The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6)

by Shapiro, Irina

Mary set the knife down and stretched her back as she analyzed this new idea. She wouldn’t put anything past Simon, but there was nothing to steal. Tobacco was the backbone of Virginia’s commerce, supplemented by a healthy barter system. All goods were either paid for with bags of tobacco or traded. The blacksmiths were always ready to trade their services for a bag of beans or a basket of squash, since they lived in town and didn’t have much room to grow their own vegetables. And Dr. Paulson would not say no to a jar of apple jelly, Mary decided, having heard that he had something of a sweet tooth. She’d keep one back in case they were ever in need of the physician’s services.

  John had nothing of value, save his tobacco and the cow, neither of which Simon could steal without getting caught and possibly executed. Theft was not looked upon lightly by the marshal, who took his duties very seriously. Given that most colonists toed the line, the marshal practically seethed with belligerence born out of inactivity. Over the past few weeks, the greatest crime committed in Jamestown had been Jonah Reed’s failure to attend the mandatory church service last Sunday due to an upset of the stomach. The offender had been put in stocks for four hours, a punishment all the more effective because the poor man soiled himself on account of not being able to get to the privy. The marshal had practically glowed with satisfaction when Jonah was escorted into the church for the evening service, reeking of waste and humiliated beyond measure. Given the warmth of the day and the airless confines of the church, they’d all been punished that day.

  Mary picked up a long apple peel that curled in her hand. She tore off small pieces and ate them, loath to waste such delicious goodness. Perhaps she could find use for the peels. She finished chewing and returned to the problem of Simon. Whatever he was doing had nothing to do with her, she decided. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, and it clearly wasn’t hurting John. It was best if she put the conversation from her mind.

  Mary transferred the cut-up apples to a clay pot and added a bit of water and honey, for lack of real sugar. She’d set the jelly to simmer as soon as she washed out the iron pot she’d had soaking since breakfast. The porridge, which had been reheated for the past three days, had burnt and stuck to the bottom. She’d just turned toward the hearth to rotate the cornbread when the door behind her opened.

  “Did you forget something?” she asked, assuming it was Travesty returning from the field.

  “No,” a male voice replied.

  Mary spun around, her heart racing at the sound of the familiar voice. Walker stood on the threshold, watching her. He was wearing his buckskin leggings and a loose linen shirt. A string of beads hung around his neck and several feathers were woven into a braid at the side of his head.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Mary said. The scrap of fabric she’d tied to the branch was frayed and bleached by the sun. It hung limply, a sad reminder of a promise that hadn’t been fulfilled. Until now. “You can’t be here.”

  “They’ll be gone for hours.”

  “Someone might return.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” Walker asked. His gaze darted toward her nervously, his usual self-possession undermined by Mary’s less-than-warm reaction.

  “No,” she admitted. “I’m glad you came. I thought you were angry with me.” She cut a thick slice of yesterday’s cornbread and poured a cup of ale. “Come, sit down. You look hungry.”

  Walker accepted the food but didn’t sit. He leaned against the wall, breaking off chunks of bread and popping them into his mouth. “I was away.”

  “Where did you go?”

  Walker’s eyes clouded with despair and he bowed his head, fixing his gaze on the bread. “I went back to my village. I received word that my father was ill.”

  Mary was about to ask how one received word from a village that was several days’ walk from Jamestown. Was there Indian mail? Did they write letters? Did they even have a written language? She supposed news traveled between settlements, with visitors passing on information, much as they did in England. “Is your father better now?”

  “He’s dead.” Walker’s voice was flat, but she noted the slight tremor in his hand.

  “I’m sorry. I hope he didn’t suffer.”

  “He did, terribly, but he hung on until I got there. He knew I’d come. He waited. I was there to hear his death song,” Walker added.

  “Death song?”

  Walker didn’t reply. Instead he took a sip of the ale and made a face.

  “You don’t like ale?” Mary asked. She had no idea what natives liked to drink.

  “Tastes like piss.”

  Mary ignored the rude comment. “It must have eased your father’s passing to have his only son by his side.”

  “There are others. My father had seen many winters, and had several wives, before and after my mother. His oldest children have many children. But he was glad to see me,” Walker added. “He doesn’t want me to help the Englishmen.”

  “Why?”

  “He says they bring death.”

  “Whatever does he mean?” Mary asked, indignant. A stray thought suddenly sidelined her inquiry, and she walked up to the Indian and looked him in the eye. “Do you have a wife back in your village?”

  “I did.”

  Of course, he would have been married, given his age, but his answer still came as a blow to Mary. She had no right to care, no right to feel any jealousy given her own situation, but the sudden possessiveness she felt toward this man left her confused and unsettled. She was probably better off not knowing, but something within her needed to hear the truth.

  “Did she die?”

  “No, she took another husband. She didn’t wish to live with me anymore.”

  Mary opened her mouth to comment on the strangeness of such an arrangement, but then clamped it shut. She’d gladly take another husband if such a thing were an option.

  “Do you have children?” Mary asked. She tried to sound nonchalant, but the tremor in her voice gave away her sudden jealousy. She had no claim on him, but she didn’t want him to belong to anyone else, to love anyone else.

  “I had two daughters, but they both died at birth. My wife thought the fault lay with me.”

  “How is such a thing possible?”

  “She consulted the shaman, who told her my spirit has been tainted by my English blood.”

  “But you said your brother Ambrose has many sons,” Mary replied. She was trying to understand, but this logic made no sense to her.

  “My brother is not of mixed blood. His parents were both English. His spirit is strong.”

  Mary shook her head, confused. “Does your wife have children with her new husband?”

  “She has two living children. She made the right decision,” Walker replied woodenly. “Her husband is a brave warrior, and a good friend.”

  “Do you still love her?”

  “Why so many questions, Mary?” Walker asked, his anxious gaze holding her own. Talking about the past must have upset him. Either that, or he still loved the woman who had left him and placed the responsibility for their children’s deaths squarely on his shoulders.

  “I want to understand. I want to know you.”

  Walker nodded. His face was thoughtful, his expression pained. “Why did you summon me? What’s changed?”

  Mary hung her head to hide the sudden tears that sprang to her eyes. She couldn’t tell him of her shame. Now that he was here, she wasn’t sure what exactly she wanted from him. All she knew was that she felt safe in his presence, and the thought of never seeing him again made her feel desolate. “I was melancholy,” she replied softly.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I was sad.”

  “And now? Are you still sad?”

  Mary shook her head, but the tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. It wasn’t until this moment that she realized how lonely she’d been. She’d learned to live with the loss of her parents, learned to live without love, without affection. No one in this world, except p
erhaps Nell and Betsy, would care if she were gone. No one else would mourn her. No one would miss her.

  “I don’t understand. You are no longer sad, but you’re biting your lip and trying not to cry. Has your husband hurt you, Mary?”

  “Not in the way you think.”

  “There are many ways to hurt a wife,” Walker said. He reached out and traced the path of a single tear that slid down Mary’s cheek.

  “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Mary choked out.

  “I suppose I am. My mother was not a happy wife, nor was my own wife, even before our children died. I’m glad she found solace with someone else.”

  “It’s not as simple as that for someone like me. I can’t simply take another husband.”

  Walker nodded and allowed his hand to drop to his side. “I know. Your God doesn’t want people to be happy.”

  “Why would you say that?” Mary cried, offended. “Jesus Christ was a peaceful and loving man.”

  “Maybe so, but your church doctrine is all about sin and punishment. It’s about breeding fear and condemning all the things that make people happy.”

  “Such as?” Mary exclaimed, taking a step back from him in her outrage.

  “Such as love, both physical and emotional. Love can never be pure as long as one person has dominion over the other. The partners must be equal, free to give and receive, and leave, if they feel they must. Your women are slaves to their men, and your men are selfish and brutal.”

  Mary stared at Walker. She wanted to be angry, to demand that he leave, but there was a kernel of truth in what he said. An Englishwoman had few rights, before or after marriage. She was at the mercy of her father or closest male relative until she wed, at which point she became the chattel of her husband. She had no say in anything, no possessions of her own, and no one to turn to should things become unbearable.

  “Do your women have equal rights?” she asked, wondering if Walker had a legitimate claim to his high moral ground.

  “Our women are respected and revered. They choose their own husbands and can end the marriage if they so desire. No one will punish them or threaten them with eternal damnation. Women are the embodiment of love. They create life and nurture it. They are more important than men.”

  Tears spilled down Mary’s cheeks. What Walker said was so beautiful, and so true, but so far from the reality of her everyday life.

  Walker pulled her into his arms, and she pressed her face against his chest, the soft linen of his shirt absorbing her tears like a handkerchief. Walker’s heartbeat thumped against her temple and his solid arms made her feel protected and loved, something she could never hope to experience with her husband. He was so strong, so warm, and so gentle.

  Mary raised her face to his and looked into his eyes. He looked at her with concern, his head tilted to the side as he studied her tear-stained face.

  “How can I help you, Sad Eyes?” he asked softly, using his mother’s Indian name as an endearment.

  “You can’t. I have no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  “Is there?”

  “If you’re brave enough to make it.”

  “What can I do?” Mary asked, willing him to give her an answer. “Will you have me turn my back on everything I believe?”

  “I can’t make that decision for you, but I will wait for you by the creek tomorrow at midmorning. If you come, I will be very glad, and if you don’t, then I will not trouble you again unless you summon me.”

  Mary nodded into his chest. Walker didn’t pressure her or take advantage of her vulnerable state. He was an honorable man, the first she’d ever met. Strange that it should be someone the rest of the world saw as a savage.

  Chapter 40

  February 2015

  London, England

  Quinn set aside the comb and glanced toward Alex, who was still fast asleep, his mouth slightly open and his hands curled into loose fists. She hadn’t been spending much time with Mary, given the amount of time she dedicated to the baby and the sporadic packing that had resulted in mountains of boxes taking up half the flat. Gabe’s books alone filled several large crates, but thankfully, the end was near. They were down to bare necessities, which would get packed away in the days before the move. Quinn couldn’t wait.

  Today, however, she felt an overwhelming need to escape from her own reality. There’d been no word from Rhys since his brief message, and she was getting the distinct feeling that Gabe wasn’t telling her something. It wasn’t anything obvious, but she knew him well enough to sense that he was holding back. Perhaps he was having issues at work, but there’d be no reason for him not to share his concerns with her. He’d always done so in the past. Briefly, Quinn thought Luke or Monica might be making waves again, but quickly dismissed the thought. No, it had something to do with Rhys. Every time she raged about Rhys not returning her calls, there was a fleeting expression of pain in Gabe’s eyes. What did he know?

  Last night, Quinn had finally lost her patience and cornered Gabe. “Have you heard from Rhys?” she had asked pointblank.

  “Eh, no.”

  “Sure, are you?”

  “Quinn, I know you’re going out of your mind with worry, but Rhys will get in touch as soon as he knows anything.”

  “It’s been two weeks,” Quinn whined. “Surely he must have learned something by now.” There was that look again. That furtive glance toward the door, as if he wished he could make a break for it. Quinn walked over to Gabe and placed her hands against his chest, looking up into his face. “Gabe, I can take it. Please, tell me what you know.”

  “Darling, I don’t know anything for a fact. What I do know is that clearly Rhys has made very little headway in the time he’s been in Kabul. Rhys is a resourceful man, and if he hasn’t been able to track Jo down, there’s a good chance—”

  “Don’t say it,” Quinn cried. “Please, don’t say it. I can’t bear the thought.”

  Gabe nodded and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “Quinn, whenever I was worried about something when I was a boy, my dad always said, ‘Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, son.’ I still think that’s good advice.”

  “So, you think there’s still hope?”

  “There’s always hope until there isn’t. But you should prepare yourself for a tragic outcome. She’s been gone a long time,” Gabe reminded her gently.

  Quinn’s eyes filled with tears. “You think she’s dead, don’t you?”

  “I think that’s very likely,” Gabe replied softly, stroking her back as if she were a colicky baby.

  Bitter tears spilled down Quinn’s cheeks as she laid her head on Gabe’s shoulder. He didn’t tell her not to cry; he simply held her while she sobbed, slowly allowing her hope of finding Jo to ebb away. Deep down, she knew the truth. Rhys wasn’t calling because he had nothing good to tell her. He was stalling, hoping against hope that he’d stumble across something that might make the news easier for her to bear. Rhys cared for her and couldn’t bring himself to break her heart until he was absolutely certain that every avenue had been exhausted.

  “Quinn, I know you’re hurting, but you must stay strong. Concentrate on the things you can control. Concentrate on us, on the children. On Mary. Rhys will be expecting a comprehensive report when he gets back.”

  “There’s plenty of time. We haven’t even started shooting episode four. The actor who was meant to play Guy de Rosel pulled out. Got a better offer.”

  “Isn’t he in breach of contract?” Gabe asked. He was clearly trying to distract Quinn from thoughts of Jo, and she appreciated the effort.

  “No. He never actually signed the contract. He was waiting to hear from his agent. He was perfect though. Now the part needs to be recast, which will put us behind schedule.”

  “You can sit in on the auditions. I’m sure Rhys would appreciate your input. After all, you’ve actually seen the man in your visions.”

  “I spoke to Rhiannan Makely. She sa
id the auditions are already in progress. Rhys will make the final decision when he returns, which she believes will be imminently. I think he’s been in touch with her.”

  “That’s possible. You know how Rhys is when it comes to his projects. He’s the consummate professional. He leaves nothing to chance.”

  “Which makes it all the more maddening that he hasn’t called me. I’d rather know the truth than spend every day in this limbo of not knowing.”

  “Quinn, do you trust Rhys?” Gabe asked, wiping her cheek with his thumb.

  “Yes.”

  “Then trust that he’s doing what he thinks best,” Gabe replied. “Give him a few more days.”

  Quinn nodded into his chest. “I will. Thanks, Gabe.”

  “You never need to thank me. I’m here for you, no matter what. We’ll get through this together, whatever the outcome.”

  Quinn looked up at Gabe and gave him a watery smile. “You know what one of the best things about not nursing anymore is?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can have a glass of wine, which I sorely need.”

  “Coming right up. Red or white?”

  “White. And bring the bottle.”

  She had felt better after two glasses of wine and a cuddle on the sofa, but now that she was on her own again, she needed to distract herself from her morbid thoughts.

  Quinn slid off the bed and tiptoed out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. A slim folder labeled ‘Mary Wilby’ rested on the table. It had taken hours of research, but she’d been able to finally track down the manifest for the Lady Grace that proved Mary Wilby had been on board the ship. Quinn had also been able to find, more by sheer luck than persistence, a copy of the Virginia Company ledger that listed the names of the women who had gone out to Virginia, and their spouses. The list began in 1619 and covered the period Quinn was interested in. An entry from June of 1620 confirmed a marriage between John Forrester and Mary Wilby. The rest was still a mystery.

  Quinn filled the kettle and set it to boil while she perused the file. The two entries she’d come across were the sum total of Mary’s life. Nothing was left of the young woman whose remains now rested on a slab in Colin’s lab. What had happened to her? How had she come to be in Cornwall, her remains hidden in a cave? Had she found a way to return to England when her marriage to John Forrester proved to be a sham? Who would have paid for her passage, and why, given that she was pregnant? And what had become of her husband?