Mountain Laurel

by Lori Benton

  Heat prickled Ian’s face. “No, Uncle. It wasn’t like that. She came to me full willing.”

  “Wheesht!” Uncle Hugh flung up a hand. “I dinna want to hear what the pair of ye have done—and all under Lily’s nose? She must no’ ken or—”

  “Aye. She does.”

  His uncle nearly dropped the pipe, spilling flakes of dottle in his lap. “Lily kens . . . and never a word of it to me?”

  “Ye’re surprised at that? After all ye’ve denied her?”

  Uncle Hugh brushed the dottle to the floor, the motion not brusque enough to cover the shaking of his hand. “Ye’ve precious little room to be setting yourself up as judge, Nephew. Have ye got a bairn on the lass? Is that what has ye hell-bent to free her? Ye’ll have your child born free?” He barked a mirthless laugh. “Confound us all, lad, if ye have. Your auntie will be vexed.”

  A rap on the study door made Ian start, then blanch as his aunt’s voice rose, sounding sore vexed already. “Hugh? I must speak with you. The matter is of urgency!”

  Without awaiting reply, Lucinda swept in, halting in the center of the room. “We’ve searched everywhere but they are simply vanished!”

  Ian felt the blood leave his face. “Who’s vanished?”

  “Not who,” Lucinda said. “What. We’ve been robbed—shamefully and brazenly robbed!”

  Having run from the washhouse to the stable-yard, Seona stopped short at sight of Ian’s roan, hitched to the fence. Ian straightened from tightening the saddle girth, head lifting toward her though she hadn’t called his name. She forced herself to walk, eyes lowered, until she reached his side.

  “Seona. I was about to come find ye.” Shadows rimmed his eyes, but they were clear and fixed on her with an almost-giddy light. A far cry from the panic she was trying to bridle.

  “Esther said you’re going after him.” Already every slave had been summoned to stand while the house was searched, then the cabins, outbuildings, and stable, with nary a trace of the missing house plunder to be found. The mistress reckoned “that little peddler” had crept in during the night and taken back the things he sold her.

  “Aye,” Ian said. “I don’t wish to, but I cannot let such thievery go unanswered.”

  “Mister Gottfriedsen’s been peddling through these hills since afore I was born. Why would he turn thieving of a sudden?” It was absurd, to Seona’s thinking. But then Mister Gottfriedsen had always traveled with kinfolk. This time he’d been alone. Had other things about him changed?

  “Jubal says the man was gone before dawn,” Ian said. “Bound for Salisbury, then north to Salem. I mean to catch him this side of the Yadkin.”

  His rifle was snug in its holster. She watched him slip a pistol into a saddlebag. “Why you?”

  “I wouldn’t trust Dawes to get farther than the first crossroads tavern. Best he see to the barn, as he’s meant to do.”

  A wind in the night had torn another patch of roofing from the tobacco barn where the crop still cured. It needed fixing without delay.

  The oaks shading the stable-yard rustled. Seona shivered in the crisp air. Her sleeves were wet from washing and clung cold to her skin, smelling of lye.

  Ian tied the saddlebag and faced her. “Seona, I need to tell ye—”

  “Cousin Ian!”

  They wrenched apart as Miss Rosalyn bore down on them, gown hoisted above the stable-yard’s filth. She sidestepped a pile of droppings, the swish of her petticoat disturbing a swarm of flies, and made for Ian, holding out a folded paper.

  “I’ve accounted for the stolen items. I’m concerned most particularly with the brooch Mama purchased for my chemise gown. It’s ringed with seed pearls, with a case embossed in gold—the only item of true quality that perfidious little tinker—”

  “I know what it looks like,” Ian said with thinly veiled impatience. “Have I not spent the past three hours helping ye search for it and the rest?” He took the list and tucked it in the folds of the buckskin coat draped over the saddle.

  Miss Rosalyn’s eyes narrowed on his back before she glanced aside at Seona. “Why are you lingering? If you’ve finished the washing, go help in the kitchen—if they can bear the stink of you.”

  Ian whirled from the horse and closed his hand over Miss Rosalyn’s arm. “Seona’s waiting for me to speak to her about our work—on the desks for Stoddard.”

  Miss Rosalyn yanked her arm free. “Oh, aye?” she said, miming his way of speaking. “By all means, don’t keep Seona waiting. She does look prodigiously fagged. Which reminds me, I overheard a most peculiar thing this morning that I’ve yet to puzzle out.”

  Seona knew that cat-in-cream look coming over Miss Rosalyn’s face, but Ian didn’t, else he’d have stopped her mouth instead of asking, “And what is that?”

  “I heard Esther telling Maisy that when she last stripped the sheets from the upstairs beds, she found yours full of rose petals, of all things.” Miss Rosalyn pretended to peer close at him. “Come to notice, Cousin, you’re looking every bit as fagged as Seona these days.”

  “Grubbing stones the day long will do that to a man.” Ian made a gesture that showed his blistered palm. “If that’s all, I’m in something of a hurry to bring back your wee baubles.”

  Miss Rosalyn’s chin rose. “I imagine you are, but don’t pretend it has anything to do with me.”

  “I won’t, then.” Ian sketched her a bow so curt it did for a slap, before heading for Seona. His eyes beckoned and she followed, Miss Rosalyn’s glare jabbing her back like a roasting spit.

  Inside the shop Ian lit neither lamp nor candle but drew her into the wood-scented shadows and his arms.

  “She knows,” Seona said.

  “She only suspects. But never mind Rosalyn.”

  Cold was seeping into her, like a door gusted open, exposing her to a bitter wind. In the dimness she couldn’t read his eyes, but the mouth that had been hard-set against Miss Rosalyn was soft now, smiling.

  “I’d nearly decided I must steal ye away after all, but after my aunt barged in with her news, then left . . . I couldn’t leave ye like this had my uncle not said what he did then.”

  “Ian . . . what?”

  He kissed her briefly, shushing her. “Let me finish and ye’ll understand. Ye know we agreed Uncle Hugh would grant your freedom if I stayed here at Mountain Laurel? I thought he’d change his mind after I told him how things stand with us—aye, I told him about the handfasting,” he said hastily, adding, “but there’s no cause for worry. We talked it through. He’s going to write the petition anyway, while I’m gone on this errand. Ye won’t have to go to Boston alone, Seona. He’s going to let me go with ye.”

  “Why?” After everything, all the worry, the secrecy, it sounded too good to believe. “Why would he?”

  “Because he’s willing to hold Mountain Laurel in trust for a son—my son—instead of me.”

  She was suddenly off her feet, whirled around in his arms. Ian laughed as he put her down.

  “He hasn’t exactly given his blessing, but he won’t prevent it. We can be together, Seona.”

  She put a hand to her belly. She’d had the oddest feeling while he spoke, like a tiny weight had dropped between her hips and rooted itself there—gone the next instant as shock washed over her. “Our son?”

  “Of course, ours.” Ian grasped her shoulders, unaware his hands were all that kept her upright. She could see him better now, see the blue of his eyes searching hers.

  They’d disturbed a cricket, hidden in the wood shavings on the floor. Its chirping filled the shed, steady as a clock’s ticking. Seona wanted to run to Master Hugh and beg him to free her mama with her. Lily had never asked anything of him—and she’d got nothing. Ian had pressed. He’d hounded. And look what had come of that. Or was promised to come of it.

  But she’d known herself Hugh Cameron’s slave far longer than she’d thought herself his offspring, and promises to slaves were no more to be trusted than shifting sand.

  Wasn�
��t that what they all kept telling her?

  “At least my uncle’s set himself to do what’s right in the end,” Ian was saying. “How he’s borne it all these years, his own daughter—”

  “And Mama’s daughter,” she said. “What about her?”

  “Seona.” He took her face between his hands, tender, certain. “We won’t abandon Lily. But I haven’t the means to care for them all—yet.” His thumbs moved over her cheeks, her lips, like he meant to set her features to memory. “We needn’t work it out this minute. There’s time. But do me the one thing—don’t speak of it ’til I return. Not even to Lily.”

  Seona’s thoughts darted like wasps, stinging so she didn’t know which way to turn. No one had asked if she wanted a son of hers to be a master, an owner of other women’s sons, as if the only blood in his veins would be white blood. How could Ian want it? Was he even thinking beyond the two of them being free? Thinking they’d maybe only ever have daughters?

  Still she heard herself give the answer he wanted. “I won’t.”

  “I’ll be back in a day,” Ian said. “Two at most. We’ll be all right, Seona. I’ll take care of ye.”

  Her insides twisted at his words, but she could see his mind was set. She didn’t know how to change it. He kissed her, fierce and full of longing.

  “Bide a bit, aye? Just ’til I’ve gone.”

  He left her there, and she did as she was told.

  The cricket was silent now. Only her heart beat in the dark, loud enough to muffle the sound of his going.

  25

  He reached the Yadkin after nightfall, too late for crossing. The next morning the ferryman assured him he’d poled across a peddler, evening past, but hadn’t got his name. In rising hope of soon dispensing with his unsavory errand, Ian ascended the muddy road westward toward Salisbury. By midday the sky had darkened with clouds. Hope had dimmed with the daylight, while bewilderment grew. Every merchant he spoke with in town was certain Gottfriedsen hadn’t been seen in Salisbury for at least six months. The man had crossed the Yadkin and vanished.

  Back on the muddy main street, mood as grim as the brooding sky, Ian hitched Ruaidh outside a two-storied frame structure, the inn he’d saved for last. A fire and a scattering of lamps lit the low-beamed taproom. A haze of pipe smoke hung in air ripe with smells of ale and bread, abuzz with dinner conversation. The rail-thin figure languidly polishing cups behind the cage bar mightn’t have budged since Ian clapped eyes on him weeks ago.

  As Ian crossed the sanded floor, Jonas Sprouse eyed his quilled buckskin coat. “You were dressed the tradesman last I saw you. This getup better suits, you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Suits me better too, truth be known.”

  “How’d that gift for your lady suit?”

  “She agreed to be my wife.” Only half-suppressing the grin even the present frustration couldn’t quench, Ian took a seat on a vacant bench. Sprouse brought him a brimming pint. Groans and laughter erupted from the fireside as a dice game broke up. Gottfriedsen was patently absent from the tavern crowd, but nothing would be lost in asking.

  “A Salem peddler, come from east of the Yadkin?” Sprouse said once Ian explained his errand. “Didn’t catch his name but there’s a fellow hereabouts might answer your description.”

  Ian’s pulse quickened at the news. “Where do I find him?”

  “Parlor.” Sprouse nodded toward the taproom door. “Across the passage yonder.”

  Ale forgotten, Ian snatched up his hat. The door to the parlor, a public room, stood half-open; Ian rapped once and pushed it wide. Three men, seated at a pedestal table stacked with ledgers and an inkpot, swiveled toward him. Spying the shortest of the trio, Ian’s hope was finally dashed. Short of stature the man was, but unlike Gottfriedsen—whom Ian minded as frail, old, and clean-shaven—the figure rising from his chair was square-built and bearded, the skin across his cheekbones weathered red. “Your pardon, gentlemen. I thought to find someone else.”

  “Vait you, mein Herr.” The risen man advanced with a purposeful air, his width giving the impression of a boulder rolling Ian’s way. “Who is the someone you think to find?”

  Ian nearly drew back at the wave of brandied breath that reached him before the man himself. “A Salem peddler, name of Gottfriedsen. A wee fellow. Looks like a stiff wind would knock him flat. He’s traveling alone, with a wagon and mule.”

  “I am myself of Salem—and this Gottfriedsen I know!” At the man’s hearty answer, there was a stir at the table. One of his companions laid aside his idle quill and sat back with folded arms. The other fished a pipe from a coat pocket and began filling the bowl with an air of resignation.

  Ian, however, was instantly keen. “He’s here? In Salisbury? Where might I find him?”

  The man’s bearded mouth bowed downward as he shook his head. “You vill not find him here. Herr Gottfriedsen is not in Salisbury.”

  “What’s got you staring at the fire like Lot’s wife? Get them dishes in here.”

  Seona jumped at Naomi’s command, pulling her unseeing gaze from the hearth. Steam from the wash kettle glistened on Naomi’s face. Lily had a half-scraped platter in hand, poised over the slop bucket. Both eyed her, standing in the kitchen doorway with the plates she’d carried from the big house in her arms.

  “Tired, I reckon.” She set the dishes on the workbench.

  Naomi turned back to scrubbing. “Who ain’t tired, I’d like to know? Scrape them plates. Then slop the hogs and be done for the day.”

  Seona didn’t take the grumbling to heart. Naomi was worried. Ally had been sent to the mill to fetch lumber for the barn roof. Jubal would have gone, but Juturna had a touch of colic and Master Hugh wasn’t about to let him leave his prized filly ailing to go fetch wood. Ally knew his way to the mill and back, had a writ pass tucked in his pocket. He could handle the wagon and team just fine. But he’d never been sent to Chesterfield on his own to deal with Pryce’s people.

  “Jackdaw should’ve gone hisself,” Naomi muttered as Seona took up the first plate to scrape.

  No one said a word to that.

  Seona’s nose had gone over fickle. As the scraps spattered on the mess of cobs and parings in the slop bucket, the stink rose up like something rotten. Her belly heaved. A thousand evenings she’d done this task without such bother. She shut her eyes and swallowed. A thousand evenings of Naomi bent over the wash kettle. A thousand evenings of Lily busy wiping the same plates, putting them up in their same place. The fire’s pop and snap. The spice of onions and garlic and cloves and nutmeg mixing with the damp-leaf smell coming through the door. It was so aching real and precious and hers, she could have wept.

  “Ye’ve been quiet today, Seona. Feeling puny?”

  Lily hadn’t used that word with her since she was a knee baby. It pushed her nearer to tears. “I’m all right, Mama.” She scraped another plate and stacked it for washing.

  “Moping over Mister Ian gone, more’n like.” Naomi had her back turned, bent to her scrubbing. “After all we done spoke on the matter.”

  Silence weighed heavy.

  Naomi turned a frown their way. “What’s got you both shut up tight as hogsheads? Seona, you done something to vex your mama?”

  Seona opened her mouth, teetering on the edge of spilling everything, but words to tell how she was going to be Ian’s free, passing-for-white wife fled. In their place anger bloomed, a red flower filling up her mind. “Mama, tell me one thing. Is Master Hugh my daddy?”

  Behind her came a crack, as Naomi dropped a plate.

  Seona spied Esther down the carriage drive, staring toward the mist that marked the creek’s snaking course through the darkening wood. Ally was late getting home. It was cold in the stable-yard and she’d left her shawl in the kitchen. She wasn’t going back for it.

  Go slop the hogs like Naomi asked was all her mama had said to her question. Naomi had said nothing at all. Not that Seona needed them to. When Ian came back, all the secrets would be out.
And what then? Were they to go on through the winter, sneaking round to be together? Or was she to move into Ian’s room like a proper wife, sit at table with his kin, suffer their sour-pickle gazes while they waited for the papers that made her free?

  At the hog pen she hefted the bucket to the fence rail and dumped the leavings over the side. Slimy peelings and scraps spilled like vomit into the trough, nearly setting her to retching. The sow and her big shoats heaved themselves up to come shoving and squealing to feed.

  Seona swallowed hard and left them to it, trudging back through the dusk, tiredness in her bones, unaware right off it was Esther’s screaming she heard. The shriek blended with the shoats kicking up a squeal over their supper. Then she heard her name in it.

  “Seona-a-a!” Esther came pelting up the lane with petticoat hiked and skinny legs like sticks beating the ground. “Fetch my daddy! Ally’s down by the crick lying in the wagon!”

  She halted, frozen with dread, but still making no sense of Esther’s words. “Ally’s what?”

  As she reached her, Esther stumbled. Seona flung aside the slop bucket to catch her.

  The girl’s eyes were edged in white. “There’s blood all over—he hurt bad, maybe dead!”

  Ally wasn’t dead, but as near to it as he’d come since getting mule-kicked as a boy. Master Hugh didn’t look much better. He’d come down to Naomi’s cabin and they’d all backed out of his way except Lily, busy cleaning Ally’s striped back. Seona watched him. Seemed like though he stood among them in the flesh, part of him was gone away. Like a man struck dead on his feet, before his body crumples.

  Then he seemed to shake himself and come back from wherever he’d gone. “Was it Pryce, or another, did this?”

  “Mister Pryce laid the lash to him,” Malcolm said. He sat with Naomi at a rickety table, close by the door. Naomi’s lips were pressed so tight Seona doubted she could part them without cracking her face wide open. She was mindful of her own back pressed against rough logs, their edges pushing into her flesh. Smells were still loud in her nose. Blood and sweat and vinegar, the tobacco sweetness that clung to Master Hugh, all conspired to gag her. She wanted out of there if only to breathe, but she held the lamp for Lily to see by.