by Lori Benton
She rose before one of them could assist in her escape.
14
Alex counted on Jemma being too drowsy at the bellows to notice his deception. Still, he waited until he was nearly done with the marlinspikes before miss-striking the iron. At his curse of feigned frustration, Jemma’s drooping eyelids widened. Before she could blink, he’d plunged the spike into the slack tub and tossed it with a clank onto the scrap pile.
Jemma yawned. “All done, Mister Alex?”
“Almost, mo nighean. Give it one good blast.” Jemma pulled the bellows lever. Wood creaked. Air rushed. Embers glowed. Alex thrust the final rod into the heat. “Now get ye to bed, and dinna come back ’til ye’ve had your fill of sleep. I’ll tell Moon I gave ye leave.”
“Leave for what?” Moon inquired from the doorway. He crossed the shop and raised his hand to Jemma. She clasped it, nearly buckling when her feet hit the floor. He steadied her, then turned his attention to the finished spikes. He’d left the smithy at sundown and not returned until now. “One short?”
“He messed up that’n over on the hee…eap.” Another yawn broke Jemma’s last word as she slipped into the night.
Spotting the rejected spike, Moon turned a frown on him.
“I havena seen Mari since the burial,” Alex said before he could question the easily mendable mistake. “Have ye?”
“Aye,” was all Moon said before disappearing into their sleeping quarters. He emerged with a bundle tucked beneath his maimed arm. By then Alex was hammering the final spike. Moon left the smithy without challenging him over the scrapped one.
Alex forbore asking where he was bound.
* * *
It isna theft, he told himself, slipping the misshapen spike beneath his cot’s ticking. Perhaps in the end it would make a crude sword. Time, and mastery of the art, would tell. But it wasn’t theft. Yet.
He swept the shuttered smithy, mind slipping back to Joanna Carey.
He’d gone out to the pasture thinking she meant to scold him over their exchange in the orchard, not agree with him, much less broach the subject of freeing their slaves. But what had possessed him to blather on about her eyes? The lass had blushed as if she’d never had such a thing said of her. It wasn’t his place to be saying it. It was a line he mustn’t cross again—hypocrite that he was.
She intrigued him, and aroused in him a tenderness he didn’t want to feel. Not if he meant to leave this place and never look back. He’d sensed the unhappiness in her from their first encounter, had thought then it was to do with Moon.
He’d had time to know her better. Moon grieved her, aye, but it was her very life that vexed her, its burdens, its injustices. She wanted freedom as badly as he.
Or was it something more, that she wasn’t seeking merely after her own peace of mind? She seemed genuinely to care about the likes of Marigold, Azuba, Jemma. Admirable, but naïve. Even on such short acquaintance, he doubted Carey would embrace her notion of turning Severn on its head, if she ever mustered the courage to voice it. He minded her by the pasture fence, struggling for words. She’d wanted to know about his life before the Rising, thought the knowledge might somehow help her. He’d said too much, unable to resist her appeal. Or those eyes.
Such were his thoughts as he took up the book Reeves lent him and went into the shop where candles burned, meaning to lay tomorrow’s fire before he settled in to read awhile.
As he stepped into the shop, so did Edmund Carey, coming in from the yard. They halted, gazes riveted, until Carey cast his around the smithy, landing on the marlinspikes heaped on the forge’s counter.
“You’ve had a long day,” he observed, stepping into the candlelight. His white hair was undressed, swept back in a simple tail, lustrous and curling. He wore naught but a waistcoat over his shirtsleeves, as though he’d been in the act of undressing when the notion to visit the smithy overtook him.
As to the purpose, Alex waited to be enlightened.
“Where’s Elijah?”
Uncertain if Moon’s dalliance, or whatever it was, with Marigold was a thing Carey would frown upon, Alex said only, “He went out a bit ago. I was set to drop into bed, myself.”
Not precisely true, as he’d meant to read a page or two by candlelight first. He gripped the book close to his thigh as Carey nodded. “I leave in the morn with Captain Kelly and cannot say how long I may be in Wilmington. You know of the trouble with our neighbor?”
“Aye, I’ve the broad strokes.”
“Then I’ll not repeat the tiresome business.” Halting with the anvil between them, Carey planted his feet like a man once used to rolling decks. “I’ve come to see how you fare, MacKinnon, an inquiry overdue. With the gathering and David’s illness, then this ugliness Phineas brought us…” A distracted furrow scored his brow, quickly banished. “Have you need of anything, or is there some way in which your situation might be improved—within reason?”
Alex felt his nape bristle. “There’s naught ye can do in that regard, sir.”
Carey waited, no doubt to be sure that was all he meant to say. “How do you find the work?”
“I expect Moon’s kept ye informed of my progress.”
“I’d hear it from you.” There was interest in the man’s gaze, and confidence he’d have his answer ere he left the smithy. However long retired, Edmund Carey was still a captain at heart. He likely viewed those who served him on land as he must have done his ship’s crew, their welfare his responsibility, and benefit. The care was genuine but administered from behind a wall of dignity and distance cultivated from years at sea, which Alex supposed must do for slaves, but what of his daughters? Especially the one who wanted to change so much. He felt sorry for Joanna Carey, trapped in a life that didn’t suit her, but he could do nothing to help the lass.
“I find it agreeable enough.” He put all thought of the secreted marlinspike firmly from his mind.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Carey’s gaze fell upon the book clutched at his side. Recognition sharpened his gaze. “From my library?”
“Aye. Reeves took it—out to the pinewood, he said. He passed it on to me. A loan, is all. He didna speak of it to ye?”
“He did not.” Alex proffered the book, but Carey made no move to take it. “Robinson Crusoe. You’ve a liking for fictional tales?”
“I do, though my tastes run broader.”
Carey eyed him. “You’ve some learning, then?”
“Of my own initiative, mainly. I’d access to…” He stopped himself, but too late.
“Access to?” Carey prodded.
“The library at Castle Kisimul,” he said, trying not to grind his teeth over the words, which he saw needed further explaining. “My uncle was tacksman to our chief, the MacNeill.”
“I see. And did you aid in those duties?”
“I went round with him, collecting rents,” Alex said. “Mostly I fished and minded cattle.”
Carey waited. Alex said no more.
“I see no reason you shouldn’t avail yourself of my meager collection, if you’re so minded. When you’ve finished with Crusoe, return it to my shelves and choose another. Joanna will admit you if I’m not there.”
“Do I hear my name taken in vain?” With a swish of buttery gold linen, Joanna stepped into the smithy. “Reverend Pauling said you were out here, Papa.”
“Checking on MacKinnon. We fell to speaking of books.”
Carey explained the lending arrangement. Joanna’s gaze sought Alex’s, holding more than the present subject could account for. Still hopeful he might help her with that other matter she’d apparently not yet discussed with her stepfather. Before she could speak further, her sister’s childish voice rose, and the sound of Reeves’s laughter in reply.
Was the entire household congregating in the smithy?
The pair arrived, Reeves smiling at whate
ver the lass had said. When Charlotte’s gaze alighted on her father, she abandoned the overseer and ran to him. Big as she was, Carey scooped the girl into his arms. “Oughtn’t you to be abed, miss?”
Charlotte giggled. “Yes, Papa!”
One soul, at least, had breached those barriers of command. Alex wasn’t the only one who noticed; he caught Joanna’s expression, a look blending love, loneliness, and longing. She caught his glance in turn and blinked such feelings away. “Come to the library for a book whenever you wish, Alex. You’re most welcome.”
Charlotte was swung to the ground. Joanna left the smithy with her sister, never noticing she’d snagged Reeves’s attention. The man shot a look after her, then directed a searching one at Alex, who met it blandly, pretending he hadn’t noticed she’d used his name familiarly for the first time.
* * *
Three mornings later, finished with Robinson Crusoe, Alex went to the Big House to return it, never expecting Pauling to answer his knock at the back terrace.
“Good morning.” The reverend opened the door wide in welcome. “I’ve heard no ring of hammer. Were you up late reading?” He eyed the book.
Alex hadn’t set eyes upon the reverend since the burial. How long the man had been risen from his sickbed he didn’t know, but he looked improved in health. “Moon has himself a headache. There’s no work pressing, so I’m giving him peace to sleep it off.”
“I’ll be down to see Elijah directly he wakes. Is it Joanna you’ve come to see? I believe she’s abovestairs.”
“No—I’ve the book to return. I’m permitted to choose another.”
“Come in, then, and do so.” Pauling admitted him. “I’m on my way upriver today. Packing now.”
Alex entered the study to find the bed in the corner made, saddlebags nearby. “I’ll be quick and leave ye to it.”
“Take your time.”
Putting his back to the reverend, Alex found an empty slot on a shelf, slid Robinson Crusoe into it, then pulled out books at random, hoping one would snag his interest and he could be away with it. He scanned for the title the man had mentioned in the smithy yard, the one by Lawson, but couldn’t find it.
“I take it Joanna is acquainted with this lending arrangement?” Pauling asked.
“Aye, she is.”
A clatter of something going into a saddlebag. “Have you had much chance to speak with her since your arrival?”
Though Pauling didn’t reference the conversation in the orchard he’d interrupted, Alex felt heat rise from the neck of his shirt. “Not overmuch,” he replied cautiously, wondering what the man was thinking. Did he know about the lass’s unconventional ideas on slavery?
Not your concern, he reminded himself, focusing on book spines.
“About Joanna,” the reverend pursued, “I’d ask a favor of you, Mister MacKinnon. It would much relieve my mind to know you’re looking out for her in the weeks ahead.”
Alex tensed, gripping a book half-pulled from the shelf, and glanced aside. “What d’ye mean?”
Pauling took a seat on the bed. “Edmund informs me you and he have spoken little as yet, though I believe he came to see you before heading downriver?”
“He asked how I was getting on. No more.”
“Of course.” The man paused briefly, then said, “Permit me to speak frankly of the Carey family, and a little of its history.”
He didn’t want this, whatever this was. He faced the man. “How is that my business?”
Pauling held his gaze. “One may argue it isn’t, but will you bear with me?”
Alex breathed out a sigh, but nodded for the man to go on.
“Edmund is the only father Joanna recalls,” Pauling began. “Grace, Joanna’s mother, wasn’t yet thirty when she married Edmund, though nearly seven years widowed. For Edmund it was a marriage late in a life mostly spent at sea.”
“And ye think he stills sees the world thus,” Alex cut in. “And those who serve him—as crew to be cared for, from a distance.”
Pauling blinked. “You have his measure. Yes, that’s an accurate way of describing Edmund. But it isn’t just from him I feel Joanna needs protecting.”
Alex raised a brow. “Who else?”
“I speak of Phineas Reeves.”
“The man who’s asked to marry her, with Carey’s blessing?”
“True. Edmund has placed a great deal of trust in that young man. I’ve come to think he feels some guilt—misplaced, of course—for how Reeves’s life unraveled after they parted ways. He desires to make up for it. Of course, there’s genuine fondness on Edmund’s part as well. And he feels relief to have found a younger man as devoted to Severn as I’m sure he once hoped for in a son, capable of one day taking its reins. But though he may well be the right man for Severn, I doubt Phineas Reeves is the right man for Joanna. She loves the Lord deeply, and while I cannot see into a man’s heart, I sense nothing of that devotion in Mister Reeves.”
Alex agreed the pair were ill matched but remained baffled by the conversation. “Ye ken I’m no better in that regard, aye? I told ye as much.”
“You did. Mister Reeves, however, seems to take pains to conceal whatever he believes—at least on any matter I attempted to address during our few encounters at table.”
Alex averted his gaze to the bookshelf. “How does the man’s lack of religion translate to Joanna’s needing my protection?”
“A good question,” Pauling said, a smile in his voice that quickly faded. “I doubt even Edmund has the Almighty’s will and plans first in his heart when it concerns Joanna. I believe he’s placed Severn’s needs ahead of hers. Whatever we pour our treasure into will ultimately captivate our hearts. What captivates our hearts we worship. What we worship remakes us—into its image.”
Alex turned back to face the reverend, trying to discern exactly what the man expected of him. “I’ll bear what ye say in mind, but surely ye ken I’ve nothing to give her—or anyone.”
“You’ve more than you know,” Pauling countered. “The Almighty has you on a path, Alex MacKinnon, with good plans for you. For those to whom you’re linked.”
Alex shook his head. “What d’ye ken of me? From what I can tell ye havena given Moon, whom ye do ken, any true comfort. He’s taking that from—” He bit back Marigold’s name before it passed his lips.
“I’m aware of the avenues of comfort Elijah has pursued,” Pauling said. “Such will prove fleeting. Elijah will eventually recall that only in Christ is found healing and true deliverance.”
“What deliverance is there? He canna grow another hand.”
Sorrow crossed Pauling’s features. “A man may grow in ways other than the physical. The Lord has yet to complete that work in Elijah, but it has begun.”
“Begun how?”
“For one, the Almighty sent him you.”
“I suspect a certain king might beg to differ,” Alex said dryly. “But what use am I, hardly better than a slave? Speaking of which, Reverend, if there’s a God in heaven with a purpose for men, it isna this.” He spread his hands, sweeping them toward the back of the house, beyond which lay the community of slaves that populated Severn.
In that much, he and Joanna Carey were of one mind.
“That is one of the reasons I’m appealing to you on Joanna’s behalf. Unlike Mister Reeves and Edmund, your heart isn’t invested in this.” Pauling echoed his gesture. “Yet the Almighty has allowed you, by whatever series of events and decisions brought you to it, to be in this place—for such a time as this, one might venture to say. If you allow it, there will be good to come of it. For yourself. Perhaps for Joanna. And others.”
“Ye dinna ken that. How can ye?”
“Because I know who sits upon the throne of heaven,” Pauling said, “and He is both good and sovereign. A battle is being waged upon this earth, Mister M
acKinnon, between the forces of our God and our enemy, Satan, who comes to steal freedom, kill hope, and destroy souls, and for a time he is permitted to do so. But who do you think is ultimately in control of the unfolding of this world’s events? Of time, and nations, and your own yearning heart? It’s a question you will one day need to answer for yourself.”
Alex stood defiant before the man. “I can never believe as ye do.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve said as much—because of what I’ve seen, and what I see when I look around me now.”
“Then look up. Look to the Almighty in faith. Believe that He is who He says, then you will see beyond what meets your eyes.”
“Ye speak in riddles, man.”
Pauling’s smile came swift. “It is a mystery, faith. But I have faith that one day you’ll embrace it.”
“I’ve seen what comes of blindly following another man’s cause. I’ll not follow yours.”
“You speak of Charles Stuart?”
“I do.”
“Then well I understand your bitterness. But I would never ask you to follow any man’s cause—frail and flawed as we all are. Only the Almighty.”
Alex could only stare at the man, lost for what more to say in the face of such stubborn belief. Whatever religion he’d claimed before the Rising, it hadn’t resembled what this man possessed. Or what possessed him. “What we worship remakes us—into its image.”
“Reverend Pauling?” Joanna’s uncertain voice broke the tension.
Alex looked at her, hesitating in the study doorway, with her soft brown hair and changeable eyes and lovely mouth, and wondered how much she’d overheard. Any of it was too much.
Without another word he strode to the door, avoiding her gaze, which he sensed stuck fast upon him.
“Alex? Did you come to choose another book?”
Unable to ignore her, he halted, already half out of the room. The gown she wore today was a powdery blue. Her eyes were warm in contrast. He dropped his gaze. Protect her. How was he meant to do that?
