The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6)

by Shapiro, Irina

  I must make myself a hat, Mary thought as she made her way between rows of leafy tobacco plants. She’d borrowed Travesty’s hat, but she didn’t like the heavy feel of it, or the sweat stains that marred the brim. She saw the men’s heads above the greenery, their shoulders bent as they went about their task. Simon was the first to spot her.

  “Good day, mistress,” he called out. “And I thought this day couldn’t get any brighter, John.” He wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve and smiled hugely. “Is this a meal prepared by Travesty, or is this a special treat you put together with your own fair hands?”

  Mary’s eyes slid to John, who stood leaning on his hoe. She’d expected him to rebuke Simon for speaking to her so familiarly, but John appeared amused.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to contend yourself with Travesty’s cooking, but I churned the butter. I must confess I can’t compete with Travesty’s skill at making cornbread,” Mary replied.

  “It melts in your mouth,” Simon agreed, giving her an insolent once-over that made her feel uncomfortably warm. “But I’m sure your butter is creamier than hers.” His gaze caressed Mary’s breasts, making his meaning clear. “I look forward to sampling it.” He licked his lips, the action too brief for John to notice, but Mary could have sworn she saw John’s jaw tighten and his eyes narrow as he turned toward Simon.

  “Come now, Simon. Enough silly banter. I’m famished,” John said, and reached for the basket. He removed the bottle of ale and took a long pull, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank. “Ah!” he said. “This heat breeds an insatiable thirst.” He passed the ale to Simon, who drank deeply.

  Mary had thought she’d offer to sit with the men while they ate, but now that she’d delivered the food, their attention strayed from her to talk of the weather.

  “I think a storm’s brewing,” Simon said as he looked at the cloudless blue sky.

  “’Tis likely,” John agreed.

  Mary wasn’t sure what had led them to that conclusion but decided not to ask. She picked up the basket and accepted the empty bottle from John. “I’ll be on my way, then,” she said, hoping he’d ask her to stay a while longer and talk to her.

  “See you at supper,” Simon called cheerfully.

  John raised a hand in farewell and went back to chewing his bread, his expression unreadable.

  Mary had never lived in a household with servants, but she couldn’t imagine any master would permit his indenture to speak to his wife in the manner Simon had spoken to her just then. Was John oblivious to the innuendo, or did he simply not care? Did he value Simon’s regard so highly that he was willing to allow him unlimited freedom? It certainly seemed so. Simon behaved like an equal, and at times, Mary got the impression that he was the one who was master here, not John. John and Travesty had an indulgent attitude toward Simon, as if he were an amusing child who was the apple of his parents’ eye.

  Mary walked back through the field, her heart heavy. What would happen if Simon’s playful words led to something more? Would John allow him to make free with her? Would he care? John didn’t seem the jealous type. In fact, he didn’t appear to have any passions at all where she was concerned. Last night, John had reached for her, and she, thinking he might finally desire her, wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. John’s eyes had flown open in surprise, and even though he didn’t pull away, he didn’t return the kiss. Instead, he’d shut his eyes when she stared at him in the darkness, waiting for some response, then pushed apart her legs and slid inside her, moving silently for a few minutes, as was his ritual. Once finished, he’d risen from the bed and reached for his breeches.

  “Where are you going?” Mary had asked.

  “I just need a breath of air. I’ll smoke my pipe and come back to bed. Go to sleep, Mary.”

  Mary hadn’t gone to sleep, but lay wakeful, waiting for sweet tendrils of pipe smoke to engulf her, but she hadn’t smelled John’s pipe. She’d waited for him to return, but eventually fatigue overtook her and she fell asleep, only to wake in the night to find him stretched out next to her, his breathing even and relaxed in repose. Had her kiss upset him? Was it not natural for a wife to kiss her husband, especially during moments of intimacy? She hadn’t known any marriages aside from that of her parents, and Uncle Swithin and Agnes. Her parents had been loving and devoted, equal partners, but Swithin and Agnes reminded her of a tomcat and a frightened mouse, the poor mouse always ending up squealing as the cat pinned its tail with its paw, eager to play with its food before devouring it.

  Perhaps John thought kissing was sinful. Did he have Puritan leanings? It didn’t seem likely. John was not what she’d call devout. He went to church because it was expected of him, and because it afforded an opportunity to speak to other settlers and get a much-needed break from the monotony of the six-day work week. With others, John was amiable and attentive, listening with his head bent toward the speaker as if he feared missing even a single word. He paid that same kind of attention to Simon, but Mary noticed that whenever John listened to her speak, his gaze was fixed on some faraway point, his mind already on something else.

  Mary made a sharp turn and walked away from the cabin and toward the barn. She couldn’t bear to spend the afternoon in Travesty’s sullen company. She needed a bit of time to herself, but as Reverend Edison was fond of saying, idle hands were an invitation to the devil. Mary stuffed the basket full of straw and headed toward the creek. It was the only place she could be truly alone, the green coolness of the small clearing a balm to her weary soul.

  She took off her shoes and stockings, hiked up her skirt, and waded into the water. Once she felt sufficiently cooled down, she returned to the bank and sat in a shady spot, her back against the trunk of a thick oak. She reached for the straw in her basket and began to braid the stalks, collecting the braided lengths in her lap. Once she had enough braided straw, she’d be able to fashion it into a hat, but she’d need a lot of braids if she hoped to make a brim wide enough to shade her face.

  Mary was so intent on her work, it took her a while to realize she was being watched. Her head snapped up, her heart hammering with fear when she saw Walks Between Worlds on the other side of the creek. He waded in and was next to her in moments, water running down his long, muscled legs from the breechclout that clung to him in a most embarrassing fashion. He seemed completely unaware of her discomfort and squatted next to her, watching her hands fly over the straw.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Braiding straw for a hat.” She suddenly realized she was no longer frightened. Nothing in the Indian’s demeanor suggested that he meant her any harm. He looked mystified, but nodded as if he understood.

  “And what are you doing?” Mary asked. Why did he haunt this spot?

  “Checking my traps.”

  “Don’t you hunt?” she asked.

  “Yes, for large game, but it’s easier to set traps for smaller animals. Their meat is more tender and the English like the fur.”

  “So, you trade with the English?”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you get in return?” Mary asked.

  She hadn’t noticed the dagger at the Indian’s hip, tucked into the side of his clout. He pulled it out and showed it to her, sliding the blade out of its sheath. It was a fine weapon, the handle and sheath intricately carved, the blade long and sharp.

  “It’s better than a stone blade, and lighter,” he explained. He hefted the blade in his hand, showing her how light it was.

  “Why do they call you ‘Walks Between Worlds’?” Mary asked. The name had stayed with her, making her wonder if the Indian was adept at some form of devilry. “Do you commune with the dead?”

  “No. The shamans can contact the dead, but I’m not a shaman.” Up close, Mary noticed that his eyes weren’t all gray. A bit of dark blue ringed the pupil and seemed to dissolve into the gray that lightened at the outer edges. His eyes were unique, as was his face, despite its nut-brown color.


  “Why, then?”

  The Indian’s gaze slid away from her, fixing on something on the other side of the creek. “Because I am of two worlds. I’m neither one nor the other.”

  “So, what are you?” Mary asked, trying to comprehend what he was telling her.

  “A half-breed,” the man said bitterly.

  “What worlds do you belong to?” Mary asked, curious to find out more about this strange man who seemed as fascinated by her as she was by him. He wasn’t all that threatening, if one managed to ignore his near nakedness. He was just a man, and a very attractive one at that.

  “My mother was English.”

  Mary felt as if he’d slapped her and instinctively drew back from him. “You must think me very gullible,” she snapped, gathering up her braids and tossing them into the basket.

  His brow furrowed with concentration. “I don’t know that word.”

  “Daft. Stupid. Your mother couldn’t have been English. There were no Englishwomen here until last year. Reverend Edison said so.”

  The Indian’s eyes flashed with anger. “You think I’m lying?”

  “Aren’t you?” she demanded, staring him down.

  “I don’t lie, to you or anyone else,” he spat out.

  He sprang to his feet and was gone before she could form an adequate response. Mary stood up, shoved her bare feet into her shoes, and tossed her hose into the basket. She’d been having a perfectly pleasant time until that trickster showed up and ruined it all.

  “Half English,” Mary muttered. “And I’m English on one side, Moorish princess on the other,” she huffed as she strode back toward the cabin. She’d allowed herself to be taken in by a pair of beautiful eyes and a disarming smile. He was a savage, a heathen, and a liar.

  Chapter 24

  By the time Mary returned to the cabin, the sky had turned an ominous shade of gray and any trace of a breeze had died down, leaving the air still and heavy. There was an atmosphere of expectation, as if nature were holding its breath, waiting for just the right moment to exhale. At long last, fat drops of rain began to fall, soaking the floor just beneath the windows.

  Travesty dropped what she was doing and dashed across the cabin to affix the leather panels to the windows to prevent the interior of the house from turning into ankle-deep mud. Unable to concentrate on mending John’s shirt, Mary set it aside and moved to the table. She was surprised to see Travesty produce two fat rabbits, which she laid out on the flat surface.

  “Where did those come from?” Mary asked. It’d been at least a fortnight since they last had meat, and her mouth watered at the prospect of rabbit stew. Their diet consisted mostly of corn, beans, cheese, and the occasional serving of stewed fruit, picked from the wild fruit trees Travesty had discovered near the plantation. Meat would be a most welcome change.

  “Simon came across some traps in the woods,” Travesty replied. “Set by the savages, no doubt. So, he helped himself.”

  “That’s stealing,” Mary replied without thinking.

  Travesty gave her a sharp look. “Concerned with fairness toward the godless, are you? They don’t deserve your sympathy.”

  Mary didn’t reply. She couldn’t help wondering if the traps were the ones set by Walks Between Worlds. He had said he’d come to check his traps, but he’d been empty-handed. Perhaps he’d left what he’d collected on the other side of the creek. She was still angry with him, but she shouldn’t have called him a liar to his face. He’d appeared genuinely hurt by the accusation.

  Mary watched as Travesty hacked off the heads of the rabbits, sliced their bellies open from neck to tail, and began to clean out the innards. The Indian had told her his name meant he walked between worlds. It was a strange name, but it said something about who he was. She’d known many Marys, Annes, Elizabeths, and Margerys. She’d never known anyone whose name was utterly unique. Except Travesty.

  Travesty grunted with effort as she separated the skin from the lifeless bodies, leaving behind nothing but shiny pink carcasses. She set aside the skins and began to cut up the rabbits, dividing each carcass into six sections. Her hands were covered in blood and gore, but she didn’t seem bothered. Her eyes shone with the prospect of a good meal.

  “By suppertime, these will have been simmering in the pot for several hours. The aroma alone will bring the men running back.”

  “Won’t they return from the fields now that it’s storming outside?” Mary asked. The rain was still coming down in a torrent, its hammering clearly audible even with the window coverings down.

  “Nah. They’ll keep at it. Working in the rain is probably more pleasant than toiling in the hot sun. And it’s not as if there’s lightning. To my knowledge, no one’s been damaged by a little rain.”

  “What will you do with the skins?” Mary asked, watching as Travesty carefully washed off the blood and hung the skins to dry after getting the stew going.

  Travesty’s head spun around, her eyes flashing. “You can have them, not that you have need of them.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with them,” Mary replied, trying to pacify the woman. She was so easily roused to anger. “I only wanted to know what they can be used for.”

  Travesty had the decency to look contrite. “Forgive me, mistress. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I don’t know what’s got into me these past few days,” Travesty said. “I was going to tan the leather and use it to make new shoes. Mine are worn right through.”

  Mary hadn’t noticed that there was a cobbler in Jamestown, but perhaps Travesty would make the new shoes herself. Walks Between Worlds had been wearing soft leather shoes that didn’t resemble any shoes Mary had ever seen, but they looked comfortable and seemed to make no noise when he walked.

  “Travesty, have there ever been Englishwomen here in Virginia before now?”

  “Not that I know of. I was one of the first to arrive on these shores. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” Mary lied. Travesty looked somewhat more amenable since her unexpected apology, so Mary seized the opportunity to keep her talking. “Is Travesty your real name?” she asked.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “It’s unusual, is all. Not the type of name you imagine a mother giving her child.”

  “I wasn’t named by my mother,” Travesty replied. She turned toward the hearth to stir the contents of the pot, releasing the appetizing aroma of cooking meat. After she finished, she turned back to Mary. Her expression was wary, but she sighed and allowed her shoulders to relax, as if she’d made peace with whatever emotions were raging inside her. Travesty sat down at the table and clasped her hands in front of her, her gaze directly on Mary.

  “My mother and her brother Jack were orphaned at a young age. My mother was the elder and managed to look after Jack. She found employment for them in a tavern. My mother did the cooking during the day and served the patrons at night. Jack helped out in the stable.”

  “How old were they?” Mary asked.

  “They were fourteen and eleven. They got along fine for about a year, until Jack discovered that my mother was with child. She wouldn’t tell him who the father was, but he suspected it might have been one of the patrons, who was long gone and had no way of knowing he’d left something behind. Not that most men would care. He’d got what he wanted, and the rest was none of his concern. It wasn’t one of the local lads, of that he was sure. It was an isolated place, and Jack had never seen anyone hanging around Holly.” Travesty let out a deep sigh. “I haven’t told this to no one, but my husband, mind,” she said. “I don’t like talking about it.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no wish to pry.”

  “Hadn’t you?” Travesty retorted. “Well, I might as well tell you the rest of it now. When Holly’s pains began, she went to the stable, where no one would disturb her. She had no money for a midwife, and there wasn’t one around for miles anyway. She labored for two days, during which time the landlord came into the stable and beat her black and blue for leaving
him without help. The beating finally brought on the child. I was born in the dead of night, with just Jack to attend on my mother. She died before she even laid eyes on me. This was the worst thing that could have happened, so Jack named me Travesty, for I would always be a reminder of the sister he’d lost.”

  “Oh, Travesty. I’m sorry,” Mary said softly, and reached for Travesty’s hand, but the woman yanked it away.

  “So, twelve-year-old Jack was left with a newborn baby and no employment, since the landlord told him to clear off and refused to pay what Jack and Holly were owed. Jack took me and left. He never spoke of that time, but I know it nearly broke him. He managed to keep us alive, and when I was two, he left me with a family he’d come to know in London and went to sea. Whenever he came back, he paid Master and Mistress Harkness for harboring me, and he brought me little treats. He was the most important person in my life, Jack. Years later, when I married my Stephen, Jack stayed with us whenever he was back in London. He was there when the Black Death came calling.”

  “He died with the rest of them,” Mary muttered, recalling that Travesty had said her brother had died along with her family.

  Travesty nodded. “Yes, he died with the rest of them. I’m the only one left. The thoughtless name he gave me is the only thing I have left of him and the life I knew. I’ve come to like it. It says something of who I am and where I come from.”