Unbinding of Mary Reade

by Miriam McNamara

  She choked down the last of her food, stood up, and walked over to the pallet. Flopped down beside him, the picture of indifference. “So, er, this girl. She fancies you, does she?” Mary shifted her leg so that it brushed his as if by accident. Far from easing the urge to touch him, it only made her want more.

  “It appears she does.” He seemed lost in his thoughts, leaving his leg touching hers.

  The straw beneath them was old, she could tell, and hard under her elbows when she propped herself up on them. She checked the pallet’s holes for rodents or bugs. She studied the stains on the fabric. Anything but him lying so near to her, staring at the ceiling, crumbs on his face. His shoulders and arms had filled out from his work on the docks. Even his hands looked stronger.

  She’d made a mistake getting this close to him. “How do you know she fancies you so much?” she managed.

  “I kissed her behind the tobacco shop yesterday,” he said softly, and Mary’s heart lurched. “And she kissed me right back. For hours, it felt like, yet not nearly long enough.”

  Mary sank back against the pallet. “Doesn’t that sound lovely,” she said wretchedly. Nat knew she’d never kissed anyone, and he’d teased her endlessly about it, ever since his first kiss when he was eleven. It had only gotten worse with the second girl he’d kissed, and the third. Until lately she’d only been envious of being able to kiss someone without worrying she might end up imprisoned for it.

  He turned toward Mary, head on his elbow, and she felt him watching her. Their faces were so close that if she turned she thought their lips would touch. The room was awfully dark.

  “Aw, don’t worry. You’re filling out—soon the girls won’t be able to keep their hands off you.” He tapped her cheek with the spoon. “You’ll get your first kiss soon enough, I’ll reckon.”

  She couldn’t help turning to look at him. He was so close she could see that damned freckle out of the corner of her eye, though the light was dim.

  He gazed back, a troubled look settling on his face. Slowly, he touched the spoon to her lips. Her breath hitched. The moment stretched interminably, Nat’s hand suspended, the spoon barely brushing her lip. Mary couldn’t breathe, afraid the moment would end.

  Someone tapped on the door, and Nat let the spoon drop, breath rushing out of his mouth. Mary fell back and kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling as Nat got up to open it.

  It was the girl he’d been waiting for. Susan. Green eyes and bright yellow hair that burst free at the edges from a roll upon her head. She seemed to bring in the last rays of sunlight with her, all color and energy. “Christ, it’s dark in here! Too much bother to light a bleedin’ candle, is it?”

  Nat scrambled to stir the embers until they flared. Mary sat up shakily as he added wood to the fireplace, and Susan leaned into Nat with all of her lovely curves. “Fancy a walk down by the wharves to watch the sunset?” she asked.

  Nat wiped the crumbs from his face. “Aye. Me and Mark was just finishing up supper. You done, mate?” He avoided looking at her.

  “Aye.” Mary slowly pushed herself to her feet.

  “Well then. Glad to see you’re faring well. Don’t fret, it’ll happen for you soon enough.” He put his arm around Susan and finally let his gaze meet Mary’s, winking as his hand slipped down to Susan’s rear. She squealed and whacked at him, but he ducked out the door before she could land a blow. Mary could hear them whooping down the stairs and out onto the street. She went to the window and watched them race toward the wharves, hand in hand. Nat let go and grabbed for Susan’s waist, but she wiggled out of reach. Then they were gone, out of sight, and Mary was left behind.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ISLA DE COTORRAS—1719

  THE TWO CAREENED SHIPS SETTLED IN THE SHALLOW WATER LIKE BEACHED animals, hulls groaning under unfamiliar weight. The plundered Kingston pitched all the way to one side, almost completely out of the water, with the Ranger nestled up to it so the pirate’s flagship stood almost upright on its keel, both sides of the hull accessible. It had taken hours and a high tide to wrench them up on the sand, and Mary’s fingers burned from hauling on the ropes. In the London harbor the ships would have been strung up on the dry docks for cleaning, their massive weights suspended by rope and chain, but here they’d had to improvise.

  As Mary toiled she kept looking over at Anne. She wanted Anne to look over and meet her gaze, but since Jack had gotten back to shore Anne had eyes only for him.

  The jolly boat finally returned with barrels full of fresh water. Mary drank her fill and then a bit more, sucking down a last mouthful as Jack and Bill organized men into groups and argued about the best manner to boil pitch to tar the hull. Anne was nowhere to be seen. Mary circled the Ranger until she was knee-deep in water and peered into the shadowy tunnel created where the two hulls came together, but Anne wasn’t there either.

  The hollow sound of restless water echoed around her. She breathed in, the briny stench strong enough to make her head spin. It smelled like the hallway of her old tenement in Wapping, where the sun never shone, where air never stirred. Cool, decaying, damp, wooden, salty, familiar.

  The cool slip of slime soothed her chafed fingertips, and it was a relief to get out of the sun. She wandered down the hull, the gentle slap of waves against the curving wood lulling her. The shouts of the others sounded as if they were coming from a great distance. She pressed her forehead into the slime and inhaled the marine stink, working her fingers into the ooze.

  “You’re not going to get much filth off with your bare hands, boy.”

  Mary’s head jerked up. Bill loomed between her and the nearest opening, his face difficult to read in the uneven light reflecting off water. He jammed the tip of a machete beneath a barnacle, snapping it off the hull in a quick motion. Plop. “You know the first thing about careening a ship?” He looked at her sideways, and she shook her head. “Maybe you should be listening a bit closer to those who know better than you.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Mary said hastily. “Just needed to get out of the heat for a moment.”

  “Here, I’ll go over the rudiments.” He moved closer, popping a few more shells off with neat flicks of his wrist as a couple of men ducked into the tunnel behind him, carrying flaming sticks. They whistled at the state of the hull. “And I’ll keep an eye on you while you’re working,” Bill said, “so you don’t get any wrong ideas about the way things should be done.” Flickering light caught the lines furrowing his dark skin, brows and lashes graying with his hair.

  “I’m a quick learner, sir,” Mary said uneasily, wishing she’d stayed with the group.

  He stabbed his blade at the hull, nodding absently when the wood refused to give. “So, as to the proper methods of cleaning this here muck.” He tested the wood with another sharp stab. This time wood blistered around the blade. He frowned and was silent for a moment, touching the damage with his fingers. “Bloody shipworm.”

  Mary wasn’t sure if he was talking about her or the ship. “Sorry?”

  Bill grimaced, a row of white and broken teeth. “They don’t have ’em in the cold water where you’re from, but down here they’ll take a ship down every time. You wouldn’t think it—a tiny worm? But they do more damage than a cannonball ever could.” He went back to fingering the splintered muck as the men behind him went to work scraping the algae off. “No matter what you try, the worm always takes them down in the end.” He glanced at her. “Same thing can happen with a ship’s crew. All it takes is one person who doesn’t belong, worming their way in and riling people up. Spreading ideas that don’t need to be spread.”

  Mary’s skin prickled. “Sir?” Did he think Jack had made a mistake, taking her on?

  He ran his hand over a couple of shells adhered to the hull. “Barnacles, now—there’s a way to rid yourself of them parasites, so the ship goes more efficient-like. You just have to clean everything out at regular intervals, so they don’t slow you down. That can bring a crew down as surely as the shipworm, but with barna
cles, there’s something you can do.” Bill waved to one of the men carrying the smoldering branches, who started slogging through the thigh-deep water toward them. “You heard we had another captain a while back?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ol’ Charlie was more of a barnacle. We got rid of his drag, and that of his supporters, and we’ve been moving at a steady clip since then.” The man with the flaming sticks passed one to Bill. “As of late we’ve found it harder to catch a fair wind once again.”

  Bill held the smoldering end of the branch to a shell, and it darkened beneath the flame. Then—plop—off it came. He smiled at her. “See? Easy enough. Now, let’s find you a stick and light it on fire.” His smile darkened. “Burn the buggers off—that’s the best way to do it.”

  Mary followed Bill out into the sun, feeling unsettled. Anne was standing next to a bonfire, its flames licking sideways in a sudden breeze as black smoke billowed. She grinned in satisfaction as the end of her stick began to flame, and when her gaze landed on Mary she smiled wider and motioned her over. As if they were friends; as if whatever Anne was doing, she wanted nothing more than to do it with her.

  Bill gave her a warning look, and Mary turned away from Anne, heart pounding. A tiny worm … they do more damage than a cannonball ever could. She’d heard the way he talked about her last night.

  Bill nodded and offered Mary a stick. She took it and lit it on the far side of the fire from Anne, looking anywhere but at her. She hurried back between the ships and began burning barnacles off. But Anne’s laugh echoing down the tunnel made it impossible to focus.

  All it takes is one person who doesn’t belong …

  And then Anne was right beside her, nudging her with her hip. “This is some proper excitement, ain’t it?”

  Mary looked up and down the tunnel, but Bill was nowhere to be seen. She gave Anne a quick smile. “Seems like you’re having a grand time.”

  “Who would have thought that burning barnacles off a ship was about as thrilling as life could get?”

  Mary’s eyes fell on a spark smoldering into Anne’s skirt. She wet her fingers quickly and pinched the spot, putting it out easily. “So long as you don’t burn yourself up in the process. I’m not sure me sewing skills would be enough to fix that.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Anne said with a wink.

  “Listen,” Mary said in a whispered rush. “Bill just talked to me. He said some things—” She paused. What had he told her, really? Observations about shipworm and barnacles? “He was telling me about how they mutinied against Charles Vane—”

  “Ugh, Bill,” Anne huffed dismissively. “He’s always grumbling about something. Don’t worry about anything he says, all right? Jack knows how to handle him.”

  “If you say so,” said Mary uneasily, looking around. There was Bill, talking with Jack out in the sunshine. Bill laughed at something Jack said, and the tension in her stomach eased.

  “Your technique is terrible, by the way,” teased Anne. “Slow as anything I’ve seen. Watch me for a look at a real master.”

  Mary watched Anne flit down the tunnel, going from shell to shell, gleefully sending mollusks to their death. She couldn’t help looking at her again and again, hard as she tried to focus.

  To Bill, freedom meant being a true equal to your fellows and never having your life subject to another’s will. To Jack it meant getting away with a fortune in the end, slipping back to normal life once the money was made, with a willing woman and an untapped cask. And to Anne, it was something you had to fight for; it meant taking a stand and not settling for less.

  Mary wondered what freedom meant to a mollusk—if they loved the shell that kept them fixed tight in one place—or if they longed for a fire that might ignite them, force the husk from their backs and reveal their soft insides to the world.

  If Anne carried the flame, she thought with a heady rush—perhaps they wouldn’t mind the brand so much.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WESTMINSTER, LONDON—1717

  MARY BLAZED DOWN THE HALL BETWEEN THE SERVANTS’ QUARTERS AND the dining room, then spun and paced back again. She couldn’t eat dinner right now, with her insides such a roiling brine. All she could think about was that moment with Nat on his pallet, that rush of something that had surged between them. She couldn’t stop herself from imagining that something more could have happened—and then she’d thank God Susan interrupted before it had—and then she was in agony, thinking of how something more would never come to pass. And in the meantime Susan and Nat were holding hands, Susan was leaning her curves into Nat and he was pulling her close—

  “Hallo, Mr. Reade.” Someone was right next to her, and there was a note of amusement in her voice.

  Mary whirled. “Beth—Miss Hartley!” she gasped. It was one of the servant girls, smiling as she stood against the drapes. “I didn’t see you there.” Who knew how long Beth had been watching her pace.

  “Clearly.” Beth laughed. “I stepped aside to let you pass, and before I could go on you cut me off … I wasn’t sure I’d ever make it down the hallway if I didn’t make meself known.”

  Mary grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about that. I was, ah—you headed to supper, then?” Another supper with the servants all looking askance at her, wondering what the lady’s grandson was doing eating dinner with the help. Though now that she thought about it, Beth always had a smile for her.

  “Aye, just after I finish up clearing the missus’s plates.”

  Mary liked the way Beth held her gaze. “I suppose I’ll see you downstairs then.” Mary inclined her head before she turned to go.

  “Here now,” said Beth, stepping forward to touch Mary’s arm. “Are you really the grandson of the missus?”

  Had Beth’s touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary? “I am. What of it?”

  “I heard you was recently of Wapping,” Beth said, twisting a chestnut lock of hair around a finger. “But I thought to meself, the missus surely wouldn’t have relations in Wapping! And what of you eating and sleeping with the servants? Seems a bit queer to me.”

  Mary was almost certain Beth was making eyes at her. “Aye, well. Granny’s not overly fond of me mum, but she was terrible fond of me da. So I suppose I’m under suspicion till I prove meself clear of Mum’s influences.” Beth’s eyes widened delightedly. Was this what it was like for Nat, to be a boy alone with a pretty girl? Mary leaned closer and whispered. “But the stories are true, I’m from Wapping sure enough! I saw pirates hung on Execution Dock from me own window, that’s how close to the docks me kip was.”

  “You didn’t, surely!” Beth crowed. “And you the grandson of the missus. Me mum would have a fit!”

  “Where you from, then?”

  “Grew up in Saint Martin in the Fields. Me sister Sarah’s got a position as a nanny in Clerkenwell now, and I’m here. Quite an equally respectable position, me mum says, on account of the missus being such a lady. Tell you the truth though, it’s dreadful boring work.” She dropped her gaze, rubbing a smudge on her arm. “Must say, havin’ you around makes things a bit more interesting.” She looked up again, her gaze a challenge.

  Beth fancied her. Mary had studied Nat long enough to see the way a girl looks at a boy when she thinks he’s handsome. They would stand very close, their mouths turned up prettily. Mary could see where the dark of Beth’s lashes faded to blond at the tips and felt a thrill at the girl’s unfamiliar nearness. “I can’t say I’m put out that you’re here, either,” she said with a smile. Beth looked away but a giggle escaped her. Mary ran her hand across the drapes as she leaned closer. “It’s strange, ain’t it? Granny having me eat supper with servants, hoping to make a proper gentleman of me?” Her hand brushed the curve of Beth’s waist.

  “Oh!” Beth jumped and started down the hall. “Damn, the dishes—”

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Mary, voice trailing off. Maybe she’d been too bold.

  “See you downstairs, then!” Beth turned with a wave, ca
ndlelight glinting off the hair escaping her cap as Mary watched her go. This was something Nat would do—stay where he was and watch a girl leave. Beth looked back once more, a faint smile on her lips, then bent her head to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear before she turned the corner.

  Mary walked down the hall and turned off toward the kitchen. Her appetite had finally returned. She was looking forward to dinner.

  Mary would keep the seat next to hers empty, in case Beth wanted to come sit next to her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ISLA DE COTORRAS—1719

  MARY AWOKE IN HER SAILCLOTH TENT WITH A START, NERVES SINGING. All she could hear was the drone of the jungle behind her, as usual, a rush of wind, and the slight patter of oncoming rain—but something else had woken her.

  She reached for the bayonet she kept tucked beneath a corner of the sailcloth and listened with all her might, straining past the buzzing of the insects, the screech of parrots, and the shush of the surf. It had taken her forever to fall asleep. That morning, after two days of careening the ships, the crew had righted them and maneuvered the vessels out into deeper water—and the Ranger had gone right on sailing, straight out of the harbor. A couple of Bill’s supporters had informed the remaining men that Bill and Jack had arranged to take a quick trip to Hispaniola with a skeleton crew, to scout potential hideouts and prizes before they decided where to head next. Anne’s face had gone blank when she heard the news. She’d disappeared into her tent, and Mary hadn’t seen her since. The mood around the evening fires had been sour. There were rumors that Jack hadn’t been entirely willing to go.

  She wished Paddy were there to reassure her, but Paddy had been on the Ranger.

  She stiffened further when she made out the sound of footsteps coming in her direction. Mary crouched on her haunches. It was just beginning to rain—she could see fat drops landing on the sand beneath the edge of the tent and hear them tap-tapping above her.

  She faintly heard a wet hiccup of sadness before the edge of her tent was thrown up to reveal the gleam of damp, sandy, red skirts—Mary barely withheld her strike as Anne flung herself into the dark tent. She knocked Mary back against the sand as she clutched her.