Camisha stared at the tavern across the street, shaken. I can’t believe, of all the people sitting at this table, the only one we didn’t think to protect was the guy who really needed to stick around.
Rashall, nearest the door, reacted most swiftly, following Manning a moment later. Bronson leapt after him before the crowd reacted, and Camisha leaned out the window to watch. Manning raced out into the street.
Before Bronson had time to draw his pistol, Rashall raised his arm and fired. Manning jerked and collapsed into Duke of Gloucester Street.
Bronson reached them and held out his loaded gun to Rashall. Without speaking, they traded guns. No one in the street had been paying close enough attention to say for sure who had done the shooting. By the time the crowds in the taverns spilled out into the street, Bronson was kneeling beside Manning with an empty pistol beside him, searching vainly for a pulse.
The idea of a black man killing a fleeing white man, regardless of the heroic nature of the act, might have caused a sheriff and a grand jury some degree of heartburn.
Inside, Jefferson and Henry were already pressing outside with the crowds. Camisha, Ashanti, and Marley stared at one another in shock. “Holy Cow, I nearly got Thomas Jefferson killed. Malcolm would not have liked that.”
She, too, followed the crowds outside. They found their way to Bronson, where he knelt over the prone form of James Manning.
A moment later, the sheriff—Robert Bolling, his name—appeared beside Bronson. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. I was with friends celebrating at the Raleigh Tavern, and he shot at our table. As he ran, I shot him. I believe he had an old grievance against my brother, Grey. He has attacked my partner and me numerous times and in fact destroyed my last ship at Great Bridge.”
Camisha’s glance strayed to Rashall. His hands were on his hips, his breathing erratic, his face ashen. He bent over at the waist—and she realized he was controlling nausea. She knew her son had lived a dangerous life on the seas, and so his reaction now assured her that he, in fact, had shot Manning.
And then the truth struck her.
She had heard Marley’s suspicions about the shipwreck of the Adventurer, but she was certain she knew the complete truth in this moment. If not for her son—someone who was not even supposed to have existed in this time—Bronson Trelawney would have died tonight, just two months before his thirtieth birthday.
One last job, indeed.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Marley sat on the chesterfield in the Adamses living room, in Boston. The city was in her June finery, and on a leisurely day in the twenty-first century, this would be the finest time to visit.
On this day in the eighteenth, it was a time of heartbreak. Without twenty-first century technology that offered the illusion of uninterrupted closeness, thousands of miles apart, goodbyes had meaning and people couldn’t deceive themselves otherwise.
The woman sitting across from her, soundless tears streaming unheeded down her face, had become something of a sister, something of a mother, to Marley. She was the most solid tie Marley had ever had to Rachel. She did not know what life held in store, or whether they would ever meet again.
She could not imagine the sadness this woman knew, aware the same was true of her relationship with her eldest son.
They had returned to Boston to hear the good news that both Eston and Helen’s husband Taleeb had a short leave. This had comforted them and certainly delighted the children—and then, last night, finally, Rashall had taken them aside and given them the heartbreaking news.
He was joining St. Peter’s in Bermuda to serve the Anglican church as a vicar. Perhaps in time he would be able to return—ideally to a church in Boston. But for now, he felt certain this was the way forward.
Camisha’s heart was breaking. She knew—as she’d told Marley—that Rashall was a grown man. He was certainly in better hands serving God than he had been smuggling gunpowder. But she didn’t like him living in Bermuda’s nest of Englishmen, all of them no doubt by now enflamed against the colonials. And being black certainly never helped—especially in a small island nation, where island nations had become synonymous with slave-trading. Where ships came and went every day, as likely as not to be trading in slaves.
And so, again, they were headed out to Bermuda on Immortal. So, again, whether they liked it or not, they were saying goodbye to loved ones.
Even as she thought it, the front door opened with all the young men and women except Marley. They’d been down to the ship, collecting delicacies sent by the Trelawneys at Rosalie. Pies and jellies, frocks and new shoes. In exchange, they sent the Trelawneys books. Always books.
Rashall’s young charge, George, had taken the Trelawney grandchildren under his wing, and the dynamic offered him a childhood that perhaps he’d never known. He and little Ashanti—Shonny—had been in constant company during the entire time the family was here.
Helen and Parks had said their goodbyes, and now they stood on the stairs, watching their family with false cheer. George and Shonny played with a top near the cold fireplace.
“George, time to weigh anchor, son.”
“Aye, sir,” he said—at nine, a free man once again. He handed the top to Shonny. “You work on this while I’m gone. I’ll bring you back some more toys next time I come.”
Camisha hastily wiped her cheeks free of tears and blew her nose. She made a distasteful face at her wrinkled wad of a handkerchief, stuffing it in her pocket as both women rose. Marley took her hand and led her to the door.
“Ray, why don’t you leave George here with Taleeb and me? He’d be so much safer.” This from Helen.
Rashall sent her a look. “He’s mine. He’ll stay with me.”
Marley glanced at Bronson, raising her eyebrows. He nodded—and that quickly, she understood it was time to go.
“I want to go, too,” Shonny said, upset by the signals he’d seen too often in his young life. He knew what these goodbyes meant—crying women—and he was certain that, wherever he went, the uncle he adored did not have to put up with crying women.
Rashall bent to his nephew’s height. “Shonny, I need for you to take care of your mother for me while the other menfolk are gone. Can you do that for me, young man?”
The little boy—eyes as large as saucers, with long, thickly curling black lashes, looked at the floor. “I want to go, sir,” he whispered, his chin trembling. He held out his toy to Rashall. “I’ll share my top. I don’t eat much.”
Ray drew the boy into his arms, hugged him hard—nearly losing it himself. He rose to his feet, passing him up to Taleeb, who’d joined his wife at the bottom of the stairs.
Marley expected a scene, but Shonny merely hugged his father and turned to watch his uncle.
“Well, that went better than expected.” Camisha gave an awkward laugh.
Rashall took his mother’s hand from Marley, then put his arms around her and let her cry for a long while.
At last, she stepped back. “Soon as you’re gone, I’ll be fine. It’s the goodbyes. They never get easier, somehow. And this one—” She shook her head. “We’ll pray for you, son. Please pray for us.”
“Every day.”
At last, they left, and the Immortal was en route to Bermuda.
The last few nights of the journey, they all three lay in hammocks in the captain’s cabin, gazing up at the stars—Marley and her husband sharing one, Rashall in the other. The men sipped rum.
“Mmm,” Marley murmured. “I’m craving a cigar.”
Bronson hugged her. “As am I.”
Rashall used a stick to set his hammock to swaying. “I thought women of a delicate disposition ordinarily craved unholy foods like anchovies dipped in chocolate sauce.”
“Never let it be said that my wife is any kind of ordinary.”
“Ray, why don’t you want to marry my sister?”
He laughed, her old co-conspirator again. “What brought this on?”
/>
“I know she likes you. I know you like her. You’re handsome enough. This isn’t the twenty-first century where we’re worried about how green our grass is, or how European our car, or all the ungodly things women worry about just in staying groomed so they can stack up against whichever Hollywood starlet is showing off her bottom on the Internet.”
“I understood nothing you said after ‘handsome enough.’”
“That’s all right. Neither do those people.”
“Your point?”
“Life is short enough already, but here it’s even shorter. You don’t have time to waste on twenty-first century problems like ‘does she like me?’ or ‘is there somebody better out there?’”
“I’m certain I should never find anyone finer—although I’m not sure what ‘better’ means. She’s kind, intelligent, and beautiful. She’s intellectually curious. She is an altogether exquisite woman. What kind of mate shopping do they do in your old time?”
“You don’t want to know. Please, let’s go back to Stonefield now and get her—before something happens to her.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Neither one of us were born in this century. I’m still not sure what might happen from one moment to the next.”
“Oh, that passes.”
This from a new voice in the room, and instinctively Bronson drew his dirk from his waist as a man—vaguely familiar to all of them—appeared beside Rashall.
“Careful, son. You don’t want to slice your lovely bride. Fear not.”
The man, familiar to Marley, was dressed in a charcoal coat, waistcoat, and breeches, with a bright white shirt, ruffles at the throat and cuffs, and a white stock at his throat. Black hair was tied in a queue at the nape of his neck.
“Who are you? I swear, if you’re an ally of Manning’s, you shall die.” Bronson placed his arm in front of Marley as he deftly climbed out of the hammock.
Rashall, too, was on his feet, but he had drawn no weapon. Marley had noticed weeks ago that, in fact, he had worn no weapons since they left Williamsburg.
The man smiled, his hands raised easily. His gaze was a light gray—almost silver—and guileless. “Don’t you know me? Don’t I resemble anyone you know?”
Bronson replied grudgingly. “You look like my father did when I was a boy.”
“Oh! You’re Grey.” Marley whispered. “I saw you through the portal at Rosalie.”
He touched his nose. “On the nosey.”
Bronson’s knife clattered to the deck as his face paled. Grey retrieved it and held it out to him, lightly handling the blade.
“Prove it to me.” This from Bronson.
“Goodness. The lovely lass just vouched for me. Does her word mean nothing to you?”
“Sir?”
“All right then. The young lady is Merrilea, my own wife’s sister. Let me think. Ah. Something only she and Rachel would know is that Merrilea purloined a necklace that belonged to their mother, and is now quite dear to my own granddaughter. You can just see the small scar she has, like that of my wife, at the corner of her eye, as a heartbreaking reminder of the worst night of her life. And she adores her older sister and still misses her.”
Tears fell from Marley’s eyes as she stared at him.
“And you, sir, are my younger brother. Your mother passed needlessly at your birth because of the poor medicine of this era—but her kin, including perhaps your own father—incorrectly blamed a backwoods curse for her death. As you arrive on the eve of your birthday, even you wonder if your life is drawing to a close by some fate yet unknown to you. You have lived your life taunting death, believing that makes you more firmly ensconced in life. And your father is … well, he’s a hard man to know, but his passion and loyalty are true.
“And you, sir, are the son of a proud Boston free man and his even prouder Virginian wife, who thirty years ago in a trial no doubt still spoken of in the drinking establishments of Williamsburg’s lawyers, saved my life. You have grown up with a father who can be dour—although I’m certain three decades with your mother have softened him—and a brilliant, beautiful mother who enjoys every moment of life, and lets nothing escape her. And there’s something puzzling about her—a way she has of knowing things that she shouldn’t know—that has mystified you your entire life. Oh—and you don’t tell many people this, but you were named after my wife, Rachel.”
Both men stared silently. Bronson watched his older brother, uncertain—until, finally, he extended his hand. “I no longer have faith in the limitations I’ve trusted my entire life. I rely on you to teach me.”
Grey gave a slight bow and shook his brother’s hand, then Rashall’s. “I’m no longer a man to teach about limitations. For thirty years now I’ve taught people about possibilities—of improving the future by learning from the past. Well, Bronson, Rashall, Merrilea—today my desire is to improve the past by learning from the future.”
“Does Malcolm know you’re here?”
He laughed and waved his hand in dismissal. “Do you think I should be here, if not?”
“Good point. By the way, I go by Marley now.”
“Different, but quite lovely.”
“Apparently I was a simple child and couldn’t pronounce the name, and my grandmother thought it charming.”
He laughed. My heavens, he was handsome. She saw a little of Bronson in him when he smiled—she’d never realized how much Bronson resembled their father. Perhaps he had the same impressive bone structure, with his delicate mother’s light coloring and large, tilted eyes.
“Tell us, then, what’s this scheme to improve the past?” Bronson gestured to the table, and they all sat there. “How do you like the ship, by the way?”
“I see old Crowell has done a first rate job in exorcising the demons I invited into the poor old girl thirty-five years ago. She’s indeed restored—rather like I was, after I found Rachel.”
Bronson offered rum, and he accepted.
“Did Crowell see you…er, arrive?”
“No.”
“He’s talked about your ghost visiting the ship countless times over the years.”
“Well, I can’t speak to that. Or at least, I won’t. Malcolm would have my head if he thought I was randomly rambling down days long gone.”
He gave them a cryptic, Mona Lisa smile, leaving Marley certain that he’d haunted his own ship. His mischief was intoxicating. At last, the men settled down, listening to him.
“You see, the future is a place with a vast amount of information. My employer is a center for historical research. I have at my fingertips almost any kind of data or records imaginable—those that aren’t classified, of course.”
“You work for the historic foundation in Williamsburg, don’t you? How did I not know you?” Marley asked. “I worked there for years. I was on the dig for … well, never mind that.”
“Marley, you know why. Neither Rachel’s time travel nor mine occurred until after yours. I didn’t live in the twenty-first century until you vanished.”
“Oh, of course. Right. Sorry, go on.”
“So—along with teaching visitors about my life and historic events in the eighteenth century—I’ve spent the past thirty years studying other events and how they interlock, and any possible repercussions—good or bad—from those events. For example, the Miller sisters suffered a heartbreaking loss—but out of that, presumably, came some good. Rachel met Camisha when Rachel was adopted, and we all met our loved ones.
“And so one looks at the eventual good that came, long after the tragedy, and one can’t help but wonder whether it was worth it.”
Marley interrupted. “What’s to say the good wouldn’t occur, anyway? I read your ship log, so I know you’re aware my parents both were born in the eighteenth century. Perhaps our traveling in time is a result of that—if an explanation can be found at all. And if no logical explanation exists, which certainly makes far more sense than anything we’ve experienced, then what’s to be
said for the logical progression of cause and effect?”
“A compelling argument indeed. But you know the importance of, as we’ve all come to appreciate—in fact Malcolm’s insistence on—doing nothing to alter historic events, regardless of how much improved we believe they might be.
“So, for the moment, let’s set that aside. I’m not allowed much time here tonight, by the way—only an hour—and so I need to get out what I came to say.”
“Please, go on.” This, from Bronson.
“In my research, I learned much about the man who—well, who committed the crimes against the Millers. And many questions remain.
“For example, nothing—and I do mean nothing, not only on the man who did the evil deeds, but on his brother, who protected him—nothing exists in their lives before the year 1976.
“I feel as if I owe something to young Robert—who was the son of my own seaman, Gideon—and his bride, Cassandra. You must know, Marley, that I did not realize who Gideon was until Rachel and I were married and living in the twenty-first century.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“I found them. Well, not them—they had passed away years earlier, but, again, I did a records search, expecting perhaps to read ancestry items. Instead, I found their death certificates. They passed away in the early 1990s. At that point I realized that they had traveled in time. I demanded to know from Malcolm the ever-widening scope of this time-travel scheme, and he said that the Millers—Gideon and Sarita, that is—were the first who brought children from another time, setting off the possibility of chain reactions. All I could think was what poor Hastings would say of all this. He always thought it so unseemly.”
“He still does. He’s still the same—well, I didn’t know him, but for a man in his eighties, he’s filled with energy and affection.”
Immortal (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Book 2) Page 43
