Dr. Nealy laughed like a man who knew more than the women around him. “No. Absolutely not. Prison ships are no place for ladies. They are rife with disease and are supremely filthy. You wouldn’t survive the smell, let alone the vulgarity.”
“Surely not.” Sarah’s brow furrowed, horrified.
Henrietta blinked, nonplussed. “You would refuse a patient care because his smell wasn’t to your liking?”
A sheen of sweat glistened on Nealy’s brow. “No. That is. You misunderstand. It would be more appropriate to visit the hospital prison on Bedloe’s Island.”
Henrietta knew of Bedloe’s Island from the newspapers. It sat about a mile and a half off the tip of Manhattan and less than a mile to New Jersey. The British army converted one of its buildings into their War Office.
“Indeed,” Sarah said brightly. “’Twas a smallpox hospital for years. What is thy opinion on variolation?”
Sweat rolled down Nealy’s face. Henrietta had the distinct impression this conversation wasn’t going as he had intended, whatever his intention had been. Nor was it turning in her favor. She gave years of her life helping her unappreciative husband. Why would she want to aid prisoners? Asher was imprisoned on a ship. This would be a waste of her time.
“Friend Sarah,” Dr. Nealy sputtered. “I cannot simply take you to a prison. Don’t you have an elder to decide these things?”
Her gray eyes brightened. “Henrietta can be thy chaperone.”
Henrietta sighed. Yes, she was old enough and widowed, but did she need to qualify so resoundingly? What did she have in common with a matronly aunt? When had she become matronly? Would she have to acquire a pointy-tipped cane?
“I—Of course.” Henrietta resigned herself to the situation. “When shall we go?”
“We’ll need permission. Why don’t you ask your uncle?” Dr. Nealy suggested.
Henrietta didn’t want to owe Uncle Caldwell more than she did. “Unfortunately, he has no place in his heart for charity.”
Sarah shook her head solemnly. “The world needs more compassion.”
“Here, here.” Mrs. Moskowitz cheered as she joined their circle in the shade. “Compassion shall see us through the darkest days yet to come. How are you, dears? Dr. Nealy?”
“Very well. Thank you, madam.” Dr. Nealy gave a jerky nod.
“What do you think of my Levi?” The smile on Mrs. Moskowitz’s face was brighter than a hundred suns.
“Thine? I did not know thou were related.”
“I’ve decided to adopt him as one of my own, being that I plan to spoil him rotten.” She looked at each of their plates, and though they were heaping with food, she frowned. “You didn’t try my kugel?”
Henrietta didn’t know what a kugel was. “I must have overlooked it. Truly sorry.”
“No bother. I’ll bring you some.” And by ‘you’, it was obvious she meant the threat to all of them.
Henrietta wasn’t very hungry, and talk of aiding prisoners ruined what little appetite she had.
Mrs. Moskowitz returned with a plate loaded with bread pudding. However, instead of lumps of bread, the layers were flat. “Eat. You’ll be sorry you missed it. You’ll be begging me for the receipt. Even you, Dr. Nealy.” She dumped a portion on each of their plates and waited while they took a bite.
The kugel was doughy and sweet, soft and dense in the middle, and crisp on top. Though Henrietta’s first impression was dessert, by her second bite, she decided it could be a meal unto itself. “You are right, Mrs. Moskowitz. This is delicious.”
Dr. Nealy prodded it with his fork. “What are these flat layers?”
“We call those ‘lokshen’. The Germans call them ‘nudels’. You make a paste with ground flour, then boil it in long strips. Wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Very agreeable.” Sarah nodded, her face guarded.
“So.” Mrs. Moskowitz turned to Henrietta with a weighted look. “How’s the carpenter?”
Henrietta choked on a nudel. “The carpenter?” She swallowed, pushing away thoughts of fiery kisses and passionate debates that left her sweating. “Fine. Behaved. Healing. Isn’t that right, Dr. Nealy?”
“I’ll assume so. I haven’t seen him in some time. You know, bones take weeks to knit together. It depends on the specific bone and how thoroughly ’twas broken. There’s a whole process—”
“I’m sure there is, Doctor.” Mrs. Moskowitz raised a brow at him like a slap to the face. He demurred and ducked his head. Henrietta vowed to learn that gesture. There were a thousand ways it might prove useful.
Between the kugel and the carpenter, she should ask Mrs. Moskowitz to join them as a proper chaperone to the prison, but changed her mind. Only Sarah listened to the doctor spew knowledge without wanting to throttle him. With herself as chaperone, Dr. Nealy had a chance of surviving the experience, which was essential if she wanted to encourage a match between the two.
Chapter 16
Marcus was finally alone. He’d gotten himself outside, which was no easy feat in his chair. There was a four-inch step down to the yard in back. His spine and hips may never forgive him for yielding to the harsh drop. Then, he had to wheel himself to the fenced-in chicken pen with shards of New England granite sprouting from the path. At least he didn’t tip into mud or manure along the way.
All this strife because of a little guilt.
He should never have yelled at Henrietta last week. Philosophically, he understood why she did what she did. Her uncle controlled her, and by dropping Asher’s name from the letters, she was trying to both stand her ground and protect his friend. He should be thankful. And he was. However. However, he would have preferred saving Henrietta from ever having to deal with her uncle. If only she would let him.
Marcus surveyed the noisy chickens scratching at the ground. They were the most graceless farm creatures he’d ever seen. He preferred the playfulness of goats or the ability to sleep through Armageddon like pigs. Cows were monoliths that made amusing noises. Chickens were odd.
He kept his eye on a big gray chicken, shoving aside smaller chickens for a piece of ground to peck. The hen reminded him of his great-aunt. She moved through life half-full of arrogance, the other half unaware of the space she took up. No one stood up to her because she bullied with fork-tongued insults.
Anyway, the smaller chickens would thank him if he chose his great-aunt.
Contemplating the demise of one of Henrietta’s hens, Marcus found himself not alone. He froze, feigning invisibility, until he recognized One-Hand An’s lithe form at the edge of the yard. She and Sissy stood in the shade watching him. Sissy, because she never met a chicken she didn’t want to eat, and An, probably the same.
A lavish hat worn low on her brow hid dark eyes and sleek black hair. Was it possible An was here to visit Henrietta? An wasn’t a lover of literature like Mouse.
“Hen left an hour ago,” he called over his shoulder.
An opened and closed the gate of the pen, giving Sissy a death glare to not move a muscle. “Good. And the soldier?”
He cocked his head, squinting up at her to keep the sun from blinding him. It was a hot day, sure to get hotter as the day wore on. “Gone too.”
“Don’t tell me this is where you take yourself to think.”
“Aw, An. You know me better than that.” He winked at her. They knew each other well enough to joke, but he didn’t know much else about the woman from China who arrived three years ago ready to defend the American cause with one hand and a frightening sense of outlaw justice.
A gentle breeze blew, bringing with it notes of ammonia from the chicken coop. Marcus leaned forward in his chair and extended his hand to the clucking chickens, intending to pet one. A sharp beak pecked at his palm.
“Bastard.” He squelched the urge to kick the damn thing into the
next field. Mostly because he didn’t think he could, using his left foot and from a seated position. Lucky for the chicken.
“Have you never slaughtered a chicken before?” An asked, realizing the unfathomable reality of his modest uselessness.
Marcus shrugged. “Believe it or not, I’ve always thought the chicken on my plate grew featherless and disjointed on the worktable, much like turnips and potatoes.”
She glared at him, shushing away a chicken trying to jab at her shoes. “No, Hardwicke.”
Having coaxed an intrepid chicken onto his lap—not his great-aunt. His great-aunt would taste sanctimonious, and even a good sauce couldn’t cover that up—he studied the little beastie. Her automaton head moved with quick ticks, quivering her red comb. Uninterested in Marcus, she took to cleaning her gray feathers covering the majority of her little body. She’d make a decent meal. He stroked his finger along the ridge of her comb, the skin oddly cool and, well, skinlike.
“Do you want me to do it for you?” Strands of An’s long black hair slipped from her coiffure, whipping around her oval face. She used her grain-filled glove to brush them back, the action looking natural.
Today she wore a fine dress decorated with lace and seed pearls, giving her an air of high society. “You’ll muss your dress.”
She took the hen from his lap, tucking it under her left arm. “You insult me. Do you want to cook the chicken or not?”
“Not.” He didn’t, really. He figured it might make for a peace offering to Henrietta. Cooking dinner himself would show he cared. Or something like that. Because he cared. Didn’t want to care? It was too complicated. “Yes.”
An shuffled the chicken in her arms, though Marcus wasn’t quite sure why. She had one hand. Of course, she also had about five knives on her.
“Do you need help?”
An stopped moving. “Why? Do I look like I need help?” She immobilized the chicken under her arm and gripped its throat. “I was four when I killed my first chicken.” In a violent arc, she swung the chicken over her head. The chicken went limp. She tucked it under her arm again, unsheathed a knife, and bled it in the dirt. Horrifyingly, it flapped its wings and clawed at An, all while bleeding out around its broken neck. Mercifully, a minute later, it was done. Not a speck of blood on An’s dress.
“And six when you killed your first man?”
An dropped the chicken in his lap. Only five minutes ago they had shared an uncomfortable moment sizing each other up.
“Remove the feathers. Mrs. Caldwell might keep them for pillows.”
“Ha.” Not his pillow. “Why are you here, anyway? I’m sure you aren’t visiting to quench your bloodlust.”
An pushed Marcus back to the kitchen. She took a basket from a high shelf and handed it to him. “Feathers.”
Marcus scowled. What was he thinking? He couldn’t cook more than gruel. Now that the chicken was dead, twice over, he was committed.
“I’m here because you don’t respond to my notes, and this is important.” An took a kerchief from her pocket and cleaned the blood from her blade. The cloth chased a flare of light on the honed edge, sparking daylight from the window.
Marcus spit a drifting feather from his lips.
“Turk received his letter of marque,” she said. “They sailed last night.”
That explained Augie’s absence.
She slid the clean blade into its leather sheath strapped to her calf. He’d seen her lift her skirts a dozen times or more. An being An. It no longer shocked him.
“Why didn’t you? You don’t normally turn your nose up on an opportunity to make bank.”
She ignored the petulance in his tone. “I also found out Asher’s been moved from the Margate. We don’t know where he is.”
Dread filled Marcus’s chest. The British Navy could have pressed Asher into service, or he could have taken ill. If ill, they’d sooner find him sewn into a shroud at the bottom of the harbor than alive and well in another prison. He hated this. “Aye, well, I have a chicken to cook.”
She reclaimed the chicken and plucked the rest of the feathers in a fraction of the time it would have taken him. And with less mess.
“Mouse is in town,” she said. “Her friend’s baby is being celebrated in the Jewish tradition today.”
“I know.” He assumed as much. He went back to pinching downy white feathers off his shirt and collecting them into a tenuous pile on his lap.
An slapped the plucked chicken on the table. “Where does Mrs. Caldwell keep her knives?”
Using his chin, Marcus gestured to the cabinet housing Henrietta’s plates and cutlery. An chose the largest knife and divested the hen of its head.
“Does Mouse know?” He stared in awe at the speed with which An cleaved the chicken.
“No. You should tell her.”
He wiped the feathers from his lap into the basket. The dread in his chest sank to the pit of his stomach. “Me?” He didn’t want to break her heart.
“Your English is better.”
He felt a prick of annoyance. An’s English was no less practiced than his. She was using her foreignness as a goddamn crutch. Why was it always the terrifying ones who were afraid of a little emotion? Not that he’d blame her this time.
Marcus sighed, knowing he’d never win. “If you bring her here, I’ll talk to her.”
A sentiment flitted across An’s face, a small ripple in the pool of complex muscles she usually kept blank. “I shall bring her.” She wiped her hands on a rag.
Marcus rolled himself to An’s side. “I’d planned to cook it in the French Way. Pray, do you know how?” As if Henrietta’s book of food-splattered receipts would do him any good.
An set down the knife. “You are unbearably useless. What if I hadn’t shown up?”
“I’d have cooked it in the American Way. You know, as likely to cause dyspepsia as it is to ascend greatness.” He bared his teeth in a grin.
An’s lips quirked. “General Washington should add that to his banner.”
She rolled him out of the way and cut down herbs hanging from the beams. Within minutes, she had the chicken stewing in a pot, filling the kitchen with savory fragrances.
And she had the good sense to leave before Henrietta returned. It had been his idea in the first place to cook her dinner. It wasn’t like he insisted An slaughter, butcher, and cook the chicken. Now Henrietta would know he cared about her. In the most platonic, lust-filled way possible.
Chapter 17
Marcus entered the kitchen, and the sight of Henrietta nearly brought him to his knees. He was tired of this game where they acknowledged each other politely. Neither wanted to prod the other into an argument, to tip the scales, to feel something other than . . . polite. No. That was a lie. He wanted to be barbaric. Not grab her by the hair and drag her into a cave, but close.
Two days ago, Henrietta came home from the bris and went straight to bed. The next day she complained of having lost one of her dear egg-laying hens and placed all the blame on Sissy, whom she sentenced to life in the barn until further notice. Poor thing couldn’t defend herself.
Chagrined, he couldn’t offer the remains of An’s cooking. So, in a manner of what was good for the goose, he’d fed the evidence to Sissy and told her she was a good girl.
Marcus rolled his chair toward Henrietta, cornering her between him and the table. Really, if she didn’t want to be trapped, she had plenty of opportunity to step aside.
Henrietta glanced at his leg. It was no longer encased in the fracture box but a tight wrap with a wooden splint to prevent him from doing something stupid. To his ankle. There was nothing preventing the rest of him from doing something stupid.
“Have you any idea what it’s like to stay as a guest in someone’s home with the host mad at you for nearly a week?
”
Her eyes shifted across the room, refusing to seek his. “I’m not mad.”
“You’re so mad, you’re considering malice.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “If I were, I’d have greased your pulley by now.”
He couldn’t stop his laugh. “Hetty Betty, have I been so horrible?”
Henrietta heaved a sigh. “You insulted me when I tried to help your friend.”
“Oh, aye. That was unwise.”
Her brows rose in disbelief with another sigh punctuating his ineptness. She threw up her arms and growled.
“That I was mean!”
Henrietta stepped back and banged the table. Regaining her composure, she moved around him to gather up dirty dishes and cutlery, dumping them into a bucket. She meant to wash them outside. He couldn’t let that happen.
Leaping from his chair—he was four weeks into healing, couldn’t that be enough?—he hopped after her. “Wait.”
She jumped, the bucket slipped in her hands. She set it on the ground.
“You startled me.” She held her hand to her chest. It was trembling. Dammit.
“I’m sorry.” He’d been giving her space. He’d forgotten how nervous she could be when trapped or yelled at. He hopped back, allowing her room, though it was the last thing he wanted. He wanted her to come to him willingly, not feel obliged.
Wanted her to come to him willingly? Were those really his thoughts? If he were being completely honest with himself, which was rare, he did. What man wouldn’t want to kiss her or hold her? He was making himself jealous with his own asinine thoughts. He didn’t want any other man kissing her.
“Why are you apologizing? For yelling at me? Insulting me? Ignoring me?”
“I didn’t.” He was losing ground fast.
A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 15
