“Take a gander at this,” said Kit to Mary, waving something as she approached. “Never held a musket before, have you? Here, feel her up and see what you think.”
She took the musket from Kit and weighed it in her hand. A pile of them lay in disarray around their feet. Nat squinted at her, running a cloth up and down the well-oiled barrel of a gun.
“You won’t believe who I ran into on me way back,” she said to him. “That yellow-haired girl from the pub.” Nat had told Mary he’d gone back to the tavern, but the girl had been nothing more than friendly with him despite his best efforts. “I told her we was heading out tomorrow, and she wished us luck. Told me she’ll think fondly of you, but not so fondly as she’ll think of me.”
Kit snickered. Nat stayed bent over his gun, fiddling with its flintlock.
Robbie began stacking muskets in the crook of his arm. “We’ve checked these at least six times over. Grab a few, and I’ll show you where to stash them.”
Nat stood and lifted an armful of weapons. Mary grabbed a half-dozen bayonets, and they headed toward the hold.
“Don’t you want to go visit her one last time before we weigh anchor?” she asked as they crossed the main deck. She fumbled the awkward stack of slick metal bayonets as they almost slid from her grip. “You’re not going to let me best you?”
“Best him, did you?” Kit asked over his shoulder as he headed for the stern. “Did Brigitte let you butter her buns after all?”
“You tumble her out back the tavern, or what?” Robbie laughed, stopping at the back of the hold. “Or was it too hard to get your willy up when she lifted her skirts?” He began to set the muskets down carefully, one by one, in a crate by the wall.
“Ugh, Robbie.” She choked down her disgust and dropped the bayonets with a clatter beside the crate.
He jabbed her shoulder with the barrel of a musket as he stood. “Aw, hard when that happens, ain’t it?” He rubbed the muzzle on her arm, up and down. “Don’t worry, molly boy. You’ll have Nat all to yourself at night, all the way across the ocean, and I know you won’t have any trouble getting it up for him.”
Mary couldn’t move, frozen by the cold metal stroking her arm.
“Shut it, Robbie.” Nat finally spoke, his voice unsure.
“Oh, come off it,” Robbie pulled the gun away from Mary and jabbed Nat in the chest with it. “You’re the one who was telling us he’s been looking goats and monkeys at you when he thinks you’re asleep.”
She should have never stayed. She should have caught the next boat back to London. She should have turned herself in to the Westminster constable. Anything would be better than this.
“For Christ’s sake, Robbie!” Nat shoved the gun. “Would you stop waving that thing around?”
Mary began to inch away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Kit asked, blocking Mary in. “There’s some kind of question been raised here, and I think you need to answer it.” He flexed his fingers, then crossed his arms and tilted his head expectantly.
She looked at Nat, her throat closing up.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Nat sounded scared. Kit and Robbie outweighed the two of them by a good bit.
Kit looked over his shoulder at Nat. “I don’t know, suppose you could tell me?”
“Huh, this should be good.” Robbie picked up a musket and put it to his shoulder, peering deliberately down the barrel at Mary. “What do you think, Nat? How’s Mark gonna prove he’s not a puff?”
Mary ducked toward Nat and bolted.
She’d only taken a few steps when a musket caught her across the ankles and sent her sprawling, her chin and mouth scraping the whitewashed decking. She rolled to one side in time to see Robbie kick out at her face as Nat grabbed his arm and yanked him backward. The blow snapped her head back, blinding her. She curled in around the pain blossoming across her face. She heard herself groaning.
“Would you hold it, the both of you!” Nat was yelling. “Mark can pull himself together from here on, right? Can’t you, Mark, no harm done?”
She put a hand up to her face and it came away wet with blood. Her nose was bleeding. She rolled onto her back, holding her face, squinting against the pain.
“Sure, sure, but he still can’t go till he answers!” Kit’s great, square face loomed above her. “Are you a puff or not, Mark? Tell us so we know.”
“Yeah, Mark. Tell us.” Robbie nudged her ribs with his boot.
Then he paused.
“Now, what’s this?”
He leaned over her, narrowing his eyes. He put his hands on his knees, cocking his head to the side. Mary realized with a jolt that her shirt had ridden up, and she yanked it down. Robbie knocked her hand away and reached out to touch the strip of binding that had been exposed.
Mary struggled to sit up, wrenching her shirt down again and scrambling backward until her shoulders hit a beam. Robbie watched her impassively.
Nat said, “Sure that’s where Mark was burned when he was a kid. Never did heal up right. That’s how long we’ve been mates, see?”
Robbie nodded slowly, thoughtfully.
Mary took a breath, let it out. “Aye, that’s it exactly.” She put her hands to the beam behind her and started to stand.
Robbie pounced on Mary, wrenching her down. She punched at his stomach but couldn’t match his strength. He got her flat on her back, both of her wrists in one fist, and used the other hand to rip at her shirt until it tore straight down the middle.
He stared at the binding, and at the tiny curve that was plastered down above her ribs. He put a hand to it and she cried out, twisting away from his grasp. He yanked at the fabric with one hand but it was bound too tightly for him to budge.
Not like this not like this not like this—please God he can’t find out like this—
Robbie reached down and put a rough hand between her legs as Mary squirmed against him.
Kit and Nat stared down, open-mouthed.
“Christ Almighty,” Robbie said, his face reddening as he pressed against her. “He ain’t a puff after all. He’s a bleeding girl.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
NEW PROVIDENCE—1720
MARY BENT CLOSER OVER HER WORK, SQUINTING AT THE STITCHES SHE’D just done. It was drizzling outside, the rainclouds making the light inside the hut impossibly dim—but her work was still passable. She was getting rather good at it, quick and even.
Stitching cotton for a shirt wasn’t so much different from stitching sailcloth for a sail. The weight of the fabric was different, of course, and the thread as well. These stitches needed to be strong, but not strong enough to fight gale-force wind—only strong enough to hold against the excited tugging of a child, perhaps, or a nail catching a cuff, or a hem trod beneath a boot.
Shape was still the most important element. With sails, the shape directed the passage of a ship beneath the wind. It controlled the amount of wind that flowed in and out again. With a dress or britches, the shape changed the flow of a body’s movement. A tuck here, a bit of fullness there—like magic, Mary could change a human form. She could make a man’s shoulders broader, a girl’s chest fuller, an ankle appear a bit more slender. She’d even managed to make herself look like a girl.
Feeling like one, though—that was another matter altogether.
Anne came through the door cursing, dropped the heavy bucket of sweet water she’d hauled from the river, and ran to the steaming pot hanging over the fire. “Didn’t occur to you to give it a stir once in a while?” she asked.
Mary belatedly realized that something was burning. “I’m trying to get this last bit of stitching in before Molly packs up for the day.”
Anne huffed but didn’t respond, the fire hissing as rain dripped from her hair. She’d barely looked at Mary in the few days since they’d been refused by Rogers. Mary bent back over her work, counting each stitch as a moment closer to Nat’s return. He was getting nearer every time she pressed the needle through the cloth
.
There was a knock on the doorframe and Mary looked up, leaning forward to squint out the window. A piddling rain had forced her indoors for longer than the usual late-afternoon showers. It felt like a London rain, all day, dreary, and gray, but not cold. Never cold. She could hardly remember what cold felt like.
Two men stood outside the door.
“Who is it?” asked Anne, still busy trying to keep the pot of pigeon peas from burning.
Mary’s throat closed up. “It’s Robbie. And someone’s with him. Can’t see his face—” Both men wore wide hats, rain dripping off their brims.
Anne peered out the window and her mouth set. “It’s James.” She turned back to the hearth and gave the pigeon peas a few more vicious swipes with her wooden spoon.
Mary jumped to her feet and tossed her stitches aside. Where had she put their pistol?
Anne set down the wooden spoon, then picked it back up. She held it clenched in her fist like a weapon as she stomped to the door, then thwacked the sailcloth back with it. “What the devil do you want?” she spat, her body blocking the doorway.
“We want a word with you.” Robbie peered past Anne, and when his eyes landed on Mary, he looked positively gleeful. “Rogers charged us a while back with clearing out this den of prostitution, but I’ve reason to suspect you’re starting it back up.”
Mary kept scanning the room with her eyes. Where had she put the damned pistol?
James stepped close to Anne, eyes narrow. “I should’ve expected nothing less from you,” he said quietly.
Anne didn’t flinch, but Mary’s mouth went dry at his tone. “We’ve done no such thing,” Mary stammered. “We’ve just been taking shelter here until we can afford a proper place.”
“Nat told me just this afternoon how you was so bold with him before he left, and how you was living in the old whorehouse,” Robbie said.
“Nat—he’s back?”
Robbie ignored her. “And him, practically engaged to me sister! He seemed to think the way you acted was a harmless bit of fun, but me and James consider prostitution a serious offense.” Robbie shouldered his way past Anne, and James slunk into the hut behind him.
“Is that right?” Mary said sharply. “I seem to remember different from when we was back in Rotterdam.”
“I’ve changed,” said Robbie smugly. “People change, Mark. I mean—Mary.”
“And I’d heard from the governor that the two of you showed up together,” James said, voice heavy with venom. “When we heard Mary was here, I suspected this might be where you was hiding out as well.”
“Get out,” Anne ordered, sounding fearless.
“Even if this was your house, and it’s not,” James snapped, “you’re my wife, so’s what’s yours is mine.”
“Very true.” Robbie pilfered through Mary’s piles of piecework, dropping half-made shirts and britches to the floor. “And you two is suspect, so we’re allowed here regardless.”
Robbie moved a pile of her sewing, revealing the pistol glinting on the table, and Mary’s heart skipped a beat. She watched him pick it up. Consider it.
Keep it in his grip.
“Did you hear that, Annie?” James came close, and abruptly raised his hand, making Anne flinch. Mary could tell Anne hated that she’d betrayed her fear, how her fists clenched. “This upstanding gentleman agrees with me.”
Anne turned and lowered herself slowly into a chair. James crouched in front of her, and she winced away. “You thought you’d go to the governor on your own, Annie?” he growled. “Tell him what a terrible man I am, when all I want is to guide you to righteousness?”
“Tell the story any way you like it,” Anne said, eyes narrowing. “You know in your heart that’s not the truth.”
“I thought you was with Jack all this time. Come to find out, he’d shipped out with Burgess.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “I thought, my own wife, living alone. No one to comfort her.”
“I’m not alone.” Anne’s eyes flicked up to Mary, and Mary felt her scattered rage gather inside her, into something solid and strong. The pot on the fire was beginning to smoke.
James barely glanced at Mary. “Aye, like a woman in need of the guidance and attention of her husband, you took up with a whore!”
“That’s you, Mary,” said Robbie. There was a terrible odor, black and acrid, filling the house. “I’m here to charge you with prostitution and take you in. Jimmy can deal with his wife.”
Robbie lunged, grabbing Mary’s arm and twisting it hard behind her. She yelped as he jerked her arm up, pulling her back against him. The more she struggled, the more he seemed to enjoy restraining her. “You bastard, you can’t do this—” she hissed.
Anne jumped up, ran to the door, and flung her arms wide to block Robbie from leaving. “You can’t, you’ve got no proof, it’s not true!”
Mary felt a surge of warmth as Anne came to her defense. On the hearth, smoke wafted out of the pot of peas as the flames from the fire licked high around it.
“Let them through, Annie,” said James.
Anne leapt forward and smacked James hard across the face, the wooden round of her spoon catching him square across his mouth. He jerked back, swearing. “You get out of me house!” she shrieked. “Get out, get out, get out—”
In a flash he had her down on the ground, struggling in the doorway. Blood beaded on his bottom lip.
Robbie spun Mary around and pinned her against the wall, his mouth against her cheek. “You know, I thought I’d mind you less if you’d just put on skirts,” he whispered against her skin. “It might do the trick for Nat, but you still look unnatural to me.”
James, sweating, held Anne’s arms down with his knees. He sat on her stomach as her legs flailed, petticoats riding up.
Mary twisted and spat in Robbie’s face.
The handle of the pistol came down hard on her forehead.
Shock stunned her for a moment, time slowed, softened—
Over Robbie’s shoulder she watched as James panted over Anne while she held her arms over her face. “You run around on me, you make a fool of me, you defy me in front of me men—I won’t take no more of it—” He hit her and she made a sound like an animal keening.
He hit her again and she screamed.
James put his hands to the neckline of Anne’s lovely dress—
The stitches Mary had so carefully sewn shredded in his grip. He wanted every stitch undone, and her weak work did nothing to stop him. She saw now—Anne needed something strong as sails. She needed heavy cloth sealed tight with tar so nothing could get through. Something to catch the wind and carry her away.
Mary threw herself against Robbie’s grip as he swore, holding her fast as she watched James hit Anne, she was going mad watching it, and then he had Anne’s skirts up and he was fumbling with his belt—
Mary twisted her foot behind Robbie’s knee and threw her weight toward that side with all her might and suddenly she was falling—shock riding through her bones as she landed on top of him—in that moment his grip loosened and she didn’t know what happened next, only that suddenly she was standing over James with a burning brand to his neck. “Get out.”
Her voice sounded like someone else’s—dark and deranged, capable of murder.
James yelped as the flame at his neck bit into his collar. He flailed off of Anne, and Mary stood between them. Anne struggled to sitting, wrapped around Mary’s leg.
Robbie clambered to his feet, swearing, and started for her.
Mary started waving the brand wildly, back and forth. “You get out,” she screamed. “You get out or I’ll burn this damned house down with you in it!”
She knew she couldn’t stop them. Robbie still had her pistol in his hand and could shoot her dead. She’d die, and then Anne would have no one.
There was a burst of light as the sailcloth door lifted. Nat stumbled through and they all froze as he looked around, shock dawning on his face.
“What in—Mary? Robbie? Wha
t in God’s name is going on?”
Mary lowered the brand uncertainly.
Robbie slid the pistol into his belt. He had a smirk on his face, like he thought the whole situation was funny. “You told me Mary was living in a whorehouse,” Robbie said. “I had to come down here to make sure she wasn’t striking up the trade. I mean, that’s why you was coming down here, wasn’t it? You told me she was waiting for you.”
Nat looked from Mary, burning stick in hand—to Anne, hunched at her feet, dress in shreds around her—to James, panting, clutching at the back of his neck, belt undone—and back to Robbie, with that damned smile on his face. Chairs overturned, still-glowing coals scattered across the floor. “Bloody hell, Robbie,” Nat swore. “You know as well as I do that’s not true. You know I was only making a few cracks.”
Mary looked down. She couldn’t see Anne’s face, just her back curling as she rolled onto her side. Anne’s shoulders started to shake. She looked small.
“Oh, well then,” Robbie said. “If that’s the case, I suppose they’re free to go.”
“Anne’s my wife,” James ground out, standing.
“Aye,” said Nat. He stepped between Anne and James and crossed his arms. “Why don’t you go cool off, and think about how you’d like to go about convincing her to come home? I think you’ve made your displeasure clear enough.”
Mary threw him a grateful look as she blew out a shaky breath.
James’s panting slowed. He wiped his face and squared his shoulders. “Fine.” He fastened his belt. “But I can come back any time I want. It’s my right.”
“There you go,” Nat said. He went back to the door and held the sailcloth door up. James sauntered through with one last glare at Anne.
“Apologies for the misunderstanding,” Robbie said smugly as he followed James out.
Nat ducked out behind them. Mary knelt beside Anne in the stillness they left, the sparks that showered from the brand winking out into tiny black burns in Anne’s dress. She touched the ruined fabric. “I—I thought we’d be safe here together,” she whispered. But she’d been wrong. If Nat hadn’t shown up—she shuddered, thinking about what had almost come to pass.
The Unbinding of Mary Reade Page 18