The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6)

by Shapiro, Irina

  “What are they doing here?” Mary whispered as soon as the wagon passed the men.

  “They come to discuss business with the governor.”

  “What business could they possibly have?” Mary exclaimed.

  “Trade. They likely heard a ship had come in and came to barter.”

  “Barter for what?”

  John shrugged, uninterested in the conversation. “They trade animal skins for goods that come in from England.”

  “What type of goods?”

  “Steel, for example. Their weapons are made of sharpened stone, but now they know that steel is more effective. They need blades for their daggers, and they want muskets.”

  “Does the governor welcome them into Jamestown?” Mary asked. She was shocked by what she’d just learned but tried not to show it since John didn’t seem the least bit put out.

  “The governor would welcome the devil himself if there was profit to be had,” John replied bitterly.

  “Is he not an honorable man?”

  “Mary, being honorable doesn’t preclude powerful men from growing rich off trade and acquisition. Governor Yeardley is a shrewd businessman and politician. It’s better for everyone to keep peace with the natives and engage them in trade.”

  “Is that all it takes to keep the peace?”

  “The governor says that they are like children. They’re not capable of sophisticated thought or analysis of a situation. As long as they are placated and indulged, they’re happy.”

  “You wouldn’t give children muskets and blades,” Mary argued, mystified by this view of people who were described as savage.

  “No, but you wouldn’t engage them in intellectual discourse either. Governor Yeardley knows what he’s about.” John snorted with derision. He didn’t seem to think much of the governor or his methods.

  “I suppose,” Mary muttered, shocked to the core that a nobleman would consort with half-naked savages and freely give them weapons that could be turned on the colonists.

  John tethered the horse by the curtain wall and helped Mary down from the bench. “We’ll continue on foot from here.”

  Mary followed obediently, her head swiveling from side to side as she took in the settlement with fresh eyes. Several men stood in the street, conversing. Some were well dressed, while others wore the universal uniform of the poor: filthy shirts, patched breeches, and threadbare doublets.

  “Who are those men?” Mary asked when she saw two fine gentlemen coming out of what she presumed was the governor’s house. The men were dressed in suits of rich velvet, their swords slapping against their hips as they walked. One man had a large pearl drop earring hanging from his ear, and she recognized him as the man she’d seen at the church when she arrived, while the other wore a gold chain around his neck, adorned with a large medallion.

  “The one with the earring is the secretary of the Virginia Company. The one with the medallion is the sheriff. Look, Mary, I need to go into the tavern. Will you be all right on your own for a bit?”

  “Why can’t I come with you?”

  “Because women are not allowed in the tavern. Go to the smithy and see your fellow travelers. I shan’t be long.”

  Mary watched as John disappeared into the tavern, then she walked over to the forge, following the loud banging of a hammer on metal. The men who had married Faith and Prudence were hard at work, each one focused on his own task.

  “Pardon me,” Mary called out self-consciously.

  The men looked up at her. Their faces were covered with soot and they looked none too pleased to be disturbed while working. “What is it, mistress?”

  “I was wondering if I might have a word with Faith or Prudence. We arrived on the Lady Grace together,” Mary explained.

  “Right. I remember you,” one of the brothers said, an appreciative grin tugging at his lips. “Go round the back. They’re in the house.”

  Mary followed the instructions and knocked on the door. Faith yanked it open as if she were angry, but her expression softened when she saw Mary.

  “Mary, come in. It’s good to see you.” She stepped aside and invited Mary into the smiths’ house. Prudence was by the hearth, stirring something in the pot, but she set down her spoon and came forward to give Mary an affectionate hug.

  “How is it with you, Mary?” she asked as she reached for a jug and poured Mary a cup of beer. “Come, have a seat.”

  Mary sat down and looked around. The place was small and dim, and banging from the smithy reverberated through the room. Two curtained bedsteads occupied the space by the walls, with the table and two benches in the center. Mary had thought being a blacksmith guaranteed a good living, but judging by these humble quarters, it was more profitable to own land. John’s cabin was light and airy, and much more pleasant than this hovel the two couples were forced to share.

  “I’m well. John has been very kind,” Mary replied. “How about you? How do you find your husbands?”

  “We’d have to spend time with them to find out,” Faith scoffed. “They’re always either at the smithy or the tavern, but I can’t say as I really mind. From what I’ve seen so far, they can stay there.”

  “Faith!” Prudence exclaimed.

  “’Tis the truth, and I’m not ashamed to admit it,” Faith replied, her hands resting defensively on her ample hips. “We’ve come halfway around the world to find men no better than ones we could have had in England.”

  “Men are men,” Prudence snapped. “Didn’t realize you were expecting to marry a princeling.”

  “I never held out for a princeling, but a man sober enough to consummate a marriage would do me very well,” Faith retorted.

  Prudence’s face turned beet red. “At least yours managed to stay awake long enough to finish what he started.”

  Faith turned to Mary, her mouth twisted in a mirthless grin. “Did your man manage to seal the deal?”

  Mary nodded. She hadn’t minded discussing things with Nell, but she’d never grown close to the sisters and was mortified to be put on the spot in this manner. “He did.”

  “And was it bearable?” Faith asked.

  Mary nodded again. She wanted nothing more than to leave this suffocating hovel and get back outside. Whether John had completed his business at the tavern or not, she had no wish to spend any more time with Faith and Prudence. “Thank you for the beer,” she said and sprang to her feet. “John will be wondering where I’ve got to.”

  “Must be nice to have a husband who knows you exist,” Faith replied. “Come again soon, Mary. It was good to see you.”

  “I’ll see you in church,” Mary said as she backed out.

  She took a turn around the settlement, walking slowly and taking in everything she saw. There wasn’t much, but it was better than soaking up the bitterness that had permeated the smiths’ cottage. I’m so blessed, Mary thought as she stopped in front of the church. I have a husband who is kind and considerate and doesn’t seem to overindulge in drink. This time, good fortune is on my side.

  Mary smiled brightly when she saw John emerging from the tavern. He held something long and thin wrapped in sacking and his leather bag seemed fuller than when they’d arrived.

  John returned her eager smile and beckoned to her. “Are you ready to leave? Did you see your friends?”

  “Yes. I’m ready to go.”

  They walked back to the wagon and climbed in. John carefully laid the scythe blade he’d bought in the back of the wagon but didn’t immediately take up the reins. He reached into the bag and withdrew something wrapped in muslin. He turned to her and took her hand. “I got you something.”

  “John, you’ve already given me a wedding gift,” Mary protested.

  “Then don’t think of it as a wedding gift.”

  John handed her the muslin-wrapped package. Mary unfolded the fabric carefully, unsure what to expect. Whatever John had purchased was hard and oddly shaped. Mary gasped with delight when she took out a hand mirror and a hair brush. The fr
ame of the mirror and the brush handle were made of polished wood and carved with a pattern of vines.

  “Oh John,” she breathed. “They’re beautiful.”

  John blushed with pleasure. “You were in need of a brush.”

  Mary blinked away tears. No one had been this kind to her in a long time, not since her parents were alive. She’d forgotten what it was like to receive an unexpected gift or to trust the sentiment behind it. Mary glanced around to make sure no one was around, then leaned forward and kissed John’s cheek. John had explained to her that public displays of affection were forbidden in the colony, even between husband and wife, but she couldn’t let his gesture pass without acknowledging it in the only way she could think of.

  John grinned and took up the reins. “Shall we go home, Mistress Forrester?”

  “I think we shall,” Mary replied, grinning from ear to ear. She folded the piece of muslin carefully. It’d make for a good handkerchief, something she could make for John to repay him for his kindness.

  Chapter 16

  January 2015

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  At first, Rhys thought the knocking was part of his dream, but it grew louder, forcing him to claw his way back from deep slumber to consciousness.

  He looked at his watch. It was almost six o’clock. Rhys bolted out of bed and went to open the door. A young man of about seventeen stood in the corridor. He was very thin, and his upper lip was covered with a soft fuzz meant to represent a moustache. A sparse beard shadowed the lower half of his face but failed to disguise the acne spots on his skin. His expression was one of a deer caught in the headlights, surprised and frightened at the same time.

  “Hello,” Rhys said, smiling in welcome. “Are you Ahmad Khan?” The young man nodded. “Won’t you come in?”

  Rhys stepped aside to let Ahmad into the room. He came in, but stood as close to the door as possible, as if he were going to bolt at any moment.

  “Ahmad, I just want to ask you a few questions. Is that all right?” Another nod. Rhys took out a photo of Jo and showed it to the young man. “Do you remember this woman?” A nod. “Ahmad, Jo Turing has been missing for several weeks, possibly more. I found your name written on her notepad. Why would she have made a note of your name?”

  Looking at the young man, Rhys couldn’t begin to imagine what Jo would want with him. He seemed to be afraid of his own shadow, or more likely, losing his job. There had to be countless other young men who’d be only too happy to take his place, eager to earn steady wages and pocket generous gratuities from the Westerners.

  “Miss Jo need guide,” Ahmad mumbled. He stared at the tips of his scuffed shoes.

  “Are you a guide?”

  Ahmad shook his head. “My brother is. He do it for extra money.”

  “Did your brother take Miss Jo into the mountains?”

  He nodded miserably, but still hadn’t looked up.

  “Ahmad, I need to speak to your brother. Where can I find him?”

  Ahmad finally lifted his face. His dark eyes were brimming with pain. “Ali hurt,” he said.

  “Is he in a hospital?”

  “He at home.”

  “Can I see him for just a few minutes? I won’t tire him out.”

  “Ali hurt bad.”

  “Is he conscious?” Rhys asked carefully, not wanting to cause Ahmad further distress.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Is he awake?”

  “Sometimes. He in pain.”

  “Ahmad, is there anything I can do to help?”

  Ahmad didn’t reply right away, but Rhys suddenly recalled Rob’s advice. He reached into his pocket and extracted several bills. He quickly did the math in his head and peeled off a thousand Afs, which would be equivalent to approximately ten quid. He held out the bills to the young man. Ahmad looked uncertain, but finally took the money and pocketed it. He walked over to the nightstand and scribbled something on a notepad, then ripped off the page and handed it to Rhys.

  “Go there tomorrow after ten.”

  “Thank you,” Rhys said, but Ahmad was already rushing toward the door.

  Rhys studied the address Ahmad had written down. He could barely make it out, but Rob or Mr. Zahir would be able to help. At least it was a lead.

  Rhys changed into a clean shirt and headed downstairs. He was early, but he’d sit at the bar and have a drink while he waited. According to Rob, the Mustafa Hotel was one of the few places in Kabul that served alcohol, and although the prices were exorbitant, Rhys was ready to pay whatever it took to get a glass of red wine.

  Chapter 17

  January 2015

  London, England

  Quinn had just finished folding the laundry when she heard the doorbell. She had invited Sylvia over, knowing she desperately wanted to visit with her and the baby. Quinn had offered to make lunch, but Sylvia had told her not to bother. She was bringing something.

  Quinn buzzed her up and set the basket of laundry out of sight. The flat was chaotic enough with all the packing boxes and bags intended for charity. Quinn opened the door to find Sylvia bearing a large tray covered with foil.

  “Steak and ale pies,” Sylvia said as she handed the tray to Quinn and began to divest herself of her coat and scarf. “I keep making Jude’s favorite dishes. I think if I make the right thing, he’ll be tempted to eat, but he doesn’t have much of an appetite these days,” Sylvia explained. “He nibbles on toast in the morning and buys chips for lunch when he’s at the hospital.”

  “He’ll turn a corner, Sylvia. You’ll see,” Quinn said. “These things take time.” She felt guilty for feeding Sylvia platitudes, but she had no idea what to say, or what would help. Jude was on a journey of recovery. It might take weeks, months, or years for him to beat his addiction. She didn’t dare think, even to herself that he might relapse.

  “Shall I make us a salad to go with the pies?” Quinn asked as she turned toward the kitchen.

  “Sure, why not? May I?” Sylvia asked as she approached Alex, who was lying on his activity mat.

  “Of course.”

  Sylvia carefully lifted Alex off the floor and cuddled him against her soft jumper. Alex, who normally broke into a smile when picked up, stared at her with deep suspicion. His expression seemed to be saying, One wrong move, lady, and I’m calling for Mum.

  “He’s grown,” Sylvia said wistfully. “He’s starting to look more like you.”

  Quinn poked her head out of the kitchen. “You really think so?”

  “I do. I know everyone says he’s the spitting image of Gabe, but there’s something in his gaze that’s all you. He will change all the time, you know. Logan looked just like his father when he was little, but then he began to resemble me by the time he started school. He still looks like me,” Sylvia said proudly. “Jude still looks like his dad. Always has.”

  “I never knew Jenna personally, but I do see something of her in Emma from time to time. She must have something of her personality as well. She takes us by surprise sometimes,” Quinn said, recalling the request for a Harry Styles poster.

  “Girls are more difficult than boys. Everyone always says so. I wouldn’t know,” Sylvia muttered. Having given birth to two girls and abandoned them, she had no inkling of what it was like to raise daughters. “Have you had any word?” Sylvia asked as she walked into the kitchen.

  Alex instantly brightened when he saw his mother. Though he didn’t reach out his arms, he leaned toward Quinn with his whole body, demanding to be taken from this strange lady.

  “He wants you,” Sylvia said. “I’ll make the salad.”

  Quinn took Alex and kissed his downy head. He pressed his cheek against her breast and sighed as if he’d come home. “I haven’t heard anything yet,” Quinn said, replying to Sylvia’s earlier question. “I wish Rhys would call, but it’s early days yet. I keep looking at Jo’s photos. There are so many online. She looks like Seth.”

  “Yes, I think so too. I wonder what she’s lik
e,” Sylvia mused as she sliced several tomatoes. “Do you think she’ll agree to see me?”

  “I really can’t say, Sylvia. At this stage, I just hope she’s all right.”

  “Me too.” Sylvia stopped cutting and stared toward the window, obviously needing a moment to compose herself. “I’d give anything to do everything over again,” she said softly. “I’ve made such a mess of my life.”

  Quinn opened her mouth to offer another platitude, but promptly closed it. Sylvia had made mistakes, serious ones. No one, least of all Quinn, could tell her she’d done the right thing. She hadn’t needed to keep her children, but the least she could have done was go through the proper channels rather than abandon her twins the way she had. Even if she’d left them together, things might have turned out differently for the girls. Now, thirty-one years later, Quinn and Jo had yet to meet, and Sylvia might have another chance at establishing a relationship with a daughter she’d walked away from, if Jo was forgiving enough to allow it.

  “Let’s take it day by day, shall we?” Quinn said instead. “I will let you know as soon as I hear from Rhys.”

  “It’s not like he’ll ring me himself,” Sylvia said bitterly.

  Quinn didn’t reply. Rhys’s relationship with Sylvia was a complicated one, and she had no desire to get in the middle. Nor did she often mention Seth in front of her birth mother. Sylvia and Seth had yet to meet again after all these years. Neither one had any desire to see the other, despite sharing two children and a grandchild.

  “How is he? Rhys, I mean,” Sylvia asked. “I heard what happened from Logan.”

  “As good as can be expected. He’s sad.”

  “He never loved her, you know,” Sylvia said as she popped the two pies into the oven and began to set the table. “It’s the baby he wanted. Had I been ten years younger—”