JoAnn Wendt

by Beyond the Dawn

  Garth glanced curiously at the back door as a muffled knocking began. Wiping hands on her apron, cook rushed to open the door. Harrington stomped in, big and blustery, an enormous bundle of rolled-up wolfskins in his arms. He stamped snow from his boots, looked around at the placid assembly and gave a loud bark.

  “Here now, Mab Collins! Up, lass, and help me with this bundle.”

  Mab glanced at him with bristling disinterest.

  “Stuff it in yer cap,” she advised. “I ain’t yer slave.”

  Garth chuckled. Harrington was the lone remaining recipient of Mab’s insults. At first Garth had assumed Mab had taken an instant dislike to Harrington. But the ensuing weeks proved his opinion premature. If anything, he suspected Mab liked Harrington too much and covered this weakness with insolence.

  Harrington persisted with good humor.

  “Come now, Mab Collins. This bundle is heavy. Me arms be ready t’fall off.”

  “Stuff it in yer—”

  The bundle wiggled. From within came a muffled cry. “Mama?”

  Garth’s glance shot to Mab. Her face went white, all expression sliding away. Her spoon clattered to her trencher. She stared at the wiggling bundle.

  “Oh ho, now,” Harrington boomed, setting the bundle down and unpeeling it, layer by layer. Fair hair was the first thing to appear, then blinking blue eyes, a small nose, thin lips.

  “Mama?” she chirped uncertainly. “Mama?”

  Mab’s bench hit the floor with a crash as she lunged up, diving for her daughter. She fell to her knees, grabbing the child and nearly crushing her to death.

  “Sarah Bess—”

  She pressed a hundred violent kisses upon the girl until Sarah Bess shrieked happily. McNeil’s eyes met Harrington’s in approval.

  Not to be outdone, Trent scrambled from his bench, scooped up a toy soldier and ran to the girl, holding it out in a gesture of invitation. Sarah Bess giggled. Wiggling out of her mother’s arms, she dropped to the floor to play with Trent.

  Mab panted. Swatting the tears from her cheeks, she tore her eyes from Sarah Bess and swung toward Harrington.

  “Don’t you go thinkin’ you’ll bed me because of this!” she shouted belligerently.

  McNeil’s breath caught sharply. Of all the damned ungrateful bitches!

  But Harrington did not appear to be perturbed. “I’ll not be supposin’ that, Mab Collins,” he returned mildly.

  Mab’s eyes flashed.

  “And don’t think I’m pea-assed green grateful! Because I ain’t!”

  “Course you ain’t,” Harrington agreed good-naturedly.

  “I would of bought her indenture meself, sooner or later.”

  “Of course you would of,” Harrington said.

  Trent whooped something about finding more toy soldiers. He snatched Sarah Bess’s hand. The two ran gleefully toward his room. Mab stalked after the children, pausing in the doorway to throw one more spear.

  “Don’t be thinkin’ it means anything to me. It don’t! I would’ve got Sarah Bess m’self, by and by. I kin take care of m’self, I can!”

  “Of course, lass.”

  His gentle agreement seemed to disconcert her. She jerked around to go. Then she turned one last time. Her lips trembled. McNeil could see her hard shell was cracking. She fought it, fought to retain her angry fire. But it was a losing battle. She threw one final desperate look round the staring assembly, then she flew across the room and into Harrington’s burly arms. He caught her as though she were as light as a feather and as welcome as sunshine in January.

  “Oliver—” she cried out, using Harrington’s Christian name. “Oliver—oh, Oliver!”

  What Harrington’s response was, McNeil never knew. Tapping Toad and the scullery girl upon their gawking heads, he ejected the staff from the kitchen with a curt, “Out.”

  He shut the door firmly behind him.

  Chapter 17

  “Thee should not come, Jane.”

  In the hushed stillness of gently falling snow, Dennis’s voice seemed large and cavernous. Flavia couldn’t answer. Instead, she took his arm for support as they walked on.

  The falling snow lent an unreal quality to a day that was already horribly unreal. The snow dropped steadily. Without wind, each snowflake fell with vertical precision, as though following a master carpenter’s plumb line. Familiar landmarks were disappearing into dubious shapes. A white world was closing in.

  She wanted to flee. Or scream until the world came right again.

  “Thee hast been very ill. Thee should not come,” Dennis persisted.

  “I must. For Neddy.”

  She heard him draw a long breath of the cold, snow-sweetened air. Snow squeaked under their boots in somber rhythm.

  “Ay,” he agreed softly. “Ay, thee must.”

  The familiar walk to Chestertown seemed alien and endless. It was like moving in a dream. With every step she took, her heart cried out to turn and run. She forced herself on. When she faltered, Dennis’s arm came around her, strong and comforting. He brushed the accumulating snow from the shoulders of her cloak, then patted her cheek.

  “Courage, Jane.”

  But when they finally reached the small miserable jailhouse, courage fled. She stood in the snowy, empty street, too ill to go in. She clutched the oilskin packet of raisin cakes to her breast.

  “Shall I take thee back to the Byng’s?”

  She longed to respond to the compassion in his voice by crying, “Yes! Oh, please—yes.” But she could not. She must be strong. Stronger than she’d ever been in her life.

  Shaking her head, she stepped out of the snow and up onto the creaking, uneven boards of the stoop. Dennis banged once on the rough-hewn door, then pushed it in. As they entered the jailer’s rude quarters, heat and the greasy smell of bear stew rushed toward them. The jailer and his disagreeable family were at their noon meal. Following lower-class customs, the jailer and his wife sat at the table while their four raggedly dressed children stood at the table. The children had no plates. They waited in obedient silence until it pleased one or the other of their parents to hand them a dripping hunk of meat or a bread sop. The family glanced toward the door without interest.

  “Open the cell,” Dennis commanded without a greeting.

  The irascible jailer showed no inclination to rise. Instead, he chomped steadily on a meaty bone, loudly sucking off the flesh.

  “It ain’t time,” he mumbled, grease dribbling down his chin.

  Worry shot through Flavia.

  “Oh, Dennis—”

  “Open it the cell now,” Dennis ordered.

  The jailer threw them a sullen look. Then, seeming to judge that it wasn’t in his best interest to offend the respected schoolmaster, he got up, viciously snatched his key ring from a peg on the wall and lumbered to the cells in the adjoining room.

  Flavia’s knees grew weak. She followed Dennis and the jailer, her stomach turning. The cells were cramped, windowless boxes accommodated with straw. Unheated, they were not fit to house animals. The gagging odor of unemptied chamber pots hung in the air. Sickened, she backed away, backed out to the jailer’s one-room quarters. She waited, throat tight with anxiety. She set the packet of raisin cakes aside. Five sets of greedy eyes flew to the packet.

  At last, Neddy came forth. Straw clung to his hair, to his dirty, disheveled clothes. He blinked at the unaccustomed light, his eyes slow to focus.

  “Neddy? I’ve brought raisin cakes this time.”

  Her voice was queer, unnatural with foreboding. But he knew it at once. His eyes lit with happiness.

  “Jane? Uh, uh, Jane?”

  She went to him on stiff legs, taking him into her cold arms. He wiggled like a delighted puppy, and a fresh wave of terror coursed through her.

  “Jane—uh, uh—doll—find doll—”

  Her eyes misted. She nodded at Dennis.

  “He’s lost his doll. Will you?”

  A quick search of the cell turned up no doll. Denni
s returned, his usually placid features contorted in anger.

  “Who has it?” he snapped at the dining family. “Which of thee has taken Neddy’s doll?”

  The jailer’s wife lifted her stringy, unwashed head. “That murderin’ lunatic don’t need no play-doll,” she drawled belligerently. “Now, me own girls—”

  Flavia’s eyes roved about the messy crowded room. She spotted the cornhusk doll atop soiled bedding in the family bedstead. Untangling herself from Neddy’s affectionate embrace, she flew to get it. The two girls broke into petulant whines at her action, but Dennis glared at the jailer.

  “Silence yer yaps,” the jailer growled at his daughters, “or I’ll slap ye silent. Ye’ll soon have the doll. He’ll not need it an hour from now.”

  Flavia fought the hysteria that rose. She pressed the doll into Neddy’s eager arms. Her eyes flew to Dennis for comfort as Neddy dropped happily to the floor, crooning to his doll.

  Dennis touched her shoulder.

  “Thee hast done everything possible. Thee gave testimony at the trial. Indeed, thee put thyself in jeopardy, Jane. Thy testimony did not set well with the parish. It cannot set well with Mrs. Byng—the things thee revealed about Mr. Byng.” His forehead wrinkled in deep concern. “Jane, if Mrs. Byng and her sister are mistreating thee, I swear I shall—”

  “No.” She shook her head tremulously. “At first, yes. But no more. Betsy Simm came to call upon Mrs. Byng.” She paused, attempting a wry smile but failing. “Lady Elizabeth, I mean. It seems Mr. Gresham is in the habit of granting a widow’s pension to wives of deceased clergymen. Betsy threatened to make Mr. Gresham stop Mrs. Byng’s pension if Mrs. Byng is in any way cruel to me.”

  “Good for Betsy.”

  “Yes,” Flavia whispered, looking down at the floor. She could not add that in those first days she’d been oblivious to Mrs. Byng’s cruelty. She’d been numb with grief over the news that her own precious baby had drowned in Germany. Mrs. Byng could’ve whipped her bloody, and she’d hardly have noticed.

  Playing on the floor, Neddy laughed in sheer happiness. Her chin trembled at the sound, and Dennis patted her shoulder for courage.

  “Why, Dennis?” she whispered passionately. “Why must this happen? Why must he hang? Neddy is of accountable age, but his mind is that of a small boy. This is not justice!”

  Dennis drew a sharp angry breath.

  “The jury consisted of land owners, slave owners. The thought of a slave killing his master, Jane?” Dennis shook his head. “‘Tis terrifying to the slave owner. It wakens a fear that the rich try to suppress. No. Clemency was not in their hearts. Not even Mr. Tate would help. Though Mr. Tate’s new son-in-law was sympathetic.”

  “He was?”

  “Ay. Mr. Raven McNeil spent three days going round to plead with the jurors along with myself. But . . .”

  Tears swam in her eyes, tears both of gratitude and despair, tears she must control. If Neddy saw her tears he would be frightened.

  Dropping to the floor beside Neddy, she took the oilskin packet from the stool and carefully unwrapped the raisin cakes. They were squashed, but the rich aroma of molasses curled upward, seizing Neddy’s attention. With a gleeful shout he fell upon the cakes.

  “ ‘Tis a waste,” the jailer’s slack-jawed wife drawled from the table. “Givin’ bonny good cakes t’ the fool. In a hour, he’ll be dead. Them cakes won’t do him no good.”

  “Be silent, woman,” Dennis exploded. “Or by God, I’ll throttle you!”

  At the unexpected outburst from the mild-mannered Quaker, the jailer and his family ducked to their food and remained cowed.

  Flavia watched Neddy enjoy his cakes. She tried to straighten his hair a bit, raking her fingers through it. But to touch him brought tears. As Neddy finished and licked the last buttery crumb from his fingers, Flavia heard the stomp of boots on the porch stoop. Her stomach lurched, curling around the cold pit that was her heart.

  The deputation!

  Her eyes shot to Dennis. He whitened, got up and went out to speak to the men. It seemed an eternity before he returned, and yet the time was not long enough.

  The deputation would forgo the shackles, he told her. He and she would be allowed to escort Neddy. She felt dizzy, weak with relief and revulsion. Choking back a sob, she scanned the room for Neddy’s old patched coat. She spotted it on the jailer’s son, a surly-looking lad of about thirteen. She jumped up, went to the boy and wrenched the coat off him No one made a peep of complaint or even met her blazing, angry eyes as she stared round the table.

  Neddy chortled in happiness as she and Dennis stiffly bundled him in coat, scarf, hat and Dennis’s warm gloves.

  “Home?” he asked.

  Dennis’s eyes went to Flavia.

  “Ay, lad,” he said softly. “Thee be going home.”

  Flavia gave in to one wrenching sob, then fled out into the freshly falling snow. Neddy followed, then stopped suddenly in astonishment. He stood gaping at the feathery whiteness. His eyes lit with wonder.

  “Jane! Uh, uh, Jane—pretty!”

  Flavia choked on her despair.

  “Snow,” she managed to say. “It’s snow, Neddy.”

  “Pretty,” he whispered in awe, then dropped to his knees and swirled his hands in it. He brought some of it to his mouth, tasted and then laughed in delight.

  One of the black-cloaked deputation stepped forward to jerk Neddy to his feet, but Dennis stepped in front of the man.

  “Give him a moment to play,” Dennis said firmly.

  The man fell back, shrugging. “This gives us no pleasure, Mr. Finny. But the court has ruled. Justice must be served.”

  “This is not justice,” Dennis said bitterly. “This is murder. Murder of a child.”

  Flavia shuddered. She felt ill with cold. It was not the icy chill of the weather, but heart-chill, soul-chill. Weakly she reached for Dennis’s arm. He supported her and coaxed Neddy along. Flavia forced herself onward. The snow was falling thicker and faster. Neddy reveled in it. Never had she seen him so joyful. It was as though the purity of the snow’s beauty communicated with the purity of his soul. He couldn’t speak of his joy or even comprehend the concept of joy; but joy frolicked in him and radiated from his eyes.

  “Jane—pretty!” he called every few minutes as he gamboled along.

  She felt ill. Ill to death. She fought the urge to vomit. Dennis sensed her weakness. His arm shot around her in increased support. She leaned heavily upon him and stumbled on.

  Huddled in shawls and cloaks, stray onlookers joined the procession, eerily appearing like apparitions rising from the falling snow. Children ran along, kicking snow with loud whoops of delight. Her heart twisted as Neddy tried to imitate the frolicking children.

  “Who is going to hang, Mother?” a child’s cheery voice rang out in the hushed snowy air.

  “Hush! Mind your manners, Susannah.”

  Flavia shuddered. The shudder would not stop.

  “Oh, Dennis,” she whispered, collapsing against him. “I’m going to be sick to my stomach. I can’t—Dennis—”

  She pulled away, lurching through the thick snow and stumbling into an alley off the street. The procession moved on without her as she retched violently. Falling to her knees in utter weakness, she could not stop retching. She retched beyond the point of bringing anything up. She knelt panting in the snow, her hands and her legs ice.

  The procession had been swallowed up in falling snow. Even their voices had vanished. She gagged one last time, then dragged herself to her feet. She was in the alley that ran beside the fiddle maker’s house. Unconnected violin notes rang out as the craftsman worked. Fleeing the sounds, she stumbled out into the street and forced herself on. The footprints of those who’d gone ahead were already filling with snow. She hurried.

  The snow was coming down like a blanket now. Blindly, she stumbled on, following whatever prints she saw. When the huge oak tree in Market Square loomed up, she knew she’d lost her bearings. Turnin
g, she ran through the thick impeding snow, panting as she rushed. At last she sensed the gallows field, sensed its presence rather than saw it. She ran faster.

  God, no. No, no, no,

  It came to her suddenly that the snow was a blessing. Neddy couldn’t know where he was going. Even the gallows must be heaped with snow and unrecognizable.

  She ran on, slipping, falling, dragging herself up again. At last, faint gray shadows took shape in the snow ahead. Spectators? She gagged, clutching her stomach and running on.

  Suddenly, a clear happy voice rang out.

  “Jane? Pretty! Pret—”

  Rope whirred. There was the sickening snap of human bone breaking, then murmurs flowing from the crowd, flowing toward her like an enormous ocean wave. She swayed as it hit her.

  “Neddy?” she cried out. Then, when no answer came, “Neddy!”

  She was hovering there, frozen in disbelief, when Dennis found her. He said, “It was quick, Jane. Over in an instant. Neddy felt nothing.” Her knees gave out. He caught her, picked her up in his arms and carried her away in stony silence.

  When the first wave of shock passed, she struggled to get out of his arms.

  “No, Dennis—I must take him down from the gallows —I must bury him—oh, help me—we must—”

  He avoided her eyes, and then she remembered. She let her head fall to his chest. She wept bitterly.

  The jury had decreed that Neddy’s body must hang from the tree for three months. A visible warning to bondslave and Negro slave.

  * * * *

  “Let me shelter thee, Jane. Let me buy thy indenture from Mrs. Byng. Let me take care of thee. Let me . . . husband thee,” he urged gently.

  She’d been sitting by the fire in his rough, unfinished schoolhouse for hours. Although he’d built up the fire and had wrapped her in every blanket he owned, she was still shaking. He fed her hot rum tea with his own hands, since her hands shook too badly to manage the cup.