by Jo Goodman
Shannon’s answer was given gently. “I know that.”
He nodded. From the hallway William heard the progress of the guard as he announced himself with a jingling of keys. “It is time for us to go.” He stepped aside to allow Shannon to precede him out of the cell. At the door he paused. “Godspeed, Shannon.”
Shannon touched the rough sleeve of William’s jacket. He was a good man, she thought. Far better than she deserved in any circumstances. “I wish you every happiness, William.” When the door was opened she fell into line with the felons, and not once during the long, miserable journey to the Century did she glance in William Danvers’s direction again.
Chapter 3
May 1746
“Papa is taking me to Jamestown,” Clara Fleming announced importantly. “Do you want to come, Cody?”
“Uncle Cody.” Brandon absently corrected his three-year-old daughter.
“Unca Cody,” repeated Clara. She sat down on the padded three-legged stool at her uncle’s feet, hugging her cornhusk doll to the shirred bodice of her pink and white striped dress.
Cody Allen leaned forward in his chair and tugged playfully at the white cotton cap that hid most of the little girl’s carroty curls. His teasing was rewarded with a trill of musical giggles. He smiled indulgently, a captivating grin that had forced a sigh from more than one young maiden’s breast. He noted with a characteristic lack of concern that his niece was not similarly affected. She merely stared at him, tapping her foot impatiently as she awaited his answer. “Of course I want to come, infant. What is it that you will be doing in town?”
Clara lifted her heart-shaped face toward her uncle as Cody leaned back. Of all the men in her life, she loved Cody Allen second best. The pinnacle of her affection was reserved for her father. Cody occupied second place by virtue of the fact that he was one of two people who could coax a smile from her father. Clara herself was the other. “Papa has business,” she explained, reciting what she had been told. “And I may have a sweet if I am good or a new bonnet if I am better.” She glanced at her father, who was collecting papers from his desk and sliding them into a packet. “Isn’t that right, Papa?”
The corners of Brandon’s mouth twitched. “That’s right.”
Cody laughed. “Little mercenary. Bran, she has you wrapped about her finger.”
“That’s right.”
“And you don’t mind in the least,” Cody noted, somewhat astonished.
Brandon paused in shuffling his papers. His smile vanished as he stared darkly at his younger half brother. “Clara is hardly in the same category with other women,” he said, his tone hardening. One eyebrow arched significantly to make certain Cody took his meaning.
“Oh, Cody,” Clara interrupted, much dismayed as an unpleasant current swept the room. “You’ve spoiled Papa’s mood.”
Brandon and Cody simply gaped at the child, amazed that she was so sensitive to the swift change in her father’s emotions. Brandon slipped the packet under his arm and scooped Clara off her stool. She squealed delightedly until she got a firm hold around Brandon’s neck. Brandon gave her an affectionate kiss on the brow. “You mustn’t fret, poppet. Nothing’s been spoiled. Are you ready to go?”
Clara shook her head vigorously and gestured to Cody to follow them as Brandon carried her out of the study. They did not have to walk far to reach the folly’s private wharf. The square three-story redbrick house sat only fifty yards from the river, separated from the water by a terraced garden. Its spacious portico, spreading the entire breadth of the house, provided an elegant and breezy resting place on humid summer evenings. The oaks surrounding the house had finally grown taller than the twin chimneys, but the folly held its own among nature’s greenery. The outbuildings, modeled after the main house and using the same red brick, included a large stable, the household servants’ quarters, a summer kitchen, and sheds for drying and curing the tobacco. They were set behind the house, facing the open road, and from the river it was only the folly that could be seen. As a child Brandon often thought she fairly glowed with self-importance. His opinion of his stately home had not changed overmuch in the intervening years. Her windows still caught the sunlight, slanting rainbows in every direction. The sight of her after even a brief absence never failed to stir him.
Cody took responsibility for guiding the skiff down the James. Like all planters along the river, Brandon rarely used a carriage for transportation. The road system had nothing but dust and ruts to recommend it. The river provided a smoother and infinitely more refreshing route.
Clara sat comfortably on Brandon’s lap until the folly disappeared behind a bend in the river, then she moved to the side of the skiff and dragged her fingers in the water, oblivious to the adults who kept a watchful eye on her.
Brandon maintained a brooding silence as his thoughts drifted to what Cody had said earlier. Did Cody really think he would allow his wife’s unseemly behavior to come between him and his daughter? He scowled, not liking it one bit that Cody could believe so ill of him.
Cody saw Brandon’s contemplative glowering but made no comment. Instead, he ran his fingers through his black hair to sweep back an errant lock. The warm breeze merely ruffled it again, and he shrugged good-naturedly to himself. Squinting in the bright sunlight, he tacked the skiff to avoid an outcropping of rocks.
Cody’s own nature was easygoing, at odds with his dark good looks. He had a quick smile that he used carelessly and often to charm the opposite sex. It was widely held among the gossip-mongers that of all William Fleming’s bastard children, and there were five of them known to the community, Cody Allen was most nearly like him in appearance and character. Cody had heard it more times than he cared to remember, and each time he grinned roguishly to hide the hurt, giving people precisely what they expected. Actually, he shared Brandon’s less than favorable opinion of their common sire. When the old man finally died of the French pox, Cody felt no sense of loss, only a sense of relief that perhaps, at last, people would stop comparing him to his reprobate sire.
If there had to be a comparison, Cody wished it would be made with Brandon. He had admired his half brother from a distance long before he understood they shared a blood tie. Cody could think of no other man who would have invited his bastard brothers to live at the folly after the old rake’s death. And not simply live there, but share in the profits and the responsibility. Cody was the only one still living at the folly, but because of Brandon, most of the others were doing what they wanted. It was Brandon’s charm Cody tried to emulate when he flashed his grin, Brandon’s easy grace he attempted to model when he was thrust into new surroundings. Eight years his senior, Brandon was everything to Cody, or he had been until he returned from school in England by way of Philadelphia. Not that Philadelphia should have made a difference. It was what Brandon had brought with him from the city of brotherly love that had had a profound effect on everything and everyone at the folly.
“You’re scowling,” Brandon said.
Cody blinked, coming out of his reverie. The frown faded from his face, and his bright blue eyes danced. “Merely aping my elders,” he mocked.
“I was not scowling.”
“Yes, you were,” Clara interrupted. She imitated his expression and then calmly went back to playing in the water.
Cody laughed at Brandon’s amazement. “She is too smart by half, and a heartbreaker on top of it.”
Brandon nodded. “Do you still doubt my decision to find a governess for the minx? She’ll be a wild thing ’ere long. You and I can hardly be counted on to provide discipline. As you pointed out, she has me twisted about her finger.” He paused a beat. “And you don’t even put up token resistance to her schemes.”
“Can’t help myself. How goes your search?”
“I’ve made inquiries here and abroad. I have yet to hear anything of interest. Wait. Are we speaking of the same thing?”
“I was asking about the governess, Bran, not your wife,” Cody pointed out with a
wry smile.
“Then I answered your question correctly.”
Cody shifted the rudder, and the skiff veered sharply toward the wharf. “Take Clara up, Bran; we’re almost there.”
Brandon hauled his daughter away from the side and put her on his lap. When Cody had maneuvered the skiff into docking position, Brandon allowed Clara to help him secure the boat. Her tiny hands were hardly up to the task, but Brandon encouraged her efforts. “Very good, darling,” he announced, pulling her out of the skiff to join him on the dock.
Clara hardly noticed the praise. The large ships farther down the wharf intrigued her. Tugging on her father’s hand, she urged him to come away from the skiff. She glanced over her shoulder to make certain Cody was right behind them. “Hurry! Mama may be here!”
Brandon stopped in his tracks, dropping his packet, and held Clara back. “What is this, Clara?” he asked, hunkering down so he could talk to her face-to-face. His pale hair shone whitely in the sunlight and his black eyes were hooded, partially concealing his shock. “Why do you think your mother might be here?”
“Boat,” Clara said stubbornly as if it explained everything.
“Yes, there are many boats.” He looked up at Cody for help and grimaced when Cody raised his palms upward, confessing he understood nothing. “What is it about the boats?”
“Mama is on a boat.” Clara was perilously close to tears, and her face screwed up as she tried to keep from crying. She remembered the sweet and bonnet she had been promised, but they paled in comparison to having her mother back. Tears dripped past her gold-tipped lashes and onto her pink cheeks. “She went on a boat.”
“Yes, darling, but she is not coming back. She is not here today.” Brandon swept Clara into his arms, hugging her as he stood. Over her shoulder his face was bleak. “I shall never forgive Rory for this.”
Cody said nothing, stooped to pick up the discarded packet, and ran a little to catch up with Brandon as he strode down the wharf. Clara was sobbing piteously now, and Cody’s heart went out to her. “Bran, why don’t you go about your business?” he suggested. “I’ll take the urchin and we’ll search the ships. I don’t think she can understand that Rory’s not here unless she sees it for herself.”
“I don’t want her hopes raised,” Brandon said repressively. “She has been hurt too many times by her mother. I will not add to her disappointment.”
Cody recognized the subject was supposed to be closed, but he ventured once again to make his point. “She is too young to be reasoned with, Bran. All she understands is that you will not allow her to find her mother. I don’t mind taking her round.” He added on an earnest note, “Really.”
“No. She stays with me. You’ll see. In a little while she’ll forget all about it. It’s the way of children.”
Cody thought it might be the way of many children, but not Clara Fleming. When she dug in her heels, a team of her father’s finest horses couldn’t pull her from her position. She had come by her stubbornness and grit naturally, having inherited it all from Brandon.
Brandon’s business was with the English customs officials, and the meeting did not go well. While Cody amused Clara with nonsensical stories in the outer office, Brandon argued with the merchants who would sell his next tobacco crop in England—at prices they deemed reasonable. It was the law, they reminded him. It was his crop, he reminded them. The system of fixing market prices was outdated and tyrannical, and he would cut back on production if they could not come to a reasonable agreement. After a series of threats and counterthreats, Brandon and the officials arrived at a price that made no one happy.
“I hate compromising with those bastards,” Brandon gritted when he stood outside with Cody and Clara. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cody flinch at his insensitive remark. He rubbed his forehead, easing the lines of strain and the throbbing in his temples. “Hell, I’m sorry, Cody. That was a lousy thing to say.”
“Yes, it was,” he said gravely. They walked along the street in silence for some time, Clara between them. The simple stately line of redbrick shops and homes laid a shadow across their dry dirt path. Cody ran his hand idly along a white picket fence and occasionally greeted a familiar face. Brandon, he noticed, was scrupulously polite. Only the narrow line of his mouth betrayed his impatience. No one inquired about Mrs. Fleming, for which Cody was very grateful.
They stopped at the milliner’s, and some of their somber mood evaporated as Clara chose her bonnet. Brandon and Cody merely smiled as Clara picked a garish lavender ribbon to decorate the straw hat. It clashed frightfully with her hair, but her pleasure in the confection was so profound that even the milliner abandoned good taste to her young customer’s enthusiasm.
Confident his daughter’s attention to the bonnet would replace the interest she had shown in the ships, Brandon retraced their route to the skiff. He frowned deeply, ignoring Cody’s “I warned you” expression, when Clara pulled at his hand as soon as the ships were once again in sight.
“No, Clara,” he said with quiet firmness, wishing he had conducted his business in Williamsburg as he usually did. There would have been no problem with ships at the landlocked capital. Jamestown had undergone a steady decline since the seat of government had moved inland, and the only advantage it had was access by water. “No,” he repeated.
Clara knew the tone. She hesitated. “Please! I want to find Mama.”
Cody lent his attention to the relentless activity on the wharf while Brandon and Clara argued. Wagons jolted along the washboard road with a cadence that Cody found familiar and oddly soothing. Sturdy barrels rolled down the gangway of the nearest ship with a steady rhythm. There was an occasional shout, a startling burst of laughter, but mostly there was the sound of water slapping against the hulls of the great ships. He felt a tug within him but Cody’s face remained impassive as he looked at the gently swaying masts. Soon, he thought. Soon he would have to tell Brandon that he did not want to return to William and Mary in the fall. His future was not in the courtroom. It was on the sea.
Cody’s thoughts were distracted as Brandon stood up, sighing with a mixture of admiration and exasperation. “She wore you down,” Cody said. Laughter lurked at the corners of his mouth.
Brandon could not find humor in the situation. “It would appear so. Let’s take a walk along the wharf. You were right, though it pains me to admit it. Doubting Clara here must see some things for herself.”
“It can’t hurt to take a look, Bran.”
Brandon’s dark eyes were distressed, his features sober. “I hope not.” He took Clara’s hand.
Their progress along the wharf was slow. Clara would not be hurried as she studiously examined the faces of the few women she saw alighting from the ships. They toured several of the vessels. The weathered and seasoned sailing masters offered little objection to accommodating Clara Fleming. Brandon doubted they were moved to compliance by his own presence. His daughter had an influence upon the veteran captains that was uniquely her own. He soon abandoned the idea that Clara would recognize the futility of her exercise, and began to hope she would simply tire of the search.
* * *
Shannon blinked rapidly as she stepped out of the Century’s hold and quickly turned her face from the sun’s beckoning warmth. Her skin tingled, and the sensation was accompanied by a faint wave of nausea. Shannon tried to ignore it, but the tingling continued as a breeze lifted a few strands of hair away from her face. The peculiar fragrance of fresh air, the harsh energy of raised voices, the snapping of canvas above her head were working against her, compelling her to confront life. Shannon Kilmartin wanted none of it. Someone nudged her in the small of her back and she moved forward docilely to let the next person on deck.
Shannon shivered in spite of the heat, or perhaps because of it. She wasn’t certain anymore. Of anything. Unbidden, the questions she had asked so often during the voyage came to her mind. Would the earl have insisted she accept transport if he had known what she would encounter? H
ad he given any thought to the dark and airless hold, the wormy, meager rations that were fouler than anything she had eaten at Newgate? Had he really been so arrogant that he believed his influence would extend beyond the reaches of London? Had he thought the Glen Eden title could guarantee her a passage safe from the violation of the other prisoners or the Century’s sailors?
Following a roughly issued command, Shannon shuffled along the deck, stumbling slightly as she attempted to work muscles that had atrophied from disuse. Her mouth puckered in a frown as she recalled the viciousness of the hands that had assaulted her, tearing her dress, shredding her dignity. What would she have done if the prostitute who shared her leg iron hadn’t announced Shannon had the pox? She couldn’t have borne it; that much she knew. She could never lie casually beneath a man as the prostitute had, lifting her skirts without protest and opening her legs. They would have had to kill her, and Shannon was certain the lightskirt had sensed it, offering herself instead. Shannon had turned her head away, burying her face in the crook of her arm as three men took turns with her companion. But she could not escape the heavy breathing, the awful grunts of their wretched labor. When they left the hold it was Shannon, not the whore, who was sick. She was so filled with revulsion that she never found the words to thank her savior. This she regretted deeply. A few days after the incident, disease and fever swept the hold and numbered the prostitute among its victims. Shannon never learned her name.
Shannon experienced a measure of freedom after the whore died. She was not bound to another human being after that and could have moved easily about the hold. She could not bring herself to take advantage of the liberty; it seemed sinful. Instead she withdrew more deeply into herself and could not be roused to conversation by any of the hold’s other inhabitants. She was not as oblivious to them as she would have them believe. Shannon knew they talked about her and were convinced the pox—she was still unsure of what that was—was exacting its toll on her mind. She did not care what anyone thought as long as she was left alone.