“Me name is Mary, Mum.” Maybe she really was mad. Maybe she was the one under some strange delusion, and she really was a boy.
“Come on, child. Show me what you’ve got.”
Mary detangled her shirt from Mum’s grip with clenched teeth. The thought of giving Mum the fine silverware she’d pinched from Granny’s had pleased her—but now she felt angry, picturing Mum pawning it for gin. “I came by to—check on you. To see you.” Mary closed her eyes. “And to bring you something.”
Mum crowed. “I knew it! And only tonight I was thinking I might not make it, what with the parish being so bloody stingy with me. You’re a godsend, child. I once cursed being left with a son like you, but the Lord had a plan all along.”
“Bloody hell, Mum!” Mary struggled to pull her shirt over her head. “This isn’t some divine plan! This is your daughter, parading about as something she’s not.” She picked furiously at the knot in her binding and managed to loosen the knot far enough so that she could push the binding down around her waist, almost expecting to prove herself wrong. If it were something that you could will into being, she’d have been a boy a long time ago.
But no, she wasn’t a boy, and she wasn’t mad.
She held Mum’s gaze defiantly. “Look at me and tell me I won’t go straight to Hell for this.”
Mum turned her face away, setting her cup down on the table with shaking hands. “Cover yourself, Mark. You look obscene.”
“It’s you that made me obscene, Mum. This was all your scheme!” Mary grabbed Mum’s face and made her look, trembling with anger. “Meanwhile I’m the one risking me life, not to mention eternal damnation!”
“You make it sound like some crooked plot.” Mum pushed her hands away and looked at Mary for a moment, her lip curling. “I prayed and prayed for God to take the girl and leave me the son. What use to me is a bastard girl, I asked Him. We would have slaved to death in the workhouse long ago.” Mum stood up, her eyes igniting with a familiar fire. “But God sent me a vision. A way to fulfill the promise of Mark’s life. He blessed you with his life, so much better than you would have had otherwise.”
Mary’s hands curled to fists. “I want to believe you,” she said quietly. “I’m trying to have faith.”
Mum shuffled behind Mary and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. “Come, now. You’ve enjoyed what his life has allowed you. Living in that beautiful house with Granny! Having run of the city like a proper boy! You should be grateful to have had the chance.”
Mary bent her head and clutched the cloth of her binding around her, suddenly cold and embarrassed. Mum was right. “I’m sorry,” Mary whispered. “It’s just so hard. I want to—there’s things I want.” She wanted Mum’s certainty. She wanted to be worthy of a divine plan. But if there was a God, she knew He didn’t have love for someone like her.
Mum snorted. “Good thing you didn’t grow up a girl, then. That’s nothing but wanting things you can’t have.” She came around and plopped back down in her chair. “Don’t let any foolishness get in the way of what we’ve worked so hard for. Don’t let Mark’s death be for nothing. Soon enough the old broad will die, God willing, and me prayers will be answered at last.” She rubbed her hands together. “Now. Let’s see what you’ve brought me, eh?”
CHAPTER TEN
ISLA DE COTORRAS—1719
JACK WAS SINGING.
Mary cracked an eye and went to sit up. Someone needed to tell him to keep it down; honest tars were trying to sleep—
She moaned and lay back, her head throbbing as sensation flooded in. She was sweating, sand sticking to every pore of her body. The sun beat down without a whisper of a breeze. She managed to prop herself up on an elbow, slowly this time. Most of the crew lay sprawled around the blackened remains of bonfires, but a few were up and about, squinting into the sun and muttering at each other. Near the water, Captain Jack was singing an overly enthusiastic rendition of “The Handsome Cabin Boy” and rousing sleepers with the toe of his boot.
“Attired in sailor’s clothing she boldly did appear
And engaged with the captain for to serve him for a year—”
Jack singing that song gave Mary pause—but she could barely feel her fear over the pounding in her head. She groped around until her fingers closed on the neck of a half-drunk bottle of wine. She took a few pulls, and the pounding in her head seemed to lessen.
Near the water Anne sat up, a splendid mess. Her red dress was ripped rather spectacularly, all the way up to her waist, revealing most of the glossy petticoats she’d foraged from the Zilveren Vissen. Mary remembered snatches of the night before: Anne, a tiny red volcano with sparks and smoke swirling around her; Jack, a patterned parrot with a pretty song; Bill, an unmovable mountain.
Mary stumbled down to the shore, her eyes closed as much as possible against the glaring light. “High tide, gentlemen, in just a few hours,” Jack called. “And we’ve a few things to take care of before then, if we’re planning on ever leaving this island for whatever reason. Let’s get a move on!”
After almost everyone had gathered, it was agreed that hauling water from the headwaters up the beach was first on the list. After a quick, pained discussion, a couple of men set off in a jolly boat with empty water barrels. A few boats headed out toward the two brigs standing in the harbor. The crew needed to take advantage of the deep harbor and careen the ships for cleaning before they could set off.
Mary excused herself on account of her bladder, and ran up to the tree line to make water. As she hurried back, glancing at the jolly boats nosing into the surf, Anne caught her eye. She was hunched on a charred log by the water, frowning at the huge rip in her skirts.
Mary’s steps slowed as the boats left shore, and by the time she reached Anne they were a good way out. The air was strangely hot and still. Flies and insects whined and swarmed around them. “I could fix that for you, if you like,” Mary offered, pointing at Anne’s skirts.
Anne shaded her eyes and squinted up at her. She looked like she felt about as awful as Mary. “What, this?” She fingered the tear in her skirts. “Right, you mentioned you’re handy with this sort of thing.”
“And look what I’ve got here.” Mary produced the needle and thread she’d tucked into her binding before they’d left the Ranger, not wanting it to get lost and hoping to impress Jack with her forethought. “It’s only heavy cotton thread, and a sailcloth needle, but it’ll hold together until you find another dress.”
“Well, aren’t you thoughtful,” Anne said begrudgingly. She stood and held out the cloth on either side of the tear. Black smudges darkened the corners of Anne’s eyes, where ash from the fire pit had gotten caked. “You’ll have to mend it while I’m wearing it,” she said. “It wouldn’t do for Jack to find me sitting with you in me shimmy.”
Mary squinted toward the glittering water. The ships were still a way out. “All right then,” Mary said. She took Anne’s place on the log. “Lean your hip in so I can reach.”
Mary threaded the needle, bit the thread off, and knotted the end as Anne moved closer. She smelled good, like wood smoke and salt. Mary tugged at the top of the rip, by her waist, and pressed the frayed edges together. Anne’s hip shifted toward her, and Mary’s cheeks flushed. She pushed the needle through the cloth, keenly aware of the girl watching her hands. “I—I wanted to apologize if I offended you last night,” Mary said.
Anne huffed. “If you’re going to pick sides without considering how things might work for anyone but you, you can keep your bloody apology.”
Mary’s nerves were on edge from the night before, her hands shaking so that she could hardly sew. She watched her fingers tremble as she slowly worked her way down the rip. She had never worked on such rich fabric. The velvet was too giving, too soft, and it troubled her to press the needle through it. This was a poor idea, but it was too late to stop now. “Tell me then,” said Mary. “Tell me why you can’t take the pardon.”
“It’s a matter of principl
e,” Anne said indignantly. “What right does the king have to impose his rules on us, thousands of miles away? Thaddeus—he came down with a couple others from Virginia—he says there’s talk of revolt in the colonies. Fighting back against England—I’m not the only one with that idea. Quite a few men agree with what I had to say last night, you know.” She looked away, glaring toward the ships in the harbor. “I haven’t the faintest idea why none of them thought to back me up.”
“So it’s not about your husband, then.”
“You know nothing about me husband,” Anne said through her teeth.
The row of silver buttons up the front of Anne’s dress flashed in the sunlight, making Mary’s head ache harder. “Tell me about him, then,” Mary said. Anne’s anger made Mary think he had something to do with it. “I’d like to know.”
Anne stared at her for a long moment, and Mary held her gaze. “James Bonny’s his name. He got me out of Charleston,” Anne said finally, looking away. “Bloody stinking swamp that is, and with me da watching me every move—I had to get out, and marrying Jimmy seemed a decent way to do it.”
Mary fumbled with the skirt as she tried to pull it straight. Anne sighed and brushed Mary off to hold it in place for her. Mary hesitated, then put her hands beside Anne’s and placed another stitch. Her fingers bumped against Anne’s, though she tried to avoid it. Anne’s were smaller and surer but they were as cracked and rough as Mary’s. If Anne ever washed her hands before you couldn’t tell now, black as her fingernails were. “How old were you then?” Mary asked.
“Fourteen. Jimmy was only twenty—me da thought he wasn’t enough of a man for me, and after a couple years I figured he’d been right.”
Mary imagined herself at fourteen. Living in the tenement with Mum, still marauding the docks with Nat and the other boys. Still thinking of Nat as her mate and nothing more. She couldn’t imagine marriage, or anything that came after, at that age. “What happened?”
“When I first met Jimmy I loved how tough he was.” Anne’s voice was calm. “And he loved how bold I was, if you can believe it. I’d give him cheek and he’d wrestle me down.” She sighed. “Me da was as hard as they come, but he always took fierce care of me; I thought Jimmy would be the same way.”
“He wasn’t, though,” Mary guessed.
“It was different, once we got to Nassau. Once we was married. We wasn’t making a fortune, not in the least. We was drinking away any money he made, and he made little enough. He was cross all the time, thinking everyone was out to cheat him and keep him jobless.” Anne took a shuddering breath, and when she spoke again her voice was strained. “Then he started thinking I was out to get him, too, that everything I did was meant to hurt him. Now when he pushed me down, he wasn’t waiting for me to squeal or giggle. He’d twist an arm or grip me hair until he saw me frightened.”
“Christ. That sounds—really dreadful.” It sounded worse than Kapitein Baas. Sadistic as he was, he hadn’t been someone she’d trusted to take care of her.
“I can’t remember why he hit me, the first time.” Anne’s voice was flat. “But he did it all the time after that.” Her voice broke. “I kept thinking he’d go back to how he’d been at first, that if I could just make him happy … but he never did.”
Mary wanted to kill him, just imagining it.
“Jack was so different. Bloody fool that he is—Jack’s a decent man.”
“Is that why you ran off with him?”
“Oh, he was after me from the start. Kept going on about how in love with me he was, and he gave me all sorts of lovely things. Why wouldn’t I run off with him? He kept me safe from Jimmy.” Anne gave a bitter laugh. “But then the new governor came, with all those bloody religious fanatics. And suddenly I was a whore for being with Jack, and I’d be put in the pillory if I didn’t go back to me husband. People hissed at me in the streets, started throwing things and threatening me. It was only a matter of time before I was made an example of and returned to Jimmy.”
“That’s horrible,” Mary said, aghast.
“I can’t believe Jack thinks I’ll go back to Nassau with him, when he knows what I’ll face,” Anne spat, fingers clenched her skirts so Mary had to stop sewing. “I’ll kill Jack and Jimmy both before I’ll ever let a man beat me again.”
“I swear, if I had known all that—I would have been on your side last night.”
Anne smiled down at Mary, her eyes going soft. “Well, I suppose I accept your apology then.”
Their gazes locked. Mary couldn’t believe how white Anne’s skin was, with the sun beating down as it did. It looked so smooth and cool, the air and everything else so infernally hot. After a moment that stretched too long, she looked back down at her stitches.
“Thank you so much for doing this,” Anne said, putting her hand on Mary’s. “It looks so much better.”
Mary cleared her throat and tried to speak normally. “I don’t know about that, but at least it’ll keep you decent.”
“The brigs are coming in,” said Anne quietly, releasing Mary’s hand. “I think you’d better tie it off.”
The way she said it, so soft and intimate—Mary dropped the needle and had to fumble in Anne’s skirts until she found it again. She bit it off and tied the thread as Anne watched, amused. She’d only sewn about halfway down the rip, but the ships loomed close to the beach, and it was better that she got some distance from Anne before Jack caught her with her hands in his woman’s skirts. “There you are,” she said gruffly. “Should hold up well enough.”
Anne grabbed her hand, and the touch sent a hot bolt of energy through her. “I know your sweetheart is in Nassau,” she said earnestly. “We’ll find a way to get you there.”
Anne let go and ran down the beach as the Kingston ground onto the sand in shallow water and listed heavily to one side. Bill heaved himself over the side and slid down a rope and into the water, followed by a score more. The men hauled at the ropes, yelling and motioning for help pulling the ship forward.
Mary followed, and ahead of her, Anne lifted her skirts to step into the swash, briefly leaning into Jack before lending a hand. Her skirt had been sewn far enough down that Mary couldn’t see the rip, but Mary knew what it looked like up close. Strong thread stood out from the velvet in bold dashes that didn’t blend like they should.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WAPPING, LONDON—1717
MARY WANTED TO FLEE THE TENEMENT AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE, BUT SHE couldn’t help knocking on the door to Nat’s kip before she left. She was still shaking. She’d been ridiculous to think she could go to Mum for comfort. Mum’s callous scheming made her feel just as lonely as living at Granny’s.
When Nat opened the door, pale light through the open casement illuminated his face, gleaming off his pale skin in the dim hallway, his eyes dark in shadow. “It’s you!” he said around a mouthful of something. “I thought I heard something. I’m waiting on someone, you know—but you’ll do for now!” He swung the door wider and gestured her inside. “Hungry?”
“It’s you?” She crossed her arms, hoping the warmth flushing her cheeks wasn’t visible. “What, no tearful reunion? It’s been weeks since you saw me last!”
He gave her shoulder a thump. “Oh, come off it. You do realize what you’re smelling is me mum’s famous meat pudding, don’t you?” He grabbed her elbow and pulled her into the tiny room he’d grown up in. A dying fire; a broad, rough table; two filthy pallets on the floor. Nat kicked at the hearth coals to stir them up, took a knife to the pudding, and flopped on his pallet to devour it, licking gravy from his fingers. Mary set her coat and waistcoat on one chair and sat on the other to eat.
“This is as good as anything they’ve served me at Granny’s,” she said.
“I’ve no doubt,” he said. “Now you tell your old granny me days as a poor pickpocket are over, so there’s no shame in associating with me. I went and got me a shift down at the yard. Bloody backbreaking work, that is—but I keep a weather eye out, looking for
a good venture to join. It’s only a matter of time before I get out of this bilgewater city, mark me words.”
She felt a pang but shook it off. “Finally got an honest job, did you? Still, I’m sure Granny would hate to think of me consortin’ with a laborer.”
“Granny’s got her claws in that deep?” He shook his head. “Too bad, I think a bit of honest work might be good for you, too. What do you say? I could put in a good word for you down at the docks.”
Imagine working with him every day! But she couldn’t just waltz away from her position at Granny’s. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Me muscles might scare them off.”
He rolled his eyes. “I suppose why bother yourself, when all you’ve got to do is dance a jig when dear old Granny says to?”
“Here now, enough of that,” she said crossly, pushing her pudding around her plate. “I am working, you know. And it’s a sight better than any other job I’d be halfway decent at.”
“Aye, I know. I don’t blame you. You got yourself out of old Wapping on the Ooze, and that’s nothing to sniff at. That’s all I’m aiming to do meself.”
She watched him scrape the last of the pudding from his plate and flop back on the mattress. He ran the spoon back and forth over his lip as he stared at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts. She recognized that sappy look—it was the one he got when he was sweet on a girl.
“I met a girl, Mark,” Nat said, as if he’d heard her thoughts. “Susan. Down in Billingsgate Market selling mackerel a few weeks back, and I ran into her again not two days later! Fate’s what that is, I say.”
Mary’s stomach twisted. Fate. That sounded serious—but it wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that about a girl, and she’d never felt jealous before. She’d never minded being Mark to him. And suddenly all she wanted to do was get close enough to examine all the lines and freckles on his face.
The Unbinding of Mary Reade Page 5