by Jo Goodman
Until she stepped out of the hold and felt an alien sun prickle her skin, she thought she was dead to all feeling. She was profoundly unhappy to find she had been wrong.
Shannon held the torn bodice of her dress modestly in place as she moved down the gangway. There was a sense of urgency that emanated from her luckless companions, and she tried not to be swayed by it. They were hopeful of a new beginning in the colonies, and Shannon could not bear hope. She had never allowed herself to dwell on the earl’s plans for her future. It would have been extreme folly.
A sudden stirring in the crowd waiting on the wharf caused Shannon to lift her head sharply. She steeled herself, not wanting to view the men who waited below as they prepared to purchase the bondage papers of felons such as she. Her vacant gaze grasped the throng as a whole but was blind to individual faces. She sensed curiosity and impatience, attitudes of men anxious to get on with the business that lay before them. She wondered about this raw, demanding land that had an insatiable appetite for laborers. Hands were hands, she thought absently. The land had no conscience. It cared not one whit if the hands that worked it had committed atrocities. The men who stood on the wharf were responding to the call of their land, burying their natural distaste and employing England’s refuse to appease it.
Shannon dropped her gaze and stared at her own hands. How would they look without the iron bracelets? She had become so accustomed to their weight, to the restricted movement, that the idea of being without them seemed remotely foreign.
“Mama!”
Shannon heard the cry, but it hardly impinged upon her consciousness. She took another step on the gangway only to find her progress impeded by the man in front of her, who had stopped in his tracks. No one on the gangway was moving. The childish voice screamed again, and this time Shannon joined her companions in searching out its source.
There was a titter of laughter as a child squeezed beneath the stockinged legs of an impeccably turned out planter. His florid face reddened further as the little girl pushed past him and he stumbled ignominiously. There was a strident shout to stop the girl, but she was like a bead of mercury, eluding the hands that reached out to capture her. The planter was knocked to the ground again as two men leaped from the crowd to catch the child.
“Mama!”
Shannon realized with some horror that the girl was heading toward the ship. Everyone on the gangway was jostled as the child scrambled up the sloping board. Poor infant, Shannon thought. What was she running from? She held her breath as the girl faltered, lost her balance, then regained it only moments before she would have tumbled over the edge of the board and into the water. Just when Shannon thought the danger was past, the child’s bonnet was knocked askew by an unkind wind and lifted into the air.
In that moment Shannon simply forgot how to breathe. The dull glaze in her eyes vanished as bright orange curls, a heart-shaped face, and a pair of startling blue eyes that were clearly beseeching her for recognition caught her attention. Shannon did not know the child, but she recognized the face. Forgetting her torn bodice, Shannon placed her hands over the locket that nestled between her breasts. It was not possible, she thought wildly. This child was the perfect image of the miniature in her locket!
Shannon stood rooted to her spot on the crowded gangway, her throat closed against the tiniest sound of protest as the girl made a leap toward her. There were more shouts when the child attached herself to Shannon’s side. Small hands gripped her soiled skirt, and Shannon’s weary legs buckled at the force of the assault. She was aware the girl had fallen with her, but before she could act to secure the child, the heart-shaped face disappeared.
“Mama! Help me!”
It was the only thing Shannon heard before she launched herself into the water. She had forgotten she couldn’t swim, forgotten the weight of the manacles would make her task even more difficult. She could only think of saving the child. Long seconds passed before she caught a glimpse of her quarry floating in the water a few feet from her. Shannon thrashed wildly, flinging out her arms to push the child to the surface. Her thoughts became clouded as she struggled against the urge to breathe, but the part of her mind that was still functioning knew her efforts had not been in vain. She saw a pair of hands reach for the girl and pull her to safety. That was all right then. She could rest now. Shannon opened her mouth and let the blessed water rush in.
Cody caught Clara’s skirt, turned his niece in his arms, and swam for the dock. Clara was lifted out of his arms and then he was hauled out of the water. She was sobbing copiously but was otherwise fine, and Cody held her head against his shoulder while Brandon dived again and again to find Clara’s erstwhile rescuer. “Shh, darling. Your papa will find her.”
“Want my mama!” Clara repeated the same refrain she had begun the moment she had spied one of the bondwomen coming from the prison ship.
Cody sighed. He had never gotten a clear view of the woman and suspected the same was true of Brandon. Both men’s attentions were centered on trying to recapture Clara as she broke free of them, insisting she had seen her mother. He supposed it was possible the woman had borne a slight resemblance to Clara’s mother and the poor child had been confused by it. Someone threw a horse blanket around them, and Cody murmured his thanks. Brandon had just gone under the water for the fourth time.
The seconds that passed seemed interminable. Finally he sighted a silver-capped head bobbing to the surface. “He’s found her, little one,” he murmured in Clara’s ear. God help us all if she is not alive, he thought. Then he saw the face resting in the crook of Brandon’s arm and he amended his thought to a simple God help us.
Cody tucked the blanket about Clara and rushed to the edge of the dock to help the men who were assisting Brandon. There were murmurs of surprise and instant, rampant speculation as people who knew Brandon recognized the woman lying unconscious on the rough boards of the wharf. Everyone but Cody stepped back as Brandon heaved himself out of the water and collapsed, panting, at the woman’s side.
Brandon gulped large drafts of air, catching his breath. Water sprayed the air as he shook himself off. He was aware of the murmuring but could not make any sense of it. He rubbed his eyes and for the first time looked clearly at the woman he had rescued. Only the white line about his mouth revealed his resentment.
Damn her! Damn her to hell! Everyone was watching him; he knew it without raising his head. But only one pair of eyes mattered to him. He searched for his daughter. He took in her pale face, the orange tendrils of hair matted to her small head. Beneath lids that were puffy from crying, a pair of blue eyes begged eloquently for her cause. He looked again at the still figure at his side. You don’t deserve Clara, you bitch. Then he set about saving her life.
More than twelve hours later Cody was thoughtfully rolling a tumbler of Scotch between his palms. His feet rested on the apron of the fireplace, but there was no fire in the grate. The night was warm without it, and the Scotch was doing its work nicely. The gold drapes in the study had been opened, and moonshine glinted off his half brother’s bright hair. “I never saw a man so torn, Bran.”
Brandon refilled his glass, his third, and slumped in his favorite armchair. “Meaning me, I suppose.”
“Meaning you. Why did you do it?”
Brandon did not pretend ignorance. He knew precisely what Cody meant. He studied the amber liquid in his glass. “Do you have any idea how often I wished her gone from my life?” His laugh was harsh and filled with self-mockery. “Yes, I suppose you do. You never liked her. Never. Not from the first.”
It was true enough, but Cody had not realized he had been obvious. It made him feel uncomfortable and, oddly, guilty. Had he inadvertently driven a wedge between the brother he loved and the sister-in-law he could not tolerate?
“Save it,” Brandon said brusquely as if divining Cody’s thoughts. “There is no blame to be laid at your door.” He took a deep swallow from his glass. “I did it for Clara. I couldn’t let her mother die in front
of her eyes without lifting a finger to save her.” There was bitterness in his expression that said he had succeeded too well.
“And now?”
“Now? I don’t know. I suppose the next move is Rory’s. She can stay or go as she pleases.” He lurched from his chair, tossed back the remainder of Scotch, and slammed the empty glass on the dark walnut table. “But if she stays, I swear she will not work her sorcery on Clara. I will not have my child hurt so deeply again.”
“What can you do?” Cody asked, forcing a trace of calm into his voice. He had never seen Brandon this agitated, and the savage emotion lying so close to the surface worried him. “Clara worshiped her mother.”
“And Rory did not give so much as this”—he snapped his fingers—“for Clara. She was a pawn. Nothing more. If Rory stays, I will make certain Clara realizes it.”
“It sounds cruel,” Cody said with quiet conviction.
“Cruel to be kind. No matter what Rory promises, she will not remain at the folly long. I know my wife well enough to know that.”
Cody did not offer comment. Brandon’s own pride was deeply offended by his wife’s behavior, but Cody refrained from voicing his thought. It could serve no purpose. Rory was with them again and, for the moment at least, causing them no trouble. How long she would stay abed once she regained her strength was another matter entirely. And how long before she turned the folly on its ear was something Cody did not want to think about. “How do you suppose she came to be on the Century?” he asked. “And in chains?”
“I do not care to speculate on that. Leave it to the others who recognized her. I’m certain the entire Tidewater has heard what happened by now. Their story is bound to be closer to the truth than Rory’s own. I confess I could hear the sordid tale from her own lips and not believe a word of it.”
Brandon was even more bitterly wounded than Cody had first imagined. “I spoke with the captain,” he said. “He had no record of her presence on the ship. Everyone on board was to serve a sentence through indenture. He had papers for the lot. There were none for Rory.”
“That’s a pity. I might have been tempted to arrange for her sale.”
“Bran!”
Brandon rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t, but it seemed best to say so. “Excuse me, Cody. I’m going to bed. This has been a hellish day.” He left quietly, his carriage stiff.
Brandon’s steps slowed in front of his wife’s bedchamber, and then regretting his brief weakness, he hurried along to check on his daughter. The nursery was at the end of the hallway, a corner room that caught sunlight from two angles during the day. He had had it decorated to suit his idea of what a child might fancy. The wallpaper was pale yellow, dotted with tiny white flowers, and the drapes were apple green. A child’s rocker sat in front of the fireplace. Beside it rested a small oval table with two chairs, perfect for serving high tea to the collection of dolls that cluttered the room. A hoop lay idle against a gaily painted rocking horse, and at the foot of Clara’s high tester bed was a kite whose rag tail was wound around one of the posts like a serpent.
Because of the moonlight, Brandon saw it all in a glance. What he did not see was his daughter. His stomach lurched sickeningly as he realized where she was. He left the room quickly, his long stride carrying him purposefully to Rory’s room. He threw open the door and stalked into the chamber.
Martha started, nearly leaping from her chair as Brandon’s powerful figure was framed darkly in the doorway. When she saw it was the master, she laid a hand over her generous bosom to still the flutter in her heart. Her eyes gleamed whitely in her black face. “Don’t give me such a fright, young pup. I ain’t so old that I can’t take a switch to your behind.”
At another time Brandon would have laughed at Martha’s tart threat. He held a well of affection for the woman who had nursed him as a babe, tended his scraped knees in childhood, and fretted over his loss of appetite during his first youthful love affair. She was a mother to him in a way his own mother never was. While Celia Fleming kept to her room with migraines and vapors, bemoaning the heat, the flies, and her husband’s infidelities, it was Martha Minge who lent her considerable strength and wisdom to managing the household.
“Not now, Martha,” Brandon said shortly, giving her the cutting edge of his temper. That she was hurt by his curtness only registered in a tired part of his brain. “I thought my orders were clear. You were to stay with Rory, and she was not to be disturbed.”
Martha rose stiffly to her full height, a good eighteen inches below the crown of Brandon’s head, and lifted both her chins stubbornly. “If spirits hadn’t already blurred your vision, you’d see the missus ain’t been bothered.” She raised the tallow candle on the bedside table so its yellow light flickered over the sleeping figures in the bed. “Miz Clara slipped in here while I was visitin’ the necessary. Curled up ’side her mother and was sound asleep when I got back. Miss Rory ain’t moved a hair. No harm’s been done.”
“No harm!” he whispered incredulously. “I don’t want Clara here!”
Martha bore no tender feelings for Rory Fleming, but she loved Clara dearly. It was a simple matter of whose needs were greater, and right now Clara needed to be near her mother. “Nothin’s going to happen this night. Miz Rory don’ know the child’s here.”
“If she did, she’d push her out.”
“Probably so.” Martha replaced the candle. “Let her stay. I’m watchin’. You get some sleep. That head of yours will be drummin’ in the mornin’.”
Brandon cast another glance at the bed, where the two figures lay side by side. Clara’s bright hair rested softly against Rory’s breast. The modest neckline of Rory’s nightgown bared only the gentle pulse at the base of her throat. In contrast to the lilac gown, her complexion was china-white. The fine bones of her face stood out in sharp relief. Whatever she had suffered on board the Century had shaped her face with character that he found intriguing. There were violet shadows beneath the sweep of her jet lashes, and tiny white lines at the corners of her mouth. Exhaustion held her securely, and Brandon wondered if it was the severe fatigue or the child who slept innocently in her arms that made her appear vulnerable. He never had cause to apply that particular adjective to Rory before, and it bothered him that he should think of it now. Brandon felt the familiar tug of her beauty while she slept, and to keep from making a fool of himself in front of Martha, he turned sharply on his heel and hurried from the room.
When he was gone Martha plucked at her apron pocket and withdrew a gold locket. She opened it again and studied the miniature portrait in the pale light. Her brow furrowed in thought and she clucked her tongue in an expression of bewilderment and awe. “Imagine, Miss Rory havin’ somethin’ like this. Must have cared more for the babe than we knew. It don’ figure. It just don’ figure.”
* * *
It was midday when Shannon woke with a violent start, shaken to her core by the dream that had plagued her. She had been on board the Century again, and not only had there been no whore to protect her, but it was her stepfather’s face that hovered over hers. Before she could take in her surroundings, her stomach gave a terrible lurch and she moaned, knowing she was going to be sick. Someone put a hand on her shoulder, tipped her toward the edge of the bed, and thrust a basin beneath her head. Too ill to be humiliated, Shannon wretched, coughing up seawater and the bit of broth she had been forced to take.
Martha looked over her shoulder while touching the back of her hand to her patient’s forehead. Brandon was standing at the foot of the bed, his face impassive as he watched Martha’s ministrations. “Miz Rory has a fever,” she said. “She’s hot as a griddle.”
“I suppose it was inevitable,” he said without emotion. “I will speak to Clara. She must not spend another night in here. Let me know when Rory is well enough for conversation. There are matters to discuss.”
Martha made no reply until Brandon was gone. “I almost feel sorry for you, Miz Rory,” she muttered under h
er breath.
* * *
Shannon slept fitfully for days. Her memories were like beads on a loosely strung necklace, points of knowing separated by a thread of unreality. She recalled hands touching her, gentle hands, black hands. They wiped her brow, changed her linens, and fed her. Other hands, very small, dimpled at the knuckles, brushed her cheek with a tentative stroke until they were chased away. There were voices all around her, but no one spoke directly to her. Singsong drawls tickled her memory with their lazy rhythm.
Much against her will, Shannon was coaxed, prodded, and scolded into wellness.
“Addie, fetch Master Brandon!” Martha’s tone was rife with authority and urgency. “Her fever’s broken!”
Addie’s normal slim-hipped sway vanished as she ran to find the master and tell him the news.
Brandon was in the fields checking the progress of the planting of his sweet tobacco fields. An eighth of the folly’s half million acres was given over to raising tobacco, and from his saddle, as far as his eye could see, workers were bent over the seedlings, placing them carefully in the fertile Tidewater soil. Elsewhere on the plantation were acres of corn, beans, and squash. Thousands of acres lay fallow while nature replenished the ground.
Brandon did not concern himself overmuch with acreage set aside for the sturdy crops. Not when there was so much to do with the main source of income at the folly. Tobacco demanded a great deal of tending and a long growing season, beginning in January when the seeds were sown in special beds. Now the seedlings were being transplanted, and next month would come the weeding and the constant attention to picking off the worms.
He thought of his argument in the customs office a week ago. He had shocked the officials when he promised to cut back production if they did not meet his price. No doubt they would send someone to investigate how much he planted and still try to offer him a lower market price in September after the crop was packed. He swore he would burn the damn hogsheads before he would let them go for any less than the agreed-upon price. What bothered him most about his alternative plan was the incredible waste. Tobacco drained the fertile soil in a matter of years, which is why Brandon rotated his crops. If he did not sell his entire yield, then he had damaged the soil for nothing.
