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BITTERSWEET ENDEAVORS
by Tamara Ternie
Copyright © 2012 Tamara Ternie
All rights reserved worldwide.
CHAPTER ONE-England 1661-
“Shall I slit her throat like the other two?”
“Certainly not!” Sir Ashton’s mouth gaped opened and his mustache tweaked in indignation. Sweat beaded on his forehead when he pulled her from the man who held the knife at her throat. “This is but a child.”
Myra recognized the man who held her tight against his chest. It was Sir Ashton, the uncle she met briefly, and many years ago. She looked at him and hoped that she’d find a semblance of kindness—a familial likeness as the warmth and compassion her father beheld, but not a whit of warmth was found in his ice-cold, gray eyes. Shivers ran down her arms by his intense stare.
“As I, she is also a cousin to The King. He’ll not forgive such a malign act upon an innocent if we are caught.”
The man, who doubled her uncle’s size in width and nearly height, pointed his finger at her face and scoffed. “I’ll wager that innocent is of a woman’s age, eighteen years, mayhap even older.”
Her uncle waved his hand and silenced the insolent man. “The consequences of her murder could be ruinous. I’ll not risk it!”
“Then what would you suggest? We certainly cannot let her go. Look around you, Ashton, we’ve slaughtered her parents and she’ll go to The King as soon as we set her free,” his accomplice pressed impatiently.
“Do you think I not know that, you fool?”
Myra raised her head, and Sir Ashton met her stare when he looked down his slender nose and glared. He snarled and abruptly faced the other man. Myra worried that they would kill her, too. Seeing what little mercy they had given to her parents as they slayed them didn’t offer Myra much hope that they’d be swift with the task. She swallowed hard.
“You were supposed to run their carriage over the cliff! It was to look like a misfortunate accident! If you had listened to your orders, we wouldn’t be in this predicament!”
Her uncle shoved her into the other man’s arms and Myra looked for any means of escape, but the larger and more undignified of the two men captured her tight within his arms. His foul odor—a mixture of sweat and stale ale—churned her stomach. Her breaths came deep and unsteady and she fought the urge to cry. She prayed for enough strength to escape the man who held her and find her way back home to her sister. Despite the efforts she made, she wasn’t able to overpower him.
Her uncle paced the desolate road. His aristocratic nose loomed high in the air and his gold tipped cane swept side-to-side and slashed through the cold night air. Myra didn’t understand how the blood that coursed through his veins came from the same lineage as her father. She wondered how two brothers were so contrary in disposition.
Myra cringed when the man’s grip tightened around her arms. Tears teetered at the corners of her eyes as she nervously awaited her uncle’s decision. Seconds ticked away, but her anticipation slowed time into what felt like agonizing hours.
His brows furrowed and her uncle squeezed the sculpted lion’s head on the crown of his staff until his knuckles whitened and exposed the knotted, brittle bone that laid beneath his pasty skin. He locked his gaze on her. The moon’s fleeting light heightened the intensity of anger in his stormy gray eyes, and Myra’s heart pounded wildly within her chest.
She raised her chin and appeared composed, dauntless. She silently reminded herself that if she panicked, it wouldn’t do her any good. Yet, when Sir Ashton walked toward her father’s mutilated body, she wasn’t capable of continuing the facade. Tears flooded her eyes and she struggled to get away when the man forced her to view her parents’ slaughtered bodies. He tightened his grip and she yelped out a cry. His rancorous laughter grew louder when his hand seized her chin and he assured himself that she viewed the gruesome scene before them.
Father! Her dear and loving father had been cut down like an animal in the middle of the night. Damnable cowards, she inwardly shouted at her uncle and the man who loyally followed him, but the words of thought didn’t pass her quivering lips.
The moonlight blazed over her father’s still body and illuminated the puddle of blood that formed beneath him. Myra looked towards the open carriage door, and she saw her mother dead inside, her hands were still splayed in front of her in the futile defense she had made against her attackers. Myra retched and sputtered shamelessly, and released the contents of her stomach onto the man’s boots. He pushed her aside and cursed in a language that she wasn’t familiar. She realized it was her chance to run, but before she made her attempted escape, Sir Ashton’s long, narrowed fingers fastened around her arm and pulled her against his side. Freshly sheared nails pierced deeply into her flesh and caused a sensation that burned and ran down the length of her arm. She winced out in pain but it only succeeded in him tightening his grip.
“Throw their bodies and the carriage from the cliff.” Sir Ashton waved his arm towards her parents when he gave his order.
He turned to Myra. “Do you know who I am?”
Gripped by fear, she recoiled at the intensity of his voice. Although he didn’t shout, the authority in his tone demanded her attention. Afraid to answer, she didn’t reply, but yet she worried about the consequences if she remained silent. After taking a deep breath, Myra gained enough courage and she nodded her response.
“Then you understand that I aim to possess the title and lands of your father.”
Slowly, she nodded again. Biting hard onto the flesh of her bottom lip, Myra hoped that she prevent the quiver that unnerved her entire being.
“I’ve heard The Duke shows you great favour?”
Myra didn’t reply and Sir Ashton’s body stiffened and he shouted impatiently, “Tis not an idle question, you chit! Are you a favourite of The King’s brother, The Duke?”
“I…I,” she began, but when she watched the other man heave her mother’s lifeless body over the cliff, tears caught in her throat and she was incapable of speech.
Her uncle’s hand slapped Myra hard across her face and he reclaimed her attention. “Out with it! Are you or are you not a favourite of James?”
Tears burned hot across her face. “Aye,” she sniffed. “He and I are of common disposition. Tis why he shows me such kindness,” she uttered out.
She flinched at the loud clatter the carriage made when it pummeled down the cliff. It was final. They were gone from her life forever. The memory of her parents, alive and enjoying life entered her mind. She recalled her father in their gardens, chasing playfully after her with his prominent, boisterous laughter. And her dear, loving mother, whose beauty couldn’t be rivaled by any other and who beheld a voice so sweet that even birds were envious. Myra closed her eyes and vowed that she’d always remember them that way.
“We must take leave before we’re met with someone traveling across this lane,” the surly man pressed. “I say we do ‘way with her now and be gone.”
Her uncle didn’t reply. A malevolent smile brushed across his lips and Myra feared the worst. The wind stirred violently from the north and strands of her ebony hair sliced across her face. She brushed them away with a shaky hand. She prayed that if Sir Ashton would kill her, he’d make it swift and not as atrocious as that of her parents.
“I’ll not risk The Duke’s wrath if we should be caught and her death on our hands,” Sir Ashton finally declared. “What do you propose we do with her?”
“I know of a trader who peddles indentures into the colonies,” Sir Ashton’s partner advised.
“Hmm,” he considered. He looked over her again, head to heel. “I’ve heard those transports are quite grueling. Someone as frail as sh
e mayhap not even survive. If by chance she does, those savages there shalt take well enough care of her for us. Either way, we’ll not have her blood on our hands.”
“She could also return and you’ll be ruined.”
Lord Ashton quirked a brow and eyed her carefully. “Tell me true, Lady Myra. Would you ever return?”
Myra’s tongue wisped nervously over her lips. In a hoarse whisper, she promised, “Never, I swear it.”
Her uncle’s partner snorted his disbelief and clamored in a foreign language until he finally looked at Sir Ashton. “You’d take her word for it? Certainly you’re not that foolish! I say we cut her tongue out ‘fore we hand her over. ‘Twould assure her silence!”
The mere thought of such an atrocity made Myra cry out, especially when the man raised his knife and his saber’s tip sliced into her bottom lip. Dear Lord, he aimed to do exactly that! Myra screamed and struggled hard until her uncle pierced the man with a daggering stare that dulled the sharpness of the blade. Myra sighed with relief when the man hastily lowered his weapon.
“I’ve been told my brother houses an illegitimate daughter who’s been birthed from a maid who died during childbirth. Is what I hear true?” He moved closer toward her, and his foul breath cut through the breeze and infringed upon her senses. “Aye,” he smiled wide. “Mary, I believe her name is. I hear you two are close, despite she’s a secret product of your father’s indiscretion.”
Myra didn’t answer, but her body shuddered. The involuntary action she gave conveyed her fear and it belied the indifference she wanted relayed to him. She wanted to be as brave as her father. He wouldn’t have allowed such an emotional display to reveal his true emotions. Not even whilst that contemptible man raised his knife at her father’s throat and stole his life. Indeed, he looked him in the eye, spat in his face, and calmly vowed he’d find vengeance beyond the grave.
“Aye, you know of whom I speak,” Sir Ashton continued. “And unlike you, The Duke’s protection does not extend to her.” Circling until he faced her back, he leaned down and draped his balding head over her shoulder. In a scratchy, threatening tone, he gave warning. “You do understand that she’ll be my charge now that my brother is dead?”
“Please, don’t hurt her,” Myra pleaded. “I beseech you! I’ll do whatever you ask!” With her parents gone, Mary was her only family. Myra quivered at the thought of someone harming her, for it had not yet been a fortnight that Mary celebrated her seventh year.
Her uncle snickered, surely at her show of weakness.
“If you shall ever return or expose the events of this night to anyone, I’ll make sure that your sister faces the same fate as my brother and his wife. Yet, unlike your parents, I’ll spare no mercy. It shall be very slow and exceedingly painful. Do you understand?”
She swallowed hard and nodded.
“Very well, then.” He led her to his awaiting carriage and dramatically gestured with a wave of his arm for her entrance. “Then we shall make way to the docks this very evening and be done with you once and for all.”
“You should do as I advise and cut out her tongue,” his cohort muttered angrily. “Tis a decision I wager that you’ll one day regret if not, Ashton.”
“Tis Lord Brunnington now,” he corrected harshly. “It shall serve you well in remembering that.”
“As you will, milord.” The man followed his words with a subservient bow of his head. Then, with a click of his tongue, he hastened the horses into the fog-covered night.
* * *
Musty odors of sweat, stale air, and rotten meat permeated the stifled air inside the ship’s hull. Yet, it didn’t mask the distinct smell of death that lingered all around her. A child’s cry for his mother pierced her ears and Myra pressed herself protectively against the wooden frame of the ship. She considered how many people stood there before her. The men, women, and children whom shared her crowded quarters appeared mere shadows within the darkness of the ship’s bowel and made count of them difficult. Placed upon the ballast of the ship sat the brick fireplace—it was their only source of heat and light. It allotted little of either.
Using the wool blanket given her at time of boarding, Myra wrapped her arms tightly around her waist and hoped to safeguard herself against the cold that the December winds presented. Again, she shivered against the chill of the night. Her mind raced with worry and Myra wondered if she’d be yet another victim of the smallpox that befell so many of them.
“And what does you know!” A large, robust woman called out and her boisterous voice pulled Myra from her reverie. “That gal over there is having something I aims to have meself!”
Myra pressed herself deeper within the protection of shadows and prayed that the woman would leave her in peace. She avoided any confrontation the past three weeks since they had left port, but she feared her good blessings ran out.
Metallic red hair bobbed as the woman broke the distance between them. Once she stood in front of her, the woman pointed down at Myra’s velvet, slipper-covered feet that were left unconcealed by the blanket. The woman’s pudgy hand grasped the hem of her skirt and revealed the tattered wool that sheltered her large, wide feet. With strained difficulty, the woman bent down and pulled at the twine that laced the wool to her ankles and removed one, then the other.
Astonished by the woman’s audacity, Myra remained wide-eyed until she fully understood the woman’s intent. She aimed to steal her slipper! Myra’s fists knotted within the folds of her skirt and she scooted back, but she was still within the woman’s hold. No escape was going to be found and Myra wasn’t able to hinder the woman’s act of thievery. In one quick sweep, the woman seized her slippers.
Too frightened to protest, Myra cowered deep against the ship and looked up at the woman. She hated the cowardly streak within herself! She looked at the people who stood near her, but no one offered their support.
The woman forced her feet into the slippers and shuffled away with a grunt of satisfaction. The cold bit at Myra’s feet, and she lunged for the frayed wool that the woman left behind, but her attempt was foiled by a man with wild, animal-like eyes. He swatted her hand away, tucked the tattered cloth beneath his arm, and skulked off, only a snarl left in his wake.
Myra curled her toes beneath the blanket but it retained little heat beneath its venue. The cold pebbles of sand at the bottom of the ship’s floor pressed bitingly against her feet. Another shiver resounded within her. Myra wondered how she was going to survive the remainder of the trip. She was only half way to the colonies and already neared starvation. Winter’s ill effects threatened death before she reached their destination, as well.
Despair consumed her until a man with a weathered face—be it by sun or life—approached her. Appearing much older at first, she realized her error as he closed in on her. His eyes, young and wise, showed a kindness that reflected warmth and it eased her troubled soul. Even though he appeared harmless, Myra rose and instinctively prepared her defense. As her father often taught, trust was earned, not carelessly spent.
The man approached and raised his hands before him and displayed his offering—a small coil of wool.
She accepted his gift and barely spoke aloud her gratitude as she tore at the material. Ripping the garment into several sections for makeshift laces, she draped the cloth around her ankles and feet, and fashioned a poor set of slippers. Her feet tingled painfully when the warmth started returning. She raised her head and smiled at the man. “Thank you, sir. I am in your debt.”
He tipped his hat and started back the way he came, but she called out and stopped him. “My name is Lad—” She silently admonished herself for her error—she cannot give her position away, not ever. She risked Mary’s life by anyone knowing her true self. “My name is Myra.”
“My name is Thomas. Thomas Witcliff.”
She felt a silent understanding of friendship with the man, and although no more words were spoken between them, a sense of symmetry exchanged betwixt them. How odd, she thought
, that only a short time ago, she was his better. She looked down at the dingy, gray garment her uncle had instructed she wear and it offered no indication of her true station. Yet the moment she walked onto the ship, she had left her old world of aristocracy behind. Too much pain and sorrow plagued the passenger’s faces, and the opulent lifestyle she was once accustomed mattered naught—only survival. Not only survival for herself, but for her sister. If becoming a commoner was how she’d accomplish that, then she welcomed the challenge.
Tom Witcliff walked away and a twinge of loneliness struck her. At that moment hunger pangs stabbed at her stomach and she brushed her wariness away. There wasn’t a time that she’d been so famished. The meals provided served little to entice her appetite. The molded, weevil-filled bread left her stomach in upheaval, but for matter of sustenance, she forced it down. She prayed that once they reached their destination, the conditions of living and dining greatly improved.
Myra closed her eyes and leaned against the frame of the ship. The person she was who had been protected by loving parents now became her past. A new Myra needed emerged. The timid, privileged girl she had become by her rearing wouldn’t fare well once they reached their destination. She decided the new Myra wouldn’t allow herself forced into the position she presently found herself. She silently declared that she’d find the courage within herself and carry on her father’s legacy and make him proud. Then, one day, she’d return to England and have her vengeance. As her uncle’s friend accused, Sir Ashton was going to regret setting her free.
The boat steadily lulled back and forth into a peaceful rhythm, and Myra found solace in her impending state of sleep. She cast away into a whirlwind of vengeful dreams.
It was the first time a smile graced her lips in many, many weeks.
CHAPTER TWO-The New World 1661-
“These bondsmen are odorous and filthy,” Seth announced under his breath toward his father. He strode past the line of men, women, and children who stood in a straight line before them and examined them with derision. He swiped his hands on his cloak. He felt their grime upon himself and needed cleansed after he viewed the unclean bondsmen and women.
Bittersweet Endeavors Page 1