Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
MERCY OF THE MOON
Dedications
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Mercy
of the Moon
by
Jennifer Taylor
Rhythm of the Moon Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Mercy of the Moon
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Jennifer Taylor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First English Tea Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-503-6
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-504-3
Rhythm of the Moon Series
Published in the United States of America
MERCY OF THE MOON
was
2nd place winner
in the
Historical Category
of the
2013 Lone Star Writing Competition.
Dedications
To Wayne, for his endless devotion and understanding.
~*~
To my beloved mother Gloria, who lets me be myself.
~*~
To Geoffrey, Leslie, and Emily,
who have shown me the fullness of life.
Acknowledgements
In the fourteenth century, nun and Christian mystic Julian of Norwich spoke these words in her work, Revelations of Divine Love: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” I have respectfully borrowed variations of those words throughout my story. They have often been a source of comfort to me, and I thought they would do the same for my heroine, Maggie. I sincerely hope I have honored her by repeating her timeless words.
My profound thanks to Allison Byers for giving me the opportunity to tell my story, and editing it with calm expertise and kindness. I couldn't have asked for a better experience.
To the members of Romance Writers of America chapter, Sunshine State Romance Authors, for their support and guidance.
And finally, in gratitude for Inspiration across the Atlantic:
To Jo Kirkham for a bounty of endless knowledge, kindness, and patience, and to the Rye Castle Museum for a wealth of information.
To Judith Blincow, Proprietress of the Mermaid Inn, for her grace and generosity.
Chapter One
King’s Harbour
England 1734
The sun sulked low in the sky as Maggie Wilson stood over her sister’s grave in the kirkyard of St. Agnes the Virgin, the ancient church towering over her in judgment. Perhaps if she had not been away when Sarah had borne her child, she could have saved her. The midwife of the town of King’s Harbour knew well that death all too often triumphed over valor. But must it be Sarah?
She endeavored to picture her lying under the dark earth, lifeless and cold, to face the reality she was gone, but could not fathom it. Yesterday her sister had been full of cheer as always, and yet only hours ago she had died and was buried hastily, and Maggie did not know why. But her grief did not matter just now, for Sarah’s husband Samuel, daughter Ruthie, and their sickly newborn babe depended on her.
A gust of wind sent a shower of water from the trees overhead, splattering the top of her head. Wind picked up the edges of her cloak and whipped it around her legs. Sarah was gone. She must mourn alone and carry on.
At first she thought the wind cried. But a man’s voice, singing of loss and sorrow, a plaintive cry knife-edged with rust, cut into her with cold desolation. She clenched her jaw and willed herself not to feel it. Searching into the twilight for the singer, she saw a figure shrouded in shadows, standing at the far end of the kirkyard, face turned to the clouds.
He sang on, silver notes of sorrow, otherworldly and heart-stopping. Against her will, the music seeped bone-deep, cold covering her like a winding sheet. She sank onto the grave, trying to gather Sarah to her to keep her safe. But she could not save her—she was gone. Harsh sobs racked Maggie’s body. The control kept throughout the day broke apart like clods of newly dug earth.
She did not know how long she lay upon her sister’s grave. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up into a man’s face. It must be the singer, for no one else was about. He stood quite tall. His eyes, green like spring leaves dappled with sunlight, gleamed against the grey sky.
“Madam, I fear for your health. Are you able to rise?”
“I heard singing,” she said. “And then...” She began to sob again, cursing her weakness.
The stranger helped her to her feet. As he bent down, the scent of cloves and oranges wafted from his cloak. The long fingers gripped her arm, warming the wet wool. Maggie gulped and struggled to control her sobs, standing and swaying, focusing on his face, his high, sunburnt forehead, slightly sunken cheeks with brown stubble visible in the muted light of dusk. Hair blew around his shoulders in tangled curls. He regarded the midwife with concern.
Between gasps of air she said, “I am quite all right.” Nothing could have prevented her from asking, “Why were you singing?”
“I was mourning my older brother, in my fashion. He was the town apothecary. I have come to King’s Harbour to open the shop in his stead. My given name is Ian,” he added without invitation.
She began to feel like herself again. “Daniel Pierce? He died from smallpox six months ago, and you are only mourning him now?”
He flinched. “I have just returned from the Orient. I was searching for herbs and medicines. And other things,” he added, an odd, pained look passing over his face.
She glared at his fingers still gripping her arm. The warmth of them was a reminder her reputation would be in jeopardy if seen alone with him, yet they stood still as tombstones while the sky darkened with the coming of night. A red, jagged scar on the left side of his jaw curled toward his earlobe. As they stood there, he began to sing under his breath, the words unrecognizable. He gazed at her intently, Adam’s apple moving in his muscular neck.
She jerked her arm from his grasp. “Why must you sing? There is no need for it. If it weren’t for your damnab
le singing, I would not be losing my composure. And that is something I cannot afford to do.” The tears came again against her will.
His eyes widened. “I am sorry for your grief. Was it your husband?”
“No, she was my sister and midwife partner.”
He searched her face and smiled wanly. “I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
“I must go and attend to the living.” Maggie turned away from him. The need to return to Sarah’s family compelled her to hurry toward Church Square. What if the wet nurse had not yet arrived?
He followed her. “Then I will get you home as quickly as I can. It is nearly dark, and the Hawkhurst Gang might be lurking about even now. What kind of a man would I be to leave you to the smugglers’ devices?” He took her arm, murmuring, “It’s a shame there are no rickshaws—’twould be faster.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He shook his head and smiled, a dimple appearing below his right eye. “Forgive me, I was just remembering.”
What a peculiar man. “Your company is not necessary. I travel these streets day and night to deliver babies, and I’ve not been harmed yet,” she said. “They leave Maggie Wilson, the work horse alone.”
He halted. “Work horse?”
“Oh yes, so named by the men of the town, and it matters not. ‘That Maggie,’ they say, ‘crippled and old at five and twenty, and if you marry her, your children will likely limp. But she works so hard you’ll never have to.’”
He paused again, laughed and then coughed. “Work horse? Miss, I assure you—when I look at you, I do not see a horse. Oh, no indeed. Not with those eyes, grey like early dawn.”
His long fingers warmed her arm against the wind.
“What I am does not matter,” she said.
“Does it not?” Rain glistened upon his unbound hair. How careless of him to venture out in this weather without a hat.
“No,” Maggie said. “My family is my only concern.”
She quickened her pace and pulled her cloak against the blast of wind from the English Channel. What had possessed her, to confess to this stranger what she had told no one else except for dear Sarah, engaging in idle conversation as if there was not a cottage full of grief and two motherless children to care for? Keeping them alive was the only thing she could do for Sarah now.
The trip home seemed interminable as they walked against the bitter sea wind.
“If I might ask, what happened to your sister?”
Must she be forced to say it aloud? “I do not know what happened, other than she died in childbirth while I delivered a babe in Winchelsea. Having been forced to spend the night there, I had only just disembarked on the ferry this afternoon to learn Sarah had already been buried.”
His pressure increased upon her arm in comfort. “Had she been ill?”
“Other than a slight headache and swollen ankles, she had been in the best of spirits. I do not know why she was buried without the traditional mourning period.”
“And you must find out what transpired,” he added.
“Yes. I do not even know who delivered the baby.”
As they turned onto Market Street, she slipped on a patch of grass that grew amidst the cobbles, the result of centuries’ worth of grain-laden wagons on the way to market.
His hands steadied her at the waist. The heat of them braced her against the salt-tainted wind from the sea. Clove wafted from his cloak, and he stood, not letting go, and hummed a minor melody foreign to her ears.
She pulled away. “Thank you.”
He nodded and sniffed. “I smell herring.”
“Yes, yes. Of course you do.” The wind from the Channel pummeled and forced her to raise her voice. “The rippiers selling fish are gone for the day, but the smell never leaves. We must give King George his fish.” Why was she babbling about fish?
Conversation had shortened the distance. It would not be long now before she arrived at the cottage shared with sister and family. Maggie walked as rapidly as possible, her foot growing numb as it often did after a long stint of birthing; breech births were fraught with difficulty. She said a quick prayer of thanksgiving for the child delivered this morning.
She carried a daily reminder of her own breech birth, thanks to an incompetent midwife. According to her late grandmother, the midwife in her impatience pulled her out of the birth canal by the right foot, leaving her with a permanent limp and a tendency to stumble, especially when fatigued. But she got to where she needed to go and needed to get home quickly. Was Sarah’s newborn still alive?
Lost in her own urgency and thoughts, she did not at first notice the man was humming again. She did not recognize the tune, but something about his voice warmed her like a foreign sun—how tired she must be to be so fanciful. Sarah was the fanciful one in the family.
They passed the Siren Inn, a favorite meeting place for the Hawkhurst Gang, a group of smugglers who terrorized the area. The roar of revelers overpowered the wind. A few sailors and townsmen hung about outside. Mr. Pierce exchanged sides to put himself between Maggie and the inn, encircling his arm around her shoulders protectively. She sidled away from him.
He cleared his throat. “I heard the smugglers killed again last eve.”
“No, I did not know. Who was the unfortunate victim?”
“Jacob Morris. He was seen leaving the Siren Inn and found hours later with a knife in his back.”
“He must have seen something he shouldn’t have. Remaining invisible is the best way to survive. Even a child learns to keep a cautious eye out.” She quickened her pace, listening for the owl hoots that the Hawkhurst Gang used as a way of communicating with one another.
They turned north at the docks. The frantic lapping of the ocean against the pilings echoed her anxiety at what might have transpired at home. She set her shoulders against the weight of all that needed to be done.
Finally, she stopped in front of Samuel’s blacksmith shop. “Thank you for accompanying me.”
“I am at your service. And once again, I am sorry for your loss.”
“And I am sorry for yours as well,” she said.
The leaf glow of his eyes carried a warm breath of spring toward her. He bowed and turned away.
Maggie passed through the entryway to Samuel’s blacksmith shop and inhaled the acrid odor of smoke and horses’ hooves. She felt her way across the length of the dim barn, dodging wagon wheels and bits of metal, and shuffling to alert the rats that burrowed in the straw-coated ground.
The cottage lay at the end of a well-worn path. She opened the heavy oak door to find a hearth fire roaring and illuminating Ruthie in a rocking chair, curled around the bundle in her arms. Setting her coat on the scarred trestle table beside the front window, Maggie removed her apron and cap and peered over Ruthie’s shoulder.
“How is the baby?” She pulled down the top of the swaddling blanket.
“She is breathing dreadfully fast, Aunt Maggie, and holds her breath at times.” Ruthie’s pale blue eyes so like her mother’s turned cloudy with worry, her plump cheeks flushed from the fire.
The midwife had seen this trouble before with the early babes, and despite the urgency of the situation, could not resist assessing Ruthie’s innate and precocious skill. “And what do you do when she holds her breath?”
She folded her arms around the bundle, eyes alight. “I joggle her just a tiny bit, and she does…like so…” She took a breath, held it, and then blew it out.
She leaned down to kiss the little head, a slight smile upon her face. Her aunt marveled she had known instinctively what to do.
“You make a fine nurse for a mere lass of eight, my sweet,” she crooned. “Your mother would be proud.” She stroked Ruthie’s dark curls.
The little lips quivered, and Maggie cursed herself. Could she not learn to think before speaking?
She blinked repeatedly. “It’s windy out tonight. Is Mama cold, Aunt Maggie?”
Maggie lifted her and the baby and sat them on her lap in the
rocking chair. “No, Ruthie. Your mother is with the angels now. She is warm and safe.”
At that, the little girl fell apart, sobbing in her arms, bony shoulders shaking.
Maggie wiped her tears with the blanket her mother had spun for her and longed to join her in weeping, but it was up to her to remain strong. Besides, at the kirkyard, she had opened up the floodgates only to leave herself vulnerable to the familiarities of a stranger, allowing him to put his hands upon her, more than once.
Despite herself, Maggie sniffed her forearm, where a hint of clove and oranges lingered, warm like the stroke of his long fingers. She bolted upright, appalled.
Ruthie eventually ceased her crying and met the baby nose to nose, humming softly. She glanced up, eyes bright. “Oh! I coaxed Sissy to suck a bit from the bubby pot.”
After Maggie had arrived from Winchelsea, before going to the kirkyard, she mashed together a mixture of bread soaked in ale as a substitute for mother’s milk until the wet nurse could arrive. She then scooped the mixture into a bubby pot, which resembled a shallow gravy boat, covered with a piece of linen fastened on the narrow end acting as a nipple for the suckling baby. While far from ideal, this concoction saves many a babe from starvation.
“Oh, well done,” Maggie exclaimed. “Hand over your sister now and have a bit of bread before you rest.”
With exquisite gentleness, Ruthie placed the baby in her arms and slid off the chair. She sat at the table, poured herself a mug of milk from the pitcher, and then smeared blackberry preserves on a hunk of dark bread.
Maggie removed the swaddling in order to properly acquaint herself with Sarah’s babe, who had yet to be named. The wee thing’s body measured no longer than her forearm and the little bottom fit into her palm. She had the fine downy covering of hair she had seen before on babies born early. Truly, there was no earthly reason why she still drew breath. They could only attempt to feed her, keep her warm, and perhaps she would thrive. It all lay in the hands of God. And perhaps, Maggie mused, the new apothecary might have some exotic herbs to strengthen her.
The door slammed with the arrival of the wet nurse, Joannie O’Neal. She set a cloth-wrapped bundle on the table and swooped down on Ruthie.
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