Petals on the River

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Gage finally managed a small quirk of a grin. “Unfortunately, the slip-slap of your slippers flapping at your heels is enough to drive a sane man mad. Now go, woman, and get yourself dressed. And be quick about it.”

  Shemaine’s own smile was no less than dazzling. “Yes, sir.”

  Still, she paused at the door to kick off the slippers and, gathering them in her hand, tossed back a laughing glance as she ran from the room. Her effervescent spirit was contagious, and as Gage stepped into the parlor to mark her flight, he realized his mood was already pulling free of that dark morass that had so recently imprisoned it.

  CHAPTER 6

  Newportes Newes had been founded by an Irishman a hundred years earlier and had originally been settled by more of the same. Shemaine would have probably felt right at home in the hamlet had she known the inhabitants better, but after first coming in contact with Mrs. Pettycomb and Roxanne, she had good cause to be cautious. Then, too, she wasn’t sure how the populace of the small hamlet would receive her once word got around that she was a convict from Newgate Prison. And in light of Mrs. Pettycomb’s indiscretion, Shemaine could assume the news had already reached every ear.

  A small, white-haired woman had just taken leave of the general store when Gage drew the wagon to a halt in front of it. He jumped down to tether the horse to a nearby hitching rail and, upon facing the elder, touched the brim of his hat politely.

  “Good morning, Mrs. McGee.”

  “An’ a right fair good mornin’ ta ye, Gage Thornton,” she bade cheerily, leaning on a cane as she approached him. “What brings ye ta our fair hamlet on this fine, bright day, an’ yer bold, handsome self escortin’ such a pretty young stranger an’ yer wee, fine son?”

  Gage embellished his own words with an impressive Irish brogue. “Ah, ‘twould be rare indeed ta find in this whole wide world a colleen prettier than the widow Mary Margaret McGee.”

  “Ha!” The woman tossed her fine head in disbelief as Gage lifted Andrew down from the wagon, but her bright blue eyes twinkled with pleasure nevertheless. “Do ye expect a clever woman like meself ta believe yer winsome lies, ye good-lookin’ devil?” she queried impertinently. “I’ll not have ye be thinkin’ I’m like all those other addlepated fillies who drool every time they espy ye comin’ inta the hamlet. But ‘tis good o’ ye ta visit us so’s I can see for meself what ye’ve done. I’ve been hearin’ such wild rumors ’bout ye, I came nigh ta hitchin’ up me shay an’ drivin’ out ta yer cabin just ta see if they be true.” Her gaze settled on Shemaine, and as if deciding a matter in her mind, she slowly nodded. “Aye, the gossipmongers have done her justice. A bogtrotter, so I’ve heard from one sour soul who’s been in the tavern sippin’ whiskey for nearly half a day.” She waved an elegant hand, casually indicating the establishment next door. Then her grin widened to show an unmarred set of small, white teeth. “Ta be sure, had the callused oaf been more me size, I’d have whittled him down with me cane for slanderin’ such a noble race as the Irish an’ callin’ the lot o’ us bogtrotters . . . as if that clumsy codfish ne’er saw a marsh in all o’ England!”

  Shemaine’s trepidation rapidly vanished at the irresistible humor of Mrs. McGee. The widow was certainly a pleasant surprise after her first two encounters with the citizens of the hamlet. The woman inspired some hope that there were others of a similarly delightful nature in the area.

  Mary Margaret gestured imperiously, silently commanding Gage to lend assistance to the girl. “What? Have ye forgotten yer manners, fine sir? Or would ye be thinkin’ since she’s yer bondswoman she’d be havin’ no need o’ yer help ta get down from a wagon?”

  Suffering a bit of chagrin beneath the woman’s good-spirited needling, Gage faced the conveyance and, flicking his eyes briefly upward, beckoned Shemaine across the seat. As he slipped his hands about her slender waist and swept her to the boardwalk, Shemaine noticed that his face had taken on a ruddy hue beneath the bronze, as if he were abashed at the possibility that she might think him rude or uncouth. It did strange things to her heart to perceive that boyish quality in such a stalwart man. Obviously he cared about her impression of him.

  “Madam, may I present Miss Shemaine O’Hearn to you,” Gage announced, whisking his hat off with debonair flair. Even so, he had to drag his thoughts away from the realization of just how close his fingers had come to encircling the girl’s waist. Even thin, she had more curves than a cabinetmaker could work into a serpentine scroll. He swept a hand gallantly to indicate the elder. “Shemaine, this grand lady is perhaps the most notable member of our small community, the undeniably dignified, sweet-tempered widow, Mrs. Mary Margaret McGee.”

  “Ah, go on with ye!” Mary Margaret chortled, and waved away his extravagant flattery with a graceful flourish of a fine-boned hand. Facing the younger woman, she smiled kindly and clasped Shemaine’s thin hand in her own. “ ‘Tis a pleasure ta make yer acquaintance, dearie, an’ if there be none other in this hamlet who has done so, may I say welcome ta ye.”

  “Your kindness is greatly appreciated, madam,” Shemaine responded with genuine honesty.

  Mary Margaret lifted an inquiring gaze to the tall man who now stood holding his son in his arms. “Would a fine gentleman like yerself be opposed ta an old widow takin’ yer bondswoman off ta meet a few o’ the inhabitants o’ this hamlet?”

  Gage cocked a wondering brow as he met the woman’s stare. Then he scanned the street, spying several young bachelors who were much closer to the girl’s age than he was. Though he was fond of the elder, he was certainly not blind to her romantic bent. She had already arranged at least three marriages between newly arrived members of the Irish race and long-established residents of the hamlet. He would not take it kindly if she encouraged some fellow to start pestering him about selling the girl. “I’ll leave Shemaine to your care, Mary Margaret, but I beg you not to create mischief behind my back.”

  The woman displayed a fair bit of indignation. “Now what kind o’ mischief would ye be thinkin’ a helpless widow like meself might be capable o’ doin’, Gage Thornton?”

  He remained implacable. “You have the subtle wiles of a matchmaker, Mary Margaret, and I’ll not have you plucking some young swain’s heartstrings to win sympathy for my bondswoman. In short, I won’t be selling her to some infatuated Romeo so he can take her to wife. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mary Margaret curbed a desire to smile in sweet contentment as she raised an elegant brow in feigned innocence. “What say ye, Mr. Thornton? Should I be thinkin’ ye’ve cast yer sights on this one yerself?”

  Gage struggled to remain unruffled beneath the woman’s steadfast stare. “Think what you will, Mary Margaret, but if you would wish to remain my friend, have a care how you conduct yourself with my property.”

  The elder dipped her elegant head in acknowledgment. “Yer warning is well taken, sir. I shall take special care.”

  “Good!” With a curt nod, Gage left them and carried Andrew into the general store.

  Smiling thoughtfully, Mary Margaret turned and, resting her dainty hands upon the handle of her cane, gave Shemaine a slow, exacting perusal. “Ye’re a pretty thing, ta be sure,” she stated at last. “No doubt, with ye gainin’ a place in Mr. Thornton’s household, ye’ll soon be the envy o’ every young maid an’ spinster livin’ in the area. I can only hope they don’t get too green-eyed mean over ye hookin’ the finest fish in the sea. They’ve been tryin’ ta catch that fine, sleek grayling in their nets for nigh the whole year past. There’s one in particular I should warn ye ’bout, but then, mayhap ye’ve already met her.”

  Carefully avoiding the curious stare the elder had settled upon her, Shemaine feigned naïveté. “I’m not exactly sure whom you mean, madam.”

  Mary Margaret regarded Shemaine with unyielding persistence until she regained that one’s cautious attention. “I perceive, dearie, that ye’re an intelligent girl, and there’s no need for me to explain. Watch yerself with Roxanne,” she advised. “She’s be
en moonstruck over yer master for some time now, perhaps as long as eight or nine years, certainly well before he met an’ married Victoria. Lately Roxanne has had everyone in the hamlet believin’ that Gage intended ta marry her, what with the way she’s been outfittin’ her trousseau an’ talkin’ ’bout him as if he were her very own. If yer master doesn’t wed her, she’ll be blamin’ ye for causin’ the split. If he does, then ye’ll likely be sold ta another before the nuptials are exchanged.” Mary Margaret paused, wondering if she would see some indication of the other’s dismay, and when the delicately refined features remained discreetly void of emotion, a tiny seed of respect began to germinate within her breast. Too many of the prettier fillies were rash and frivolous, spilling every secret without giving the slightest heed to the consequences. Mary Margaret heaved a reflective sigh. “But I can’t rightly see that happenin’ though, since he warned me against stirrin’ up the hopes o’ other men.”

  “So far, madam, I’ve found Mr. Thornton to be a kind and courteous gentleman,” Shemaine stated carefully. “He’s treated me far better than I ever expected to be and has made no improper advances or demands.” Her declaration was made with prudent deliberation in an effort to snuff out any rumors that might have been going around. She knew people were bound to talk about them. Mrs. Pettycomb had boldly stated as much. But she hoped to remain unimpaired by such slanderous chatter long after she returned to England, though it be seven years from now.

  The elder slowly nodded as if championing her cause and then, after a moment, pointed down the lane with her cane. “Let’s walk a ways. I dare not take ye the full length o’ town seein’ as how his noble self is anxious ta keep ye a secret from all the other hot-blooded males who are lookin’ for a mate. Ta be sure, there’s been a serious shortage o’ decent women in the hamlet, which has made the area a ripe haven for another sort entirely, but their kind usually hang around the men in the tavern an’ leave the streets for the rest o’ us, at least durin’ the daylight hours.”

  Without comment Shemaine fell in beside the widow, and they progressed at a leisurely pace as Mary Margaret, with a flourish of a bony hand or a nod of her white head, drew her attention to several establishments located along the boardwalk. Shemaine took special note of the apothecary shop when Mrs. McGee described the owner, Sidney Pettycomb, as a fine, upstanding member of their community. Having met his wife, Shemaine could only reserve judgment of the man.

  Several chattering matrons bustled out of the shop, oblivious to everything but what they were discussing until they espied the two who approached; then they nearly stumbled over each other in their haste to reenter. There was an immediate flurry of activity as each of them struggled for a favorable position behind the window, and much like a gaggle of excited geese, they stretched their long necks and bobbed their bonneted heads up and down in an effort to see Shemaine better.

  “Don’t be alarmed by those biddies, dearie,” Mrs. McGee cautioned, tilting her bead ever so slightly to indicate the group. “They’re some o’ Mrs. Pettycomb’s cohorts. They’ve no doubt heard o’ ye an’ are eager ta dissect ye for themselves.”

  Shemaine glanced askance at the variety of faces pressed near the glass, but the group fell back almost in unison as Mrs. McGee waved and called out a cheery greeting.

  “Good day, Agnus, Sarah . . . Mabel . . . Phobe . . . Josephine,” she greeted, marking each of the women with her eyes as she named them. “Fine weather we’re havin’ today, is it not?”

  If the matrons had hoped to remain inconspicuous behind the window, then the elderly woman made their failure obvious as she named them one by one. It brought an amused smile to Shemaine’s lips, not only because of the sudden astonishment and discomfiture of the gossips but because of the delightfully puckish humor of Mary Margaret McGee.

  Mrs. McGee grinned at her young companion. “I’d be a-thinkin’ the lot o’ them might’ve imagined themselves invisible behind the glass, like wee mice huddlin’ in a corner.”

  Since none of them could have been considered tiny by any stretch of the imagination, the elder’s comment seemed all the more farfetched. Shemaine began to giggle as she looked into the blue eyes that twinkled with mischievous mirth. The woman was so delightful, Shemaine couldn’t help but feel safe and at ease in her company.

  They continued on their way, but after passing the only inn in the hamlet, they paused, and the elder gestured toward the end of town, where the blacksmith’s shop and house were located.

  “Roxanne an’ her father live over there, but neither o’ them is kindly favored toward the company o’ strangers. . . .” The delicate brows shrugged upward briefly. “Or even neighbors, for that matter. Hugh Corbin is just as surly now as he used to be when he had a young wife at his beck an’ call, but Leona deserted the family years ago ta run off with a travelin’ man, leaving Roxanne ta learn firsthand what it means ta live alone with an ornery brute of a father. One would think she’d have grown up timid, bein’ constantly under her pa’s thumb, but I think Roxanne has more’n her fair share o’ Hugh Corbin runnin’ in her veins. If she doesn’t crack open his head one o’ these days ’cause o’ the way he orders her ’bout, ‘twill be a wonder, for sure.”

  “I think she’s to be pitied,” Shemaine murmured quietly.

  Mary Margaret looked at Shemaine in alarm. “Aaiiee, don’t ye be givin’ her none o’ that ta her face or she’ll be turnin’ on ye like a wild banshee! Ta be sure, Roxanne will not take it kindly, ye pityin’ her. ‘Tis what drives her near mad now, thinkin’ we’re all feelin’ sorry for her ’cause she’s been a homely spinster for so long.” A sad smile touched the elder’s lips as she thoughtfully considered the red-haired beauty. “But ye’ve a keen eye an’ a sympathetic heart, Shemaine O’Hearn. She is a wounded soul what needs pityin’. An’ far be it that any o’ us should condemn her, seein’ as how she’s had ta live with a grumpy ol’ bear all these many years.”

  “Why do you suppose Mr. Corbin is like that?” Shemaine asked, thankful her own father had carefully nurtured his family with love and respect. Strangers and casual acquaintances had not always fared well in his presence, however, for his temper had a way of showing itself in a forceful way whenever he was pushed or prodded. A wise man it was who minded his manners around Shemus O’Hearn.

  Mary Margaret chuckled. “Oh, dearie, if I knew that, I’d be a soothsayer. Still, ‘tis been on me mind all these years that Hugh had his heart set firmly on sirin’ a son an’ ne’er forgave his wife for losin’ the one what was born ta them early on in their marriage. Though Leona carried the babe full term, he came stillborn, ne’er drawin’ a breath beyond his mother’s womb. Or at least that’s what we were told. Hugh made sure they kept ta themselves even then an’ wouldn’t allow the neighbors ta help. ‘Twas four years later when Leona finally delivered another child, but Hugh didn’t take kindly ta it bein’ a girl. After Roxanne, there ne’er came another, an’ shortly after the girl’s fifth birthday, Leona was seen buyin’ a fancy comb from a travelin’ salesman. That stingy flint, Hugh, was overheard yelling and raising a loud ruckus ’bout how he’d ne’er given her coin ta make such a purchase though she took in washin’ ta help out. The next afternoon, the rovin’ man came ’round ta their place again, an’ Leona slipped out o’ the house an’ was ne’er seen again. She was a pretty li’l thing, ta be sure, an’ with the way Hugh treated her, no one could blame her much for following her heart. ‘Tis truly a pity that Roxanne took her looks from her pa and not her ma.”

  Suddenly a harsh, fiendish shriek rent the serenity of the village, drawing the startled attention of both women toward the boardwalk in front of the tavern, where a grotesquely deformed hunchback was cowering in terror at the feet of a tall, burly, lank-haired man who was guffawing loudly as he pummeled the deformed man with a stout stick. With savage cruelty, the ruffian kicked his victim in the stomach and viciously maligned him, calling him every foul name that found its way to his tongue.

  Months ago
that same huge, hulking form which towered over the disfigured man had been etched with startling clarity in Shemaine’s memory. Despite her outrage over his mistreatment of another human being, it was the sight of Jacob Potts that compelled her to tear herself away from Mrs. McGee. Catching up her skirts, she raced toward the tavern as if rage had set wings to her feet.

  “Shemaine!” Mary Margaret cried in sudden alarm. “Have a care, child!”

  Shemaine’s ire reached its zenith as more blows rained down upon the hapless, shivering hunchback, and as she ran, she railed at the top of her lungs, “You filthy, bloodsucking swine! Leave that man be!”

  Although the feminine screech reached a higher pitch than he could remember ever hearing on the London Pride, Jacob Potts knew without a doubt that it was the one he had been straining to hear amid the diverse jargon of the colonials. Now, at last, he would vent his revenge on the bogtrotter for all the times she had made him feel like a bumbling dullard. No bog-Irish tart had a right to be so uppity and high-minded. Still, the idea of slicing the girl’s throat with a knife had been Morrisa’s idea, not his. It was a command she had given nigh to three months ago. But that particular method was too swift and sure to sate his own desire for vengeance. He wanted Shemaine O’Hearn to die a slow, agonizing death.

  Tossing away the stick, Potts set his arms akimbo as he observed the girl. His grin grew cocky and his pig eyes gleamed in malevolent pleasure as the prize for which he had been searching rapidly approached. “Why, if’n it ain’t the bog-Irish tart comin’ ta stick her nose in me affairs again.”

  “You sorry excuse for a man!” Shemaine snarled through gnashing teeth. “I’ve had enough of you bullying poor innocents.” Passing a barrel of long, wooden ax handles that had been placed in front of the general store, she snatched one out and, upon reaching Potts, swung it about with every measure of might she could muster, catching him across the ear and alongside the head. His loud yowl of pain promptly brought men and fancy-dressed women stumbling from the tavern to gawk at them in surprise. Though the ogre held a hand clasped over his bloodied ear and continued to howl in deafening anguish, Shemaine would not relent. Drawing back her makeshift club, she clasped it in both hands and whipped it around again with brutal determination, this time bashing the knuckles of the hand that Potts held over his bruised ear and scraping it upward across the top of his head. Had it been a knife, Shemaine might have accomplished a scalping right then and there, but the affront to his pride was too much for Potts to bear. With a roar of rage, he caught the stick in a meaty fist and, twisting it from her grasp, tossed it aside. His eyes fairly blazed with fury as he reached out and seized Shemaine by the throat. Lifting her to the tips of her toes, he hauled her abruptly forward until his sour whiskey breath tainted the air she struggled to breathe. His heavy lips twisted in a gleeful smirk as she hung helpless in his grasp.