Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Bristol swallowed and lifted a hand to her mouth, feeling out of place and overwhelmed. Somewhere a crank whirred and the Challenger’s anchor dropped with a splash, striking the waves with sinking finality.

  Eager hands spun rope from knots, and the Challenger’s longboat splashed into gently lapping water. Next, Jane’s trunk disappeared over the rail, swiftly followed by Bristol’s. Everywhere her green eyes touched, men hurried to secure the Challenger, anxious for shore leave, fresh food, and the beckoning taverns of Gravesend.

  Too soon Mr. Aykroyd appeared at Bristol’s side, and his hand closed over her elbow. “It’s time, gel,” he said softly, smiling into her pinched face. Someone threw a rope ladder over the rail, and the men in the longboat below fingered their oars and looked up impatiently.

  The color drained from Bristol’s face. She spun to scan the familiar decks with a last sweeping glance. But she did not see La Crosse. For an instant she thought she saw a flash of open white shirt and blue breeches on the forward quarterdeck, but when she looked again, no one was there; the fleeting image had been a trick of her yearning imagination. She clasped her hands until the knuckles whitened. He wouldn’t let her go without saying good-bye, he wouldn’t.

  “Come along, gel,” Mr. Aykroyd said gently but insistently. He circled her waist and lifted her over the rail. Mr. Speck assisted her into the rocking longboat, and then Mr. Aykroyd slid down the rope ladder and dropped lightly beside her. “I’ll be seeing ye safe on the ferry,” he said.

  In truth, Bristol wondered how she might have managed without him. She’d have been lost and vulnerable on her own. Mr. Aykroyd shouldered a path through the mob, his face and expression discouraging interference. He deposited Bristol in a line waiting to purchase ferry tickets and departed to oversee the loading of her trunk.

  Bristol boarded the crowded ferry reluctantly, casting anxious glances over the shifting crowds, looking for Mr. Aykroyd. She didn’t think she could bear it if the ferry left without a last word for Mr. Aykroyd.

  And it seemed to her the boat made ready to depart. All the wooden benches ringing the sides of the large flat-bottomed ferry were crammed with people. In fact, Bristol realized she’d have to stand for the duration of the six-hour journey.

  “At least ye don’t be having a lengthy wait for departure,” Mr. Aykroyd said when he returned. He cast a threatening eye over the crush of passengers, seeking any faces that might prove offensive. Seeing that most of the passengers were families or persons of quality, he relaxed his fingers on the hilt of his dagger. The nearest faces visibly relaxed, though most continued to stare in horrified fascination at Mr. Aykroyd’s battered features.

  Bristol smiled faintly, suddenly seeing Mr. Aykroyd as the passengers must, as she had when first they met. Salt-crusted and fierce, he looked more a pirate than had most of Sanchez’ men. And Bristol despaired of leaving his comforting affection. “Oh, Mr. Aykroyd...” She shook her head helplessly and lowered her face. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I’ll always...” His continuing support and kindness had been the pillar she’d leaned on in moments of stress during the past two months.

  “Hush, gel, or ye’ll have an old min blushing and spoiling the evil image these folks are imagining.” He glowered at a nearby woman, and the woman paled and clutched her purse nervously. Mr. Aykroyd gave Bristol a delighted wink and grin. He pressed her hand. “Ye keep yer chin up and yer spirits high,” he said, serious again. “Ye’ll do fine, gel. Ye have iron in yer backbone.” He turned to leave.

  “Mr. Aykroyd! Wait!” Bristol’s green eyes held a plea. “If... if Jean Pierre wants to find me, if he... will you tell him that I... I...” Her pride cracked, and a flush of embarrassment colored her pale cheeks.

  Mr. Aykroyd stopped her with an enigmatic smile. “Gel, the captain knows where ye’ll be. He’s known from the first.” Then he was gone; his bobbing cap vanishing in the dock mobs.

  “Wait!” Bristol whispered, knowing it was useless. What did lie mean? Her eyes darted over the crowds, but Mr. Aykroyd had disappeared. She leaned against the bulkhead of the prow and closed her eyes. Ropes hissed and fell on deck, and the clumsy ferry drifted free of the wharf, wallowing toward open water. Slowly the boat turned in a sluggish current, then rocked forward up the Thames River.

  Bristol clutched a metal handle, balancing herself, and noted a few faces watching her with expressions of disapproval. She had an idea her clothing as well as her accent marked her as a colonial. No matter. She dusted her apron and lifted her chin proudly, returning any stares until the unwelcome eyes fell away.

  And all the time her racing mind played back Mr. Aykroyd’s puzzling words. It was impossible for La Crosse to know where she’d be when she didn’t know for a certainty herself. She couldn’t recall ever mentioning Aunt Prudence’s address. London Town housed over half a million dwellers—Jean Pierre could never find her. In addition, Bristol wasn’t certain if Aunt Prudence lived within the city or in a small hamlet outside London. Mr. Aykroyd’s words made no sense. Not only that, Mr. Aykroyd had stated that Jean Pierre had known Bristol’s ultimate destination from the beginning. It simply was not possible!

  She wrestled the mystery until her brain felt numb, and still no answers suggested themselves. Finally Bristol gave it up with a grimace of exasperation. The important thing to remember was that Jean Pierre knew where to find her if he cared to. Or were Mr. Aykroyd’s words merely a kindness, an empty assurance to ease her mind? Bristol’s leaden heart suspected that if Jean Pierre had intended to see her again, he’d have told her so.

  Her chin lifted a fraction. Well, maybe she didn’t want to see him again! Bristol ignored the wrench in her heart. Jean Pierre had used her, then cast her off without a word. If he appeared at Aunt Prudence’s cottage, she’d slam the door in his grinning face. Whether or not she’d do such a thing, Bristol felt better for thinking it, for reclaiming her pride. After all, Jean Pierre La Crosse wasn’t the only tree in the forest; there was still Caleb Wainwright. And never mind that she’d released Caleb and could no longer bring his face into focus; distance did that to memories. Caleb cared for her, and maybe she still cared for him. La Crosse had been but a fleeting experience, nothing more.

  A tiny voice in the depth of her mind laughed, bringing an instant frown to crease Bristol’s brow.

  She abandoned her dead-end thoughts with an effort and tried to concentrate on the passing shoreline, alive with late-spring blossom. She turned her thoughts ahead... and found nothing to cheer her. All her dread concerning the character of Prudence Adams returned in force. What sort of life awaited her, Bristol could only guess, and none of her guesses held a shred of appeal. If Prudence’s letters were an accurate indication, Bristol could expect to spend a great deal of time in tedious prayer.

  A faint, weary smile touched her full lips. She had much to pray about—far more than when she’d embarked on this journey. A ripple of heat passed over her body, and she clasped the metal handle tightly. Nothing could come of tormenting herself with thoughts of La Crosse; she turned a frowning face to the new vistas opening around her.

  The Thames narrowed as the ferry pulled closer to London Town, and the waterway choked with coal barges, barking smacks filled with mounds of fresh mackerel, hoys full of produce, and all manner of water conveyances, some of which Bristol recognized and others she’d not seen before. And the nearer they drew toward London, the worse became the condition of the water they traveled.

  Bristol pressed a linen to her nose, feeling strangled by the putrid fumes wafting from the waves. The Thames was no better than an open sewer. Garbage, offal, and bloated animals clogged the water with increasing frequency.

  Even so—despite the reeking water, despite her pain at each unbidden thought of La Crosse, despite knowing Aunt Prudence’s severity awaited—Bristol surprised herself by slowly being caught up in the excitement of approaching the largest, most exciting city in the civilized world. It was an adventure unparal
leled in her previous experience.

  Her eyes widened and her lips parted in amazement at the enormity of London and its surrounds. Nothing had prepared Bristol for what half a million inhabitants meant in terms of sheer size.

  Long before the ferry passed beneath top-heavy London Bridge, a multitude of several storied houses had been slipping by along the shore, more than Bristol had ever imagined to be in one place. And the industry! A pall of smoky vapor belched from the furnaces of countless brewers, soap-boilers, and dyers, hanging in a dark cloud over miles of the city.

  Bristol stared at the fumy overhang in fascinated repugnance, wondering uneasily if the air was safe to breathe and thanking God she arrived in spring rather than in winter. She shuddered at an image of half a million stoves adding coal smoke to the ominous drift. London must be terrible in winter! With a sinking heart she recalled that she’d be here to see for herself.

  In fact, she didn’t find London all that attractive right now. Exciting, aye; but nice to see and smell, no. The stink around her grew in leaping degrees. Laystalls piled high with dung and human offal dotted the shoreline, and the river was thick and sluggish with malodorous rotting garbage. From the instant the ferry passed the northeastern section of the city, a continuous rain of minute coal particles fell to darken clothing and further poison the air. Bristol’s eyes felt gritty, and she glanced down in dismay as her white collar gradually turned sooty and gray.

  No one in Salem would believe people lived like this, Bristol thought, recalling the clear water of the Frost Fish River and the pure air of home.

  But home hadn’t the usual power to distract her now; too many new impressions competed for attention, there was so much to see and marvel at. Bristol stared long and hard at a massive stone building passing on her right, and her eyes lit with recognition. She’d heard of the famous Tower of London from Noah and others but had never expected to see it for herself. Then London Bridge stretched overhead, piled high with two- and three-story houses and snarling with traffic, the noise drifting down to the strangled waterway below.

  All around the ferry, small boats vied for space. The river reverberated with a vigorous cursing that would have earned instant punishment in New England, but here no one bothered to take note. Bristol blinked and repressed an urge to cover her ears, hearing unique and colorful swear words she’d not previously guessed the existence of. Nothing whatever seemed familiar. She concentrated on the vast buildings sprawling along the shore, shutting the calls of the rivermen out of her mind. As the ferry approached the city proper, modest homes had given way to enormous formal estates.

  Great edifices of stone and brick, some half-timbered, crowded the shore—all of a size to qualify as palaces in Bristol’s mind. But she guessed they must be privately owned, as one king surely couldn’t own and maintain as many palaces as stretched along the riverfront. One after another, these massive buildings passed, each competing with the next in size and splendor.

  Behind the estates rose streets of many-storied tenements, and with a start Bristol realized the tall buildings crowding the skyline cast long shadows. Six hours seemed to have passed in a blink, and the day was waning.

  Lines of rope hauled the ferry steadily toward a stone dock, and the ferryman sweated and swore loudly as he negotiated the boat through brown scummy water. The dock lay between two laystalls piled high with oozing human and animal refuse. Bristol choked. A fetid odor stung her nostrils, and she coughed and wiped her eyes.

  “You’ll get used to it,” a nearby woman offered with a slight smile. The shawl over her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “We all have to.” She hawked a yellow glob of spittle onto the ferry floor. “It’s terrible living here. Terrible. But what’s a person to do?” The woman sighed and joined a press of people jostling to depart on the ferry.

  Bristol swallowed hard. With a heartfelt wish, she hoped Aunt Prudence waited to whisk her away from the smell and dark overhead cloud and the frightening vastness everywhere she looked. The city towered large, noisy, and sprawling. The houses were monstrous. Even the people seemed larger than life. Everything appeared overwhelmingly outsized. Except Bristol Adams. Bristol felt small and insignificant and lost. She hadn’t supposed she’d ever be anxious to find Aunt Prudence, but she was.

  Last to disembark, Bristol stepped onto the stone dock, unbalanced for a moment by the firmness beneath her feet. She paused, standing rock-still, and looked ahead at the swarm of people wandering the dock area. Mariners, dockers, hawkers, and oyster women. Brewers and wood mongers. And others whose clothing or bawling voices didn’t identify them. Bristol shook her red curls and clenched her fists.

  Slowly she advanced into the din and bawdy shouts. She spotted her trunk among a swiftly disappearing pile of luggage, and she walked toward it over a tangle of ropes snaking the ground. Her ears rang with the battering noise, and the stench of London Town burned her nose, thick and offensive.

  Pausing uncertainly, Bristol scanned the thinning crowd near the luggage, seeking someone to fit Aunt Prudence’s description. She saw no one. Rapidly the passengers departed, along with those who had met them, until only Bristol and her trunk remained in the area roped off for ferry passengers.

  Surrounded by rough dock people, Bristol’s fresh face and lush figure were as conspicuous as a rose in a bramble patch. She felt the speculative stares directed toward her, and blushed furiously at a barrage of suggestive remarks howled across the raucous noise of the wharf. Hopefully Bristol turned her face back to the ferry, as if La Crosse or Mr. Aykroyd might suddenly appear to smile reassurance and hurry to her aid. But of course there was no one there.

  Uneasily she fidgeted beside her trunk, twisting her apron into damp nervous balls. What if Aunt Prudence didn’t come for her? What if Noah’s letter had never reached London? What if Aunt Prudence were ill? What if, what if, what if! With a rising sense of panic, Bristol turned a host of speculations in her mind, each more terrible than the last. No matter how stultifying life with Aunt Prudence might be, nothing could be worse than being stranded in this vast city alone and knowing no one.

  A sudden tug at her sleeve interrupted Bristol’s dire thoughts. Relief shining in her eyes, she spun to face a thin little woman, even smaller than herself. Bristol drew a breath and searched the woman’s sour face for a trace of family resemblance. With a sinking heart Bristol decided the woman matched every dismal idea she’d held about her aunt. Fate was yielding up a worse destiny than Bristol had imagined.

  The little woman returned Bristol’s stare with bad-tempered black eyes, and her thin mouth tightened into a line. She thoroughly examined Bristol’s rumpled gown and sooty apron, her expression conveying a disbelief that anyone would dare to appear in public dressed in such clothes. Her own neat gown was fashioned of deepest black from a heavy material Bristol didn’t recognize, and a black shawl partially covered iron-colored hair.

  “Mistress Adams?” A tart voice framed words that were more an accusation than a question.

  Bristol forced her fingers to release the balls of apron. Quite suddenly she remembered that none of the women on the ferry had worn aprons. Or dust caps. Or looked as out of place as she.

  “Aunt Prudence?” she whispered in a faint voice.

  12

  “Certainly not!” the dour little woman snapped. Her thin upper lip curled in disdain and her tone dripped contempt for Bristol’s mistake. “Lady Hathaway waits for you by the carriage.”

  Lady Hathaway? Who was Lady Hathaway? Bristol’s wide eyes followed a toss of the woman’s iron-colored head.

  Away from the noisy activity of the docks stood an ornate carriage unlike anything Bristol could have invented. It looked like a green-and-white house mounted on wheels and decorated with scrolls and swirls.

  Beside the carriage a large woman shaded her eyes and stared toward them, but from this distance Bristol could distinguish none of the woman’s features except a fluff of orange curls puffing from an elaborate headdress. The woman�
�s orange hair added a further confusion. At one time Aunt Prudence had no doubt possessed the Adams fiery hair, but wouldn’t she now be gray—at an age past fifty? And what might a fine lady with a personal carriage have to do with Bristol’s Aunt Prudence?

  The little woman in black ignored Bristol’s questions as she might have ignored a troublesome child. She waved a gloved hand and gestured toward a man in green velvet livery who seemed to be waiting for her signal. The man hurried forward, and without a word he and the woman hoisted Bristol’s trunk and staggered toward the carriage, grunting and stepping carefully through lines of rope and netting.

  “Wait!” Bristol stared after them, astonished that the small older woman had the strength to carry an end of the trunk. Then her senses cleared and she realized they were taking away all her belongings. Bristol lifted her skirts and ran after them. “Wait! Now, see here...” But neither paid Bristol the slightest heed, proceeding as if they didn’t hear her outpouring of protest.

  Bristol halted and sucked in a long breath. Her efforts to wrest an explanation were proving useless. Very well, she thought, narrowing her eyes. It appeared she had no choice but to follow her trunk and submit to Lady Hathaway’s curious interest. Bristol squared her shoulders, unconsciously emulating Hannah, and she reluctantly approached the carriage.

  The huge woman with bright orange hair lifted a gold tipped cane and gestured impatiently. Bristol paused and gaped at an intricate arrangement of curls pasted to the woman’s powdered forehead. The woman’s hair was dyed! Bristol had heard mention of such shocking things, but she’d never expected to actually see dyed hair. And such a color. Bright orange. Beneath the fringe of pumpkin hair lay a round face with generous lips pursed in irritation. The woman’s sharp, knowing eyes observed Bristol as acutely as Bristol studied her.