Daniel sank onto another barrel, and they shared the meal in silence, leaving only the bones and the orange. With a smile of pure contentment, Daniel wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Delicious. Give my regards to Widow Pym and Master Half-brain.”
Leaving the dirty trencher on the table, Meadow slipped into the stall of her favorite hunter, a big black Thoroughbred with an impressive pedigree. The hunter had come back lame after its last run. She lifted its hoof with practiced ease, feeling carefully around the fetlock and pastern.
“Lofty’s leg is healing nicely,” she murmured. “The swelling has gone down, and he hardly flinches when I touch it.”
Daniel stood behind her, looking on with something like fatherly pride. “Only a mild sprain, as you guessed. Nothing a bit of snow and rest cannot cure.”
Meadow prepared one final compress, gathering a handful of snow and wrapping it about the joint with a clean rag. Stepping back, she surveyed her work with satisfaction.
“You’ve done well,” Daniel praised her. “I’d best watch out or Half-brain will set you up as groom and I’ll find myself out on my ear!”
Frightened and lonely, Meadow had first come to the stables seeking companionship among the impartial beasts. She found the cheerful young groom instead. Since that first visit, she had spent all her free hours watching him care for the horses and soaking up his knowledge. His approval swelled her with pride.
Daniel retrieved the trencher, retaining the orange, and handed it to her pointedly. “You’d best get back before our beloved master misses you.”
Before leaving, Meadow tipped her head to one side. “I’m forced to remain here, but you aren’t. Why do you stay to work for him?”
“I won’t stay forever. Perhaps it’s the horses that hold me,” he speculated. Then his eyes twinkled. “Or perhaps it’s the delightful company of a certain young lady with hair like the blazing sun.”
She snatched the trencher from his hands. “Daniel Parker, you are incorrigible!”
His laughter followed her across the darkened yard, but her heart warmed at his teasing. How would she have survived the last five years had she not made that first desperate visit to the stables?
~
Meadow entered the deserted kitchen to find Widow Pym clutching her hand and dripping blood onto the clean flagstones. Her face matched the color of old parchment. “You, girl, grab a rag! And hurry!”
Meadow brought a cloth that had been left to dry beside the hearth. The woman snatched it away and wrapped it tightly around a gash that stretched across three fingers.
“What happened, ma’am?” Meadow asked in alarm.
The woman’s face darkened in rage. “Your place is not to question me! Where is Olive? Nathan?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Bugger it! What I would not sacrifice for some decent help around here! The master needs an attendant in the drawing room immediately. Regretfully, I have no choice at the moment besides you.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” Meadow curtsied.
“Get those in there! And don’t botch it!”
Meadow noticed a silver tray bearing rich pastries. She wiped her sweating palms on her apron and carefully picked it up.
A vapor of tobacco smoke hovered over the drawing room like fog, clinging to the fabric of her dress and clogging her throat. A dozen gentlemen lounged about the room. Meadow could see at a glance that most of them had already consumed too much brandy, Lord Dennison not the least among them. The alcohol seemed to have dimmed his memory, for he made no sign of recognition at her entrance.
The conversation continued uninterrupted as Meadow passed out pastries and refilled glasses.
“If the leaders hang, the whole rebellion will fall apart,” Grimes stated.
“You misjudge them,” Dobbs spoke quietly. “Discontent is far more widespread than you realize.”
“Hang it all, Dobbs! Why do you insist on taking their side?” Hathbane complained. “If I didn’t know your father, I’d take you for a rebel.”
“Not at all. I’m simply saying if you remove the leaders, more will fill the vacancies.”
“We have tried to take them,” Lord Percival confided, “but they move constantly. There’s a whole network calling themselves the Sons of Liberty.”
“Nonsense,” Grimes scoffed. “We speak of a ragged band of troublemakers – delinquents.”
“Call them whatever you wish, but the fact remains – they elude capture. Instead, we must go after more substantial assets.” Percival dropped his voice. “Rumors arise of magazines located in Salem and Concord and elsewhere. If we seize them, we can cut off the hand that works the mischief.”
“General Gage will not be hasty,” Dobbs declared. “The outcry after the powder raid on Winter Hill last autumn has taught him caution. The colonists have organized militias and guard their supplies with greater care.”
Percival laughed. “Like mice defying a lion. We don’t fear their militias. Gage can be persuaded to act.”
The men muttered their approval.
As she served, Meadow caught sight of a broken glass setting on the bar. One of its jagged points sported a drop of blood. She smiled smugly to think how it must gall Widow Pym to find herself as clumsy as the despised Irish girl she had so recently berated.
“Here, girl!” Hampton called in a slurred voice, raising his empty wine glass. His bulldog face was purple and puffy. “Fill this!”
Grimes spoke up. “Nice-looking lass you have there, Hathbane.”
Meadow felt her cheeks grow warm as Lord Dennison grunted in surprise. “A child, Grimes,” he countered. “A filthy Irish whelp.”
“Aye, filthy Irish perhaps,” the man acknowledged, as though Meadow was not standing right beside him, “but a sweet face, and not so long a child.”
Meadow flicked her gaze from Grimes to her master, who narrowed his eyes appraisingly. Her hands jerked of their own accord, splashing wine on the lacy front of the man before her who jumped in drunken surprise.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she gulped. Plunking down the decanter, she snatched a clean cloth from the tray and dabbed at the soiled cravat without effect. Behind her, she heard an alarming growl issue from Lord Dennison.
Dobbs laughed heartily, deflecting much of the tension in the room. “Hampton, I’ve not seen you move so fast since your wife caught you with your pistol and the carcass of her favorite cat! And I must say, my good man, if you insist on adding any more silk to your shirtfront, I fear your head may be in danger of disappearing altogether.”
With tears burning her eyes, Meadow slunk out of the den unnoticed.
~
Dusk descended like a dirty brown curtain before the last carriage departed. A few guests, those who had a considerable journey before them, retired for the night in one of Lord Dennison’s many guest rooms to await daylight.
When the den was empty, Meadow sneaked in to remove the soiled dishes. Retreating with stealthy footsteps, she set the last of them on the trestle table that still retained a few tools from the extravagant meal. Too tired to heat water for washing, she simply passed through the kitchen to her own cramped quarters at the rear of the manor. A scuffing sound echoed off the flagstones behind her. She whirled to find Hathbane leaning heavily against the doorjamb with a goblet in his hand. Perspiration dotted his fleshy face and his wig lay askew. He struggled to imitate a smile, but it came off quite badly.
“Meadow, my dear, I want to compliment you on a fine dinner this evening.” His words ran together like wet ink.
Alarmed, for her performance had been anything but fine, she murmured, “Thank you, sir.”
She hoped he would go somewhere to sleep off his drink, but he staggered closer, his gaze dropping below her face.
“Grimes was right, by Jove. Why don’t you come with me and we can talk awhile.” She backed away. “I don’t believe that would be proper, considering our positions.”
“Nonsense!
” He stepped after her. “You and I will be great friends.”
“But I – I’m really very tired.” Her eyes flickered side to side, desperate for an escape route.
With amazing quickness, he caught her, crushing his mouth against hers. Wine sloshed down the back of her dress and fear raked at her belly. She tried to scramble from his grasp, but he backed her against a table, knocking off her cap and ripping a sleeve from her bodice.
Fumbling behind her back for any kind of weapon, her hand closed around the handle of a heavy griddle. She lifted the pan and brought it down on his skull with all the force she could muster.
With a crunch, Lord Dennison crumpled to the flagstones like a castoff garment. Meadow dropped the pan, raising a hand to her bruised mouth. Her eyes widened with horror. She had just killed her master!
Staggering from the room, she tripped over the body in her reckless flight. Without pausing, she flung open the door and stumbled to the stables.
“Daniel!” The horses wakened and snorted in alarm. “Daniel!”
The young groom dropped lightly from the loft where he slept in the hay and flashed a sleepy smile. “Been entertaining late tonight,” he commented.
“More than you know!”
He took in her ripped dress and wildly disheveled hair, and his smile crumbled. Wrapping her in a tight embrace, he stroked her hair, murmuring over and over, “It’s all right, Meadow. You’re safe now.”
She sobbed out her terror until the tears left her deflated and shaking.
Daniel handed her a clean handkerchief, his face grim. “Tell me what happened.” She wiped her face and blew her nose with trembling fingers. “I killed him, Daniel. He came after me and I killed him with a griddle!” Her tears began to flow again with the stirring of the memory.
“Then he didn’t-? Oh, thank God,” he sighed. “Sh, hush now. I’m sure Lord Half-brain will live to torment again. A little scrap like you could hardly smash a skull as thick as his. More than likely, he was ready to pass out with drink anyway. But you’re not safe here any longer.”
Meadow’s eyes widened. “What? I can’t leave! He could have me flogged for breaking my indenture!”
“Meadow, he could have you killed for attacking him.”
“But he attacked me!”
“And he will again. You must leave tonight.”
“But where will I go? What will I do?”
“Go to your father.”
“My father?” Her voice was shrill.
“Meadow, calm down and take a deep breath.” After she obeyed, he continued, “You told me once that your father lives in Boston.”
“He does,” she answered, trying hard to focus. “At least he did five years ago.” “Does Dennison know?”
“I – I don’t think so.”
“Then go there. But not looking like that. Come.” He dragged her to his small room at the back of the stables. Digging through a battered trunk, he pulled out a homespun shirt, leather breeches and thick, woolen stockings. “Put these on.”
She held the foreign garments at arm’s length.
“They might be a bit big, but they’re the best I’ve got,” he explained. “Now put them on. Hurry!” He left her alone.
She stripped down quickly and pulled on the clothes. The fit was uncomfortably wrong, and the fabric felt scratchy.
Daniel soon returned with a knife. “Decent?” he called. “Good girl. Now turn around.”
He grabbed a handful of her hair and hacked at it with the knife.
“What are you doing!” she screamed, clutching her head and staring in horror at the red strands sprinkled on the floor.
“Meadow,” he soothed, calming her as if she were a frightened filly, “your hair is a dead give-away. You’ll be much safer traveling as a lad.”
Tears flowed from her eyes. Weak with sorrow and shock, she submitted to the humiliation, covering her face with both hands.
“There, all done.”
Sniffling, she ran her hands tentatively through the locks, refusing to look at the luxurious pile on the floor. Her fingers didn’t recognize the cropped ends, and she felt hollow, like her insides, too, had been hacked with the blade.
Daniel covered her head with a shapeless felt cap and gave her a lopsided grin. “You look cute. Like a young boy.”
He gathered the pile of hair and clothing and shoved it into a feed sack. “I’ll burn these tonight, but first, you’ll need some food. Stay here! If anyone comes, crawl inside the tool cabinet.”
She stared at him with vacant eyes. He gently shook her shoulders. “Meadow, you have to be strong and think clearly!”
She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.
“That’s it. Now is there anything else you want me to get for you?”
She nodded, gathering her wits with an effort. “In my room, beneath my pillow, is a Bible. ‘Tis the only thing I’ve left from Ireland.”
“I’ll bring it.”
While he was gone, Meadow wandered around the room, inhaling the musky scent of horses. She touched each familiar brush, each comb. The metal hasps and tarnished buckles, hammers and nails, tongs and files – they were all friends to whom she bid farewell.
Daniel returned with a burlap sack, a tattered wool coat and worn leather boots a size too large. He ushered her quickly to the door. “Dennison’s still out cold. You must go before he wakes. This will last you several days if you ration it.
“Try to reach the Miller barn before daybreak. It’s up the road about eight miles. Hide in the back of their hayloft until sundown. And above all, do not let anyone see you until you are far from here.”
He explained the route to Boston in detail. “You should reach it in a few weeks.”
“What if I can’t find my father?” she trembled.
“You’re young and strong and smart. You know as much about horses as I do. You can cook and clean and sew. Something will work out.”
He hesitated. “Wait here!”
He disappeared momentarily into the back room. “Take this,” he said and dropped something small and cold into her hand.
She held a silver pendant, rudely made and badly tarnished.
“It was my mother’s, made for her by a childhood friend. When you get to Boston, you can trust the jeweler who recognizes it.”
She slipped the chain into her coat pocket, overwhelmed with uncertainty. Neither bold nor adventurous, she had no idea how to survive on her own.
She clutched Daniel’s arm. “Come with me!” His eyes filled with pity. “You know I would if I thought it was safe. But two are easier to find than one. You must do this on your own.”
He hugged her close and planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll miss you, Meadow McKenzie, but you’re made of good stuff. You’ll see. Now go!”
Chapter 3
The sun was just raising its sleepy red eye above the horizon as Meadow closed the door of the Miller barn. Terror had pushed her through the darkness when every jangled nerve begged her to rest a moment beside the road. Each second she feared the sound of hoof beats pounding the road behind her, but she had pressed on, slipping and stumbling on the frozen, rutted trail.
She dragged herself up the ladder and climbed into the hay mow just as the barn door creaked open. A sliver of pink light caught her full in the face. She froze.
Mr. Miller appeared below, tossing feed into the mangers of the animals. Then he pulled a wooden bucket from its peg.
“There, Suzie,” he said, slapping a mellow bovine on the rump as he entered her stall. “Hold still now, old girl.” He settled on a short, three-legged stool and pushed his head into the cow’s flank. The milk collected in the bottom of the bucket with a gentle rhythm.
Meadow felt like a timid mouse as she watched him work, too frightened to move. What if the man chanced to glance up? She had to hide!
Holding her breath, she tried a hesitant step. The wood remained solid. She grew braver, creeping out of his line of sight. J
ust when she could no longer see Mr. Miller, a board groaned loudly in protest. She squeezed her eyes shut.
The sounds below ceased, and the silence ran on so long that Meadow could hear her pulse pounding like gunshots in her own ears.
“Gotta do somethin’ ‘bout them danged rats,” the man complained, breaking the spell beneath her. “Gettin’ big as horses, sounds like.” Then the calm swish, swish resumed as he continued, unconcerned, with his work.
Meadow crept to the farthest wall, every muscle tense as a bowstring. Weeping softly, she covered herself with loose hay and dropped into an exhausted slumber.
~
Daylight had waned when Meadow opened her eyes. Her stomach rumbled, and her body felt as if it had been trampled by a team of horses. Glancing into the farmyard through a chink in the wall, she could see no one about.
She pawed through the gunnysack Daniel had given her, blessing him again and again as she pulled out a large chunk of smoked ham, several boiled potatoes, two loaves of bread, a triangle of cheese, a tin cup and her Bible.
Grabbing the cup, she climbed stiffly from the loft and approached Suzie. The cow lowed as she slipped into the stall and reached for the familiar udder. A turgid swelling assured her the evening milking had not yet taken place. She filled the cup and drank the warm milk in large gulps.
She filled it again and carried it to the loft where she rationed her food carefully; Boston was still far off. Then she leaned back against the planks and waited for dusk.
Reaching into the sack, Meadow drew out her Bible. Given to her by her father the day they landed in Boston, the book was a complete mystery. Amos had been urgent – almost frantic – when he presented it to her.
“’Tis yours.” He had spoken Gaelic in his excitement. “Keep it safe. These pages hold answers you will need.”
The Bible was very old. Its leather cover crackled beneath Meadow’s fingers as she flipped through pages worn soft as silk. The gold edging had lost its shimmer, and the margins were filled with notes.
Inside the front cover, she removed an ancient rosary strung with translucent green beads. The silver Celtic cross was tarnished, but beautifully wrought with ornamental scrolls and curlicues. Wrapping the leather thong about her hand, she studied the names on the page underneath.
The Color of Freedom Page 2
