by E. B. Brown
When the door clicked softly into its latch, Uncle Thomas took a step toward the bed where she sat. Her first instinct was to move away, but she was already sitting back upright to the plaster wall and had no space left to go.
“Ye will tell me now why you helped those savages, girl. It will not save ye from what is to come, but God shows mercy on those who speak truth,” he snarled. She curled her knees to her chest and her heart began to pound against her ribs when she saw him slide the heavy leather belt from his breeches, the brass buckle catching the light from the single lamp in the room and casting a glare as he swung it in front of him, lazy, a languid pendulum.
“Don’t you dare come near me with that!” she whispered.
He breached the space and grabbed her by the hair, but then was distracted for a moment by her braid. He pulled her off the bed by using her hair like a lever, shaking her hard as his face contorted into a bright red mask.
“Ye like the savages? Should I have left ye there with them? My own niece, a bloody whore to the savages?” he shouted. She lurched away but he was faster, his hold in her hair painful as he pulled her across the floor. Her fingernails tore and split on the plank flooring as he drug her back, falling on her with not the belt, but his fists. He was careful in his punishment, aiming his blows to her chest and belly, anywhere her garments would cover, and finally when she lay on her side gasping for air with her arms curled around her belly, he reached for the belt.
“Which one was it? Was it that bloody Winn, that blue-eyed devil? Am I sending ye to Benjamin with a savage bastard in your belly?” he roared, striking her with the belt across her back. She clutched her side and tried to crawl away, but he was relentless in his rage. She felt a blow to her hip from the tip of his boot which sent her sprawling, and when he came back for another blow, she scrambled around and used the strength she had left to spit a mixture of blood and saliva in his face.
“He’s a better man than you will ever be, you Godless bastard!” she hissed.
“Well,” he said slowly, ceasing his pursuit to gasp a few quick breaths. “He is a dead man, is what he truly is.” He reached into the pocket of his brown breeches, and Maggie felt the blood and fight drain from her as she saw the object hanging from his hand. Two black feathers hung from a rawhide cord, and between them, she could see a Bloodstone set in copper peeking out.
“Yer lover is dead. I will have no whore in my house, so if no man will contract ye, ye are going back to England.” He threw the pendant at her feet. “Clean up yourself, and clean up this mess.”
He wiped the back of one hand across his face and stomped out, slamming the door behind him. She sat on the floor, her chest heaving with effort of each painful breath, and although she felt the sticky wetness of blood trickle down from her mouth, she did not move.
The Bloodstone lay only a foot away, the smooth dark orb staring back at her. A crimson vein ran through its center, like a lone ray of brilliant light slicing it in half.
No. Not Winn. It could not be true. She knew with all the fiber of her being that he would never part with it.
But when she finally reached for the stone, and felt the weight of it in her hand, coldness crept through her limbs as she brought it to rest against her heart. Her split lower lip began to tremble and a glimmer of tears rounded her swollen eyelids, the wetness streaking her cheeks and coursing down onto her hands.
Chapter 17
Aunt Alice allowed no time for grief. In a life that felt long lost, Marcus had shared equally the loss of her grandfather, and through the patience and comfort of the giant man she drew reassurance from the bond they shared. Although the sorrow had been harsh, the passing was natural and necessary, a final blow to seal the fate of a man who lived a good life and loved well. Winn’s death held no such illusion for her. She found no meaning in his loss, and among the numbness and sheer ache that littered her bones she only could see despair, licking at the wounds created by a mallet that took slow joy in crushing her soul piece by piece. She could neither run from the pain nor stop it, nor would she if able, because at night when she curled in her narrow bed and cried she clung to the grief, as it was all she had left of him.
Alice, however, hovered more than usual, and though she did not ever say Winn’s name, Maggie could see the sympathy in her grey eyes as the woman helped her into her dress. Alice altered a new garment by loosening a seam on the side of the bodice, and Maggie was grateful for the kindness, which made it easier for her to take a deep breath. Maggie wondered by her action if Thomas had also beaten her in the past, and, as thus she simply knew the means to help hide the after effects.
Maggie had not left the room in two days, not from petulance but more from sheer pain, unable to make her battered body do more than use the privy pot to void or vomit. It was Alice who finally took charge, bursting into the room as if it were any other day and throwing open the shutters to the lone window. She would take no argument, Maggie was getting dressed, and that was all there was to it.
While Alice rifled through her trunk looking for a more presentable apron, Maggie felt another surge of bile rise in her throat as she sat on the edge of the bed. She reached the pot just in time, and Alice made a clucking sound as she helped hold back her red hair. Thicker and shinier since she had arrived, it was quite a bit longer, too, so she was glad for the assistance. She smiled ruefully at Alice.
“Sorry, Auntie,” she murmured. Alice shrugged and took the pot in both hands to dispose of the contents.
“You need to eat, child. Nothing to fret upon.” Alice opened the door with a swing of her ample hip and glanced back at Maggie. “Leave that one apron out, it is threadbare and we will cut it for rags.”
Maggie nodded in acknowledgement, but when the door closed behind Alice another sickly feeling assuaged her, and this time it was not only her stomach. She picked up the worn out apron and stared at it for a moment, counting backwards in her head.
No. It could not be.
“No!” she moaned, pressing the apron to her lips to stifle her own cries.
She counted again, and suddenly she felt like the passenger on a freight train as her heart began to hammer away behind her bruised ribs. Her hand slipped down over her belly, swollen she assumed from the more palatable food in town, then up to her sore and heavy breasts, which she had blindly ignored. She realized that she had not bled in six weeks, and promptly vomited into the apron.
“Oh, dear! Again? Come to the parlor and we will feed you, dear! I will clean this mess. You cannot go on without food!” Alice sighed over the additional disorder when she entered the room.
“And Margaret, Young Benjamin is here. He worries terribly for ye and asks to see ye,” Alice commented as she buttoned up the back of Maggie’s dress. Maggie winced when Alice pulled the apron and knotted it at her waist.
“I don’t think so,” she replied.
Alice took her hand firm in her grasp. “Yes, dear, you are leaving this room, and a fine young man waits for ye. He told Thomas of his intention to court ye, take yer comfort in that. Here,” she said, taking a white linen kerchief from her apron pocket. Alice wiped it gently across Maggie’s eyes and mouth, and then paused for a moment with her palm on her cheek. She offered Maggie a cup of water, which helped wash the sour taste away. “He is a good man, child. He is quite different from…ye Uncle.”
Maggie lowered her eyes. It was probably the most the woman could ever admit to what a beast her own husband was, and Maggie appreciated the sentiment. She wondered how many times Alice had suffered the same under his twisted form of personal justice. She also wondered if the child in her belly had survived his onslaught.
Alice unlatched the bedroom door, and as Maggie peeked out from behind her, she saw Benjamin jump to his feet, his wide brimmed hat clenched in one fist and his shoulders sprinkled with fresh snow. His high cheekbones were flushed with cherry red dimples as his eyes met hers across the room.
Maggie was relieved to see Thomas was not pre
sent, so she felt somewhat safer as she let Alice lead her into the parlor.
“Mistress Martin,” Benjamin said with a curt nod of his head. His eyes remained fixed on Maggie as he spoke, pained and searching, and she dropped her gaze to break the contact. She did not wish to hurt him, but she could hardly find strength enough not to run screaming from the house, let alone continue to pretend to be a happy, compliant Englishwoman. Her head still spinning with the news of her discovery, she tried to cling to some vestige of sanity, but knowing Winn would never come rescue her from the façade left little motivation for her to continue the ploy.
“Good morning, Young Benjamin,” Alice replied. “Margaret is feeling much better today. Will ye please sit with her while I fetch more kindling?”
“Of course.” He dipped his head to Alice as she passed, leaving them alone in the parlor, the crack and spit of the fire the only sound between them.
“Are ye well, Maggie? Ye look quite pale.”
She wanted to tell him he would look just the same, having been beaten within an inch of his life, but she bit back the retort for lack of caring or strength to argue. She shrugged.
“I’m fine. You can go away now.”
She stood up and turned her back to him, her eyes focused instead on the fire. Anything was better than looking into his tragic face, full of guilt, longing, and other unmentionables.
“I’m sorry for what happened. He was my friend as well as yours. I can see it pains you, and I wish I could-”
“You could what, Benjamin? Bring him back? Give my child a father? Get out,” she screamed, the fury spilling forth like the swell of a hurricane. “Get out! Get out!”
She shrieked and slapped him when he put his hands on her, determined to never allow another to assault her. He did not block her blows, merely stood there, his hands on her shoulders, until finally he pulled her against him to cease the attack. She hated every ounce of his touch, every gentle pat, every calming word he spoke, and finally when her screaming quieted she simply sobbed against him, thumping his hated chest with her fist.
“Ye carry his child?” he asked quietly. She did not raise her head, but nodded.
“Yes.”
His arms tightened around her and she grimaced against the pain.
“Then grieve for him tonight,” he murmured. “And tomorrow I will see ye to church.”
He placed a gentle kiss on her brow, placed his hat on his head, and left.
Chapter 18
Maggie walked dutifully beside Benjamin, wishing she could pull her hand away from where he had it tucked firmly in his elbow. As the stale days passed and left her aching with loneliness, she found it best to make plans on her own and decided it was time to speak with the Pale Witch. No one could help save her child but Finola.
She knew the time of the massacre was approaching, but her memories of history were fuzzy at best. Yes, she knew it happened in early spring, but she could not recall the exact date, and for that matter, the English kept dates differently than she was accustomed to in the future so she was not quite sure how the numbers would correlate anyway. The only truth she knew for certain was if she wanted to avoid the upcoming massacre, she needed to get out of Martin’s Hundred as soon as she possibly could.
Benjamin continued to press his attentions, but she was relieved he seemed somewhat shy and reserved in his courting and remained patient to gain her favor. She felt sorry for deceiving him, letting him believe she was a happy recipient of his affection, but she had no other option save telling him the truth.
They took a different path to town than she was accustomed, and as they passed down a lane through a narrow stretch of dense woods, she wondered if he chose the seclusion on purpose. His intentions became clear when he stopped walking and took her hand more intimately in his own.
“Benjamin, we should hurry on,” she began, stunned when he raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed her knuckles.
“I beg your leave, Maggie, but I must speak to ye.”
He caught her by the fingertips and held them tight so she could not flee.
“I do not wish to cause ye distress,” he began. “But I fear we must act quickly,” he pleaded. She shook her head, afraid of his meaning, uncertain how to placate him and extricate herself from the awkward mess.
“I don’t know what you mean-”
“I ask ye to marry me. Please be my wife,” he said softly. She stepped back.
“Benjamin – “
“If we do not marry soon, people will soon notice yer condition, and there will be talk.”
She shook her head and turned her eyes downward, unable to meet his soft searching gaze.
“I cannot marry you, Benjamin,” she murmured.
“Maggie,” he sighed. “Your Uncle will disown you, and possibly send ye back to England. I can do nothing to change that…unless you marry me now.”
“Why? Why would you ask this, when you know I carry his child?” she cried, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes as she lost patience with him.
“It matters not to me,” he said softly. Shocked by his admission, and not expecting such a declaration from a man of his time, she let him hold her closer and raised her swollen eyes to his.
“Why would I hold ye at fault for such a thing? Ye were lost and injured, ye are lucky to live. It is not your doing what happened,” he replied, his eyes damping with sadness. “Ye came here under contract on your Uncle’s bidding. And whatever happened between ye and Winn…he was my friend, even so. At least I can offer ye protection now.”
Taken aback by his sincerity and struck by the guilt in his words, she leveled her response with the kindest tone she could muster.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“He asked it of me, before he died. He asked me to protect you. It is the last thing I can do for him...to see you cared for.”
She bit her lower lip. No. Winn would not have asked this of her…would he? Winn, her warrior, the man who had killed a brave for placing an ownership mark on her head? Would Winn truly have wanted this? She did not believe he would send her willingly to another man, unless…unless he knew he could no longer be there to protect her from what was to come.
“What did he say to you?” she whispered. She stepped away from him, but he did not let her leave him entirely. His eyes dipped down and he clutched her hands harder.
“With his last words, he spoke of you. He knew the shot was fatal…he asked me to keep you safe.”
She bowed her head into her hands and her body began to tremble. Memory of his promises stung her as the tears flowed.
Now you will feel no rain, for I will shelter you.
Was this his way of keeping his promise, even in death?
“All right,” she whispered, the words like ice upon her tongue. He ran one hand through his unruly hair, and his cheeks burned with a hint of crimson at her declaration. He raised the hand he held to his lips and kissed it gently.
“Yes, then. Good, it is settled. Come now, Mistress Finola awaits us.”
***
Finola did not take the news well. She had closed her shop to visitors, yet when Maggie and Benjamin arrived that morning, she allowed them entrance. She stepped back from the door and waved them inside, clutching a wool cloak around her as the snow whipped in behind them. She looked older than when Maggie had last visited, her face drawn, her skin an unhealthy pallor. The older woman sat down on a stool next to the fire and placed her hands close to the flames, rubbing her palms to warm them. Maggie recalled her own desire to let the flames consume her, and her heart ached fresh at the thought of their shared loss.
Benjamin took her cloak from her shoulders, and Maggie sank down on her knees in front of Finola. Their hands met and entwined together, and they both kept their gaze on the snapping flames of the fire. Maggie could cry no tears for Winn with Benjamin at her side, but the older woman seemed to know her heart and she patted her hand in a soothing manner.
“He was the be
st of them, you know. The Paspahegh, that is,” Finola said quietly. She kept her eyes on the fire as she spoke, and Maggie felt each of her words like a dagger scraping slowly across her skin.
“He was,” Maggie answered, the words hollow on her dry lips.
“Will Thomas Martin be punished for his crime?”
Finola turned then to look at Benjamin, and he paled considerably.
“You know there was no crime, Mistress,” he said, his voice breaking with the last bit of words. He shoved his hat back over his unruly curls.
“Yes, I know. No crime but the murder of my grandson.”
“Take care for your words, lest someone else hear them. I will see to my business and return for ye soon, Maggie. Mistress.” He nodded to them both in a stilted manner and quickly made his exit.
Maggie felt a surge of relief when Benjamin left the cabin, leaving her and Finola to visit. Finola must have sensed her urgency, because after Benjamin left she quickly closed the door and latched it securely.
“Come,” she said simply, and waved her toward a separate room in the back.
Maggie followed her into the second half of the house, a common sitting room with her sleeping space in one corner. The older woman reached under her mattress, and after fiddling through the linens for a few moments, she withdrew a bundle wrapped in silk.
“What do you have there, Finola?” Maggie asked.
“Sit down, dear,” she ordered as she unwrapped the bundle. When it was unbound, Maggie did as she was directed and sat down on a chair, nearly missing the seat but finding it with two outstretched hands.
From her thin white fingers hung a pendant on a thick gold chain, the center of the setting a fat, shining, Bloodstone.