“She will be,” Vevina answers, barely above a whisper. “Years ago, when Claret was about the same age as the lass, she worked as a pickpocket for a brute of a man with a gold tooth. She was thin as a reed when I first met her. Her handler starved his underperforming workers, and she was struggling. When I made a bet that paid out handsomely, I offered him my earnings. He wanted twice as much for her, so he sent me away. Claret found me the next evening, her handler’s gold tooth in hand, and asked to join my ranks.”
I side-eye the beautiful and often unpredictable Claret. “Did she kill him?”
“Oh, no. She stole a bottle of his favorite whisky for him. After he was as drunk as a sow, she pulled out his tooth.” One side of Vevina’s mouth lifts in approval. “We traded that tooth for a big bottle of wine and a box of biscuits. We ate and drank all night long.”
I can easily picture them passing a bottle back and forth and cackling over the brute’s comeuppance. “How did Claret come to work for the handler?”
Vevina waves the question away. “Same way everyone comes to call the streets home—a string of bad luck.”
A group of sailors pass out blankets. I take one for myself and spread another over the weeping girl. Evening speedily descends upon the ship’s hold. Shadows commandeer the gaps between the lantern lights, dropping a grayish blur over the women. Many abandon the day and fall asleep. Claret and Laverick settle against each other to rest, and the crying lass finally quiets.
Vevina shifts forward into my line of sight. “I thought the queen would go lenient on you.”
“She needs women for the settlement,” I say, shrugging. “How many prisoners do you think are down here?”
“Around two hundred.” Vevina observes our fellow inmates with troubled eyes. “Every woman here has a story not unlike Claret’s. They’ve hardly lived. They aren’t fit to become the wife of a hardened criminal or lonely soldier.”
I tuck my knees to my chest. “Neither am I.”
Vevina sweeps a curl of hair off her shoulder. “Neither of us would make a good wife. I’m not the doting sort, and you . . . darling, you’re as frosty as a blizzard.”
Maybe it’s good that she thinks so. Perhaps I can increase my unfriendliness to put off interest from the men at the colony. Anything to evade getting married.
Vevina looks up without lifting her chin, as though she can view the crew on the main deck. “It’ll be a long voyage to the isle, Everley. A woman’s fortune can change in that time.”
Time. I went from having not enough to more than plenty manacled aboard this vessel. Time pretends it’s constant, but it stretches and snaps at will.
Vevina yawns and curls up beside the Fox and the Cat. I press my palm over my heart, seeking solace in its sturdy beat. We won’t reach Dagger Island for a long while, yet the possibility of being given in marriage to someone still disquiets me. No one told me I wouldn’t ever marry. My uncle and I didn’t speak of it. I arrived at that decision on my own, though it was not a particularly insightful conclusion. I could ask anyone their opinion, and I am certain they would agree. Girls with clock hearts aren’t made for falling in love.
We do not have portholes to view the passing shoreline, and our departure from the river into the sea is marked by wider, faster sways. I cling to my iron chains to prevent myself from sliding. Uncle Holden’s jumbled warning about Dagger Island stirs inside me, an eddy of worry that will not drain. I cannot puzzle out what could be more dangerous about the isle than what I already know.
The other prisoners are fittingly distressed about the long passage ahead, many of them weeping about leaving their home behind. Their hearts are fixated on what they lost and miss. None of their discomfort or homesickness clarifies my uncle’s warning for what waits ahead.
Sailors bring cooked oats for breakfast. Cold and mushy, the oats are flavorless without butter or spices. I choke mine down to fill my hollowness. The guards return to collect our bowls and pass out slop buckets to those with seasickness. None of the women I came with are ill, though Claret’s color has paled.
The crying lass will not be consoled. I rested little last night while she whimpered in her sleep. I did not know it was possible to shed so many tears without dissolving away. Guards deliver the midday meal—more oats. The lass mewls into her untouched bowl like a lost kitten. Vevina, Claret, Laverick, and even Harlow take turns soothing her. By late afternoon, the guards send for the ship’s surgeon to check that the lass isn’t suffering from an ailment beyond a timid spirit.
The surgeon arrives with his wooden medical chest. He looks thirty years old or so, approximately how old my eldest brother would be had he lived.
“Quinn, I’m Dr. Huxley. Are you in pain?” Quinn—that must be the lass’s name—hides her face. The surgeon transfers his attention to me. “How long has she been this way?”
“Since I came aboard.”
Dr. Huxley removes a flat medical instrument from his medical chest. Quinn curls into a ball, her limbs tucked close. He takes a bundle from his pocket and unties the twine to reveal a small yellow cake.
“I brought this from home. Would you like to smell it?” I expect Quinn to refuse, but she leans forward and sniffs. “Smells good, doesn’t it? Would you like to share it with me? You have to stay very still while you have some.”
Quinn nods and wipes her soggy nose across her sleeve. While she eats the cake, Dr. Huxley examines her scalp, parting her hair with the wooden tool. Then he places a hand on her back to feel her breathing. He has a pleasant, expressive face and adept hands. His thick brown hair and mustache are trimmed short, his gray-blue eyes as stormy as the sea. His gentle manner reminds me of Tavis. My eldest brother was bigger and stronger, but he never hurt me.
Dr. Huxley sits back. “Quinn, you show no signs of illness. I’ll petition the captain to allow everyone up on deck soon. These manacles don’t help anyone’s constitution.” His smile warms on me. “Thank you . . . ?”
“Everley O’Shea.”
“A pleasure, Miss O’Shea. Lieutenant Callahan mentioned you may need an examination. He said you had a spell recently?”
“The lieutenant was mistaken,” I say, muffling my regulator. “I’m perfectly well.”
Dr. Huxley stares at me so long that heat creeps up my neck. “May I ask what brought you to the Lady Regina?” he asks.
“Streetwalking.”
The women near us quiet. So much for keeping my trial proceedings private.
Dr. Huxley offers me a sympathetic smile and then stands. “I must see to my other patients. Should you or the lass need care, don’t hesitate to send for me.”
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Vevina laughs. “Everley, do you think anyone believes you’re a streetwalker?”
“The queen did. She foresaw my admission of guilt.”
Vevina chortles harder. “I don’t know what you’re after, but Creator help you once you get it. You’re bound for the penal colony now.”
“I know,” I snap. Quinn flinches at my raised voice, and I glance at her in apology. “The surgeon was only being kind.”
“You were born with airs, Everley O’Shea.” Vevina aims a finger at Dr. Huxley, who is treating a woman with seasickness down the row. “Right away, he sensed you’re of his class.”
“I’m a shop clerk.”
Vevina clucks her tongue. “I con people for a living, study them and unmask their secrets. You weren’t born a clerk, darling.”
I have nothing to say. My highborn inheritance is no more. After my father died, along with my brothers, without male descendants to succeed him, my father had his title, Baron McTigue, dismantled by the queen.
“You were a shop clerk?” a small voice asks. Quinn wipes cake crumbs from her lips, her eyes sad. “Have you ever caught a thief?”
“I worked in a clock shop. We didn’t draw much interest from thieves.” From the corner of my eye, Harlow catalogues my every word. “Is that why you’re here, Quinn? Did you steal something?”
&n
bsp; Her head droops. “A frock.”
“That’s all?” With all her bawling, I presumed she had maimed someone.
“The frock belonged to a noblewoman’s daughter,” the lass explains. “She was having the hem altered. I pinched it from a dress shop.”
“Ah.” Thievery of a higher born is a severe offense. Quinn’s tears bloom anew, so I pat her knee. “No sense weeping over a dress.”
“Ma couldn’t afford one. I’d outgrown mine.”
I push up Quinn’s chin and fix her with a stare. “You don’t have to justify yourself. Not to us.” The unfairness of her sentencing worms through me. She should have served a brief time in prison and been released. Now she may never see her mother again.
Quinn rests her head against my shoulder. Her shudders lessen and her breaths become even. To her credit, she does not shed another tear.
Three days later, hammocks for the prisoners are hung in the hold. The women swing in their hammocks in pairs, their chains hanging from their arms and dangling between their feet. We are still confined belowdecks, but Quinn is no longer crying, and Dr. Huxley treated the seasick women with crystalized ginger, nursing most of them to wellness.
After a midday meal of mushy oats, Lieutenant Callahan enters the hold. He wears neutral-colored work clothes and carries an iron anvil. I have not seen him since he brought us aboard. He crosses to the closest prisoners.
“Wrists out,” he says, his tone official.
The prisoner in front of him obeys. The lieutenant swings the anvil down and pounds out the manacle pegs, releasing her from her confines. One by one, he goes down the line, the clang of iron against iron coming closer to us. He arrives at Quinn sitting in our hammock; I stayed on the floor to avoid her overhearing the beat of my ticker. The girl cowers from Callahan, and he has the audacity to appear wounded. She has every right to be wary of him, yet it would feel very good to have these blasted bindings removed.
I sit up onto my knees and put out my wrists. “Do mine first.”
He scrutinizes me, plainly displeased that I, a prisoner, am ordering him about. But for the benefit of the lass, he strikes the anvil against my irons, popping out the peg. I remove the metal bands and rub my chafed skin.
“See?” I show Quinn. “It doesn’t hurt.”
She extends her wrists and scrunches her eyes. The lieutenant swings the anvil down and frees her.
“Better?” he asks, and Quinn nods quickly. “I have a gift for you.” He slips her a wooden hair comb, a rare item among the inmates. “My younger sister’s hair was light brown like yours.”
Quinn gawks at the fine lady’s comb, then startles us both by throwing her arms around the lieutenant’s waist. “Thank you,” she says.
Callahan pats her head and extracts himself from her grip. As he continues onward with the anvil, Quinn inspects the detailed carvings of flowering vines along the top of the wooden comb. I don’t want Quinn to fear him or any man, but she should be slow to trust our captors. No matter how handsome or generous he may be, Callahan still serves Governor Markham.
Upon unchaining the last prisoner, the lieutenant calls out, “Everyone on deck!”
I join the line of women scaling the ladder. Quinn stays close behind me and climbs slowly, her new comb in hand. At the top steps, briny winds barrel over us, tugging at our clothes and hair. My father smelled of sea air when he returned home from expeditions. My brother Carlin called it the scent of adventure. Squinting into the glaring daylight, I step into a forest of rigging. Quinn grips a line to offset the rolling ship. Above us, the canvas sails are puffed like clouds.
My first sight of the glistening sea captivates me. Father said people have two responses to sailing: all-consuming loneliness or an abiding well of serenity.
I am far from lonely.
“Miss O’Shea,” Dr. Huxley says, stationed beside the hatch. “Grand to see you.”
“We must have you to thank for our emancipation,” I reply.
“I had help. Lieutenant Callahan had it in his mind to let you ladies roam about and wouldn’t relent until the captain complied.”
Callahan emerges from belowdecks helping a seasick woman ascend the ladder. His jaw juts at the sight of the surgeon close to Quinn and me.
“Everyone go to middeck,” he says. “The captain will begin announcements momentarily.”
While Callahan assists the sick woman, Quinn and I gather with the other prisoners and Dr. Huxley stands with the crew. Three dozen or so sailors encircle us. Their hefty builds range from broad chested and long legged to stout and scrappy. Each man is armed with both a sword and a flintlock pistol.
Lieutenant Callahan escorts the ill prisoner to sit on a barrel and then joins the sailors. The captain oversees us from the upper deck. His seaman uniform of tan slacks and a cream button-down shirt is made formal with a long black jacket and bronze cuff links and toggles. In the sunshine, his trimmed beard and eyebrows are so blond they are nearly white.
“Welcome aboard the Lady Regina,” he says. His voice has a discourteous snappishness, like a canine’s defensive bark. “I’m Captain Bow Dabney. We have a three-month voyage to our destination, sooner in fair winds. All women are banned from the gun room, gun deck, stores, galley, and afterhold. Stay out of the crew’s cabins—unless invited.” A handful of sailors chuckle. Their laughter leaves a sour aftertaste. “As for my men, Governor Markham has offered a boon for your service. While at sea, any bachelor aboard may take a female prisoner to wife.”
My gut rolls with the next dip of the ship. The women break into discussion and the crewmen mumble to one another. Both groups seem equally surprised.
Captain Dabney shouts over the swelling voices. “Sailors who take a convict to wife will be reassigned to serve on the penal colony. They will work there while their wife completes her sentence. The queen will gift each couple with a parcel of land on the isle for their inheritance.”
This is a masterful incentive to build up the colony. Lower-ranking sailors, the majority of those aboard, do not earn enough wages to buy and maintain their own land. Wedding one of us will secure a piece of the isle for them to put down roots.
“Crewmen who take advantage of the queen’s generosity will make their selection for a wife on the morrow during a matrimonial ceremony,” explains the captain.
The sun beats down on my back. So soon.
Vevina raises her hand. “Are you taking a wife, Captain?”
“I’ve no intentions, ma’am.”
Vevina toys with a strand of her silky hair. “I hope to keep you company, sir.”
The captain’s fair cheeks burn rosy.
A large crewman with lank hair and shaggy sideburns raises his hand. Captain Dabney calls on the oily sailor. “What is it, Cuthbert?”
The sailor hobbles to the front of the crowd on one foot, his other a pegged leg. “What if more than one man takes an interest in the same lass?”
“The higher-ranking officer will secure her hand in marriage,” replies the captain.
Cuthbert regards Harlow from her crown to her toes. “I’d put my hat in for you.”
She sticks out her tongue at him. Much to my surprise, I side with Harlow.
“What if we refuse?” I ask loudly.
Men and women twist in my direction. Quinn presses closer to my side and grips my hand.
“Who spoke?” the captain demands. He follows a collection of gazes to my location. “Refuse what, miss?”
“Marriage.”
Captain Dabney arches his spine, puffing out his chest. He clasps his hands behind his back and descends the stairway to the main deck. The crowd parts for him, his boots banging against the planks. Quinn tucks behind me, and the snapping sails mask the ticktock of my heart. I hold my stance as the captain stops before me. Head high, I coax my ticker not to react to his posturing. I have never missed the security of my sword more.
The captain rakes his gaze down the length of me, rancid with disrespect. “Is marrying
one of my men not up to your standards? If you prefer, I can arrange for them to pay you for your services.”
My lip curls, my nerves crackling. “No, sir.”
“You’re a prisoner of the realm, property of the queen, and under Governor Markham’s rule. Don’t forget your place.” Captain Dabney releases me from his scathing glare and addresses the crowd. “Dismissed!”
The women appraise the crew like ladies waiting for a gentleman’s notice at a ball. Marrying a crewman could immediately improve a woman’s standing on the ship, but there are more sailors than prisoners, so they will have to compete for a sailor’s favor. The women can have them.
Quinn withdraws her hand from mine. Only then do I notice my fingers are trembling. “Everley, let’s explore the ship,” she says.
My heart thuds raucously. I need a quiet moment away from this audience of men to settle down. “All right. You lead the way.”
Dr. Huxley meanders up with his hands in his pockets. “Would you like to take a turn about the deck with me, Miss O’Shea?”
I would rather jump overboard.
Ring!
I tuck my elbow against my hip, muffling my regulator. Neither Quinn nor the surgeon appears to have heard the alarm. “I promised Quinn we would walk together,” I say.
“Oh.” Dr. Huxley waits for an invitation to come with us. After an excruciatingly long moment, he summons a flat smile. “Another time, then.”
I tug Quinn away. In my haste, I do not notice we are traveling toward Lieutenant Callahan until we are nearly upon him.
“Can Callahan come too?” Quinn asks, her big eyes earnest. I find myself incapable of denying her request.
“If he must,” I say.
Quinn gives a little hop in place and waves at Callahan. As he strides to her, I take the stairs to the upper deck, pass the helm, and go to the farthest place at the stern.
Deep-blue waves roll to the horizon, the vastness of the remote sea and persistent winds drowning out all else. I strangle the rail in my grasp, tears welling in my eyes. Marriage is another prison sentence, one that lasts a lifetime. The captain insists we prisoners have no choice. I always have a choice. I have to find a way to evade marriage and hold on to the final shred of my freedom. I just don’t know how.
Before the Broken Star (The Evermore Chronicles Book 1) Page 6
