. “Andrew is dead.”
He stopped just out of arm’s reach, a blessed distance of safety, his red-rimmed eyes wide and appalled, suddenly comprehending. “You are certain?”
“Oh, yes, very certain. She asked me to meet her at the Thern’s. She told me herself.” Verbena stayed where she was, at the edge of the door, all the while knowing that she could not run and leave the other children to their father’s abuse. Her heart banged an uneven rhythm against her ribs.
Thomas squinted at her. “When did this happen?”
“Some time during the night. I don’t know exactly when.”
He spat on the floor. Verbena tried to hide her revulsion. “She never did remember us before, when she had all that lovely money. No doubt she’ll not get any now, childless as she is.”
Verbena forced herself not to react. She had never told their father about the funds her sister had sent. Small as the gifts had been, they were vital and she could not let Thomas know about them. Her father always managed to sail off to sea just before the tavern’s bill came due. If not the tavern, the leather maker would present a bill for a new belt or the cobbler would ask payment for new shoes that Thomas decided in secret were absolutely necessary, and she would have to find some way to pay them. Between the coins she managed to hide from his wages and Edeline’s small gifts, they had managed.
Without that help, Verbena did not know what she would do.
Anger crept back into Thomas’s eyes, and was turned on Verbena, burning her with its heat. “She would be barren, the thankless girl. She had no children to waste that lovely dosh on, but she could never even spare a coin for us. Well, she better not be thinking she can come back here, not after ignoring us all these years.”
Verbena managed to keep her face still, but a tremor skittered over her spine like water on a hot griddle. When, oh when, was Father going back to sea? If they were lucky – which they seldom were – he would be off soon. It had better be before Edeline managed her escape, or things would get very difficult.
A brooding look came into his eyes, something that always worried Verbena because it preceded some scheme to get money out of the Therns. Thomas Barnes might rant about the Therns owing them because of their tenuous relationship through Edeline, but he was hardly stupid enough to show up at the door and make demands.
Or not before now.
“Edeline may have forgotten her family, but you are attractive enough, if a bit on the short side. The brother-in-law, that rakehell Damon – ” Thomas narrowed his eyes at her until they became reddish slits, like the devil in the pictures she had seen back when she had time to read books. He leered at her. “He is still unmarried, you know. The story is that he was wounded in the war. You could do worse.” His gaze hardened. “What’s more, you won’t forget your family like she did. Yes, that is a good idea. You marry the younger brother, and you be sure to take care of us.”
She would not stand there and have her father measure her worth in cash. She shoved down the slash of anger, and risked moving. He said nothing as she walked over to the kitchen fire, but she felt his gaze on her. Verbena grabbed a ladle hanging over the bucket and scooped water to dump into the empty pot hanging from a hook, then pushed the long rod over the fire. The stillness from across the room made her skin prickle. She took the poker and jabbed at the coals, hidden under the ashes last night to keep them warm and glowing. A few more pokes, harder than necessary, at the smoking logs, a handy substitute for her father, some shavings for fuel, and the fire sputtered to life.
Thomas finally moved, his booted feet clumping across the floor. “Make yourself useful and get some food for your brothers and sisters. It’s all you are good for now. At least until you figure out how to make Damon marry you.” He barked a single mocking laugh that finished with a rolling belch and leaked alcohol and onions into the room.
The door rattled shut behind him. All you are good for. Cooking, cleaning, like a servant, just as Damon had said moments ago. Solving their problems, finding a way to pay the bills, feed the children – and keep Edeline’s secret. If only she could have a respite, just a few weeks off from the weight on her shoulders.
Money problems loomed very big today, bringing the companion, guilt. Guilt at coveting what her sister had, guilt at having to steal money from her father’s wages every time he came back from the sea. Guilt at lying about those little gifts Edeline had sent out of her own allowance from time to time. Guilt or not, she had to do a familiar chore. She did not know how long she had before her father returned. Verbena shoved the poker back and raced for his room.
It never took long after his arrival for him to undo all her hard work. The room was a mess, the bed a mound of tangled covers, and clothes had been left where they fell. The tang of whiskey hung over everything, and she was certain she would find flasks dripping the last of their contents when the time came to clean.
Much to her surprise and relief, he had made the hurried search easy for her. The old leather money pouch sat in plain sight on the dresser, lumpy with wages he had not managed to spend yet. She pulled at the knot, her ears turned toward the kitchen door, and the string finally gave. Coins lay in a jumble, large silver coins, smaller gold ones. It was always a risk, taking enough to keep them fed, to pay the pub and buy the essential clothes and food they could no longer provide for themselves, and yet not let him realize.
She took several of the small gold coins and one large silver one, wishing she dared take more, tied the pouch back up and ran for her room. She had a small box, easily hidden, the perfect place to stow her plunder. The coins jingled as she dropped them in, a soft sound but there was no one nearby to hear.
Verbena hurried back to the kitchen and glanced out the window. Her father was nowhere in sight. Maybe the children would be able to eat in peace. She picked a log from the diminishing pile beside the fireplace. She would have to remind the boys to get more somewhere. None of the available trees were on their land anymore.
Oh, for the days when they could take an axe and a saw and head openly into the woods, to cut down at will. But those days were gone. She looked out the window at the garden and the small plot of land they still owned. She remembered the huge log Damon had rested on. That would supply them enough wood for months, but they dared not take it.
The water bubbled softly from the pot, and Verbena scooped out some oatmeal and dumped it in. Thumps came from overhead, the boys, from the weight of feet on the floor. She stirred the oats and covered the pot, counting time by the creaking of the floor board overhead.
Perhaps if the table was fully set and the meal ready, she could forestall another of her father’s rages. Verbena made short work of setting the table, bowls and cups and spoons ready for what they did have to eat before hurrying back to finish the gruel.
She was just about to uncover the pot of fully set oatmeal when Julius walked into the dining room, dressed but still sleep-rumpled, his wavy hair not combed, and a hint of the beard that would grow someday on his face. He shared her coloring, with soft, wavy blonde hair, but blue eyes instead of her own green. He was not tall, but she still had to look up to him. “Good morning, Bena,” he said absent-mindedly, raising his gaze up from the book in his hands just long enough to notice her and avoid running into the table. “The bread is gone. I forgot to tell you last night. Matthew and I finished it off. We were hungry.”
“Oh, dear,” she groaned, making light of their hunger with a mock swing at his shoulder, which he ducked with long practice. “You two will just have to stop growing. For now, it is just porridge for breakfast.” She dropped her voice. “If you want something to eat later, you
could start by pulling some turnips. They are probably ripe enough.” Small, but sweeter, and they would be a nice treat. “And please, not a word of complaint.”
He stopped and actually looked at her, his book marked by a finger tucked in the page. He must have felt something in the air because he mouthed, “Father?” Their eyes met in a moment of mutual understanding. “Sorry. I will not have time now, but if you can wait, I can dig them this evening and you can cook them tomorrow.” He turned his attention back to the book, caught the bench leg with his foot by some sense she never possessed, and sat down, all without taking his eyes off the pages.
There was no milk for drinking, none for pouring over the porridge. She filled up Julius’s bowl and poured water into his mug. He dug in without more than a glance, but he swallowed hard to get the porridge down, and Verbena winced. In a few more weeks there would be berries to sweeten it, but not yet.
He looked up at her, taking a moment to focus from his reading. “I will be working at the Holman’s today, weeding their bean patch. Old man Holman told me I could bring home one basket of early beans. That will help a little, will it not?” His eyes held thoughts of far away as he marked his place in the book with a finger, grasping last precious minutes of reading before his day of hard, menial work began. Verbena prayed days like this did not presage the rest of his life, wasting his clever mind. If only Edeline could see him now, desperate for knowledge and reduced to pulling weeds. This was the life she would have for her own child?
“Yes, that is good,” she said, pushing the words past a tight throat. It was not good, really, not good at all, not for Julius. He should be studying to be a solicitor, or a doctor, something to stretch that studious mind. “Julius, are you hap – ”
Her question was cut off by the sound of more footsteps coming down the steps from the upper floor. Matthew burst into the dining room like an awkward colt, tripping over the bench leg and catching himself against the table, knocking his shin with a groan.
Verbena glanced down at his leg, evaluating the scrape as minor, but reminding her of yet another chore. His pantaloons were outgrown, the buttons that should fasten from the knee down to the ankle dangled useless on a few strands of thread several inches away from the holes, and Verbena knew from experience that at his age, just turned fourteen, he would start going through them faster than she could make them. She would have to find Julius’s outgrown ones and adapt any that still had wear left somehow to Matthew’s slightly longer legs.
Matthew saw her and a bright smile lit his green eyes, nearly a match for her own. “Bena! What are we going to eat? The bread is gone.” He pushed a lock of brown hair back. “I need my hair cut before Sunday.”
“I know,” she said. “Wash your hair some time before bed, and I will take care of it this evening. Don’t plan anything for later. It will be a busy night for you. I need you to help your brother pull turnips before it gets dark.”
Turnips and beans.
“I’m to help the farrier today. He says he will teach me the trade if I learn quickly enough.” Matthew flashed another carefree smile, far too cheerful this early, dropped down on the bench seat, and grabbed his bowl and spoon. He made only a single face at the meal before taking steady bites, barely stopping to swallow.
“I thought I told you no slop! Does nothing I say pass your ears? I want meat,” Thomas growled from behind, startling her by his silent entry and putting her thoughts into harsh words. The boys went utterly silent, not even the spoons made a sound. Verbena did not dare turn around. Her father’s voice went up, “Surely we can sacrifice a chicken more often.”
Verbena counted to ten.
Thomas glared at the bowls sitting steaming with hot oatmeal and then at her, with cold eyes. “You think I slave on a ship to have you cook me gruel?”
From where she stood, Verbena caught a glimpse of her sisters. On the stairs, Lizabeth stood quiet in the shadows, as still as a statue. Above her, Annabelle’s bare foot hung just over the edge of the last visible step. Her toes were curled tightly, and Verbena knew if she saw Annabelle’s face, it would be somber and far too old for her tender age.
Father did not sense them, thank goodness. She could only hope neither boy would look their direction. Julius would not give anything away, not deliberately, but Matthew’s face was too mobile, too quick. Right now he stared at his oatmeal rather than risk meeting his father’s eyes. Thomas went on, oblivious to his sons’ distress. “Your mother always managed on the wages I earned, yet you can’t cook a single chicken for me now.”
She wanted to yell at him that he drank his wages before they went to his children. That the whiskey he still breathed into the air needed to be paid for, that his eldest daughter helped far more than he did.
He always forgot, when he was drinking, that back then, those days he liked to remember when Mother managed so easily, they had the run of the countryside, hills to graze their sheep, and room for a pig. Sailing was another way to forget that privately owned land had to be marked and fenced, the expense hanging over their head until it could no longer be avoided.
Yes, they had a few chickens, but she rationed every hen as carefully as she could because eggs went further than the meat, mixed in griddle cakes, nutbreads, and muffins and whatever other baked foods Verbena could mix up to pad their empty stomachs.
Thomas looked down at the table, and for the first time, Verbena realized his anger was even beyond what she thought. “You will have to find something else to feed me.” His eyes narrowed at her, mean little taunting slits.
“I’ll send one of the girls out for eggs, then.” She hoped the hens were laying well. She hated to waste eggs for her father’s breakfast, because she wanted to use them for supper. Placating him was more important right now, if it would spare chickens, and the children.
The girls were still hiding on the stairs.
Thomas moved around the table, walking in slow, menacing steps that sent a chill up her spine. She felt the wall on her back. Behind him, she saw Julius’s face set into angry lines. She shook her head slightly, hoping he saw and would obey. He remained seated, a good sign.
In a movement so fast her mind did not recognize it until too late, putting all his anger and lingering drunkenness into it, he flipped Matthew’s bowl off the table. The bowl hurtled straight at her, spewing hot porridge. Verbena jerked aside too late. Porridge sprayed across her gown, sticking to her face, her hair, her arm, and the bowl clattered to the floor.
Julius leapt to his feet. “Don’t you dare treat her like that!”
“Julius, no!” Verbena tripped over her skirt as she lurched out of her father’s reach, his hands coming at her like claws, aimed for her throat. One shoe came down on a glob of porridge, scooting her foot from under her.
She landed hard on the floor, pain burning her hip. A new, vicious jolt tore through her midsection, slamming the breath out of her lungs with a single cry. Father’s boot, she realized through the haze of fire in her ribs and the din of screaming and hoarse shouts.
“I’ll butcher my own meat!” Thomas stormed out of the room, through the kitchen, and out the back door. Verbena heard the ‘snick’ of the axe coming out of the stump. She needed those chickens, especially her favorite, who was the best laying hen they ever had. They nearly lived on her eggs alone. She could not let him start slaughtering indiscriminately. In this state, he might not stop until they were all butchered.
The boys came rushing over, the girls were screaming in the stairway. “Hush!” Julius called to them in a voice deeper than she had heard before. He knelt down beside her. “Are you hurt?”
Behind him, Matthew crouched as well, his eyes pools of green distress. “Father kicked you,” he whispered.
“Don’t let him . . . start killing . . . chickens,” Verbena gasped around the stab of pain when she inhaled. She held out a hand, pointing toward the small shed with the one arm that still worked. Julius grasped her hand and pulled without thinking, a hard yank. �
�Stop him before - ” she got out on the yelp of pain, but she was on her feet.
Clamping an arm over the spot that hurt, she stumbled toward the kitchen door. It still stood open. Matthew pushed past her on his way out as he rushed to obey. He probably did not hit her that hard, but her vision went fully black for a moment, and she hung onto the porch pillar.
“Verbena?” Julius held Father’s musket.
“No, Julius! Not that way. . . Put that back!” Her fingers caught his sleeve.
Julius actually glared at her. “I am not going to wound him, but I can scare him away. I promise I won’t shoot him by accident.” With a gentle pull, he freed her fingers, and took the porch steps in a single bound. This was not the boy who lived through his books. He was standing on the brink of manhood, and it had been hard-won.
Verbena’s ribs burned and every breath made her muscles shake. Her body was cold, so cold. Dear God, keep them safe, she prayed quickly, and hoped the Almighty deigned to listen to someone as small as herself.
A wet hiccup caught from behind caught her attention. “Verbena?” She turned carefully. Lizbeth’s usually happy face was blotched with red from crying. Verbena would normally rush over and gather her little sister close, but she could not move just then. “What is it?”
“Was Father trying to kill you?” Lizabeth’s hazel eyes were huge. Behind her, Annabelle had her thumb in her mouth, something she had not done for a year or more, and the tears on her cheeks reflected the morning sun that crept past the porch awning.
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