Uncharted Inheritance (The Uncharted Series Book 3)

by Keely Brooke Keith

  “Good morning,” Bethany greeted her mentor as she stepped into the shelter and reached for a balled-up apron from the disorganized bench behind her pottery wheel. “It seems too soon for autumn weather.”

  “Only a week left until the equinox.” Mrs. Vestal gave a grunt and bent to pick a stray shard from the dirt. She dropped the shard into a bucket of broken pottery pieces. Then she straightened her spine and rubbed her low back. “A boy from your class came by and asked about you after you left yesterday.”

  “Who was it?”

  “One of the McIntosh boys—Phoebe’s cousin, I think. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and boys change into men so quickly at your age.”

  Bethany shook out the crusty apron. “It doesn’t seem that quick to me.”

  “He yelled over the gate and asked me if I knew who you wanted to court when you turned eighteen.” Mrs. Vestal scratched her scalp, making the thick bun on top of her head wobble. “Asked me—as if I would know your plans.”

  “If I did want to court anyone, you would know.”

  “And if I knew anything of the sort, I certainly wouldn’t have told him—let alone yelled it out to the street.” Mrs. Vestal took a few arthritic steps into the shelter. “He didn’t seem nice enough for you. You’re a Colburn and there are not many men who live up to Colburn standards.”

  Bethany thought of her father and Levi and Connor—even though Connor was not a Colburn—and agreed with Mrs. Vestal. She tied on her apron. “I can’t think of one boy from my class that I would even consider marrying.”

  “Well, he seemed keen on asking to court you.”

  “That makes two of them.”

  “Who is the other?” Mrs. Vestal raised an eyebrow. “Everett Foster?”

  Bethany was confounded by the mention of Everett wanting to court her. A villager walked past the pottery yard, so she lowered her voice. “No, someone Phoebe mentioned to me yesterday. Besides, I don’t think Everett feels that way about me.”

  “If you don’t want to court, tell your father and he will send the boys away.” Mrs. Vestal trudged to the meticulous shelves near her pottery wheel at the back of the shelter. “You’re not like your siblings. Well—that’s not entirely true—Lydia didn’t want to marry either until Connor came along. And it’s a wonder your brother got Mandy to marry him. I think that girl let every man from here to Southpoint court her. When you meet the right man, you will finally feel intrigue like all the other girls your age.”

  “Most of the girls my age are either already married or about to be.” Bethany sighed. “And I have no problem with intrigue—I like falling in love—but I don’t like everyone watching me to see what I will decide. And it seems like there are so many rules.” She brushed the dried clay flecks from her apron. “I’ve heard Connor tell Lydia about the differences in our culture and the outside world, and it seems like we have restrictions other people don’t have to worry about. And Father always expects so many things from me that the other girls in the village don’t have to do.”

  Mrs. Vestal waved a hand. “You’re nervous that’s all; it’s your age. The traditions are wise, and so are your father’s edicts. Imagine if he allowed his daughters to court earlier than eighteen. You couldn’t have dealt with all this while finishing school and an apprenticeship. Don’t worry about what the other girls in the village are doing—or the outside world, for that matter. You don’t have the wherewithal to focus on too many things at once and that’s fine—I was the same way and it never hurt me. I live a perfectly pleasant life.”

  “Yes, well, since I finally finished school like Father said to, I can focus on the one thing I actually want to do.” Bethany picked up a stack of work orders.

  “See there, his plans were good for you. If you hadn’t finished your schooling, you wouldn’t have known how to use the materials found in that space debris last year.” Mrs. Vestal pointed across the pottery yard at a small brick building. “I can fire that kiln hundreds of degrees hotter with that salvaged insulation and now we make ceramic that is nearly unbreakable. That’s what half of those work orders are for—your ceramic, especially the relief glaze designs.”

  Bethany glanced at the orders. “They all want black pigment. I need more potash.” As she flipped through the grayish slips of paper, she thought of the old airplane below the bluffs. She did not want to go back there. She almost asked where else she could find the minerals she needed, but then glanced at Mrs. Vestal and noticed her pained expression.

  Bethany motioned with the work orders. “I can handle all of these. Why don’t you go home and lie down.”

  “I believe I will.” Mrs. Vestal nodded. “If you’re sure.”

  “Of course.” Bethany laid the stack of paper on her shelf and dropped a chunk of feldspar atop it to keep the pages from blowing away. Then she lifted the bucket of broken shards and dumped them into a grinder to make grog while she waited for the sun to heat the clay.

  * * *

  By noon, Bethany’s shadow was short and close to her feet as she walked away from the shelter that housed the pottery wheels. She squatted near a board propped across two wooden blocks on the ground and inspected the earthenware clay that was warming in the sun. Her hands instinctively knew when the clay was ready to use. She selected a tepid lump and knelt on the earth while she wedged the clay repeatedly on the board, working out the bubbles. It was still cooler than she preferred, but it would have to do.

  Bethany rose and continued to work the clay with both hands as she carried it back to her pottery wheel. She sat at the wheel and positioned one foot on the ground and one foot over the concrete flywheel ready to kick it into motion. Wetting a sponge to dampen her pottery wheel, she gently kicked the flywheel rhythmically and dropped the lump of clay onto the center of the wheel head’s turning surface. As she sank her thumbs into the spinning clump’s warm, pliable middle, Bethany’s creative verve tempted her to experiment. She quelled her enthusiasm and began to make the first of a six-bowl order.

  The clay’s shape changed with each slight movement of her hands. She slowly lifted and spread it as it spun around on the wheel and expanded into a smooth, thick cylinder. She reached her clay-covered fingers to a pot of milky water. Gathering a few droplets at a time, she sprinkled the clay to keep it moist as she molded it. Pleased with the bowl’s final shape, she slipped her potter’s knife along the base of the slowly spinning bowl and carved a groove around the bottom. Finally, she inserted a clean needle tool into the groove and cut the bowl away from the wheel head.

  Believing she was alone, Bethany jumped when she saw Everett standing at the edge of the pottery shelter. She managed to hang onto the wet bowl despite the startle. Bethany laughed at herself then turned to the workbench behind her wheel and placed the bowl on its cluttered surface. As she turned back to her wheel, she glanced at Everett. He leaned his shoulder casually against the shelter’s corner post as he watched her work. She looked down at her clay-splattered arms and felt a wave of self-consciousness. “Have you been standing there long?”

  “No, not long.” Everett grinned as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. He snapped his head to the side, tossing his hair off his forehead. “You seemed so focused on that clay. I didn’t want to disrupt your concentration. What are you working on?”

  “Trade orders. Bowls mostly.” Bethany brushed the drying clay from her fingertips and walked into the sunshine to select another warm lump of clay. She knelt and worked the clay on the board for a moment, and then carried it back into the shelter.

  Everett motioned to the other pottery wheel. “Is Mrs. Vestal here today?”

  “She went home.” Bethany sat at her wheel and, with a soft kick, set the flywheel into motion. Then she smirked. “Why? Have you come to place an order?”

  “No.” Everett chuckled and stepped forward. He drew his hands from his pockets and reached them up to the crossbeam of the shelter mere inches over his head. “Only you could make me smile on a day like today, Be
th.”

  “Oh? What has made today so bad?” She watched his face while she pressed the clay in her hands. When his smile quickly faded, she felt his sadness, though it was rarely concealed of late. “Is you father’s illness getting worse?”

  Everett dropped his arms to his sides and blew out a breath. “He’s only conscious a few minutes at a time. He hasn’t eaten in three days. Mother believes his time has come.” His voice broke and he looked away.

  Bethany sensed his grief and her heart felt heavy as she shaped the clay. She pulled back from the spinning lump. If she were not covered in the watery dirt, she would have embraced Everett, held him, told him to weep if he wanted to, even though she knew he wouldn’t. She followed his line of vision to the road in front of the pottery yard and saw people walking by. He would not express his grief with other people around. She whispered, “I’m so sorry for you, Everett… and for Mandy and your mother. Is there anything Lydia can do for your father to make him better?”

  “No. She’s made him comfortable. That’s all she can do.”

  “The gray leaf medicine doesn’t help?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “My father’s heart has been defective since birth. When he was born, Doctor Ashton said he wouldn’t live to adulthood. Father proved him wrong, but the gray leaf does nothing for this type of ailment—it only heals infections and wounds.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair. He should be working his farm and enjoying life, not dying, especially since we have the medicine of the gray leaf tree. How can it cure infection and rapidly heal injuries but not stop a disease a person was born with?” When Everett did not answer, Bethany wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Everett shook his head. “You’re sweet, Beth. I hope you know that. You’re truly good.”

  His approval encouraged her. “Should I tell my father to cancel my party?”

  “No. In fact, that’s why I came. My mother sent me to relay her regrets—she won’t be attending tomorrow evening. She’s afraid to leave his side. She wants to be with him when he passes.”

  “I understand. And if you decide to stay home with them, I will understand that too.”

  “No, my mother insists I go.” He grinned slightly. “She knows I have been looking forward to your eighteenth birthday for a long time.”

  “As have I—though it’s feeling less joyous as it approaches.”

  “Because of my father’s condition?”

  “No.”

  “Why then?”

  If she could tell anyone how she truly felt, it was Everett. She stared at her hands as she continued working the spinning clay. “I have daydreamed about turning eighteen for years. I watched my sisters and brother all grow up and get to do what they wanted and I wanted that too. There were times when I thought I might burst if I had to wait another day to be finished with school and… be allowed to court. But now that I have only one day left, I’m dreading my birthday. Not because of the work—I love my work. It’s the rest of it… the courting and the expectations of our traditions.”

  Everett crossed his arms over his chest, and the motion caught Bethany’s eye. She glanced up at him then dampened the clay and finished shaping the bowl. “It wouldn’t worry me except that when anyone mentions my birthday, they also mention courting. Apparently, every person in the village knows my father’s rule about his daughters. I hate feeling like people are watching my decisions. I’ve been told about two different boys who are planning to ask my father’s permission to court me and—”

  “Who?” Everett spit the word forcefully, surprising Bethany.

  “It doesn’t matter who. The point is: I don’t know if I want to be courted yet.”

  “Tell your father to send them away.”

  “Mrs. Vestal said the same thing.”

  Everett lifted a palm. “Then why not do it?”

  “Because I want to have… possibilities.” She glanced at him as she said it and was puzzled by his expression. His green eyes were intent and piercing like she had said something vulgar. She did not like the feeling of disappointing him and looked away. “Never mind, I can’t explain it.”

  “Explain what? You want men to court you but not with the purpose to marry.”

  “No.” Bethany flinched enough to cause a slight sway in the incomplete bowl as it whirled around on the wheel. She recovered in time to reshape it and, as she did, she felt Everett’s eyes waiting expectantly for her defense. “That’s not my desire at all. I simply want the freedom to court but not with all the pressure. Most of the girls my age are already married. Phoebe is my only unmarried friend and she is soon-to-be engaged to a man who has courted her only three weeks. Sometimes I just feel like our traditions are too—”

  “So you plan to accept suitors and enjoy their attention then refuse them when they propose marriage?”

  “No, I—”

  “Ask Mandy what emptiness that hobby brought her. My sister will happily advise against that game.”

  “I have no desire to play games with any man’s affection, Everett. I only meant that… oh, never mind.” Bethany cut the completed bowl from the wheel. She turned to search for a bare spot on the workbench but found none. Everett moved behind her and cleared a space without her asking. “Thank you,” she mumbled as she watched him rearrange the contents of the workbench to create space for her.

  He brushed his hands together and stepped back. “Just enjoy the party your family gives you tomorrow and don’t think of what else may come. This party is all Mandy has talked about for days, and your sisters are probably excited too.”

  Bethany smiled at Everett, realizing he was trying to cheer her up. She stood from her wheel and wiped her hands on her apron. As she thought of Samuel’s condition, she regretted mentioning her petty troubles. “You’re right. And I’m glad you will be there.”

  Everett scooted the dirt on the ground with the edge of his boot. “I want you to be happy, Beth. And that’s why I think you should tell your father to send the scamps away.” He grinned, giving her instant relief.

  “I know I can always trust you to watch out for me.” She stepped around him and into the sunny yard to gather another warm lump of clay. Then she chuckled. “Between your protectiveness and Levi’s, it would be a miracle if any man were daring enough to ask me to court anyway.”

  Chapter Two

  Justin Mercer unscrewed the lid from the top of a vitamin supplement bottle. He sprinkled two of the soil-smelling capsules into his cupped hand. After popping the pills into his open mouth, he held them under his tongue and reached for a glass of water. As he swallowed, he noticed the expiration date printed on the label. Though alone in his cabin, he shrugged. One could not expect fresh supplements on a stolen ship adrift in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean during a world war.

  Mercer tipped the glass high and drank the rest of the water then shivered at its aftertaste. Though Volt had said the ship’s fresh water generator was self-maintaining, Mercer was certain such putrid-tasting water was not healthy. He set the glass on the table beside his bed.

  The room was called the captain’s cabin, but Mercer was no ship’s captain. Volt had controlled most of the bridge operations during the past nine months at sea, but he was no captain either. He was the mastermind behind their theft of the ship and he had even become the closest friend that Mercer had known since the war began, but Volt was no captain. Mercer could not blame Volt for their failed mission. After nine months of crossing the ocean over and over at the coordinates where there should be land, they were still stuck on the purloined icebreaker. It was not Volt’s fault. He had done everything Mercer suggested.

  The coordinates were seared upon Mercer’s mind. He was in the right place—beneath the sky where he and Lieutenant Connor Bradshaw had been ejected from their aircraft. The crash’s three-year anniversary was on the equinox—less than a week away. He thought of the coming autumn and turne
d to look out the window above his bed. The afternoon sun reflected off the water in piercing rays that made him squint. Soon the days would be short and the sea air cold. With a contagious illness onboard, he would keep the windows open until the cold forced him to close them even though after nine months with the crew, he had probably been exposed already. The plague of antibiotic-resistant tuberculosis had decimated the Southern Hemisphere’s population long before they took the ship and left the Falklands. Now five of the original ten men aboard were dead. The last burial at sea left them without an electrical engineer. Mercer had read and reread every technical manual onboard the mid-size nuclear-powered icebreaker and still had no idea why its engines were down to limited power. They had yet to encounter another vessel or see any aircraft, and after years of a destructive world war and the disease that followed, he doubted they would.

  Feeling caged in his cabin, Mercer reached for a technical manual from the foot of his bed and left the room. He walked through the narrow corridor of the quiet ship, ascended a short flight of steps, and opened the teak-paneled door to the bridge. Volt was sitting in one of two plush leather chairs with his skinny legs crossed at the ankle. Mercer closed the door and dropped the heavy manual on the chart table. Volt didn’t acknowledge the noise. From behind the high back of Volt’s chair, Mercer assumed Volt was reading, but as he walked to the instrument panels, he glanced at Volt and saw his head was slumped atop his shoulder. Mercer decided to let him rest but then he noticed Volt’s awkward position and took a step toward him, wondering if he should wake him. He stood near the chair, dithering for a moment, when Volt roused from his sleep and coughed raucously. Mercer stepped close to an open window to breathe the outside air.

  “Sorry, mate. How long was I out?”

  “I don’t know. I just came up for the night shift.” Mercer looked through the front windows of the bridge at the waning sunlight. “Any change in engine output?”