Heart's Heritage

by Cecil, Ramona K. ; Richardson, Lisa Karon;

  She was shackled in line with seventy-three other prisoners and herded through Yorktown and into the countryside. The forced march made her legs and lungs burn. She hadn’t had so much exercise in ages. Yet, even the indignity of the manacles could not quite dim her curiosity. Magnificent oaks draped with some sort of feathery, ethereal plant stood like guardians on either side of the road. Was that some sort of moss? Her fingers itched to search one of Father’s old books for the plant’s name.

  The man in front of her staggered, jerking her attention to him. She steadied him with a hand to his elbow while trying not to trip over his floundering limbs. The prisoner behind her thumped into her back.

  For the first time since their landing, Merry took notice of her fellow captives. Scant food and the fetid air belowdecks had enfeebled them. Most shambled forward, heads down, faces distorted with filth and despair. She glanced back at the man who had bumped her. His eyes were so glazed he seemed barely aware of his own movement, much less his surroundings.

  She had only been saved from the same fate through the friendship of Sarah Proctor. They had grown close in Newgate when Merry nursed Sarah through a bout of malignant quinsy. She missed Sarah’s practical company now. But her friend, though a convict, had had money set by. Sarah had paid for them both to share a small cabin and receive edible food. And now she had paid her own ransom, and would not have to suffer the indignity of an indenture. She had offered to pay Merry’s ransom as well, but Merry could not bring herself to saddle Sarah with her upkeep, too. Now Merry questioned that decision.

  At last a cluster of whitewashed houses, gleaming in the sun, heralded the beginning of a neat little town. Far from the crudeness Merry had expected, the town was built in fashionable style. Large clapboard homes with numerous windows watched over tidy streets. The town felt crisp and new, completely unlike London’s jaded urbanity.

  Passersby eyed the long file of prisoners, but without the derision they had endured in London. Here they were worthy of neither scorn nor compassion—no more or less than livestock for sale.

  They were driven to a market green at the heart of the town. Most of the prisoners collapsed to the ground. They sounded miserable as they gasped for air. The guards had given them no water all morning.

  Merry found the six other women from the ship, and they huddled together.

  A stream of well-heeled customers flowed around them like water surrounding an island. Despite the warmth of the day, Merry nearly took refuge beneath her cloak. But the guards would only have taken it from her. It was plain they wanted the wares on display, though the scrutiny of the strolling men stripped her to the core.

  How had she been reduced to this?

  Why?

  Her tongue swelled in her mouth and her cheeks burned. Torn between the desire to disappear and the desire to shout her accomplishments, so as to obtain a good place, she trembled and sat still.

  For the first time in months she muttered a prayer. A last resort. But she could summon no conviction. And the supplication dribbled away as Merry’s grief lodged in her throat.

  The heat wilted all but the strongest of the convicts. Dust stirred up by dray horses and carts and a thousand feet rose into the air, clogging her nose and mouth. Merry fanned herself with her free hand, but there was no relief to be had.

  An elderly man some ten feet from Merry was the first to faint. Two others soon followed.

  A wealthy tradesman wearing a violently purple waistcoat poked the man with his cane. “Weak stock.”

  His companion nodded as if soaking in words of wisdom.

  Merry shot to her feet, irons jangling. Sarah had taught her how to handle importunate men. “ ’Ere now, cully, you leave us be, or I’ll scratch yer eyes out.” She glared at the man with all the impotent fury she had nursed in the last three months.

  The man’s eyes widened. “How dare you.”

  “Get.” Lips pulled back in a snarl, Merry jerked her head toward the street.

  “Hoyden! You’ll regret this display.” The man led his friend away to the captain. His gesticulations and furtive glances made it clear he was reporting her behavior.

  Merry continued to stand, head held high, though her heart pounded in her throat.

  The captain stalked toward her. “What’s all this then?”

  “Sir, that gentleman was most offensive.” Without giving him time to offer a rebuke she continued. “Pray tell, do you wish to make a profit on this human cargo?”

  The question and her genteel accent seemed to confuse the man.

  Merry went on, “I ask because you have done yourself a disservice. These people will be more lively and active if they are given some water. And that can only translate into more money for your coffers. If you wish, I would be willing to draw and distribute the water.”

  He eyed her for a long moment as if trying to comprehend what fraud she was plotting. At last he gave a short jerk of his head. “Very well. But a guard will go with you.”

  Merry nodded. It was no more than she had expected.

  With the guard at her side, Merry took her place in the line for the pump. She filled a bucket to the brim and drank deeply. Even warm, the water felt glorious as it swept away the grit. Arms wrapped around the bucket, she hefted it up. She staggered and water sloshed over her, drenching her bodice.

  Trying not to spill any more of the precious liquid, she hauled it back to the cluster of prisoners. They drank gratefully, greedily—slurping at the water and sighing as if they had never tasted anything so sweet. They soaked their kerchiefs in it and wiped their faces, eyes closing in delight.

  Merry moved to the next person in the row and then the next. She refilled the bucket twice more and succeeded in giving them all a drink before her guardian insisted she return to her place. She put her hands to her aching back. Kneeling and bending with the bucket had become tedious long ago.

  No sooner had she settled among her fellows again than the auction began. One by one the prisoners were led to the block. Merry turned away, stomach churning.

  Inevitably, her turn came. She hesitated in climbing onto the block, and the guard prodded her forward. Her hands were damp, her throat dry again.

  Men and women milled about the square, some looking prosperous, others mercenary. Most seemed to be in search of a specific type of servant. They gossiped and debated with friends until the convict they wished to bid for was put up.

  The auctioneer’s voice boomed preternaturally loud by her ear. “Name: Merry Lattimore, transported after conviction for larceny. Term of indenture is to be seven years. Former employment: governess. Can read and write and do sums. Some knowledge of herbs and physic. Age: twenty-two years. She is in good health. Unmarried. No children.”

  Merry cringed to be reduced to such a paltry accounting.

  “Bidding will start at ten pounds.”

  Less than a good dray horse.

  “Ten pounds.”

  Merry ripped her gaze from the ground. She knew that voice. It was the tradesman in the purple waistcoat, and he had a nasty gleam in his eye.

  Connor made a sharp gesture, catching Graham’s eye. After seeing the lad before him led away in manacles, Graham rose and rubbed his eyes. For an instant, as the door opened and the boy stepped outside, all Graham could see was Merry Lattimore’s slight form as she had passed through those same doors. The two months since her ship had sailed for America had helped not a whit. The memory of her wounded gaze haunted him.

  Retreating to his office, he placed his wig on its pedestal. The door behind him opened, and he turned to see Connor. His friendship with the former thief had begun when Graham had taken his part in a brawl with one of the local bully boys, but had deepened immeasurably since Connor had attended a Methodist meeting, given up theft, and come to work for Graham.

  “What is it?” Graham hung his judicial robe on its hook.

  “You remember them Pagets what had some jewelry stolen a couple months back.”

 
Graham stiffened and turned to face his friend. “Yes.”

  “It’s gone missin’ again.”

  Graham gaped as if the report had been spouted in Dutch. “What?”

  Connor smirked, a disquieting expression on his pugnacious features. “Thought that girl got to you. You’ve been sulking ever since you heard her case. Not your usual pleasant self, one might say.”

  Graham wished heartily that he could protest, but it was true. “I knew her father….”

  “So you said.” Connor shrugged and turned to the door. “I can send one of the lads to look into the matter.”

  Drat the man. “No. I’ll investigate.” Graham snatched his waistcoat and shoved in his arms.

  A wicked grin curved Connor’s mouth until it resembled a devil’s horns. “I thought as much. I told the constable we’d be over straightaway.”

  It didn’t take long to find the pawnbroker who had bought the jewels and determine that Lucas Paget had been behind the theft. Graham had the weasel brought to the office for questioning.

  Tears poured from the fellow as if someone had primed a pump. “I fell into a game of high stakes with a group of, well, they were no gentlemen.” He sniffled into his handkerchief.

  “Get on with it.”

  “The blackguards would not take my offer of payment with my next allowance. They wanted the blunt and threatened … extreme measures if I did not procure it right away.”

  Graham narrowed his eyes. “Beau traps will usually give more grace.”

  Paget refused to meet his gaze, and a dull red blanketed his features. “They somehow got the idea I was trying to gull them by sleight of hand.”

  “So they caught you cheating and ordered you to pay up or else.”

  Paget nodded miserably.

  “Why didn’t you simply ask your mother for the wherewithal?”

  “And listen to her bleating on about it until the end of time?”

  “So you determined to stage a burglary.”

  “I was going to buy it all back next month when my quarterly allowance comes in. It would have been no loss to her.”

  Something Paget had said swirled to the forefront of Graham’s thoughts. “It was you!” He grasped his hands behind his back to keep himself from throttling the rogue.

  “I … yes, I admit I took the jewelry.”

  “No, I mean you were the one who put the jewelry in Merry Lattimore’s bag. With your sleight of hand tricks you slipped the things inside as you opened it.”

  Paget licked his lips.

  Graham’s hands balled into fists. “She could have been sent to the gallows. And all because she did not allow you to defile her?”

  “It wasn’t that,” Lucas wailed. “She found out I had been gaming. She’d have told mother of my … problems at the table. I had to discredit her.”

  The image of Merry answering the accusations put to her, head high and eyes snapping with wounded dignity, rose before Graham then faded into a red haze.

  “C’mon. Graham, let ’im go.”

  Graham blinked, and Connor’s face sprang into his line of sight.

  “Let ’im go. He’ll get his in Newgate.”

  Graham released Paget, and the wretch fell back into his chair, choking and whimpering.

  “Take him away, Connor.” Graham collapsed into one of the other chairs before the fireplace. “I cannot hear his case. Take him to Bow Street.”

  Connor led a defeated Paget away, one hand on his collar.

  Graham stared into the fire. He had taken part in condemning Merry Lattimore unjustly. The guilt of it nearly bent him in two. He slid to his knees. Dear Lord, she was a thousand miles from home, at the mercy of heaven only knew what kind of master. What had he done? He put his head in his hands. “God, help me to make it right.”

  Chapter 2

  Merry breathed in through her nose. No. No. No. Her gaze met the tradesman’s. One side of his nose ticked up in a sneer.

  “I have ten pounds from Mr. Cleaves.”

  She hunched in on herself as if someone had punched her in the stomach. She was going to be hauled away by the vindictive little man and worked to death in tobacco fields.

  Or worse.

  A fly buzzed around her, and she focused on it. The tiny creature was incredibly ugly—no doubt he would be swatted by one of the men present, and still his future seemed brighter than her own.

  “Eleven pounds.”

  The cool, female voice slid over Merry, as refreshing as her first drink of water by the pump. She raised her head, eyes searching for the speaker. Against her will a flicker of hope ignited.

  “Twelve.” A querulous note raised Cleaves’s voice.

  “Thirteen.”

  This time Merry found the speaker. A petite, elegantly clad woman near the rear of the crowd. A tall slave woman stood at the lady’s side holding a parasol over her perfectly coifed hair.

  “Fifteen.” Blotches of red stained Cleaves’s cheekbones.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  The crowd murmured.

  Cleaves’s nostrils flared. His lips twitched, but he said nothing.

  “Twenty-five pounds, once … twice … to Mrs. Benning for twenty-five pounds.”

  The auctioneer nudged Merry and jerked his thumb toward the left. Knees trembling so that she nearly toppled from the platform, she shuffled toward a clerk who sat behind a small table, filling out the legal documents of indenture and accepting payment. The swish of skirts made her turn.

  Her new mistress approached, her gaze focused not on Merry but on the man at the table. Mrs. Benning discussed payment arrangements for a long moment before suddenly turning and prodding the manacles that bound Merry’s wrists. “I don’t think we will need these, do you, Merry?”

  Merry licked her lips. “No madam.”

  The shackles were removed and clunked down among the documents, nearly upsetting the clerk’s inkpot.

  Merry chaffed her wrists. She kept her eyes downcast, unsure of the etiquette of such a situation. “I am grateful for your kindness.”

  Mrs. Benning made no sign she had heard. Half-bent over the table, she wielded the quill with a flourish, signing the document presented to her. With a curt nod toward Merry and her slave woman she marched away from the market green, leaving them to scurry after her.

  A landau awaited Mrs. Benning just outside a tidy brick church. A young black man in handsome livery perched in the coachman’s seat. He scrambled down at their approach and swung the door open for Mrs. Benning. She climbed in without a word, and the lad closed the door behind her.

  Uncertain what to do, Merry halted in midstep. Was she expected to walk? The Negress met her gaze for the first time and indicated with a jerk of her chin that they were to sit on the board at the back, where in London a footman might have stood.

  “Home, Crawford.”

  “Yes’m.” The coachman hopped back up to his place and whipped the horses into a canter.

  The carriage lurched forward, and Merry snatched at the side before she slid right off her precarious seat. Her paltry bundle of belongings skidded toward the edge, and the Negress snatched it back. She seemed unaffected by the movement.

  The meager contents of Merry’s stomach sloshed about, making her regret the water she had drunk. She swallowed, and swallowed again. She could not disgrace herself. Her knuckle showed bone white as her hands gripped the seat.

  In truth, she couldn’t say if it was the motion of the cart or apprehension that unsettled her. What lay in store for her next? Was the ordeal drawing to a close or merely beginning?

  Swaying slightly, Merry clambered from her seat to face an enormous white house on a broad, well-kempt street. No neighbors squashed up next to it as they were prone to do in London. Instead, she could see the edge of a garden and several outbuildings behind the main structure. Black shutters framed wide, arched windows. Gray shingles ran up the mansard roof, parting to allow four
dormer windows to peek out over the street.

  Merry stared at the imposing facade. She felt as if all her emotions had been forced through a strainer, leaving only a leaden, remote sort of apathy.

  Mrs. Benning turned at the top step and glanced around. She caught Merry’s gaze and made an impatient come-here motion with two fingers. As if the imperious gesture had broken some sort of spell, Merry found her legs capable of movement and followed her new mistress inside.

  Mrs. Benning led the way into an elegant room painted a cheerful green. She settled onto a divan. “I imagine you would like to know a bit about your new situation.”

  “Yes madam. If you please.” Merry stood in the center of the room, hands knit loosely in front of her.

  “I believe you would do well as a nanny. My Emma is five and John, three. They are bright, precocious children, but they require firm guidance.”

  “Yes madam.”

  “You will teach them to read and write and some basic arithmetic. I will expect them to be clean and well-fed, their days to be regulated. But don’t forget that they are children.”

  Merry nodded, not trusting herself to open her mouth. So many questions were piled in her head that if she spoke one would surely tumble out.

  “The Benning name is respected throughout the colonies. We have high standards. I had not intended to indenture a convict when I went to market today.”

  “Why did you?” The words were out before Merry could blink. She would have given her last shilling to recall them.

  Mrs. Benning’s cool blue eyes surveyed Merry, and the slightest smile quirked one corner of her mouth before disappearing. “I saw you.”

  Merry frowned. What was she to make of that?

  “I saw you tending the other convicts.”

  A blush heated Merry’s face. “I … the heat.” She failed to keep the defensiveness from her tone. “They needed water or—”

  “I am not critical. Your kindness recalled to mind the story of Rebekah watering all those camels. I felt all at once as if I must purchase your indenture. That, and I detest Thomas Cleaves—dreadful man.”