by Pamela Clare
He glanced around but saw no one. Depressions in the grass around the tree told him someone had been there moments before. But who? And why? Mounting again, he rode through the trees looking for answers.
When he neared the plantation outbuildings a frustrating hour later, Alec glimpsed two carriages in the courtyard, one pulled by a matching pair of bays, the other by a team of dun geldings. Recognizing the latter as belonging to Sheriff Hollingsworth, he brought Boadicea to a gallop.
Freedom had arrived at last.
Hitching the mare to the porch rail, he took the steps to the great house two at a time and was met at the door by Nettie, who led him down a hallway to a simply but elegantly furnished sitting room. He’d barely had time to register the seated forms of Cassie and the sheriff, to note Geoffrey Crichton’s overdressed presence at the window, when a strange woman detached herself from the background and walked toward him.
“Well, ’ello there, Cole.” Her smile revealed broken and missing teeth, her tone openly sexual. Her face, though perhaps once pretty, was wrinkled and scarred from the pox. “Miss me?”
Alec saw the blood drain from Cassie’s face, saw her hands clutch the arms of the chair. “Who is this woman?”
“A fellow prisoner from Newgate who has just confirmed that you are, indeed, Nicholas Braden, felon and liar.” Crichton turned toward Alec with a triumphant sneer.
“That’s impossible.”
“You’d best give up this ruse, convict, for it will bring you nothing but the lash.” Crichton rested one hand on the back of Cassie’s chair and gave a limp wave with the other. “One would think from the look of your scarred hide that you’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.”
Alec had never been accused of lying, and had he been at home in England, he would have called out any man who dared to do so. It was by the slimmest margin that he now managed to keep his temper in check.
“I speak the truth.” He addressed the sheriff, who sat on a green brocade settee, his enormous form taking up space intended for two. “My name is Alec Kenleigh. I’ve never seen this woman before today.”
“More lies!” Crichton snarled.
“Sally, you’d best take another look. A man’s life is riding on this,” the sheriff said to the bondswoman. “We already know you’re a thief, a whore, and a liar. Consider yourself under oath. If we learn you’re lying about this, you’ll stand in the pillory, and I’ll personally cut off your ears.”
For a moment the bondswoman’s face turned a sickly white. Then she stepped closer to Alec, inspecting him from head to toe. Her brown hair was heavily streaked with gray and hung in dirty strands to her shoulders. She stank. How could any man, no matter how long deprived of the pleasures of a woman’s body, pay to tup such a repulsive creature?
“You claim to have known Nicholas Braden in prison?” Cassie rose. Dressed in a pale blue gown, her hair freshly coifed, she looked every bit the genteel plantation owner’s daughter, not at all the type to swim in her shift alone in a river. Her face was impossibly pale. Her hands were trembling.
“Aye, I knew him, if you get my meaning, Missy.” Sally gave Cassie a lewd grin. “He had a big appetite for the ladies, ’e did. The gaoler gave me to ’im more than once.”
Cassie’s eyes widened, and Alec saw hurt and remorse fill them. She looked away.
“Cassie, she’s ly—”
“He’s hung like a bloody stallion, though ’tain’t how big it is, mind.” Sally laughed. “’Tis what a chap does with it what matters.”
“Quit your indecent prattle, woman.” Crichton looked at the bondswoman with a menacing glare that made her visibly shrink. “Miss Blakewell is gently bred and needn’t hear such filth.”
“Is this or is this not Nicholas Braden?” The sheriff shifted impatiently.
The room was silent. Sally’s gaze darted to Crichton before resting on Alec. “Aye.”
“Who is forcing you to lie?” Alec grabbed the old woman’s wrist and forced her to look him in the eye. “Is it someone in this room?”
The woman’s brown eyes grew wide with fear, and she began to stammer incoherently. What at first was only a hunch, Alec now knew to be the truth. Someone was coercing her to lie about him. Someone here had so terrified Sally, she had risked mutilation and public humiliation to avoid his—or her—wrath. Inspiring such horror hardly sounded like something of which Cassie was capable. But if not she, then who? Crichton, perhaps? The fop hated Alec, for certain, and the old whore seemed afraid of him. But then his contempt for all beneath him was palpable. The sheriff? What motivation could he possibly have?
Filled with pity and disgust, Alec released her. There seemed to be little point in further questioning the woman. He felt certain that whoever had put her up to this was in the room, watching. She’d reveal nothing more.
“Murphy, what say you?” asked the sheriff.
Alec noticed for the first time a wiry, middle-aged man with an unusually long nose. He stood off to one side, holding his hat in his hands. Dressed in a plain cotton shirt and breeches, the man examined him carefully, one hand stroking the stiff gray whiskers on his chin.
“I can’t be certain,” he said at last. “Braden was a tall man, for sure, and his hair was dark. But the nose is all wrong, and he was big and soft around the middle, not the hale sort at all.”
“What about my voice.” Alec’s hope kindled. “Surely you had occasion to speak to the man. Was his voice like mine? Was his speech refined?”
Murphy considered this for a moment. “I can’t say for certain. Braden always used pretty words, sir, but the voice . . . It has been so long. Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. I just can’t remember.”
“Is there anything else you two can tell us?” The sheriff looked as frustrated as Alec felt. “Did anything unusual happen before you sailed? Did you see or hear anything?”
Sally shook her head, looking at the floor.
Murphy rubbed his whiskers, then nodded. “Braden took sick with gaol fever afore we sailed. He was shakin’ and shiverin’ when they brought him aboard. Couldn’t walk, eat, nor hold up his head. I thought they should’ve just left him in the gaol to die in peace instead of sendin’ him to this place.” ‘
“Get on with it, man.” Crichton motioned impatiently with his hands. “Just tell us the parts of the story we need to hear.”
“Some of the men swore Braden died the night afore we sailed. They said they saw him starin’ open-eyed at nothin’, blue as the sea and not breathin’. Since his shackles was empty that mornin’, I believed them. But the next I knew, a fellow the crewmen said was Braden was makin’ such a noise on the other side of the wall, captain had him flogged, not once, but two or three times. I member thinkin’ that the fever must have destroyed his mind.”
Alec closed his eyes. Broken images flashed through his memory. His wrists bound painfully above his head. Darkness. Throbbing pain in his head. A foul-smelling rag in his mouth. Unrelenting thirst. The agony of the lash as it bit into his flesh again and again.
“That was not Nicholas Braden. ’Twas I.”
“So you awoke one morning to find Mr. Braden’s shackles gone and were told he was dead?” Cassie asked, some of the color back in her cheeks.
Murphy nodded.
“And the next day the sailors told you that he was in the bed next to you?”
“Aye, Missy.”
“Did they tell you why they had moved him or why they’d beaten him?”
“Nay, Missy.”
“Did you see him again after—”
“This proves nothing.” Geoffrey strode across the room to stand between Cassie and Murphy. “The mutterings of a filthy whore. The ramblings of a thief. This entire effort has yielded nothing.”
Sally shrank against the wall as he looked in her direction. Murphy gazed at his own feet.
Sheriff Hollingsworth stood. “I’m afraid I agree with young Master Crichton. Though certainly suspicious, what we have here is neither enough to
warrant releasing you from your indenture or enough to prove your words lies, Braden. I’m afraid we shall have to wait for word from London before this matter can be put to rest. Until then, Nicholas Braden you remain.”
Alec’s hopes disintegrated. He struggled for control as fury surged white-hot through him. “Damn it, man! Nicholas Braden died, and I was put in his place. It’s obvious.”
“Perhaps. But I still need proof.” Sheriff Hollingsworth’s tone was final. Then he turned to Crichton, the entire matter apparently forgotten. “Come, Geoffrey, the cook has baked some of that wheat bread of hers. She won’t be able to hide it from me this time. I can smell it.”
With a hearty laugh and a slap on the younger man’s back, the sheriff made for the cookhouse after instructing both convicts to wait for him by his carriage.
“I’ll be watching you, convict.” Crichton’s flat gray eyes peered menacingly out from under his white wig. His upper lip curled with contempt.
“Go to hell.” Alec turned and strode from the room.
Chapter Twelve
Cassie strolled with Geoffrey toward the crowded cookhouse, surreptitiously watching Cole lead Boadicea to the stables, trying to respond politely to Geoffrey’s inquiries despite the turmoil raging within her. First the prostitute had convinced her Cole was nothing but a scheming, lecherous liar. Then Murphy, who seemed to be the more trustworthy of the two convicts, had raised enough doubt in her mind to convince her again that Cole might be telling the truth. The events Murphy described on board ship certainly were odd.
“Catherine? Have you heard anything I’ve said?”
“I’m sorry, Geoffrey. Do go on.” She gave him her warmest smile and tried to look like a woman who had nothing more on her mind than playing hostess to her father’s guests.
“I said my favorite bitch has dropped another litter of pups. I was wondering if Jamie might want one.”
“How very kind of you, Geoffrey. I’m sure he’d love a puppy.”
“It’s settled then. They should be weaned by my birthday celebration. You can pick one and take it home with you.”
Shouting poured from the cookhouse.
“I know it’s here, woman. I can smell it!” The sheriff stood nose to nose with Nan—or rather belly to belly—arms akimbo in the center of the kitchen.
“It’s tarts ye smell, old man.”
“The only tart around here is standing in front of me! Where’s the bread?”
“Grow yer own wheat, and I’ll happily teach yer cook to bake it herself!”
“Come, Nan.” Cassie put the butter crock and a pot of honey on the table in hopes of getting the sheriff and Geoffrey on their way as quickly as possible. “We’ve more than enough to share. Please, Sheriff, Geoffrey, sit and refresh yourselves. Nan, fetch some of Rebecca’s cheese, please, and some cool cider. I’ll go get a loaf of fresh-baked bread, piping hot from the ovens.”
Nan’s mouth dropped open, but she said nothing.
Cassie looked to where Elly sat at the table, one eye on her sewing—and one on Geoffrey. “Perhaps you can take your work outside, Elly.”
“But it’s goin’ to be rainin’ any minute.” The bondsmaid had made a fool of herself every time Geoffrey had stopped by since Christmas.
Though Cassie had meant to discuss Elly’s behavior with her, she had yet to do so. Perhaps now would be a good time.
“Is it rainin’ now, child?” Nan gave Elly a grumpy frown, obviously not happy at having to share her bread.
“Nay.” Elly rose and stomped out the door.
“Let me help you.” Cassie took the sewing basket from Elly, eliciting another surprised look from the cook. She followed Elly down the back steps and waited for her to take her place on the bench that sat in the shade behind the kitchen. Cassie lowered her voice. “You really must stop making eyes at Master Geoffrey, Elly. It’s most unbecoming. You’re acting like a lovesick nanny goat!”
She plopped the sewing basket on the bench next to the speechless bondsmaid and walked toward the ovens.
By the time she returned to the cookhouse with a warm, crusty, brown loaf wrapped in her apron, the sheriff and Geoffrey were deep in conversation, the question of Cole Braden long since forgotten.
“Three have already died on the Walker plantation, all children, and none of them seasoned to life in the colony. They say business in Jamestown has nearly come to a halt,” said the sheriff. “Aye, ‘tis the dyin’ time,” Nan said gloomily.
Cassie set the bread on a wooden slab on the table. “The ague?”
She knew the answer.
“The ague.” Sheriff Hollingsworth took the knife Cassie offered and cut himself a generous slice of warm bread. The yeasty aroma filled the small space.
Cassie’s stomach sank. Each summer hundreds died from the devastating fever.
“Have the Walkers no quinquina?”
“Aye, of course they do. But who wants to use medicine on bondsfolk when you might be needin’ it yourself soon?” The sheriff’s callousness made Cassie stiffen.
She said the first words that came to her mind. “I’m sure the mothers of those three children feel comforted knowing their children died so their masters might sleep better.”
“Govern your tongue, young miss. What would your father say if he heard you speak like that to one of his guests?” The sheriff cast her a sharp glance.
“He’d likely agree with her or say something even more absurd.” Geoffrey gave Cassie a dimpled smile. “You know what a radical he is.”
In his own way, Geoffrey believed he was protecting her by defusing the sheriff’s ire. Still, Cassie could not force herself to smile back. He actually agreed with the sheriff on this matter, and that infuriated her. Medicine ought to be available to all who were ill, just as the gifts of the earth were for all to share. So Takotah had taught her, and so she believed.
“Aye, he’s a strange one.” The sheriff spoke with a full mouth. “Abraham has always been full of womanish ideas and a fondness for the wretched of this colony.”
Outraged, Cassie held her tongue. If she had been a man, her father’s heir, she might have spoken her mind. As a daughter she could do nothing but see to her guests’ comfort. Oh, how she wished they would hurry up and go away.
* * *
Outside the cookhouse on the bench, Elly stabbed at linen with a needle and fought the urge to throw the cloth on the ground and stomp on it. If anyone was acting like a lovesick nanny goat, it was Miss High-and-Mighty Blakewell herself. Elly couldn’t have been the only one to notice how flustered and rosy-cheeked Miss Cassie was anytime the convict was nearby. Miss Cassie might be a gentlewoman, but Elly was willing to bet her dinner that Miss Cassie had feelings for Cole Braden—the same kind of feelings she herself had for Zach.
Elly jumped as the needle pricked her finger. She stuck her finger in her mouth and tasted blood. The rasp of the pit saw in the distance told her Zach was hard at work. He’d be covered with sawdust and sweat already. Zach was kind and sweet. And when he kissed her…there was nothing better than that. But he was a bondsman, a sawyer, and he’d never be much more than one meal away from a hungry stomach. She hadn’t come all the way to Virginia to go hungry. It really didn’t matter what she felt for Zach or what he felt for her. No matter how many times he told her he loved her, he could never give her the kind of life she wanted her children to have.
She took her finger from her mouth and pulled out the note she’d hidden in her corset.
“Why haven’t you responded to my letters?” Geoffrey had asked her earlier.
“It’s not proper for a lady to write notes to a gentleman, sir.” She’d been afraid to tell him she could not read and had no idea what was in the three messages he’d sent her.
“You’re absolutely right, Eleanor. And, please, do call me Geoffrey. I think I should like to call you by the Italian—Eleanora. Or perhaps the Greek—Helena. Have you ever heard of Helen of Troy?”
She’d shaken her head.
“It is said she was so beautiful her husband sent a thousand ships to retrieve her when she was taken from him. It is a fitting name for you, my love.”
She’d felt her face flush and had not known what to say.
“Please, Eleanor—Helen—come and sit. Share the tarts with me. It’s shameful the way you are made to work. One as delicate and beautiful as you should have your own house, slaves and servants to care for you.”
“No, sir, I don’t think—“
“Come.” He patted the settee beside him. “I’ll not take no for an answer. There is no one here to see.”
That wasn’t true. The old woman he’d brought with him sulked in the corner, and Nettie lurked in the hallway, her disapproving gaze following Geoffrey’s every move. Still, Elly had been unable to resist Geoffrey’s dimpled smile or the tarts that sat on the table before him, so she’d sat. She had sat next to him that way for quite a long time before the others had arrived. They had talked, mostly about Blakewell’s Neck and the convict. He’d asked a lot of questions.
She’d told him that she was afraid of Cole Braden—it wasn’t true, but she knew he didn’t like the man—and he’d assured her he’d do all he could to keep her safe. Then he’d asked her to meet him in the forest. Shocked, she’d shaken her head without thinking. Geoffrey had immediately begged for her forgiveness for asking her to do something so improper and asked her to come with Miss Cassie to his birthday party. Then the sheriff had arrived.
Miss Cassie could believe whatever she wanted to believe, but Master Geoffrey fancied Elly.
Elly resumed her sewing and went back to her daydream of banquets, beautiful gowns, and idle afternoons. Someday it wouldn’t be just a dream. Then Miss Cassie and Nan and everyone else on Blakewell’s Neck who thought of her as nothing but a bondsmaid and a silly child would be forced to treat her with respect.
