by Jamie Carie
Drake laughed. “When you’re not fighting, that is?”
Mercy nodded and frowned. “She likes to boss me.”
Drake laughed again and then grimaced as a trickle of red ran from the soap and down his cheek. Holding his finger to the spot to stop the bleeding, he said, “And then there is you.”
“Yes. Can you believe Father had six girls? I know he would like a boy to help him in the shop, but he always says God gave him what he needed. But it does not seem that way. It seems like he needs a son.” She shrugged at the puzzle and abruptly switched topics. “I love the outdoors. Since it is winter and cold, I cannot go out much and Mother says that makes me agitated.” She shrugged. “But Christmas is coming soon and that will make up for having to stay indoors so much. Last, there is the baby, Lidy, who is really no baby at all. She is four and everybody loves her the best, which is fine, because she is the baby.”
Christmas. He’d forgotten Christmas was coming. His last few Christmases had been hectic with parties and the lavish gifts that brought gasps from his friends. Then there were the women—dark-eyed Louisa, golden Flora, and Kate, the sensual redhead from Ireland, to name a few—all hoping to become the next duchess. There were other Christmas memories, too. The deep scent of pine that filled the castle, decked out in all its glory for a season of entertaining. Even though his mother was long gone from them, his father had insisted on a sensational Christmas. If nothing else, they had agreed that it was good for their growing fortune. He remembered the self-congratulatory toasts between he and his father when another investor had succumbed to their combined brilliance. How proud his father had seemed in those moments, and how desperately he’d wanted to please him.
Now he knew. It was all a lie.
And it was gone. All of it. The glittering life, the belonging to a world of privilege and respect, the envy of most everyone around him. In an instant of cold awakening, Drake realized he’d reveled in their envy, thinking himself so much better than most of his acquaintances. Sickened, the razor suspended midair, he stared at the hollow-cheeked man in the mirror.
“Art thou well, sir? Might I get thee a drink of water?”
Drake struggled to bring himself back into the room with Mercy. Back to his new reality. “What a delightful family you have,” he said, but all the lightness was gone from his voice. He wiped off the last of the soap and studied his reflection in the small hand mirror. Who was this strained and thin creature peering back at him? He feared he no longer knew. But he didn’t like him. He looked weak . . .
Drake scowled at the pathetic reflection.
Mercy’s eyes grew as round as an owl’s. With a little screech, she fled the room.
Drake called out to her to apologize, but it was too late. Pull yourself together, man! No sense frightening little children with your foul mood. He was wiping the shaving supplies clean when Serena burst into the room.
“Good heav—” She froze, staring at him. “I . . . um . . .” She swallowed hard. “I heard Mercy scream.”
Drake shrugged. “Must have been my face. I do not think she liked it.”
“I cannot see why not.” Serena looked down and blushed again, but she didn’t run away this time.
“I’m afraid I can.” Drake answered back, hoping, wishing she would come into the room and talk to him, chase away these demons that haunted him.
Serena’s surprise shone in those wide eyes. “Thou must know.”
Drake motioned for her to come into the room. “Know what?”
Serena didn’t come any closer, but she did clasp her hands together and say to him, in her musical, lilting voice, “That thou art truly fearfully and wonderfully made.”
She left him then. Left him alone. But her words rang about the room—an entreaty, a proclamation, full and alive with hope. Drake smiled and let loose a shaky laugh. Once again, this woman, Serena Winter, a plain Quaker woman, had brought light to his heart.
Maybe . . . in this strange new world, she would prove his salvation.
Chapter Eight
What dost thou suppose he will think of meeting?”
Serena shushed Mary Ann, grateful her sister had whispered the question in her ear as the family rode in a wagon south along Second Street past Elfreth’s Alley where their father’s shop was located, toward the meetinghouse on Arch Street.
She glanced at the man in question from beneath her lashes. He was sitting on a rough wooden bench across from them looking big, vastly overdressed and out of place between her two youngest sisters. Just looking at him made her heartbeat double. “I do not know. He must think us odd.”
Mary Ann giggled, gaining the attention of those piercing, blue-gray eyes.
Serena inhaled as his gaze locked on hers and his voice, rich with amusement, asked, “Is there something I may assist you with, ladies?” One eyebrow rose as he stared down his nose at them.
Mary Ann giggled unrepentantly, while Serena turned pink. Clearing her throat, she managed. “We were wondering what thou might think of our meetings.”
Drake offered a brief smile and indolent shrug. Gad, the man was like a conceited blueblood! He reminded Serena of Lord Tinsley, one of her father’s most affluent customers. Except Lord Tinsley never made Serena’s blood pool and race, pool and race, in a repetitive cycle that left her dizzy as did this Englishman. How Serena wished she knew his secrets.
“I have never been to a meeting of the Friends, but of course I have heard of them and your founder, the famous George Fox. It should prove interesting.”
Serena chanced to see her mother’s shoulders shake in what could only be suppressed laughter and restrained her own smile. “I hope thou wilt enter into it with an open mind, sir.” Her voice was huskier than she liked with her family listening.
“Of course. A mind of studious and open intent.” He mocked her, his white teeth set in a patronizing smile.
Serena shook her head. “Oh, but thou must not study the meeting. Thou must just experience it.”
Drake laughed. “A woman’s advice, to be sure.” He turned toward the front of the wagon and her father’s back. “Mr. Winter, do you agree that a man of intelligence and of an analytical bent should lay all mental discernment aside and use emotions to judge such an event?”
Drake waited, a pleasant expression on his face, as the rest of the family held their breath in the wake of his challenge.
Serena’s father considered for a long moment and then said simply, “If it is possible. Sometimes the heart feels what the mind cannot comprehend.”
The family smiled, Serena’s heart bursting with joy.
Drake frowned. “Ah, the heart. And what if the heart is cold . . . stone even.” His voice was level and dead.
Serena’s father turned and stared at Drake. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” He paused again, letting it sink into all of them. “And how might a hard heart become pure? Hearts can be broken and softened, with trials . . . and love.” Her father turned to look at them, his gaze resting briefly, thoughtfully, on Serena’s upturned face, and then he turned back, lightly slapping the reigns.
Serena looked down into her lap, cheeks burning. She couldn’t look at him, not after what her father just implied. Why had he done it? Her parents would hardly sanction a union between her and the dark stranger now living with them.
When they reached the wide, windswept yard of the meetinghouse, Serena stood from her wagon seat, gathering her coat around her, eyes still glued to the gray floorboards of the wagon. She was about to climb over the edge and jump down as she always did when a long-fingered hand reached into her line of sight. Looking up into his eyes, she couldn’t help the answering smile while she put her hand in his elegantly gloved one as he helped her down. He then offered his arm and she took it, though she knew it was wrong, that it would give rise to all sorts of questions from the Friends.
WHAT WAS THE girl’s father implying? Was he offering him his daughter? He had nothing to give her.
The irony stabbed at Drake. It was the first time he could ever remember wishing to shower a woman with everything the earth had to offer, and he had nothing. He’d showered many women with the desires of their hearts, but it had always meant little to him. Just a means to an end, and a happiness from them that would last a moment—a moment he’d known would come and took full advantage of.
As he and Serena walked toward the door to the church, he breathed in the crisp winter day and imagined Serena in a duchess’s finery. A satin ball gown in green, to match her eyes. Jewels hanging from her ears and around her neck, dipping into the ivory hollow of her throat. White silken gloves that reached just above her elbows where the tender flesh of her upper arm would be bare until the slender lace of a sleeve began. With her hair artfully arranged and just a touch of pink on her lips . . . she would be devastating. And she had no idea, no idea the power she could wield. He pictured her dancing, close in his arms, whirling to the violins in one of the many grand ballrooms of his world.
Glancing at the top of her head, neatly covered by an unadorned mop cap, he smiled, internally shaking his head at himself. Even had he the riches, she would likely scorn such trappings as sinful. He sighed. Perhaps they were. They hadn’t done him much good.
The entry to the meetinghouse was barren, leading to a large square room. There were rows of wooden pews on all sides facing the center. Everything was brown, none of the splendid color of the Church of England. None of the stained glass, the holy relics, the statues, the altars with their gleaming gold and silver utensils and velvet cloth. No solemn, rich priest to stand before them like a demigod. Here there were only beams of dusty sunlight streaming from plain rectangular windows. A dull, weathered floor echoed with a hollow sound as they walked, arm in arm, to their place.
Like their home and work, these Quakers were austere in their worship.
“Thou wilt sit on the men’s side, with father,” Serena whispered before unclasping his arm and moving away. He watched her graceful, flowing stride as she left him, and felt the warm place where her hand had rested on his forearm growing quickly cold. Josiah Winter clapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow.
The seats were less than comfortable, but Drake supposed that kept them awake, at any rate. He watched as the congregation filtered in. Like solemn brown sparrows alighting on an equally brown branch, they blended in with their surroundings. Men and boys to one side, women and girls to the other. He waited, while they settled themselves, for the service to begin.
It finally dawned on him as they closed their eyes, some bowing heads showing tanned necks, that no one was going to speak. Drake closed his eyes. The minutes ticked by. Tick . . tick . . . tick . . . He could almost hear a clock in his mind. He forced himself to relax, took a long, silent breath as his shoulders gradually loosened. His breathing lengthened, his heart slowed, and he suddenly realized that it was peaceful here. It was like a thickness had settled in the air and then rested on him. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with its still calm. His mind cleared of all else. His astonishment was only eclipsed by the inability to feel anything more than this sense of overwhelming peace. The minutes ticked quickly now.
Into the quiet a voice spoke. So in tune with the serenity was the voice that Drake didn’t know if it was human or in his mind, but he listened as though it held great import.
“To everything there is a time. A time to mourn and a time to laugh. A time to sing and a time to cry. A time to give thanks and a time to know thanksgiving. To each life a season for all things to be revealed. Give thanks and know the peace of thanksgiving in all things.”
Drake waited with bated breath for more. He wanted answers. He wanted ease from this constant confused pain that gripped him. Maybe here, among these people, he would find something he sought. But there was no more. The person sat down, leaving Drake to meditate on what the speaker had said. The Ecclesiastic feel to the words was familiar; mayhap he’d heard it at a funeral, some long-ago acquaintance that barely registered on the important business of his life. But the end, about thanksgiving . . . he didn’t know that. Did it bring peace to be thankful in all seasons? Was that the message?
Drake wasn’t sure, but the remainder of the hour went surprisingly quick. At some hidden signal they all stood and shook hands with each other. Drake nodded to several men as Josiah introduced him. Looking around, he now recognized a few others from onboard the ship. They, too, must have been rescued by these Quakers.
At Josiah’s urging, Drake followed the men into another, smaller room. There, laid out before them, was a long table loaded with covered dishes. Mary Ann passed by him and dimpled prettily. “Now, ’tis time to eat.”
As she sailed by to help her mother, he joined the line that formed, answering those questions he could from the men around him, but all the while looking . . . feeling . . . for Serena.
He found her ladling something from a steaming pot into a bowl. She looked up, her eyes finding his, and then smiled at him, the connection like a thing of old, like something they’d been born to. Drake felt himself melt in the warmth that was such a part of her.
“Drake . . . let me introduce a friend of mine. A botanist, Mr. Bartram.”
Drake dragged his eyes from Serena’s with difficulty. With a slight bow he directed his gaze at the man. “Mr. Bartram, a pleasure.”
Mr. Bartram had a clear gaze that searched his. “I understand thou art recently from London?”
Drake nodded. “Northumberland, actually. But most recently, London.”
“Ah. Northumberland. Beautiful land. Yes, well, I am looking for an apprentice for my studies in botany and was wondering if thou wouldst be interested in such a trade? I have a homestead just west of here with acres of forestland waiting to be explored. I find I do not have enough time to do all the work myself.” He smiled, obviously pleased with himself.
Drake struggled with an appropriate response while the man continued.
“Forgive me, I presume much. Thou hast just recovered from what must have been a horrendous journey and an illness, I am told. But please, in our effort to help thee and thy fellow shipmates, is there a trade at which thou art skilled?”
A skill? Well, he had tripled his father’s estate in business ventures, making him one of the wealthiest men in the world. But what could he tell this man? “I seem to have a head for numbers. I’m afraid, aside from some general knowledge in farming horticulture—” and the ownership and management of tens of thousands of acres of farmland, he added silently—“I know little about plants.”
Drake hoped it would suffice. The mere suggestion of spending his days tromping through thick forests, identifying and cutting plants, sent genuine despair through him. He needed to take some hand in the cards fate had dealt him, so he continued doggedly while the line moved forward and men began filling their plates. “I was hoping for something in business.”
Mr. Bartram nodded to Josiah. “Mayhap he can help thee then, Josiah.” He grinned and confided to Drake, “’Tis an artist, your host. He complains often enough about the paperwork and calculations accompanying such a thriving business as his.”
Drake looked at the gentle man beside him. He could work for this man. He could live in his house.
He could spend his free time with a woman named Serena.
As if he read Drake’s mind, Josiah’s brow knotted and he looked deep into the younger man’s eyes.
The need to reach for a plate broke the uncomfortable moment. Attempting lightness, Drake asked, “What say you, Mr. Winter? Have you need of an apprentice?”
Josiah nodded. “Indeed, I have need of help in many areas. A man is rarely able to do everything with ease. Dost thou think thou couldst work with thy hands, also? I need someone to do the more simplistic work of a silversmith.”
Drake thought of the shiny metal. He had only been intent to accumulate it, never to create with it. His attempts at drawing were mediocre at best and he abandoned the arts long ago for the
more manly pursuits of hunting, swordplay, horseflesh, and gaming.
He had just reached Serena, with her steaming dipper of soup. He looked up into her eyes as he answered. “Truthfully, I have never attempted anything like it, sir.” Still staring into her eyes he finished softly, “But I find I would like to try.”
Serena knew Drake wasn’t aware how high-handed he sounded, but Josiah and the botanist exchanged amused glances. It was obvious to all that Drake was used to giving orders, not taking them.
Serena handed him his bowl of stew and smiled up at him. “What wouldst thou like to try?”
The immediate response that rose to his lips made him suddenly clear his throat. Stopping the words from escaping, he said instead in clear resolve, “Silversmithing. Your father and I are discussing an apprenticeship in his shop.”
Serena blinked several times and looked at her father, “That’s . . . that is wonderful.”
“It is settled then,” her father said, focusing on Drake. “Thou wilt come with me to my shop, starting tomorrow morning.”
Drake turned, looking down at the floor, a feeling of unreality filling him. He blew out a breath, quieting the chuckle that wanted to escape.
He was a shop boy now.
Chapter Nine
Drake was awakened early, fed a fortifying breakfast, and then handed a simple, white linen shirt with crossties instead of buttons at the neck and dark leather breeches to wear. He wore his own boots and tied his hair, which had grown long enough to touch his shoulders, back from his face with a strip of leather. Mrs. Winter’s eyes twinkled merrily as she waved them out the door, wishing them a good day.
Serena watched from an upstairs window, a wistful smile playing across her face.
Dawn hovered over the city as Drake and Josiah Winter walked along the brick-paved streets, their breath creating little puffs of vapor in the still crispness. Josiah walked with a purposeful stride and a quiet air that Drake was loath to disturb. Instead, in the light of the fading stars, he looked over what, when compared with London, was really an infant town.
