He bought some cheese from a stall, nibbled at it as he wandered on, leaving the busy market behind. Main Street was a broad thoroughfare that swept along for one mile on an east-west axis. The first Governor of Williamsburg, Nicholson, had known what he was doing when he had drawn up the basic plans for what was to be the grandest town in all the Colonies. So much of it was new: it all had an air of fresh paint, fresh-cut wood and pristine cleanliness, although the smells and quality of buildings changed along the back streets, where there was a jumble of small houses, ramshackle stores, and shacks and sheds for the slaves to live in.
Jesamiah decided to find a tavern and a room for the night. He did not much fancy sleeping under a hedge. He chuckled as a thought came to mind. How would the bear-fighting, Indian-chasing Mistress James react to a pirate curled beneath her shrubbery? Had he known where she lived he might have been tempted to find out. On the larboard side, rain was in the air and a warm dry bed appealed more to his sense of comfort.
He skirted around a fresh pile of horse manure and crossed the street. The King’s Arms appeared clean and comfortable, but expensive. The Raleigh, opposite, would suit his pocket more. As Jesamiah Acorne he could well afford luxury; as Joshua Oakwood the architect, he could not.
The Raleigh was one of the older taverns, built before Williamsburg became the capital. It certainly looked as if it had stood here for eternity. Inside, the dim gloom was a fug of pipe and candle smoke, men sat in groups around tables made from barrels sawn in half, the rushes spread on the floor had not been changed in months. The place smelt of damp, rot and mould. The woman behind the bar had a pleasant smile and cheerfully served Jesamiah his request for rum.
“Any chance of a room for the night?”
“Certainly. We ask for payment in advance though, young sir.”
Jesamiah set two silver shillings on the counter then added another. “A single room? At the front, overlooking the street?”
The smile did not waver. “Yes Sir. Our best.”
He added another shilling to the pile. “Clean sheets and hot water?”
The woman scooped up the money. “Top of the stairs, first door on your right.” Taking the rum, Jesamiah nodded his thanks and went upstairs.
The room was at least tidy. Sparsely furnished with essentials only, as musty as downstairs and the sheets a dull yellow and slightly stained, but he had slept in worse places. A lot worse! He tossed his coat, hat, cutlass and pistol onto the bed and pulled the only chair up to the sash window. Tried wiping the grime from the glass with his elbow; some came off, most was on the outside. With a bit of persuasion the window opened. He peered out. Riders passed by; a wagon loaded with hay, another, piled with furniture; a carriage with a pair of handsome chestnuts. Mothers walked with their children, husbands with wives; young couples, the elderly leaning on walking canes. Men about their business. Women shopping. Slaves of all ages and both sexes everywhere.
Sitting down, he propped his feet on the low windowsill, sipped his rum and pondered how to get to Governor Spotswood. Find an open window? Climb in? Wait by the gates for the Governor to come out, catch his attention? Or could he approach John Redwood, the gaoler? He frowned; that man coming from the King’s Arms looked familiar. Where had he seen him before? The man headed east down Main Street, walking quickly. Jesamiah forgot about him.
Would it be an idea to visit this lawyer fellow of his father’s? Probably, except he did not know who he was or where to locate him – beyond somewhere here in Williamsburg. There would be dozens of lawyers, where did he start? Why had he so stupidly thrown that letter of his father’s away without reading it first? If nothing else of importance it would have had the lawyer’s name on it!
He would have to try and find him to sort out la Sorenta. He had already decided to leave the estate permanently in Trent’s hands. If the lad made a profit, then all well and good, if not, he did not particularly care. He had no need of the income; had done well enough without it thus far. He would give Trent five years to turn the estate around, if the boy failed, then he would sell the land and be done with it. As for Alicia…She could do what she wanted, stay or go. It was her choice, although from what Rue had said, she had already decided not to stay.
That woman approaching the King’s Arms was just like her. Even to the sassy swagger of her hips. Jesamiah moved his feet to the floor, leant forward to see better. It was her! He stood, shoved at the window to open it further. It refused to budge. He scrubbed at more grime. Who was that man with her? Not Trent. It was the fellow who had left the tavern a moment ago – suddenly Jesamiah recognised him. Knight. Tobias Knight – and he was the one who had greeted Alicia so curtly that first day at la Sorenta, the one who had ridden off in a huff. Tobias Knight: Secretary to the Colony of North Carolina, right-hand man to Governor Eden and Edward Teach’s friend. Well, well.
There was no reason to query his being in Williamsburg, there must be a lot of communication between the two colonies. But had Spotswood not said something about Blackbeard always being one step ahead? What if that was because somebody fed him titbits of relevant information? That was not to say it was Knight who tattled, but it was certainly a possibility. Why was he accosting Alicia?
Jesamiah tried to lean out, cursed the window for not opening wider.
Knight had her arm in a fierce grip and was shaking her so violently her head was lolling. Several bystanders were taking a curious interest then turning away, not wanting to interfere, assuming it was a domestic squabble. Alicia tried to shrug Knight aside but he only tightened his hold and thrust his face closer. Even from this distance, Jesamiah could interpret the nasty sneer etched on it. What was it Trent had said? Alicia had needed money. Was that why she had hidden the Letter of Marque, hoping to sell it or something?
Money! Knight was a money-grubbing shark. Ah, things were starting to make sense.
Unsure whether to stay and watch what happened, or buckle on his cutlass, put on his coat and go and intervene for the fun of it, Jesamiah’s decision was made for him. A man appeared from nowhere – from the side street presumably. In a flurry of arms and legs he laid into Knight, swatting him three times with three well aimed punches. Left and right to the face, the third to the belly. Knight crumpled, blood welling from his nose. A crowd had gathered, the women twittering like sparrows, the men grunting disapproving noises, but making no move to stop the fracas. Samuel Trent – for that’s who it was – grasped Knight by the collar and the seat of his breeches and bundled him down the steps, across the street and plunged him, head first, into the horse trough directly below Jesamiah’s window.
“And bloody stay away from Mrs Mereno, else next time you will get more than a bloodied nose and a dunking, you scumbag!” Brushing his hands clean then straightening his cravat, Samuel strode back to the King’s Arms, looped his arm through Alicia’s and escorted her inside.
Jesamiah smiled, sat down again and returned to his drink. He had not thought Trent had it in him! Good for him, the lad had spirit after all!
Knight hauled himself from the trough amid amused laughter. He did not see the funny side, apparently, for when someone offered a hand to assist him he gruffly knocked it aside and squelched off down the street, leaving a dripping trail in his wake.
It was brave of Samuel Trent to take him on, but a man like Knight would not notice a few punches from an untried boy. Especially a man who had an established friendship with a pirate and the ear of a Governor. But then, Trent also had an established friendship with a pirate – who had the ear of a Governor. If he could only get close enough to bend it!
~ I do not like this. There is something deeper going on. ~
“Too right there is!” Jesamiah was out the door and descending the creaking stairs before he realised he had answered his father’s disembodied voice without a single thought.
Thirty Four
Main Street had cleared of onlookers, the incident forgotten, people were about their business. Jesamiah crossed ov
er, avoiding two wagons, and walked in through the open doors of the King’s Arms tavern: definitely a place of higher quality and resources. He went to the counter and asked for Master Samuel Trent.
A barman answered him, more intent on drying a pile of washed glasses than passing time with someone of less than wealthy appearance. “You have just missed him. He left a moment ago.”
Damn. Jesamiah leant an elbow on the counter, considering. “Well, where may I find Mrs Mereno?”
“Friend, are you?”
“Not that it is your business, but no, I am a relative. Her brother-in-law.”
The man set the glass down, picked up another; began polishing. “Top of the stairs. Room four.”
Jesamiah touched his hat, bounded up the stairs two at a time. Room four. He knocked.
“Who is it?”
Mumbling “It’s me,” in an approximation of Trent’s higher pitched tone, Jesamiah heard her footsteps on the far side, a bolt withdraw. The handle turned, the door opened slowly. A frightened pale face peeped out.
“Samuel? Is it you – Oh!” Alicia tried to slam the door. Jesamiah was quicker, he rammed his boot into the gap, pushed it wide; her strength no match for his.
She shrieked and fled across the room, grabbing up a poker from beside the fireplace as she went. Brandishing it with both hands, she held it high. “Do not come near me! I will strike you, so help me I will!”
Jesamiah shut the door. Stood a few feet inside, shoved his hands into his pockets. “Put it down, Alicia, I’ve come to talk, not fight.”
“Go away! Leave me alone, you brute!”
Taking his hat off and skimming it to the bed, Jesamiah ambled to the armchair, sat. “Me? A brute? It was you who tried to get me hanged, if I recall, by stealing my Letter of Marque.”
She still held the poker, although its weight had caused her to lower it a little. “How dare you suggest such a lie, I…”
“Oh, belay it, Alicia. I know the truth. I heard most of it from Sam when he came to get me out of gaol, and Rue’s filled in the rest,” he lied. Both men had told him only parts of the story.
“Sam? Sam!” Alicia strutted over to the fireplace, set the poker into its rack and faced Jesamiah, her bunched fists on her hips. “Samuel? You have the nerve to talk to me of Samuel Trent? You gave him my home. My furniture. You gave him everything – including my money!”
“No, I gave him the opportunity to manage an estate which I am not interested in managing. Your home, your furniture remains mine, though I do not want them either. As for your money, from what I gather, there is none for me to give. Your husband squandered it all. Do not blame that on Sam, or on me. And from what I have just witnessed, you ought to be grateful to young Trent. It takes guts to stand up to a man like Tobias Knight.”
She glowered at Jesamiah. How did he always manage to know everything? Damn him. Suddenly, the fight went out of her. She slumped, her head drooped, her shoulders sagged and tears began to fall. If he had been told the situation then he knew how stupid she had been. And the trouble she was in.
“Oh Jesamiah. What am I to do? I do not want to return to the streets as a whore, I truly do not.”
Jesamiah went to her, put his arms around her, drawing her head to his shoulder. Held her while she wept. This woman was an utter bitch when she wanted to be, was selfish, arrogant, stupid – but God help him, he had always been fond of her. Why, he did not know. Maybe because she had spirit, because she fought for what she wanted and did not accept ‘no’ for an answer? It was tough, surviving.
“Ssh, ssh,” he coaxed, stroking her back, placing a light kiss on her head. “Hush now, we’ll sort something.”
“How?” she sniffed, her face buried in his shirt. “I have no home, no money and I am being blackmailed by a weasel who threatens to expose me.” She looked up, the cosmetic paint she wore smudged on her cheeks and around her eyes. “He accosted me just now. Threatened me again. He is vile, utterly vile. If I do not pay him tomorrow he will tell everyone. And then I will be summoned before the Council and punished as a woman of ill-repute. They will flog me in public. I could not bear that. Oh I could not bear it Jesamiah!” She was crying again.
Jesamiah pulled her closer. So that’s what is behind all this, he thought. Blackmail. “And me?” he murmured. “How did I fit in?”
She wept a little more, sniffed a few times. Delving into his pocket, Jesamiah produced a handkerchief that was not too grubby.
“I thought it would frighten you if they locked you away for a few days. I was going to ask you for money, and in return find your letter. Only when I went to the gaol in Urbanna, you were not there, they were already bringing you here to Williamsburg. And,” she blew her nose, handed him the kerchief back, “and I did not know what to do.”
With her arms around him Alicia felt the security of his strong solidity. Jesamiah was a rock, an oak. He smelt of tar and sweat, of leather and hemp and the sea. She had always loved Jesamiah, since the first day in Port Royal when she had seen him come ashore, a cock-sure young whelp little more than a boy, in search of fun and sex. He had found both with her. Her first husband she had been fond off – he had not known she had been a whore, nor had Phillipe, her second. Phillipe had been a mistake. And Jesamiah? Had she really been so stupid that she had nearly caused him to hang? Yet now, with Knight after her, she would be the victim and harshly punished.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I did not mean to involve you, but I did not know what to do. I still do not know what to do. I have nothing to pay Knight with. I asked Samuel to give me some money – I said I wanted clothes – but he refused.”
Very gently, Jesamiah prised her away from him and set her at arm’s length, his hands on her shoulders. He looked at her red-rimmed eyes. “That is because Samuel has no money to give you. The estate is broke, thanks to Phillipe. And you, you silly goose, should have done the obvious thing and told me right from the start what was happening.”
She wiped at her damp cheeks, smudging the cochineal colouring even more. “I could not do that. You would have laughed and told me to not be so silly. I did ask you for money when we were in Nassau and you told me you would not let me have one penny.”
Jesamiah sat on the bed, patted it for her to come sit beside him. What she said was true. He would have laughed. Had he said no to even a penny? Probably. They sat a little apart, their bodies not quite touching. At last he plucked the courage to ask, “And what of the child?”
She raised her head, her frown quizzical. “What child?”
“The one you said you carried. My child.”
She drew in her breath. Her hand went to her slender stomach, flattened and trimmed by her tight corset. Child? She had forgotten all about that.
“Will you make me your wife? Give a child of mine your name?” She did not know why she asked; she already knew his answer.
He stood, walked over to the window, stared down into the bustle of Williamsburg’s Main Street, across at the tavern and his room, at the window he had left open.
“I cannot, Alicia. I love Tiola and I married her some days ago.” How many days, he could not remember. Too many, that was for certain.
He turned back to Alicia. “I’m sorry. I will support you though, I’ll give you all the money you need. I will not abandon you or the child. You have my word.”
He meant it; she could see and hear that he did. She shook her head, sighed. Confessed. “There is no child. I made it up.”
He turned again to face the window, said simply, “Oh.”
To Alicia’s ears the disappointment in that one word was heartbreaking. He wanted a child? Actually wanted a child? She half rose, her hand stretching out, sat down again. “Well, you have a wife now. I am sure there will soon be children. A whole shipload.”
“I have been bedding Tiola for some while now. I lived with her for seven months in Cape Town. I think I might be incapable of siring a babe.”
How like Jesamiah to take the
blame for himself and not lay it on the woman he loved. Alicia felt tears welling again. She had hurt him with this pretence, God help her, how could she have been so cruel? She put her hand to her stomach again, her frown deepening as she tried to think. When had her last flux come? It was always unreliable, often late, the flow light and only lasting two days or so. It rarely inconvenienced her, which meant she never kept track of the dates. It suddenly occurred to her that she would have to wait a whole month around to be entirely certain about not carrying a child. Should she say there could be a possibility? No. She could not, for the last thing she wanted at the moment was to be pregnant.
“There is nothing wrong with your seed, Jesamiah. I told you, you impregnated me that time at la Sorenta. It may be that your wife has deliberately been stopping her womb from quickening. She is, after all, talented in that area is she not? Very probably she had no intention of permitting her belly to swell until you married her.”
He twisted his head, smiled at her. “Do you think so?”
She had absolutely no idea, but Jesamiah Acorne was not the only one who could lie convincingly. “Yes,” she said. “I do think so.”
“I’d better have a word with her then, hadn’t I?”
“I’d make them sweet honeyed words if I were you. And stop leaving her behind. And…” Alicia paused, considered him longingly. He was so beautiful – but he was not for her. “And stop cavorting in other ladies’ beds.”
He shrugged. “You mean no more whoring?”
“No more whoring.”
“Not even with you?”
“Especially not with me.”
“That’s a bit of a bugger. I was going to suggest we go to bed so that I could give you some sort of payment.”
Bring It Close Page 37
