JoAnn Wendt (22 page)

She giggled. The young man was irrepressibly likable. She was so glad! Glad that her baby had a share in McNeil blood.

“Thank you, Raven McNeil,” she said firmly. “But
no,
thank you.”

He gave a theatrical sigh.

“Ah, well. Think it over, Jane Brown. I shan’t accept this as your final answer. I shall call upon you at the home of your very Reverend Josiah Bang.”

“Byng,” she corrected, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “And you shall
not
call.”

“Bing? Bang? What’s the difference? He’s likely a fool. Dressing a ravishing creature like you in tatty lutestring.”

The jigging music had drawn to a close in the ballroom. There was the flourish of drums. Mr. Tate ascended the music platform to make his welcoming speech. It was now common knowledge that he would announce his daughter’s engagement. Flavia could see slaves slipping among the guests, distributing special silver toasting goblets.

She turned to Raven. “You’ll miss toasting the happy young couple,” she said, hurrying across the brick terrace to retrieve his wig from where he’d tossed it.

“Hadn’t you better go in?”

“Hadn’t I better!” Raven McNeil agreed, reaching for the disheveled wig. “Especially since I am one-half of the happy young couple.”

She was speechless. He knocked the wig against his knee in a futile attempt to tidy it. But he only managed to shower his blue silk breeches with powder. He clapped the luckless wig on his head.

“Yes, Bondslave Brown, I shall wed Maryann Tate. And make her a proper husband, too. She shan’t complain of a cold bed.”
He grinned. “But I shall have
you as
my mistress.”

Still astounded, she floundered for something to say, something to dampen him.

“Raven McNeil, you are a sorry representative of your own sex.”

He laughed.

“Straighten my wig, Jane. Then brush me clean of this infernal dusting powder.”

She did so. When she finished, he playfully caught her round the waist. He tried to kiss her, but she gave him a stern motherly push, and his arms fell away. He looked so genuinely crestfallen that she changed her mind, stood on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek.

He laughed his disappointment.

“Lord, wench. You kiss as badly as you jig.” He wheeled around, bounding off the terrace in the direction of a sweet, girlish voice that was calling, “Raven? Raven? Are you out here?” Just before he disappeared round a mulberry bush, he turned and hissed a complaint.

“That was a
sisterly
kiss, Bondslave Brown.” Her smile followed his fading footfalls.

“That it was, Raven McNeil,” she murmured fondly. “That it was.”

Chapter 13

Two weeks after the dancing assembly, a wooden box arrived at the Byngs’. Posted from Williamsburg, the long box had journeyed by fishing boat, peddler’s cart and finally in the indifferent arms of the boy who carried it from the Rose and Crown. It was addressed to Jane Brown, in the care of the Reverend Josiah Bang.

“‘Bang,’ indeed!” exploded Mrs. Byng as she snatched the box from Flavia’s arms. “Who could be so ignorant?”

Anxiety rose in cold ripples. “Please, ma’am. The parcel is mine.”

“Nonsense. Bondslaves do not receive boxes from Williamsburg.” Mrs. Byng clunked the box down on the kitchen table, seized a meat knife and sawed the bands. She flung off the top of the box. It banged to the floor, and Flavia shut her eyes in fervent prayer.

Please don’t let Raven
—
please—”

Mrs. Byng made a startled sound.

“My stars!”

Flavia’s eyes flew open. Her stomach lurched as Mrs. Byng dove into the muslin wrappings and drew out the dainty bodice of a gown. It was rose-colored silk with tiny, exquisite rosettes worked into the neckline. Mrs. Byng gasped as she drew out matching silk underskirts, one after the other, the fabric rustling expensively.

Flavia swallowed in misery.

Raven, how could you!

The gift was an extravagant one and thoughtlessly cruel. Only an impulsive young man could fail to consider the consequences that such a gift must bring to a bondslave.

Mrs. Byng gave her a knowing look. The comers of her mouth turned down in contempt.

“With whom did you earn this gown, Jane?”

Flavia reddened, her misery swelling into anger. She was furious with Raven, but more so with Mrs. Byng. She was too agitated to risk answering. If she opened her mouth she would find herself at the whipping post or enduring the humiliation of public stocks. She stared at the floor, sullen with anger.

“Speak!” Mrs. Byng demanded. “Reveal the name of your benefactor!” When she said not a word, Mrs. Byng smiled archly. “Very well, Jane. I shall place the matter in Mr. Byng’s hands.”

Flavia’s heart jumped fearfully. Oh, not that! He would pray with her. Touch her. His touch hovering, threatening to become fondling. Her eyes flew to Mrs. Byng.

“Please, ma’am, I don’t know who sent it. Perhaps some lady at the ball took a fancy to me and sent the gown.”

Mrs. Byng’s eyes narrowed.

“A lady would send her discarded gowns. Only a man sends new.”

Flavia swallowed, desperately trying to think. What could she say? How? She raked her mind. Greed. That was all Mrs. Byng responded to.

Quickly she said, “The gown was missent. It must be worth thirty pounds! It should be posted back to Williamsburg so that the true owner may claim it.”

Mrs. Byng’s eyes widened, then narrowed as she shrewdly considered her profit.

“Send it back? Nonsense. We shall retain it until the owner claims it. Box the gown, Jane, and slide it under my bed.”

As she folded the lovely silk, tucking in the fragrant rose petal sachets that had been tucked in each corner of the box, Mrs. Byng patted her shoulder in a false, comradely way.

“Jane, dear,” she trilled, “we mustn’t talk about the gown, must we? The world is full of dishonest folk who’d claim the gown.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t trouble
Mr. Byng about the matter. I’ll not have the Reverend Byng’s fine mind troubled with trivia.”

Shaking with relief, her knees like jelly, she packed the box and lugged it into Mrs. Byng’s bedchamber. Kneeling at the four-poster, she moved the chamber pot and shoved the box into dark depths.

* * * *

Dear Mr. Raven McNeil,

There has been delivered to me a most unwelcome parcel. Were funds available, the parcel would be posted back to Williamsburg without a moment’s hesitation.

Further, any future parcels, letters or visits, shall be greeted with the utmost abhorrence. Indeed, no recourse shall remain but to consult Mr. Tate.

]. Brown

The letter was a severe one, but she sensed that only severity would work. She was sorry to threaten Raven with his future father-in-law. She liked Raven. Liked him from the first silly, brainless moment. But she had to protect her baby son. And dearest Garth. If the duke should connect her with the McNeils . . .

She penned the letter on an afternoon the Byngs rode out for parish calls. She’d stolen a shilling earlier to pay for the first few miles of posting; the receiver would have to pay the remainder. Remembering Mab Collins’s instructions, she’d done her stealing in plain sight, as Mr. Byng sat at the kitchen table doing his monthly count of Mrs. Byng’s money box. Flavia had brought him tea and a Cornish pastie. Whipping the napkin into the air to catch his eye, she’d palmed a shilling, her heart banging in terror. But it had worked. Just as it had worked when Mab made her practice it over and over aboard the
Schilaack.

“I thought,” mumbled Mr. Byng after a while, “I counted thirty-three.”

In her Philadelphia chair, Mrs. Byng sipped tea.

“Count again, sir,” she advised. “A shilling has no legs. It cannot jump up and walk away.”

Mr. Byng reddened in irritation. He disliked being advised by a woman, especially his own wife.

He counted again, saving face by making the count come out right. But a puzzled look remained in his eyes, and Flavia took care to kneel to her scrubbing. She scrubbed the floorboards with vigor.

She posted the letter in a town six miles beyond Chestertown, where no one would remark on it. She had run until her lungs had given out and a burning sensation began in her side. Then she’d walked, walked as fast as she could. Outside the printer’s shop she’d caught her foot in a loose cobblestone. Pain shot through her ankle. She slowed to a cautious walk.

Hot tears rose. Not so much tears of pain, but tears of frustration. The Byngs would arrive home before her. There’d be no fire in the fireplace, unless Neddy remembered to come in and feed the fire. There’d be no supper on the table. There’d be the devil to pay.

She limped on. A farm boy gave her a ride in his oxcart for two miles, and as she bumped along she tried to enjoy the beauty of the afternoon. The crisp perfume of sun-warmed autumn leaves wafted upon the air. The oxcart crunched pleasantly through drifts of gold. The countryside glowed like a fine pastoral painting. Cleared cornfields twinkled with shiny orange pumpkins. Flocks of birds soared overhead, the corporate sound of their beating wings making her glance around for a beehive.

The oxcart jounced over the highest ridge, and she gazed westward into the sun, squinting to see the Chester River. Three ships were asail, their sails snowy in the sunlight. She pretended one was Garth’s ship. She watched it until it sailed out of sight, and was surprised to find foolish tears wetting her cheeks.

She left the oxcart and took the shortcut past the gallows field into Chestertown. In the valley dusk had fallen. Reflected firelight danced in the windows of each house as she hurried through the dusty streets. The smells of supper drifted from each chimney. A dog barked at her, lunging out but then changing its mind and returning to a kitchen door to whine for supper.

She broke into a run, hobbling, her heart racing. Ahead, more dogs barked. The dogs of Chestertown were cowards by day, but bold and snappish at night. The same was true of the town riffraff. She was safe as long as light lasted. But after that . . . glancing fearfully at the vanishing twilight, she hurried. She’d take the shortcut, leaving the dirt road, crossing the bottomland that flowed down to Chester River. Even so, it would be dark by the time she reached the Byngs’. There she could expect a tongue-lashing at best. At worst? She put it out of her mind with a shudder and hurried on. It was still light when she reached Dennis Finny’s bottomland, the acreage that would be his property along with a certificate of freedom in January. The land was already cleared. A garden site lay plowed, ready for spring planting. Looped from stake to stake, a hemp rope outlined the future combination house-schoolhouse. Similar hemp skeletons suggested a barn and small outbuildings.

“Halloo!”

She stopped and swung in the direction of the shout.

“Halloo, Jane!”

Dennis Finny ran toward her, skirting scrub pines and springing over tumbled logs in his apparent joy to see her.

“Mistress Brown,” he said, amending his earlier enthusiasm into more mannerly speech when he reached her side and stood panting from his run. “Does it suit thee, Mistress Brown?” He threw his arm, indicating his future property. “Is there ought which thee would change?”

She caught her breath. So he still hoped. The glow in his eyes told her so.

“Mr. Finny, I am only passing. I must hurry. It’s late.”

“Tell me thee approves,” he insisted with boyish enthusiasm.

She shook her head, gently but firmly. “Mr. Finny, my answer remains the same.”

The light in his eyes died a little. A sad little smile of apology tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I’ve no wish to offend thee.” He gazed into her eyes as though searching for the tiniest glimmer of hope. Finding none, he sighed. He lifted his face to the sky and surveyed the darkening night. “I shall see thee safe to the Byngs’,” he said with quiet firmness.

Flavia declined, knowing he taught Greek to the eldest Tate boys each evening. She told him she needed no escort. He didn’t dispute it. But as she set out across the dark fields, he stubbornly fell into step at her side.

Wisely, he didn’t call attention to his actions by engaging her in unwanted conversation. He held his silence. They trod through the dry rustling grass, watching the stars wink into glittering light, listening to the waking hoot of a barn owl. When a roaming dog bayed, wolflike, she started in alarm and quickly took his arm. Her cheeks warmed in embarrassment.

“Forgive me. I was rude,” she admitted softly. “The night is very dark. I’m grateful for escort.”

Sensitive to her embarrassment, he made no reply. But it was not many more steps before he sensed her bad ankle. Without asking permission, he stopped and picked her up in his arms. She was flustered to find herself carried along.

“Mr. Finny, I can walk.”

“No,
Jane.”

It was said with such firmness that she knew it would be not only foolish but humiliating to argue. He was determined. Politely, he didn’t ask what was wrong. The gentle man was a gentleman. Female limbs could not be discussed.

She settled into his arms, surprised at the wiry strength of the slightly built young, man. Resting her head against his shoulder, she was surprised, too, at how fresh and clean he smelled. Few bondsmen were tidy about their persons. Most smelled as rank as the animals they drove to Chestertown on Market Day. Dennis made no conversation as he carried her through the whispering fields, but his heart drummed loudly.

He set her down at the far end of the Byngs’ stone wall. Before she could turn to go in, he seized her hand and drew it to trembling lips. Flavia was startled as he kissed her palm, kissed it with anguished passion.

“Jane,” he whispered with fervent longing. “Oh, Jane!”

She jerked her hand away, jerked it so definitely and abruptly that his face went white in the dim light of the rising half-moon. He stared at her in shock, as though his fondest dream had been jerked from his heart, along with her hand. Stunned, he turned on his heel and ran off toward the Tate plantation.