Richard glanced down a hallway as he started up the steps. A table surrounded by chairs suggested the kitchen was at the end of the hall. Again, the furniture wasn’t built of square wooden planks like that in the home he’d once visited in Salem Village. Briefly, for he really didn’t care, he wondered about all the furniture he’d had delivered to his wife’s family’s home. Expensive, solid pieces, for he’d never shied away from providing for his daughter.
The open-beam ceiling supporting the floor above grew near as he climbed the steps. The stairs turned a corner then, blocking the ground floor. Richard’s gaze landed on the skirt trailing each step ahead of him. The dull gray of homespun cloth went all the way up to her waist, where it was gathered and disappeared beneath the black formfitting sleeveless waistcoat over her white peasant shirt. The fashionable gowns worn elsewhere, including parts of America, were not welcome in this community. He’d discovered that on his last trip here. Just as he’d discovered he wasn’t welcome.
“I beg you to keep your voice soft,” the woman stated after they’d climbed the stairs and traversed a narrow hall with windows at both ends. She paused near a door, her hand on the knob. “Gracie frightens easily.”
He’d known the child had been given the name Grace upon birth but, until this moment, hadn’t thought of her as anything other than his daughter. Growing impatient with himself—and everything else, for that matter—Richard gestured for the door to be opened.
A beam of sunlight shone directly upon a bed of such a large size that the tiny child lying upon it was almost invisible. Her body was so small the blankets looked merely wrinkled. If not for the dark hair on the pillow, he’d have thought the bed empty.
The woman walked to the side of the bed. Richard followed, choosing the opposite side.
“Gracie,” the woman whispered, leaning down and brushing tendrils of hair off the child’s face. “Your papa’s here.”
There was a shift beneath the bedcovers as the child rolled onto her back. Her eyelids, which were edged by long, dark lashes, lifted, exposing big brown eyes. Other than her eyes and her hair, the child was as white as the pillow she rested upon. A tiny smile tugged at her lips as her sleepy gaze settled on him.
The twinge that crossed his chest momentarily stole his breath. This was his child. The life of his loins. A miniature person as real as he himself.
“I prayed you were real.”
Richard knelt down, questioning if he’d heard her weak whisper or if it had been his own thoughts repeating themselves. “What?”
The girl pulled an arm from beneath the cover and lifted it so her tiny fingertips brushed his cheek. “I prayed you were real,” she repeated.
Her fingertips were cool, her hand shaking. As he curled his much larger fingers around hers, something happened inside him. An opening, a warmth as unique and precious as a sunrise the morning after a hurricane. “Of course I’m real,” he answered, wanting to offer some sort of assurance to this tiny being. His throat burned, an unusual occurrence, and grew thick. Almost too thick for him to whisper, “I’m your papa.”
Her tiny smile disappeared as she closed her eyes again and the thin arm connected to the hand he held went limp. His heart thudded and he shot his attention toward the woman on the other side of the bed.
Chapter Two
Marina Lindqvist closed her eyes and willed her heart to slide back down into her chest before it strangled her. Gracie was so tiny, so fragile. Turning the little girl’s welfare, her very life, over to a stranger tore at Marina’s very soul. It was what had to be done. She understood that, as unsettling as it was, as badly as it hurt. Soon she’d be unable to care for the child, to offer her protection.
The sigh that built in her lungs burned. She’d fought, she’d prayed, she’d begged for things to be different, to be like they used to be, but that wasn’t about to happen. There’d been no choice but to accept, so that was what she’d done and would have to again.
Perhaps it would be easier if Captain Tarr wasn’t so frightening to look upon. The moment she’d opened the front door, the terror she’d known once before filled her. If not for the innocent little child lying upon the bed, she’d never have led this black-haired man upstairs. Never have let him into the house. She had, though, let him in. She’d been the one to summon him to Salem Village. Therefore, for Gracie’s sake, she’d willed her mind to understand the difference between the past and present and did so again.
“Sleep is what Gracie needs,” Marina whispered, holding her gaze on the angelic little girl. The horror of what could happen to unprotected children was something else she’d never forget. At times it was hard to differentiate between memories and the visions that appeared in her mind, the very ones that left her with no choice but to accept they would become realities. Too many had already come true for doubt to linger.
It was a curse of who she was. Of what she’d become.
A loud sigh penetrated her musing, and for a moment, she wondered if the captain had feared Gracie had perished rather than fallen back asleep. Unable to look upon him, for he so closely resembled the heathens who’d shattered her life it made her tremble, Marina brushed aside yet another strand of Gracie’s dark hair. “I’m sorry you traveled so far, but as you can see, Gracie is in no condition for the ride to Boston.”
“Why is she so—so tired?”
“She’s been gravely ill,” Marina pointed out. “Hopefully, she can travel in a few days.” Upon sending the note to Boston, she’d assumed it would be a length of time before the message reached him. Not a great length, but longer than a single day. Uncle William hadn’t known when one of Captain Tarr’s ships would port, and they’d agreed sending a personal note to the captain was better than sending for an agent on his behalf at the seaport.
She should be glad he’d responded so quickly, but she wasn’t. Strangers were not welcome in the village, and the presence of this man wouldn’t go unnoticed.
“The pox?”
“No,” she answered. “She was spared the outbreak that took so many.” Her note had briefly mentioned his wife had died of smallpox last winter. Those were terrible messages to pen, ones of death and dying, things that had become too commonplace.
“Then what’s wrong with her?”
Gracie stirred slightly. Marina stepped back and gestured toward the door as she started in that direction.
“What’s wrong with her?” he repeated once they were in the hallway with the door closed behind them.
“I’m not a physician,” Marina said, “but I believe Gracie was close to dying from starvation.”
“Starvation?”
“Shh,” she said as his voice echoed off the walls.
“Why was my daughter starving to death?” he asked more quietly but just as harshly.
Marina started down the hallway so Gracie’s nap wouldn’t be further interrupted. The child was on the mend, but just days ago she had barely been able to hold up her head and Marina had feared it was already too late. An unexplainable instinct had told her where to find the child, but she’d been shocked by Gracie’s condition—and infuriated. Her refusal to turn Gracie over to the authorities angered many, but that was also when she’d completely understood why she’d been chosen. The ability to save this child had been bestowed upon her, and at that moment, while defying Hickman, it truly had felt like a gift rather than the curse she’d believed it to be since awakening in Maine.
“And why is she here?” the captain continued. “Where are her grandparents?”
Marina was still trying to understand why she’d been chosen. Gracie, too. Why had this child had to suffer so? Answers weren’t easy to find, and right now, the captain’s massive bulk and looming presence had the walls of the narrow passageway closing in around her, making it difficult to breathe. Haunting memories started flashing in her mind, and she hurried toward the stairs. “My uncle will provide answers to your questions.”
A solid hand grasped her arm. “I want an
swers now.”
Her heart stalled and her throat tightened while the images flashing behind her eyes grew stronger. Indians with blood-covered tomahawks. Shoving her back and forth between them, pulling at her hair and clothes. She could almost feel how they’d torn little Gunther from her arms before—
“Captain Tarr!”
The shout echoing up the stairway shattered the dark memories, but fear still had her trembling.
“I am the man of the house,” Uncle William shouted, “and will answer all of your questions.”
Her uncle’s voice penetrated the pounding in Marina’s ears and gave her enough sense to know this wasn’t Maine. It wasn’t the dark of the night. It wasn’t cold or raining. However, the panic clawing at her insides remained, and she rushed forward, barely slowing her speed to maneuver the steep steps.
Uncle William stood near the bottom step. “Are you all right, child?” he asked softly.
“He must leave until Gracie is well enough to travel,” she whispered while hurrying off the steps.
Marina didn’t stop until she was in the kitchen. Standing there, trembling and clutching the edge of the table with both hands, she silently recited the Lord’s Prayer.
Asking for salvation from the very God who’d forsaken her had become the only thing that took away the pain.
In case God’s grace didn’t come soon enough, Marina silently told herself, Richard Tarr is not an Indian. He is Gracie’s father, and she needs him. Needs him as strongly as I needed Papa when small and scared.
The solid wood, the sunshine filling the room, the smell of the chicken soup she’d set to simmer and repeating the statement several times gradually eased her torment. As things settled deep within her, for her fears never truly completely disappeared, she drew in a breath and then another.
When her body stopped trembling, she released her hold on the table. Although she’d never forget the savages who’d attacked her home, the scriptures told her to forgive. Forgiving something so heinous was rather impossible, but she’d discovered the Indians weren’t to blame as much as the evilness that had possessed them. The same evilness that now had the inhabitants of Salem Village massacring one another as unjustly as the Indians had her family. Which was why she was here, witnessing people betraying one another, sentencing neighbors to death, just as it was written in the Bible.
If she’d been given mystical powers when the hand of God had touched her, she’d have already stopped it. But no one had that kind of power. Not even witches. Yet no one but her seemed to understand that. Nor did they understand that the evil upon them wasn’t witches. It was a false prophet. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Being a chosen one was far from a blessing, but she’d never shied away from work and wouldn’t this time, either. Her father had told her she must save others, and she would. After finding Gracie, she no longer questioned why she’d been sent back to earth, why she’d been turned into a witch, and understood there was far more to do than just save the child. Despite what the reverend thought, the bargain she’d made with him included her. Only her. Not Gracie. He’d granted her the time she needed to make Gracie well, but she knew he’d done that instead of imprisoning her because he was afraid. Afraid of her and the powers he believed she possessed. She wished she did have mystical powers, but even without them, she would make sure Gracie was far from Salem when she turned herself over to the council as she’d promised.
With her spirit once again intact, Marina lifted a wooden spoon off the table and carried it to the large hearth, where she stirred the soup. Every two hours since bringing the child home, she’d fed Gracie tiny spoonfuls of broth. She’d feared the girl’s little stomach had been empty for so long it had forgotten its purpose, but each day Gracie ate a bit more than the previous and that gave Marina hope.
She turned away from the hearth. She should have suspected Richard Tarr would have black hair. Gracie must have inherited it from somewhere. It hadn’t been her mother. Sarah’s hair, from what Marina could remember, had been red. She’d seen the woman only a couple of times in the market square and truly only noticed her because of the child at her side. Gracie had been healthy then, with plump cheeks and chubby fingers, and, despite all her painful memories, Marina had somewhat fallen in love with the adorable little girl. Gracie’s big brown eyes, wide with wonder, reminded her so much of Gunther.
To recall that it had been only seven months ago when Gracie had been healthy, a happy child toddling behind her mother at the market square, seemed a bit unreal. So much had happened since then.
Uncle William apologized regularly for how unfriendly the village had become, but Marina had seen that before. How quickly people changed. How hatred arose. Yet it hadn’t been until she came face-to-face with the reverend that she saw the root of the calamities overtaking the community.
“Marina?”
She set the spoon back on the table and slowly made her way down the hall to the front room. With each step, she reminded herself there was no need to fear Richard Tarr. His long black hair, skin browned from the sun and chiseled features just made him look like an Indian. And his lack of facial hair. All men other than Indians had beards and mustaches.
Uncle William didn’t approve of what she’d done in order to save Gracie, but he did agree with saving the child. He claimed Captain Tarr was a fair man and would take responsibility for his child. Marina sincerely hoped so, for she questioned why Captain Tarr hadn’t taken responsibility of his daughter before now. Uncle William suggested he had, from the sea. That it was no different for a sea captain to go to sea than for a farmer to go to his field. Father or not. Husband or not.
“There you are, child,” Uncle William said from where he and Richard sat beside the window. “Captain Tarr...” With a nod her uncle corrected himself. “Richard, as he’s asked to be addressed, has several questions. Could you join us? I’m not able to answer those about Gracie’s health.”
She’d gladly voice her opinion that the captain could return in a few days. Grace would be able to travel then, could get away without the reverend or anyone else knowing. Uncle William, too.
Appreciative that her uncle’s home was not like most others, where women were expected to remain silent, never subjecting others to their opinions, Marina crossed the room. Her own home, that of her parents, had been full of bountiful conversations that included everyone. And laughter. Oh, how her brothers had laughed. Of all the things she missed, that might be the one she missed the most. Laughter. It was good for a person’s soul. Made life easier, lighter, even in the darkest of times.
Just as she was about to sit upon the squat stool Uncle William put his good leg upon while resting, the captain stood.
“Allow me,” he said.
Hesitant, Marina remained standing, eyeing him cautiously. He was very tall and muscular, and his stride was distinct, purposeful and sent a shiver up her spine. Confused as to what his purpose was at this moment, she watched him walk to the desk. There, he picked up the chair and turned, carrying it back to where she stood.
“Thank you, Captain,” Uncle William said.
Marina chose to remain quiet and sat down as Captain Tarr returned to his chair. She had to wonder, given the act he’d just performed, if he was like her uncle or more like the other men in the community. Very few in the village would permit Uncle William to request that she or any other woman participate in a conversation. That had been hard for her to accept when she’d first arrived, and questioning it had been enough to make her an outsider long before her true identity had been revealed.
“You’ll find our home a bit unorthodox compared to others in the area,” Uncle William stated as the other man sat back down. “Marina and I converse regularly. I like it that way and value what she has to say. Perhaps because I was always surrounded by mates. After the Golden Eagle ran ashore on a reef near the Bahamas, I found myself too old to repair her and traded her for this place. Of course, I kept my cargo,” he added with his grave
lly laugh. “Wiggins Adams is who I got this place from.” He lifted a gray brow. “You heard of him?”
“Yes, I have,” Captain Tarr answered. “Captain Adams and I have crossed paths several times.”
“He promised it was a solid plot of land with a big house outside of Boston.”
“He didn’t lie,” Richard pointed out.
Uncle William chuckled. “No, he didn’t, but he didn’t tell me it was surrounded by Puritans until after he hauled me and all my belongings here. That was two years ago. If Marina hadn’t come to live with me a short time later, I may have given up on the place and gone back to the sea. Still might someday.”
Marina remained silent. As much as Uncle William spoke of returning to the sea, she knew it wouldn’t happen. Not without assistance. He’d never accept charity or pity, but his mind was outliving his body on land. He often repeated stories or rambled, and climbing the stairs to the second floor winded him. She’d taken apart his bed and carried it downstairs to the room off the hall leading to the kitchen to save him from climbing the stairs last winter. Convincing Captain Tarr her uncle wasn’t a washed-up old seaman, and to take him, along with Gracie, might not be an easy chore, but there wasn’t anything easy about her lot in life anymore.
A smile almost tugged at her lips because, for a brief second, she could hear her father’s voice proclaiming there wasn’t a task a Lindqvist couldn’t complete.
“Marina’s family had a bit of a mishap up in Maine,” Uncle William said. “She came to live with me winter before last. It was a cold snowy day when you arrived, wasn’t it, child?”
Saving Marina Page 2
