Chapter 11
It had been ten months since Bryce fled the Atherson farm in the dead of night. She had arrived in Boston in the predawn hours and after two failed attempts, had managed to find a livery stable that was willing to buy a horse from a woman.
She had no choice but to accept the five pounds the merchant offered, as she was desperate for money and had no real idea what the value of a horse was. Boston was a strange and chaotic place for Bryce. Her family had only briefly resided in the city while waiting for placement when they first arrived in the Colonies. Without the familiarity of her parents and brother to console her, she had wandered the streets feeling more alone than she could have imagined.
Resolved not to spend another night on the streets of Boston, Bryce had found a home in a local boarding house and managed to find work in the Green Dragon Pub. Spirits were high as talk of revolution filled the city and Bryce felt energized by the hope and courage that surrounded her.
“What do you mean I have to leave?” Bryce stood with her shoulders squared as she glared at Mrs. Smead. The woman was nearly sixty, her hair thin wisps of gray that she wore pulled back in a tight knot at the base of her neck. Her skin had a leathery texture to it and clearly the woman had spent extensive time outside at some point in her life.
“What I said then. I won’t have any trouble here, and with that place you work, I can’t be sure you aren’t bringing that rebel riffraff home with ya. The Green Dragon, what a name.” The woman’s lips were tinted a dark brown from the tobacco sticks she frequently chewed. Bryce found it ironic a woman who ran a glorified brothel was worried about political dissenters mucking up her house.
“I’ve paid through the end of the week.” Bryce asserted.
“Right, here you are.” The woman reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled three schillings out, dropping them in Bryce’s outstretched hand.
“This isn’t fair.” Bryce looked at the coins in the palm of her hand.
“Fair or not, you’re out. My house. My rules.” The woman turned and walked back up her stoop. “Collect your things and be gone before supper.” The leathery woman shut the door behind her and Bryce stood, stunned, in the middle of the street. After gathering the few possessions she had, the redhead made her way down Union Street looking for new accommodations. It was nearly dark and the last thing she wanted was to spend a night on the streets.
Near dusk, she saw a small board with the words Rooms for Ladies propped up against a narrow row house a few blocks over from Union Street. Though Bryce couldn’t read, she had managed to memorize the visual appearance of several words and phrases. Knowing what to look for when seeking a place to stay had been one of the first things she had learned when arriving in Boston.
Walking up to the stone stoop, she climbed the four steps and knocked firmly on a faded green door. After nearly a minute, a series of clicks came from the other side of the door and then it opened. A woman in her late thirties stood in front of Bryce. She was wearing a light blue skirt and brown jacket. Her long raven colored hair was pulled up in a bun that rested on top of her head. Bryce marveled at the smoothness of her olive toned skin and the intensity of the brown eyes studying her.
“Can I help you?” The woman’s voice was light and breathy when she spoke.
“I - I came about your rooms.” Bryce cleared her throat, unsure why the woman made her nervous.
“You’re Irish?” The woman’s brow furrowed.
“Aye.” Bryce had encountered issues with her lineage when she was initially looking for housing. The stereotypes painting the Irish as disorderly drunks, although entirely untrue in her case, were alive and well throughout Boston.
“Are you alone? Husband? Family?” The dark haired woman pressed.
Shaking her head, Bryce looked passed the woman and into the darkened house. “My people are all dead.” She lied. “But I have a job and can pay ahead.”
The dark haired woman ran her eyes from Bryce’s mud encrusted shoes up to her head as the two women stood in an awkward silence for several seconds.
“Fine. A pound, due the first day of the month - no exceptions.” Turning her back to Bryce, the woman walked back inside, leaving the door ajar.
Clutching her small cloth bag to her chest, Bryce followed the woman inside. The house was unimpressive. It consisted of a single hallway with numerous rooms shooting off to the right and left and what looked like a small kitchen at the back of the house. There were very few windows; the ones there had bubbled and muddied panes, so that the light was fractured and dim. The stairway to the left of the door had a badly warped and scarred banister.
“Follow me.” The woman walked up the stairs, each step creaking as she and Bryce ascended. The remnants of white paint was cracked and peeling from the walls and there was a faint floral scent in the air that Bryce couldn’t identify. “I have one room left as there are two other boarders. You share a bathroom, which is at the end of the hall. The privy is through the kitchen, behind the house.”
Stopping in front of a faded wooden door, the woman turned to Bryce, her hand extended. The redhead frowned. Realizing the purpose of the gesture after a moment, she reached into her bag and produced a pound.
“I’m Abitha Lanson.” The woman opened the bedroom door.
“Bryce Whelan.”
Without a word, the woman walked past Bryce and back down the stairs. Confused by how aloof her new landlord was, Bryce resolved to keep a low profile, pay her rent on time, and avoid unwanted attention. Her commitment to blending in had kept her out of prison thus far, and she still held out hope Aeden would come find her if her name was cleared.
***
“We will not stand for these outrages against our property and our person!” Duncan Alcock pounded his fist into the wooden table that ran the length of the Green Dragon’s basement. He was nearly six feet tall. His skin was pale and smooth, highlighting his light brown hair and piercing blue eyes.
Bryce thought he was more beautiful than handsome. She had heard rumors he was courting several women at once, something his wealth and charm afforded him. He was one of six wealthy land owners gathered in the basement of the Green Dragon pub.
It was common knowledge the pub was owned by the Freemasons and was frequently the site of rousing meetings to discuss the Colonies’ continued strife with England.
Duncan was one of the more vocal members of the Masons and frequently stirred his brethren into fits of indignation and ire over recent acts passed by the British government. This particular evening, the men were discussing their recourse with regards to the Quartering Act.
“I returned from the fields and found ten British soldiers in my home. My wife was beside herself and my children were terrified.” James Lawson’s voice boomed from the back of the room as Bryce navigated the narrow space with a ceramic pitcher of ginger beer.
Bryce sat the heavy pitcher on the end of the table and meant to turn around and go back upstairs to the main room of the pub, but Duncan took her wrist in his cold hand. “Miss.” His smile was broad and his teeth the whitest Bryce had ever seen. “Can you bring us something a little stronger? I’m settlin’ in for some whiskey.”
A flush of heat rose to Bryce’s neck and she averted her eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Hurrying back up the stairs, the hustle and low hum of the patrons on the main floor of the Dragon washed over her. She had grown fond of the pub since starting work there shortly after arriving in Boston.
The establishment was divided into five smaller rooms, with the bar in the back. The walls were adorned with numerous landscape paintings, animal trophies, and weaponry. The dark elm floors and low ceiling could seem claustrophobic at first, but the energy of the place made Bryce feel alive.
Once back upstairs, Bryce removed an unlabeled bottle of liquor from the shelf behind the oak bar and stacked six glasses on a wooden tray.
“Where’s that going?” Angus Daily was a short, round man with a pock-marked face
. His red hair was dull, oily, and matted against his head. He had been the barkeep at the Green Dragon for nearly a decade, and Bryce could count on one hand the number of times he actually spoke. His usual method of communicating was a series of eye rolls and exasperated sighs.
“Mr. Alcock has asked for it, sir.” Bryce responded, confident this was a sufficient response given Mr. Alcock’s standing.
Looking at Bryce, and then toward the basement stairs, the heavy set man nodded. Bryce hurried down the stairs, nearly dropping the tray of glasses as she ran into Duncan Alcock near the bottom of the steps.
With a single fluid motion, the statuesque man balanced the tray in his left hand and Bryce with his right arm around her narrow waist. “Careful, that’s good whiskey you were about to waste.” He winked at the flustered woman, and she was shocked when her heartbeat sped up.
“I’d never forgive myself, sir.” Bryce had no idea where the comment came from, or why it sounded like flirting, but she was relieved when the man released her.
“Clever girl.” A look of admiration crossed Duncan’s face as a smile found his perfect lips. “What’s your name?”
Swallowing hard in hopes she could find her voice, Bryce managed to sound more confident than she felt. “Bryce Whelan.”
“Bryce. Lovely name.”
“Duncan, stop it with that girl. We have real business here.” A thin, short man with black hair called after his colleague from across the room.
Handing Bryce the tray, Duncan turned his attentions back to the group of men. Bryce quickly distributed the glasses and the whiskey before dashing back up to the main floor. She had only a few minutes left of work and wanted to get home before curfew.
Boston had been inundated with British troops over the past six months, and moving around the city without being stopped and asked for papers was becoming increasingly more difficult. She had never made the connections needed for forged papers and had left the Athersons without her own.
It was clear from the discourse in the pub, and the increasingly hostile attitudes on the streets, that war was coming. She remembered clearly her father’s story of the Irish Rebellion, when Catholics feared the invasion of anti-Catholic forces from Britain and Scotland. Like the Irish then, the Colonists were feeling the tightening grip of an unfair, authoritative Parliament and King.
“I’m leavin’ then.” Bryce grabbed her shawl from a shelf under the bar. Not expecting a response from Mr. Daily, she didn’t look back as she exited the pub.
It was nearly dark and the street lamps had not been lit yet as Bryce made her way through the streets. Nearing the corner of Union, she stopped when she spotted five British soldiers checking random people for their identification papers.
Turning around, Bryce decided to cut through the alley that ran between the Green Dragon and a neighboring dry goods shop. The ground was uneven and the surrounding buildings blocked the waning light, so Bryce was struggling with her footing.
“You seem a little out of place here.” A man’s voice came from behind Bryce.
Pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders, the redhead continued walking, hoping if she didn’t acknowledge the stranger he would lose interest. It wasn’t the first time a man had made inappropriate comments to her. The nature of her work made that an inevitability, but outside the pub, and alone in a secluded alley, Bryce struggled to hold her panic at bay.
“Are you lost?” The man’s voice was closer now, but Bryce could see the end of the alley thirty feet ahead of her and began to walk faster.
A heavy hand on her shoulder, and being pulled backward, brought the woman’s forward progress to a halt. The stale smell of body odor and beer wafted over Bryce, forcing her to immediately hold her breath as she struggled to free herself from the man’s grasp.
“Leave me alone!” With all her strength, Bryce pulled away from the man and stumbled forward several feet.
“I just want to help ya.” Seeing the man for the first time did nothing to abate the fear threatening to drown Bryce. His clothes were worn to the point of being rags and his teeth, along with his face, were stained various shades of murky yellow and brown.
“I think we’re done here.” Duncan Alcock’s voice came from behind the vagrant and Bryce nearly cried with relief.
“Mr. Alcock, thank heaven. I was on my way home -” Bryce gushed.
“Run along, Miss. The gentleman and I will work this out.” Bryce’s savior remained behind the other man, cloaked in the shadows of the alley.
Turning around to face Duncan, the would-be attacker waved a dirt encrusted hand in the air. “Never mind, good sir. I was just ensuring the lady got home okay. These are troublin’ times.”
“Troubling indeed, sir.” Duncan stepped forward. He was easily three inches taller than the other man. His eyes seemed to glow in the darkness of the alley and Bryce suppressed a gasp, sure her eyes were deceiving her.
Duncan smiled broadly and without looking away from the man, addressed Bryce. “Head home, Miss Whelan. I’ll ensure this man gets what he has coming to him.”
Still anxious from the quasi-assault, Bryce had no desire to witness any more violence and quickly turned, running toward the street and safety.
***
“You’re back early.” Abitha’s voice came from the parlor off the entrance of the boarding house. The room was small, but had one of the larger windows in the house and Bryce enjoyed the diffused light that filled the room at twilight.
In spite of their cool beginnings, Bryce and Abitha had become friendly since the redhead had moved in over a month ago. Bryce had also forged tentative friendships with the other two lodgers, Margaret and Catherine, and the four women had become something of a family to one another.
“I didn’t want the trouble of the check points, so I left a little early.” Bryce put her cloth bag down next to the front door and joined Abitha in the parlor. She had decided not to tell anyone what had happened, for fear it would cause trouble for Duncan should something horrible befall her assailant.
“There’s food on the stove. Catherine made dinner, so I can’t attest to whether it’s any good.” The woman sat in a tattered, cloth covered easy chair with her legs reclined on a short, leather covered foot stool. She massaged the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.
Bryce looked at the raven haired woman. She had a way of slighting someone without sounding offensive; Bryce wondered if she even realized she was being cross.
Abitha wasn’t traditionally beautiful by Bryce’s reckoning, but she had a prettiness to her that caught the redhead by surprise. She had scarcely looked at another woman since that horrible night with Hope, but for the first time in nearly a year, she felt the stirrings of desire.
“Are you okay?” Bryce asked. Abitha wasn’t a particularly talkative woman, but she seemed withdrawn and anxious.
Keeping her eyes closed, her head resting against the back of the chair, she nodded. “I’m tired.”
Bryce knelt next to the woman. “Can I bring you anything?” Without thinking, she put her hand over Abitha’s and gently stroked the smoothness of the woman’s skin with her thumb. She was warm and being this close to her, Bryce could smell hints of musk and patchouli.
Abitha opened her eyes, the brown iris seeming to swirl and glisten as she lifted her hand, entwining her fingers with Bryce’s. “You’re kind.”
A nervous smile skittered across Bryce’s lips. She hadn’t been this close to a woman in months, and she felt light headed and a little foolish for how euphoric the nearness of Abitha was making her. “You seem - sad, so I thought -”
Abitha sat up and pulled Bryce over so she was sitting on the stool in front of her. Taking both of Bryce’s hands in hers, the woman seemed to marvel at them, turning the over so she could examine the palms.
“You’ve had a hard life.” Abitha ran her index finger across the center of Bryce’s palm, sending a jolt of heat up the redhead’s arm. Frowning, Abitha’s eyes
narrowed and she studied Bryce’s palm more closely. “You’re going to have a very long life.” Looking up at Bryce, the woman smiled. “Almost unnaturally so.”
Bryce swallowed. Her mouth had suddenly gone dry. Her heart felt as if it might beat out of her chest. “That can’t be a bad thing.”
Abitha leaned forward and before Bryce realized what was happening, the woman’s warm lips were pressed to hers. The tip of Abitha’s tongue pushed into Bryce’s mouth, and Abitha couldn’t stifle the low moan that escaped her.
A quiet cough came from the hall, and Bryce pulled back as if she had been burned. A young man stood in the parlor doorway, his face expressionless as he looked at the two women.
“Is supper ready?” Aaron Lanson was Abitha’s seventeen-year-old son. She told Bryce her husband had died of consumption when the child was only three and left her alone with the boy and a house to manage. Bryce’s heart had ached for the woman, and she hoped her company, along with that of Margaret and Catherine’s, gave the single mother some comfort.
Aaron was a slight boy and, like his mother, had raven black hair that had a slight curl to it. His eyes were slightly disproportional to the rest of his face and gave the impression the boy was perpetually surprised. The color of his eyes was what Bryce had noticed when she first met him. Their deep, radiant blue gave the boy an almost ethereal quality.
“It’s on the stove.” Abitha said casually, still holding Bryce’s hand. Without a word, the boy left the room.
“I’m sorry.” Bryce wasn’t sure she had done anything wrong since Abitha had initiated the kiss, but the awkwardness and embarrassment of having her son see them, forced the apology from Bryce’s lips.
“Why?” Abitha tilted her head to the side and studied Bryce closely.
“I mean, Aaron and -”
Shaking her head, Abitha released Bryce’s hands and leaned back in the chair. “It’s not a problem.”
Dying Forever (Waking Forever Book 3) Page 18
