Relief washed over her. They didn’t hate her or wish to cast her out.
The baby woke with a start. His cries pierced the calm in the room. For the first time, Henrietta could almost feel the weight and warmth of Levi bundled in her arms. She wasn’t ready to hold him, but soon. Soon, she might.
Mrs. Moskowitz handed Levi to Frances. Henrietta dug into her pocket, not the one with Mrs. Medina’s cake, and took out the dried gourd she’d brought as a gift. He was too young to hold it himself, but shaking it produced the softest shushing noise, like a spring rain. She gave it a shake. The women turned to see what it was. The baby’s cries softened to a whimper. Henrietta crossed the room and sat on the floor at Frances’s feet, sure of her place among her friends. She shook the gourd near the baby’s ear. He quieted and opened his eyes, seeking the source of the sound.
“This was my Willow’s.” Henrietta spoke to Levi. She’d never told her friends about Willow, never sure how to bring up the greatest tragedy of her life. That hadn’t been her intention today in bringing the gourd as a gift, but as the baby calmed, she found she couldn’t hold back. “My daughter died five years ago. She would have been nine now, old enough to mind you.”
She blinked slowly, drawing her back through the years. “’Twas a day like today. We were playing in the garden, in the rain.”
Cool raindrops dotted her cheeks and the sweet smell of Willow’s damp hair carried from her memories.
“Willow loved splashing through puddles. I still hear her giggles when it rains.” She rolled the pear-shaped gourd around in her hands. Warts spotted the faded orange and yellow stripes. Levi watched her as if he understood every word. She gave the gourd another soft shake.
“That evening she complained of a sore throat. Her fever climbed, and by the next night—” Henrietta couldn’t bring herself to look at her friends. She’d failed her daughter. “She was gone.” Her husband blamed her. Until his last day, he accused her of cursing him the way she must have done Willow. As if a mother could do that to her child. She let out a sigh, blowing the memory of Sam away like the withered white seeds of a dandelion.
She had no intention of opening her heart again. Somehow, Marcus charmed his way inside. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t see a future without him. But she was only a lover to him, and he was not in love.
“Ay, kerida. We did not know.” Mrs. Medina’s eyes were moist. “We wish you had told us.”
“How?” Now that she had, all she wanted was to lie in Willow’s room in the dark and forget about the multitude of tomorrows. “Telling you wouldn’t have lessened my grief.”
“Oh, darling,” Mrs. Moskowitz said. “We are all mothers. In each of our own ways, we share your grief.”
Frances tightened her hold on her baby. “Before Levi, I lost two who never drew breath.”
Mrs. Medina gave a knowing nod. “It took me five years before my Isa came.”
Mrs. Moskowitz played with her right hand where a green stone glowed from a silver band. “My Daniel was like your Willow. He was seven.”
Henrietta swallowed. “I’m sorry. Sam turned my grief into shame. I couldn’t talk about it.”
Frances kissed Levi’s head, gently rocking him in her arms. He gurgled softly.
The front door flew open. Mrs. Gittel stormed inside, soaking wet and grinning from ear to ear. “I did it, ladies!” She tossed her sodden string-purse on a chair and took to the center of the room, not noticing their collective somber mood.
“There I was on the Broad Way,” she said, setting up her scene. “A troop of redcoats were parading ahead of me. Suddenly, I’m overheating, shvitzing, and furious, thinking about how they treated my son. How they broke into his office and destroyed all his papers because he defended the rights of a rebel. I guess they’d forgotten how he’d saved one of their necks not so long ago.” She stopped. Looked around at her audience. “Why the long faces? This is a good story.”
“We’re listening,” Mrs. Medina encouraged, lifting an apologetic shoulder at Henrietta.
Mrs. Gittel shrugged. “I marched ahead, right up to their leader with the silver buttons and fancy sword. No one mistreats my son. I told him that, turned around, and tipped up my tukhes!”
Frances gasped. “You did what?”
“I tipped it up! Lifted my skirts and hollered, ‘Ich feif oif dir!’”
Frances and Mrs. Moskowitz erupted into shrieks of laughter. Levi joined with howling cries.
“What does that mean? What did she say?” Henrietta looked to Frances and over to Mrs. Moskowitz.
Mrs. Gittel’s fan worked double time to cool herself. “I told them I despised them.”
Mrs. Moskowitz wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “If you want the literal meaning, she told them she farts on them.”
Shrieking laughter filled the room. Swept into the joy of the moment, Henrietta felt a connection to her friends, stronger than she ever had. She got off the floor and took her seat.
Mrs. Gittel sat, wiping mirthful tears with a lace kerchief. “Nu, Henrietta? I heard a little something. I want you to know I spit in the tattler’s face. It’s none of her business or anyone else’s.” She patted Henrietta’s shoulder and loaded up her plate with sweets.
Henrietta froze. She refused to believe Sarah would gossip. It must have been someone Dr. Nealy told.
Around her, they settled in to discuss the narrative of the book. In the middle of an argument over the meaning of Fanny Hill’s many euphemisms, a sharp rapping at the door interrupted them. Verity rushed from the back room to answer it. Mrs. Moskowitz took the baby from Frances and settled him on her shoulder.
A British soldier in a powdered wig with his black felt hat tucked under his arm stood in the doorway. He was young and arrogant with his twitching nose and plump, pouting lips.
“I have an arrest warrant for a woman seen entering this house.” He had a high voice.
“What woman, sir?” Verity muttered with all the sullenness a twelve-year-old can muster.
The soldier scowled. “A woman in a green dress, about your height, and as if she’s never missed a meal.”
Henrietta would guess he hadn’t either with his lordly demeanor and silver buttons straining down his waistcoat.
Both Mrs. Gittel and Frances were wearing green dresses.
“There’s none here meeting your description, sir.” Verity let the door swing shut.
The soldier pounded again. “Miss! I shall arrest you for obstruction of justice. Open at once.”
Verity peered over her shoulder at Frances, gaze straying to Mrs. Gittel. The girl’s eyes went round with fear.
“It’s fine, Verity,” Frances said, though her brow bunched in concern.
Verity opened the door.
The soldier’s nose flared. “This woman attacked a soldier. I must find her and arrest her.” Straps for weaponry crossed his chest. A sword hung at his side. Three soldiers stood behind him.
Verity shrank, her sullenness gone.
Henrietta rose from her seat, ready to come to Mrs. Gittel’s defense. She’d seen the inside of a British prison. There was no way she would allow them to arrest her friend. Not if she could stop it.
The others rose too. Tension crackled in the room.
The front soldier examined them through narrowed eyes. “Those two.” He signaled to his comrades. They wanted both Mrs. Gittel and Frances.
Mrs. Moskowitz, smallest of their group, moved to block their entrance. “Oh, no you don’t.” Levi gave an indignant cry. “You need a legal name to make an arrest. You can’t come in here and indiscriminately choose two people.”
Mrs. Medina plunged her hand into her pocket, fishing for something. Would she pelt the soldiers with her cakes?
“Not in times of war.” The
first soldier grabbed Frances, his odious gaze traveling to her stained bosom. She struggled to free herself.
Henrietta grabbed Frances’s other arm. “War hasn’t been declared!”
“’Twas not her!” Mrs. Gittel leaped at the soldier and tried to rip his hand from Frances. The four of them struggled through the door. “Let her go!” They tripped down the slippery steps. Mrs. Gittel bit the soldier’s hand. Henrietta and Frances broke free. The soldier roared and threw himself on top of Mrs. Gittel, stopping her escape.
“Now there’s the difference between British and American women,” one of the soldiers said. “If she had come forward as requested, this could have been handled with dignity.” A smirk teased his lips.
Mrs. Medina was no longer struggling with her pocket. In her hand, she gripped a pair of elegant sewing scissors. She marched up to the soldier who disparaged them. Waving the scissors, it was a good thing the soldier hadn’t turned his back on her, because the ferocious glint in her eyes suggested she might stab him with the two-inch steel blades. “’Twas not her.”
“’Twas neither of them.” Trying to maintain her calm, Mrs. Moskowitz swayed with the baby as he fussed. “This is a reading club, not a den of rebels. You should be ashamed of yourselves!”
Henrietta needed to do more. The thrill of defiance thickened her blood. She’d had it with British soldiers and men who thought women should behave only as they saw fit. She let go of Frances and smoothed down her blue dress. “’Twas me.”
The soldiers exchanged harried looks. She wore the wrong colored dress.
“Take them all. We’ll sort it later.”
~ ~ ~
Marcus had a terrible night’s sleep. Again. After the expanse and comfort of Henrietta’s bed, his old mattress left a lot to be desired. Actually, he had a full accounting of what he desired: Henrietta. It wasn’t her lush lips or the way she said his name, drowsy with satisfaction. Or the way she smelled like lavender, woodsmoke, and a hint of the earth. A man could lose himself in the tangle of a woman’s scent.
He desired her because she knew the worst about him and still regarded him as her equal. She said she’d slay his enemies, and he believed it. Henrietta, the quiet daughter of a tutor.
Now it was his turn to slay her enemies, then maybe she’d see reason and marry him.
Upon his arrival at Henrietta’s house, Sissy greeted him in the yard, running circles around him. She had refused to leave five days ago when he did. Her disloyalty stung, but it made him feel somewhat better knowing she was there to watch over Henrietta.
Entering through the kitchen without impediment, Marcus reminded himself to bring a lock for the door the next time he came by. No one was about. His cane echoed on the wood floors. It was Thursday, which meant Henrietta would be at her reading club. Shrupp wasn’t due back until later. He was here to see Asher.
He flew open the door to his friend’s room. “Wake up. We have work to do.”
Asher rolled over and groaned until a coughing fit had him gasping. His eyes were puffy and bruised. Marcus helped him to sit. Asher batted him away.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.”
Marcus frowned. “That’s what everyone says. I’m not sure any of you know what it means to be fine. You’re about a week away from fine.” He stood back and evaluated the gaunt limbs that once matched his. “Make that a week out from getting by. Steady on, man.” He pounded Asher on the back.
“Once I’m up, I’m better.” Asher slumped against the wall. “What work do we have to do?”
“Hen’s uncle threatened to hang her if she didn’t decipher confidential letters. I’ve had a bad feeling about them all week. We have to find them so we can stop whatever it is he’s planning. He’s never threatened her like this before. They’re here. In this house. Ours for the taking. Looking. Whatever. I know where she keeps them.”
“Sounds like you don’t need me.” Asher rubbed his face and yawned.
He needed him more than Asher could know. He didn’t trust himself to read any of it. What if last time was a fluke? What if these used a different cipher? “We’re a team. You’re my brother.”
Asher nodded. “Send her to Swiftwater.”
Augie’s farm wasn’t a bad idea. Caldwell couldn’t arrest her if he didn’t know where she was. “She’s not speaking to me at the moment.”
Asher made a noise like handfuls of gravel dragging across a dry dock. He was laughing. “You are a half-wit.”
“I like her.”
“I like Nellie. You don’t see me tupping her on the bar.”
“She’d slit your throat if you tried.”
“That’s beside the point. What in hell were you thinking? She’s Caldwell’s niece.”
“By marriage,” Marcus pointed out. “She hated the husband and thinks less of the uncle.”
“That’s beside the point, again. You compromised her.”
“She’s a widow, and I offered to marry her.”
Asher shook his head. “A girl like her—complicated. You’re simple. You like pretty girls without history, and more importantly, without a future.”
“I like her.”
“You exhaust me. I’m going back to sleep.”
Marcus breathed through his nose, failing to control his irritation. Asher was right. She had to go into hiding, at least for a time. But, if he sent her to Swiftwater, he wouldn’t know she was safe unless he was by her side. And with no other obligations, he might as well join her. It wasn’t like he could catch up with the Valiant and join Augie and Turk.
“How am I persuading her to stay with me when she has made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that’s the last thing she wants?”
“You’re not doing it on an empty stomach,” Asher growled.
Marcus rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll help you to the kitchen, make you something to eat. Then can we save my woman?”
Asher laughed himself into another fit. “Your woman, huh? I’m not sure that’s how things stand.”
“Aye. That’s one more thing to work out, ain’t it?”
Marcus helped Asher out of bed and settled on the bench in the kitchen. “Be right back.” With a wince of guilt, Marcus entered Henrietta’s bedroom and took two hairpins from her dressing table. He made quick work of the lock on her desk drawer in the study. One day, he’d make her a better desk.
In the meantime, he tossed the Bible from the drawer and dug out a stack of letters, returning the Bible and locking the drawer before hobbling back to Asher.
“Right. Let’s start with tea. British or Dutch? I found her secret caches.”
Asher wasn’t paying attention. The pieces of Henrietta’s smashed clock lay before him on the table.
Marcus wished he knew what finally pushed her over the edge to destroy the damn thing, and why she kept it. Asher was engrossed.
“Dutch, it is.” Marcus reached for the box of tea on the top shelf and knocked down a spice grater. It bounced at his feet and rolled to the edge of the hearth. Henrietta’s blue garter ribbon lay forgotten by the grate. He picked it up and slid it through his fingers, remembering the moment he untied it from her knee, revealing more of her satiny skin.
“’Twas was a fine clock.”
Marcus shoved the ribbon into his pocket, guilty as a lad caught stealing. “’Twas ugly and loud. Slow Dick was dissolving into insanity.”
“It must have been incredibly precise. Look at the workmanship. This was expensive.”
“You think she kept the pieces to sell? Are they sellable?”
“Parts are never worth much unless you’re a clockmaker. In which case, you’d be more likely to machine your own parts than bother with someone else’s. It’s a matter of pride more than quality.” He looked up. “Is there tea?”
Marcus ro
lled his eyes. No wonder Henrietta didn’t want to be a wife again. Then she did. Then didn’t. He ran his fingers through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Patience, darling.”
That earned him a scowl. He opened the first letter. Numbers, like pilings at a dock anchored blocks of drifting letters. Revulsion welled strong in his gut as heat prickled his neck and shoulders. He was two seconds from balling it up and tossing it in the hearth when he fixed on a jumble of letters, marching into place before somersaulting into a string of nonsense.
Valiant.
He didn’t trust himself. He’d been thinking about Turk’s ship. He had no proof that’s what it really said. “What do you make of this?”
Asher took the letter and scanned it. “What in bloody hell is this?”
“A billet doux between King George and his terrier.”
Asher’s patience was legendary, though not necessarily his sense of humor. He grunted.
“I have no idea what to do with the numbers. There must be a key somewhere. But the scrambled letters,” Marcus said carefully. “You see anything?”
Asher studied it again. His lips moved, trying out possible words. He was good with all kinds of puzzles. Tossing it on the table, he said, “Something about the Valiant and a loggerhead? Is that the tavern? The animal? Remember the trip to Charles Town? Those swimming turtles? We saw a whole flock of them.” His brow furrowed with memory.
“Not flock. Flotilla,” Marcus provided. “Haven’t been to the Loggerhead in years. ”
“You carry an unholy amount of minutiae in that noggin of yours. This must be a substitution cipher of some sort.”
Then they better begin playing with it. Marcus found the pencil stub he left in the cupboard and grabbed a sheet of used wrapping paper off a shelf. He pushed it in front of Asher. “How do we start?”
A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 22
