Geoffrey Mylus,
June 30, 1833
****
Autumn awaited Thomas and Molly in London. Upon their arrival in September, the air was already cooler. Quietness came with the season. Tom detected it as he and Molly walked home from the docks, carrying their things in heavy bags. The feeling of being home was something Tom appreciated, never seeming to get enough of it. Molly loved London much more. Her fondest memories with Tom came flooding back to her when she looked at the buildings and streets. The spring they spent in and around his city home was a brief few months with which she wished to model their future. As soon as the familiar house was in sight, Molly couldn’t take her eyes off of it. Eagerly she waited behind Tom as he put a hand to the door, whispering and removing the hidden spell from the locks.
Ozias met them at the door. It was midday, and he smelled like tea and newspaper.
“Hello,” Tom greeted him with a smile, heading upstairs with his arms full.
“Good day, Mr. Walsh. Miss Bishop, very good to see you! I thought he might lose you along the way and I’d never see you again,” he joked, chuckling at his own musings.
“Good to see you too, Ozias. Is Charlotte home?” she asked, hugging Ozias and setting her things aside.
“Yes, yes, she’s in the sitting room,” he replied, putting a hand on her arm and leading the way.
Charlotte tugged at a misbehaving thread on the dress in her lap as Molly came around the sofa, followed by Ozias, who paused by the doorway and waited, hands folded behind his back.
“Charlotte? You ought not to fold the dress that way or you might stitch the front and back together,” Molly said facetiously, beaming as Charlotte stood to embrace her.
“What’s the matter with you, arriving unannounced and making an old woman think she’s hearing things?” Charlotte answered, laughing with delight.
“No more swaying back and forth at night. That's going to be the first thing I look forward to,” announced Tom, entering the room and resting against the kitchen door frame.
“I'm more concerned with a proper cup of tea, or glass of wine,” Molly chimed. She sat with Charlotte on the sofa and the two began to catch up.
“How goes business, Mr. Walsh?” asked Ozias, shuffling over to Tom and walking into the kitchen.
“Fair. Things have been a bit quieter abroad than they usually are.” Tom turned and followed him, opening a cabinet and searching for a drink. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he wanted something that didn’t remind him of salt water.
“Always good to hear,” said Ozias, taking a kettle of tea from the stove. “I believe I’ll let you prepare this. My back hasn’t been right since I was in the garden last. I was trying to dig around that old tree and couldn’t see that I was striking hard ground.” The old man laughed and hobbled out of the kitchen. Tom let him go. Ozias deserved a rest, and Tom knew the old man would much rather spend time with Molly anyway. She put up with his endless stories.
“I would love that,” Molly was saying as Tom came back into the sitting room, tea kettle in hand.
“All right then,” Tom interrupted, smiling at Molly and holding up a tray with cups and sugar.
As Molly stood to follow Tom upstairs, she smiled at the woman she’d known since childhood. “Oh, I’ll come down later, Charlotte. It’s been months and we must catch up.”
“It’s all right, dear,” Charlotte said, waving her off and picking up her sewing.
After she untied her hair, Molly removed her shawl from her bare shoulders and placed it on the bed. She walked over to the balcony as Tom shut the door to her room behind him. Molly closed her eyes, the cool breeze on her neck sending pleasant chills across her shoulders. Tom placed the tray and kettle down and poured out some tea.
"It's very good. Not too strong," he said, bringing the cup to Molly.
"I'm not too fussy about tea," she assured him, turning and taking the cup with a sweet smile.
“Only moments ago you were complaining about how deprived of good tea you’ve been.” Tom crossed his arms and gave her a look.
“I had to say something so Charlotte wouldn’t be offended,” she replied, taking a sip and then setting the cup down on her dresser.
“What’s the matter, you don’t want it now?”
Molly grinned and put her arms around Tom’s shoulders, resting her chin on his chest and enjoying his confusion. The man’s only naiveté lay in his dealings with women, she thought. It was unexpected, really, considering all else he knew.
"I don't have it that often, so I'm not the best judge of flavor," Tom was explaining.
“Thomas, I don’t want tea. I never did,” she said, clearly and firmly. He looked at her blankly and she sighed, dropping her forehead to his chest and then looking back up at him. “It’s been a long trip, Thomas. Can we lie down?” she asked, baiting him with her eyes. The man was good with body language, and maybe that was the trick.
A light came on in Tom’s eyes and a look of delight washed over his features. Molly saw it as soon as it appeared, and wasted no time. Taking his hands in hers, she showed them to her shoulders, where the fingers found and untied the lace strings. Before he could finish with even one of them, she had wrestled off his coat and shirt. Growing impatient, she helped him with the other and led him to the bedside, where his enthusiasm spiked. She laughed as he hoisted her up in his arms and kissed her. She, in turn, touched his face softly and used her lips to call him closer. Each time he leaned to her, she pulled away slightly, fingertips digging into the tightened muscles of his chest until Tom, thinking of only one of his lower extremities, stepped on his own pant leg and the two crashed down onto the mattress. Tom held her waist and moved her to the middle of the bed, lingering above her and grinning. She reached up and pulled him down by a few handfuls of his long hair and wrapped her arms around his neck when he kissed her chest. As Tom made his way through her blouse, Molly rejected any sense of patience and held tight to the back of his head. Tom began to give off more heat—more than Molly had expected. It invigorated her and burned her just enough to entice, like spice on the tongue. The curse was joining in on their fun, much to her delight. Cool air swept between her skin and Tom’s when he sat up to pull away her blouse, and then her long skirt. She waited for him to shed his trousers, watching and soaking up the sensual spectacle with her eyes, and then laid back her head. His kisses were like drops of hot wax, making their way across her breasts and down her stomach. Each touch spread a wildfire where it landed and made her back bow. Thomas thoroughly enjoyed the sounds of passion he evoked from Molly, the liquid grace of her stomach’s undulations and the flourishing waves of cinnamon hair that rounded her breasts. But, he had done his waiting, and before allowing Molly to get too far ahead of him, he walked himself toward her on his arms, rested against her firmly and locked her in his insistent, powerful arms. His hold was something more the strength of an animal than a man. The oceans that churned in his eyes showed their depths rising, preparing a flood that would surely fill her like nothing before. Molly folded her legs around his waist and with a flare of her mahogany eyes, invited the ocean in.
Tom couldn’t remember a time he’d slept as well. He and Molly lay in each other’s arms for only two hours before Tom woke, because Molly was cracking the windows and cooling herself. If he had woken a moment later than he had, Tom thought, he would have mistaken the beautiful figure in the window for an angel. Two dark eyes turned to smile at him and when Molly lay against him once again, she was silent and peaceful for almost an hour more before she spoke.
“There is too much I don’t know about you, Thomas.” She breathed it out, not sounding at all too negative about it.
“Stay long enough and you’ll learn much more,” he said in a mischievous way that Molly took in a way he did not intend.
“Why didn't you ever tell me that Charlotte served you? Before?” Molly asked, changing the subject.
“I didn't know you two knew one
another at the time. Why?” Tom squirmed a bit until he was comfortable, and then shut his eyes.
“It's just a bit surprising is all. It all seemed to work out nicely. I got to see her again. I suppose that's all that matters.” She moved her fingers across his stomach and thought to herself for a few moments.
“I tried several times in the past to get Charlotte to recount her memories for me,” Tom spoke, “but she was always hesitant. She mentioned only vague things. The most specific story was about a girl who left home at an early age. I figured out that it bothered her severely, so I would not question her further. The last time you visited here, Charlotte was the happiest I had ever seen her. That's when I pieced things together,” Tom explained.
“Leaving them was the hardest thing I ever had to do.” Memories distracting her, Molly held Tom closer.
“Why did you leave?”
“I ...” Molly wasn’t prepared for the question. “I knew my mother had passed away, but when Samuel told me my father had likely died too, something inside me told me it wasn't true. I had to find him.”
“So you left the only home you ever had? You did not know where or who your father was? You must have been very curious ... or ... was there another reason you left?” Tom pressed, unable to see Molly’s face through mounds of hair.
An autumn chill blew in through the open balcony doors. When Molly began to shiver, Tom stood, crossed the room and shut them.
“I didn't belong there,” she said, turning over in the bed and looking across the room at Tom, following the lines of his back up to the scar on his shoulder.
“Why not? I'm sure life on a farm wasn't threatening or unbearable in any way. Try growing up around killers and thieves.” Smiling to himself, he couldn’t help but think there was something important Molly had yet to tell him.
“I made a promise to myself and another,” she continued, brushing her hair over her ear and looking down at the bed covers thoughtfully.
“Oh?”
Molly sighed and shut her eyes, remembering. “I was meant to be married, and …” she paused, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. “It doesn't matter now.”
Tom walked along the walls of the room, fiddling with things and remaining quiet so Molly might collect her thoughts in peace.
“His name was Eli Wilks. I met him in London one afternoon. Samuel had Charlotte take me with her while she shopped so I could buy myself whatever gift I should like for my birthday. I met Eli outside a violin maker’s shop. I asked him if he played, and he said he was the owner, and yes, he did play. Charlotte left us alone, and he showed me around the shop, picking up each instrument and playing it for me. He was very wealthy, because most of his customers knew his work was the best. They came from Boston, Paris, Venice …”
As Tom circled the room, he stopped at the dresser, casually opening up a notebook and flipping through the pages. It belonged to Molly. All her notes from learning Scriptic were inside. She had learned so much so fast—so much faster than he ever could.
“Eli made me promise to come back and see him. Every time I did, he played for me. Then he asked me to marry him and go with him across the Atlantic to live in the colonies. I agreed and left with his parents. Samuel and Charlotte waved to me from the docks until I was out of sight. Eli and his brother, Frederick, had to finish their business in London and were to leave one month after us.”
Next to the notebook, Tom found a few gems with which Molly had been practicing. They were rough and exhausted from use. He picked up a small quartz crystal and played catch with himself, listening closely.
“Mrs. Wilks planned out the wedding all month long. She had her sister sew every stitch of my dress and was not happy until it was perfect,” Molly said, folding and unfolding the bed covers in her hands. “In his last letter to me, Eli spoke about how excited he was to see me again, and how eager he was to begin building our home in Charleston.”
Tom blinked, set the quartz down and rested his arms on the dresser.
“He never arrived. Neither did Frederick. Pirates caught them before they reached land and took everything they had. Every single thing,” she finished, quietly, setting down the covers and folding her hands over one another and placing them in her lap, mahogany eyes gazing down at the rings on her fingers. Silently she watched the map ring, loving the way the light within twirled and glowed with no particular direction or intention.
Tom turned and walked back to the bed, standing by Molly’s side. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, that’s all a life gone and finished,” she replied, waving it off.
“I’m going out to find some wine. There was none in the kitchen when I checked. I’d like us to have some by dinnertime tonight. To celebrate being home, you know?” he told her softly, touching her shoulder.
“That would be very nice, yes,” she agreed, offering him a smile and looking up into his blue eyes. Those eyes made everything so much easier. They looked wayworn, though. In fact, it was unusual for them not to. He hardly ever allowed himself to rest. After standing and kissing his cheek, Molly got dressed while Tom scoured the room for his shirt. They both went back downstairs, Molly going to the sitting room to chat with Charlotte; Tom, to the front door while wrestling an arm into his coat. Ozias waved him off and shut the door behind him, thinking it odd he didn’t mention how long he’d be gone.
Charlotte scooted to one side of the sofa and cleared all her sewing out of the way as Molly sat with her. “Why do you look so exhausted, dear?” she asked pityingly, putting a hand to Molly’s cheek.
“Oh, I’m all right. I was just relating a bit of my past to Mr. Walsh. It was quite a story to have to recount,” Molly explained, helping Charlotte hold down the dress in her lap while she sewed.
“I don’t mean to pry, but—” Charlotte began.
“I told him about Eli,” Molly confirmed, before Charlotte had to finish.
“Do you think it bothered him? Oh, pardon me I shouldn’t assume that Mr. Walsh and you are—”
“No, he seemed all right. He just left to get wine for dinner. I think he just wants everyone to be in good spirits now that our long trip is over,” Molly interrupted. Again she looked down at the beautiful ring—the one Thomas had given her more than a year ago. So much had happened since that time. “You know, since meeting Mr. Walsh, I haven’t once gone off looking for…” Molly stopped, realizing she might upset Charlotte.
“I’m glad you’ve given up that chase, dear. None of us wanted you to waste your life trying to change what happened. Revenge would have aged your pretty features away and swallowed your heart. I was afraid, even if you found Eli’s killers, you would not be ready to confront them,” Charlotte admitted. She jerked a hand away from the sewing, having pricked her finger with the needle. “You see,” she said, pointing at her hand, “When you go poking around, you risk pricking only yourself!”
“Oh, that’s no good.” Molly laughed. Her pearl smile was enough to warm the memories away.
“You know,” Charlotte said, her tone changing, “You are not a child anymore, and if you should wish it, I will tell you the name of one of the rogues the authorities did manage to capture. It doesn’t seem right anymore—keeping such a secret from you. But, if you would rather not, I won’t dig up such things.”
“Actually, even if you told me, I’m sure it would mean nothing. I suppose though, so I can lay it to rest and forgive…” Molly looked over at Charlotte, busily refolding the dress and changing needles.
“One of them was a young boy, actually,” Charlotte said, “Such a sad story, his.”
Molly nodded, thinking of Tom and how his life must have been as a young boy, living from theft to theft, ship to ship. She suddenly felt ashamed. This young man was likely no different. No more a killer than Tom.
“Only eighteen when they sentenced him to his death,” Charlotte went on.
Molly listened as Charlotte stitched. Ozias came in and set a tray of
sweets down for them, slipping out again as not to disturb them.
Tom headed away from the house, up and down streets to wherever his legs intended him to go. He blinked hard, trying to clear his blurred vision. A pulse knocked the backs of his eyes. The chilled autumn air became nonexistent—no longer a bother to his shivering arms. Hearing a whisper in his left ear, he jumped with a start, turning to meet the speaker and finding no one near.
“Excuse me, sir?” A voice came from his right.
“What?” he half-yelled at the man, again startled.
“Could you tell me the time?” the well-dressed man asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
“No! … Er, no, I’m sorry.” Tom turned away from him and picked up his pace, his thoughts fixed only on the winery just around the bend. The man’s voice felt like fuzz in his ear. Unprompted thoughts racked his mind. Focusing on anything was becoming difficult. Shaking his head, some of the fuzziness left him, but every now and again he felt a pulse behind his eyes. The excursion through the winery was a brief one. After tossing a generous amount of coins at the owner, Tom walked right back out the door and was home again just as the sun began to set.
Going first to the kitchen, Tom shed his heavy coat and handed it to Ozias, who looked uncharacteristically distraught. Too busy trying to ignore the sounds buzzing in his head, Tom ignored much of what Ozias was trying to tell him, until he got the wine to a table.
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