The Unbinding of Mary Reade

by Miriam McNamara

  “That’s the second time he’s left me,” Anne whispered. Her shoulders felt thin, shaking under Mary’s palms.

  Anne was in her tent.

  “Shhh,” Mary said. Her hands patted nervously, trying to quiet the girl. The crew might accept their strange connection by the light of day, but Mary doubted they’d be understanding if someone caught Anne and Mary together in a tent at night.

  “I’ve been everything to him, done everything he’s wanted—how could he leave me like this?” Her voice was a raspy wail. Mary smelled wine on her breath.

  “There, there,” Mary murmured. “He’ll be back soon.”

  “When he took me away from James before, I thought—I thought that was it, he’d keep me and the baby safe. And then he left me, and nothing kept me safe when the baby came too soon—and he promised he wouldn’t leave me like that again! He promised—” Her voice broke. Her face glittered in the darkness, wet with tears.

  Through the buzz of nerves Mary took in Anne’s words—the baby?—at the same moment that she became aware of girl parts against her, curves and dampness easing her back against the sand. Mary shifted so that they didn’t touch so closely, wedging her arm between them. “There now,” Mary said, as she struggled to sit upright. “There’s naught that’ll hurt you till he gets back. The men know you’re his girl.” Her heart pounded as she moved away. “He’s mad about you, he is.”

  The rain was coming down hard now, nothing audible above its steady thrum against the sailcloth. The other men would be in their tents, and Anne’s voice coming from her tent would be drowned out. Hopefully no one had seen her enter.

  Anne leaned back in the sand, her hand on Mary’s thigh, eyes glistening as she stared up into the dark.

  When she spoke again her voice was calmer. “All I want is to be one of them. But no matter what, they always make it known that I’m only suffered because of Jack, and against his better judgment. And now it seems even Jack is sick of suffering me.” Her voice went soft as her hand trailed up and traced the line of Mary’s chin. “Not you, though. You make me feel welcome.” Her fingers rested on Mary’s jaw, soft as raindrops.

  “You, Anne—you’re the equal of any of us, and it’s a shame they don’t see that.” Mary sat up and leaned over her. Anne should know—how extraordinary she was. “You shouldn’t have to cater to Jack and the rest, just so they’ll let you stay.”

  “Aren’t you something,” Anne murmured. Mary could hear her smile in the dark. “The boy who shot the captain, gone all soft and sweet on me.” Her hands came up again, brushing against Mary’s arm.

  Mary pushed her away. “I’m not just saying—”

  In a rush Anne sat up and pressed her lips to Mary’s, quick as anything.

  It took a moment before Mary got over the shock of it, and then she found she wasn’t pulling away as she knew she should—but pushing forward instead, as Anne’s hands came up to her neck and wound through her hair. The grit of sand on Anne’s lips, the taste of salt and wine, the crinkle of velvet under Mary’s hands felt so warm and right—

  Mary ran her hands down to Anne’s waist and pulled her in. Mary’s head bumped against the sand. She must have leaned back, and Anne followed in a tangle of breath and texture. They puddled on the ground together as rainwater ran under the sailcloth.

  “So timid!” Anne said softly, right against her lips. Mary could feel her smiling. “Haven’t kissed such a boy as you in a while.”

  Such a boy as you …

  Mary suddenly remembered how things like this ended—how another kiss like this had ended.

  “We can’t—” Mary pushed her away and struggled to sit up. “Jack—”

  Anne pulled her back down. “Jack won’t know,” she said, and straddled her. Mary could just make out Anne’s head thrown back, a waterfall of curls spilling down, her dress slipping off a shoulder. Her hips moved in a slow, delicious way as she pressed her hands into Mary’s waist.

  Desire pooled deep inside her.

  “We can’t.” It came out in a gasp this time, and Anne laughed. But her movements stilled, and she leaned in, her hair falling forward to tickle Mary’s face.

  “You’re going to have to give me a better reason than that bloody man of mine.”

  If Mary were a boy, she’d press up against Anne. She would pull her down and feel all that softness and forget about thinking, give in like she’d never had the chance to before—but she always wanted impossible things, and this was surely one of them. She wasn’t the boy Anne thought she was. And as much as she wanted to kiss Anne as if she was a boy, she also longed for Anne to know that she wasn’t. She’d wanted that, she realized, from the moment she’d first seen Anne on the deck of the Vissen, brandishing her pistol and cutlass.

  Heart pounding, mouth dry, she arched up off the sand and tugged her shirt above her head. Anne gave a satisfied huh when she realized what Mary was doing and leaned back to give her room. “Here,” Mary said. She fumbled for Anne’s hand, then guided it to the knot in her binding. “Here’s your reason, then.” Her voice sounded different in her ears—lungs emptied of air beneath Anne’s curious fingers. She felt Anne shift, smelled her wine-sour breath move closer; she could almost see the puzzled look on Anne’s face as her hands began to move, trying to piece together what Mary was showing her.

  All those times she’d imagined Nat’s hands on her, her body unbound—Mary felt dizzy, the shock of skin on skin as Anne touched her, the tightening deep in her belly that made her gasp—

  Just as Anne sucked in a breath as well. Mary didn’t have time to be embarrassed at the sound she’d made, or the muddle of feelings that left her tingling. “You—” Anne sounded tongue-tied. She was tugging on the knot.

  This was wrong.

  Dread surged through Mary. She was a girl like Anne—yet she knew without a doubt that she was also not a girl at all. And now Anne knew what she was. Mary groaned, pushed Anne’s hands away and crossed her arms over her chest.

  And then—“You.” Anne said it clearly this time, with what could only be called delight. She shoved Mary’s arms away and began picking furiously at the knot. “I knew there was something about you from the start!” Mary hadn’t undone the binding in months, and it was cinched tight and was stiff with salt and dirt, but somehow, Anne made short work of it. There, the knot came loose, Mary’s ribs expanded as the fabric fell away—and then the shock of Anne’s cold hands on skin that was never touched, not even by air.

  It made Mary want to cry out and curl into a ball. “Miss, please.” Mary could hear the meekness in her voice as she wormed away, and it maddened her.

  “Oh, you have got a bit of something, don’t you? Now that it’s unwrapped.” Anne sounded satisfied. She seemed to have forgotten that they’d been kissing. “I knew it could be done—didn’t I tell Jack? But he would never let me try it.”

  This certainly wasn’t the reaction Mary had feared, but still she felt sick.

  “You have to tell me,” Anne said, grabbing her hands. She was still straddling Mary’s hips. “You have to show me how. I’ve always dreamed of doing this, just like you—I knew it was possible!”

  “Like me?” That gave Mary pause. “But I’m—” Not a girl, not a boy. “I’m nothing.”

  Anne snorted. “The way I see it, Mark—” She giggled. “It ain’t Mark, is it?”

  “No, miss.” She hadn’t heard her name in so long. “It’s—it’s Mary.” She whispered it, shivering as a gust of rain-cooled air came under the tent.

  “The way I see it, Mary—” Her name said aloud brought another surge of aching as Anne took Mary’s hand and pressed it to her chest. “This way, you get to be everything.”

  The binding coming off, her name being said—it was all happening the way Mary had envisioned it, only there was this girl instead of Nat. And they were not kissing, now that Anne knew what she was. Somehow, that was the thing that Mary wished was different. She wished there was a world where Anne knew who sh
e was—and kissed her anyway.

  Anne sighed contentedly. “You’ll show me how to do it.” Her words came out heavy, syrupy, as she rolled over and lay beside Mary like they were nothing but friends. “I’ll get along famously then. I won’t need Jack or anyone—just like you.”

  They were quiet for a moment. The sickness in Mary’s stomach was subsiding, now that Anne relaxed against her. Maybe—if she had something Anne wanted—she could ask her—

  Mary sat up, reached for her shirt and pulled it over her head, but she left her binding off. “And—you might show me how … to be … a bit more like you?”

  Anne snorted as Mary lay back down again, her face flaming. “Oh, that’s the easy part.” Anne curled in beside her. “You’re a girl, ain’t you?”

  She sounded so sure.

  She put a hand on Mary’s ribs, just below the place where her hammering heart was beginning to steady, and sighed sleepily.

  Mary could feel each finger against her unbound skin.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WESTMINSTER, LONDON—1717

  MARY SPLASHED HER FACE WITH WATER AND RUBBED THE DUST FROM her shoes. She couldn’t help but grin, though her nerves were ablaze. Granny had invited her to sup with her at last, at the grand table! Supper with Granny, instead of the servants. Like a proper grandson.

  She clattered down two flights of stairs and composed herself before walking into the dining room, slicking the hair back from her forehead. Granny loomed already at her place behind a battery of candles, a glass of claret at her elbow, a set place just across from her. Mary cleared her throat and sat down as Jenny filled her cup with small beer. The food was much the same as what she ate with the servants, the glorious difference being that it was all steaming hot instead of middling warm. There were five or six vegetables, all in lumpy heaps of slightly differing colors swimming in butter, the usual pudding, some boiled beef and gravy, and Mary’s favorite, oyster pie.

  Without a word, Granny clasped her hands and bowed her head, and Mary scrambled to imitate her.

  “Dear Lord, we thank thee for this food …”

  Mary’s attention wandered as Granny droned on. She wondered what the gossip around the servants’ table would be, since Granny had suddenly invited her to dinner. Would Beth miss seeing her tonight?

  Mary had been flirting shamelessly with the servant girl. She knew she should be careful, but she couldn’t help it. She loved making Beth laugh, and the more outrageous Mary was, the brighter Beth’s laughter. She’d give her a wink across the dinner table when no one was looking, and whistle the refrain of some cheeky song whenever she passed a room where Beth was cleaning. Whenever Mary could get back to the tenement she told Nat about her, almost keeping pace with him when he told her about the girls he met. Sometimes her cheeks warmed when Beth’s fingers grazed her hand—sometimes, lying awake in bed, it was Beth’s soft lips she pictured kissing, instead of Nat’s.

  Mary’s attention snapped back to Granny as her voice grew more forceful. “The temptation to sin is great, but we strive with all our power to be righteous. Help us to avoid sinful pursuits, those of the flesh, in pursuit of righteousness.”

  Mary’s stomach twisted suddenly. No matter whose lips she was picturing, she thought, God wouldn’t approve.

  Abruptly Granny stopped. “Amen,” she finally finished, looking up to stare directly at Mary. Mary echoed her uneasily.

  Granny began piling beef on her plate. Mary sat for a moment, unsure of her manners, then reached for the oyster pie.

  “Something came to my attention that gave me cause to rise early this afternoon,” Granny said finally. “Beth, do you know her?”

  Mary’s heart jumped. “Which Beth do you mean?” she asked, though of course she knew who Granny meant.

  Granny looked sharply at her. “The maid, Beth Hartley. She came to get the keys from me for a bit of cleaning today.”

  Mary’s throat closed up as she continued ladling cabbage onto her plate. “Aye, I know her. From eating dinner with her. With the servants, I mean.”

  “She mentioned she’d been getting some help cleaning the second-floor library as of late,” Granny continued. Mary choked down a bite of pie and kept her eyes on her plate. “She said you’ve been quite friendly with her. What a gentleman she thinks you are!” She took another sip. “But following girls into empty rooms doesn’t sound like the behavior of a gentleman to me.”

  Mary set down her fork and put on an innocent face. “Oh, I honestly was only trying to be helpful—”

  “You may be my footboy,” Granny interrupted, her sharp eyes unimpressed, “but you are also my grandson. Has it occurred to you that I have no other family, no heirs but you?”

  Mary wrinkled her brow and tried to look thoughtful and surprised, as if this idea was new to her. “I suppose I am, Granny. It is just me, ain’t it?”

  “Isn’t it, Mark. Please try to speak properly. And I’m sure you’ve imagined it could all be yours.” Granny ran a slice of beef through the gravy on her plate. Mary gave up on eating, her stomach now too knotted to try, and sucked down the rest of her beer.

  Granny poked her fork in Mary’s direction. “A girl like Beth could get you in trouble. Do you hear me? My son was ruined by a pretty-faced harlot who knew how to get what she wanted, and I’ve no intention of letting the same thing happen to you.”

  Mary clenched her jaw and looked down. “It wasn’t like that,” she mumbled, but she felt a flash of fear. If Granny wasn’t satisfied with her excuses, everything she’d worked for could be lost so easily—and if disguising herself as Mark didn’t ruin her in God’s eyes, being tempted by another girl certainly would.

  “Now I find you’re carrying on with a girl that could very well do the same to you.” Granny began to wheeze. “I may be sick, but I’m not blind. Take care and stay away from her.” Mary nodded chastely as Granny took a sip of claret to clear her throat, relieved that she’d be escaping with a warning. “Or I’ll discharge her and send you back to the bilgewater you came from. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mary kept her fists hidden under the table. She would never go back to that tenement room in Wapping. She’d do whatever it took.

  Granny eyed her. “It’s partly my fault. From now on you’ll eat with me, and I’m having one of the rooms on the second floor made up for you. A real room, one suitable for my grandson. Take care you don’t give me cause to regret the expense. Do you understand?” Granny drained her glass and set it on the table with an authoritative smack.

  Just when Mary was starting to enjoy eating dinner with the servants, joining in on the conversation and cracking jokes. And Beth. Spending time with her had been the best part of being at Granny’s. But going back to Wapping and living with Mum was impossible, and she had her soul to think of. Whatever raged inside her, she knew what she had to do. She looked across the table and nodded somberly. “Aye, Granny. I’m sorry. I won’t disappoint you again.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ISLA DE COTORRAS—1719

  “WHY DON’T THOSE WHO WANT TO GO TO NASSAU JUST HEAD THERE, while Bill and his supporters continue on the account?” Mary asked Anne. They had rowed a jolly boat up the shore to the nearest river’s headwaters, promising to haul back some fresh water—but really hoping to steal a few moments away from the crew. Mary hopped out of the boat into ankle-deep water, silty mud mushrooming up around her feet.

  “Well, pretending for a moment that those who want to head for Nassau are in agreement about the manner in which we’ll be arriving,” said Anne, climbing out of the boat as well, “who gets the Ranger? The one left with the Kingston is just asking to be captured—she’s so slow, and every British ship in the sea is looking for her since she was taken.” They began pulling the jolly boat toward the shore, water soaking up Anne’s skirts. “But the biggest sticking points are money and pride. Bill doesn’t think a captain who begs pardon deserves to take a double share with him, and Jack won’t give tha
t up.”

  “Jack only gets a double share of the spoils?” asked Mary, sidetracked. “Is that really true?”

  “Aye,” said Anne.

  “If only everything worked that way.” If only Granny had just double what Mum did. If only Baas had double what his sailors did. “Imagine if the king himself could only have twice as much as the poorest beggar. The world would be a different place.”

  “A better place,” agreed Anne. “There wouldn’t be a need for piracy at all.” She gave a short laugh. “But I’m sure, even if the world worked the way a pirate crew does, they’d still find a way to keep women from getting any share at all.”

  Mary paused as the jolly boat nudged the shore just past the tree line. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you don’t get a share?”

  Anne looked at her pointedly. “I’m telling you, Mary, you should stick with the britches. Speaking of which—hand them over.”

  “What’s that?” Mary scooped a palmful of water up to her mouth. It was brackish from being so close to the sea, and warm. She spit it out and made a face.

  “Your britches, and that bit of linen you keep wound ’round your chest. Hand it over.” Anne attacked the buttons running down the front of her own dress one by one, the neckline sagging open to reveal a dingy chemise.

  Mary fretted with the knot in her binding through her shirt, staring back the way they’d come. “Perhaps we should row a bit farther in?”

  “I’d like to see you try and haul water in me skirts, while I try on your togs!” The dress was open to her waist.

  Mary tied the jolly boat to an exposed root. The headwaters were only a mile or two easy walking from the main camp. She squinted into the undergrowth, but of course no one had followed them.

  Anne dropped her dress on the bank and waited expectantly. Her chemise was thin, almost threadbare; Mary could see the swell of curves, the darkness of a nipple beneath. Mary dropped her eyes quickly, but her mind continued to trace the soft lines of Anne’s silhouette.