"Excellent! Tomorrow it is then. Now tell me what you already know."
Kayla shifted uncomfortably, feeling a little guilty for even being related to Faylinn’s husband. "We know she lived in London for a time, but mostly here. At least until she married Cyril Redding and moved to the Colonies."
He continued to puff his pipe contentedly. "All true. Go on."
"Cyril… um…" Kayla’s gaze flicked to Liv then back, where it stayed. "He died under mysterious circumstances on Cobb Island." She was unwilling to accuse Faylinn of his murder despite the fact that she believed that’s what happened. "Faylinn, who had recently lost their two-year-old son to a fever, disappeared after that. And was never heard from again." She wondered if her host knew about Cyril’s sister, Bridget, and the intimate, if not consummated, relationship she had with Faylinn. If he didn’t, she certainly wasn’t going to tell him.
Mr. Cobb began choking on his own smoke. "Never heard from again?
Och!
What crap. Maybe not for a while. But she certainly didn’t disappear for good."
"I assumed there was more to the story," Kayla informed him dryly. "Otherwise, you wouldn’t have anything to tell us, now would you?"
"No." A tiny smile twitched at his lips. Kayla reminded him of someone he loved very much. "I suppose I wouldn’t. All right then, sit back,
lassies,
and I’ll tell you all I know." His face grew serious. "But be warned, this yarn is not some glorified version of the truth, like Sylla spins. This was
real
. Sometimes it’s harsh in the tellin’." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "There are folks who might be more comfortable not knowing exactly what happened on Cobb Island and after..."
Kayla looked him dead in the eye. "But we wouldn’t be among them."
Liv nodded firmly. "What she said."
Mr. Cobb chuckled softly. "Why am I not surprised?"
* * *
Virginia (Mainland)
November, 1690
The crouched figure worked quietly as she tended the small, smoking fire. The heat wasn’t nearly enough and her fingers felt cold and clumsy. She used a stick to stoke the fragile flames and blew at the fire’s base, trying to feed the flames. After several moments of hissing and sputtering, the wet wood began to burn in earnest, filling the room with the sweet smell of hickory and casting it in jagged shadows.
A loud clap of thunder shook the rafters and rattled windows barely covered by slightly warped, wooden shutters. The endless, icy rain that had pelted the Virginia Coast all autumn continued to come down in sheets, making everything miserable.
The young, fair-haired woman tossed the stick into the fireplace and put her hand on her thighs to push herself up. Still wearing her damp cloak, she wrapped it tighter around her slender body in mute comfort. A mirthless laugh bubbled up from inside her and she was powerless to stop it.
She was, she knew, on the verge of sheer hysteria. In shock. How could she not be? She covered her face with shaking hands to avoid the sight of the bloodied rags that lay on the small table by the bed. Her impulse had been to throw them into the burgeoning flame, but she didn’t. The cloth might come in handy later. Still, her stomach roiled at the thought of washing it out.
A quiet knock on her door caused her head to snap up. Hesitating for only a moment, she padded slowly to the door, not bothering to lift the skirts dragging across the wooden slats that served as a floor. "Yes?" she called out warily.
"Mrs. Redding, it’s only me, Wilfred. I’ve some fresh linen from my wife." The door creaked open and a man of medium height, who smelled of wood-smoke and livestock, strode into the room. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with pock-marked skin and a large, slightly crooked nose.
"Can I see her—?"
He shook his head. "Not yet." Wilfred Beynon’s heavy brow furrowed. "Why are you sitting it the dark, Mrs—?"
"Faylinn," she interrupted softly. "My name is Faylinn." His manner was rough and impatient. She hoped she could trust him.
I don’t have a choice.
He nodded once, a little surprised that a woman of her social standing would offer her first name to the likes of him, a pig farmer. The Reddings were a powerful family. Everyone knew that. And though he’d heard talk of Cyril’s marriage, and how Mr. Redding came to own Cobb Island, he’d never actually seen Cyril’s young wife before today. He studied Faylinn carefully, and wondered how such a miserable man had managed to take such a pretty bride.
"I’m Will then." He quirked an eyebrow remembering their mostly unpleasant encounter of a few minutes earlier. "We were never really introduced." He pulled hard and the swollen shutters closed more tightly, stopping the rain from draining down the wall. "Damn things." He pulled a large, cold torch from its holder and lit it in the fireplace before sliding it back into place. "We don’t have call for many guests, so I don’t come in here often. I didn’t know the wood box was bein’ rained on. I know it’s not what a lady like you is used to—"
Faylinn held up her hand. "Please. It’s more than I could have hoped for." Her eyes strayed to the door. "Thank you," she added absently.
He frowned at the slight brogue that peeked out from beneath her upper-class English accent. "Scottish, are ya?"
"Yes…" She gave her head a little shake. "Well, no, not technically, I suppose. I was born in London." Faylinn’s eyes never left the door.
"Good." He crossed his massive arms over his chest. "They’re drunkards and thieves, the lot of them."
Faylinn pushed damp blonde bangs off her forehead. "No they’re not," she disagreed gently. "I spent most of my childhood in Edinburgh and my—" She was about to say ‘family’ but her mind flooded with images of the son she’d recently lost and she felt a stabbing sensation in her guts.
Oh, God.
Will continued to stare at her, wondering if she was going to continue.
After a full minute, Faylinn swallowed and muttered, "My people are Scots, Mr. Benyon."
"Too bad." He unceremoniously yanked the dusty quilt from the narrow bed and stripped the old linens. "I was born in Radnorshire myself, but have been here in the colonies for nearly twenty years. Virginia for the past five, after I worked off my indenture," he said proudly. He debated his words for a moment then pointed a thumb at his chest as he worked. "My life is my own now." He finished tugging on the clean sheets. "It’s a wonderful thing to be free."
Faylinn turned her head very slowly until her eyes locked with his. In an instant she knew that he knew, and the blood drained from her face. Her heart began to thump wildly and she stumbled backwards a step. "I… I…"
He smiled reassuringly. "If you’re running away from Cyril Redding, even though he’s your lawful husband, you’ll get no censure from me. It’s God’s place to judge. Not mine."
Faylinn exhaled shakily.
He doesn’t know about Cyril then.
Will’s face darkened. "But what he did to his own kin, to his own sister. " He spat into the fire as though merely talking about Cyril had left a vile taste in his mouth. "The filthy, no good— " He suddenly stopped and realized who he was talking to. A contrite look transformed his features to those of a child about to be scolded. "If you’ll pardon my blunt words, ma’am."
"No need to apologize. It’s not as though I haven’t thought worse myself," she admitted honestly before her attention turned back to the door.
Will wished that his wife was in the room with this girl instead of him. She would be even worse at this than he was. But, then, that would be his wife’s problem, wouldn’t it? "I’ll be back soon."
He took a step to leave but feared the girl would drop dead from fretting and holding her breath as she watched the door. Approaching her slowly, he slid the wet cloak from her shoulders and carefully hung it to dry on a hook near the fireplace. "Sit." He pointed to the stool that stood near to the flames. "And dry off before you catch your death." He softened his normally gruff voice in an attempt to ease the young woman’s worries. "I’ll come for you as soon as I know anything. It’s in God’s hands now."
On his way out of the room, Will grabbed the blood-soaked bandages, grunting his approval of the fact that Faylinn hadn’t burned them. Cloth could be re-used.
Faylinn’s mind was spinning. She barely heard the sound of the closing of the door. She clenched her fists in frustration, digging short nails into her palms. "Send me away like a child," she muttered to herself. "Of all the stupid…."
Ignoring Will’s instructions, she stalked past the stool to the bed and stripped off her sodden, torn skirts, blouse, petticoat, and shoes, letting them fall to the floor. She peered down at her sleeveless shift and gave a passing thought to taking it off as well. It was wet and itched, but, with a small shake of her head, she decided against it. She didn’t know these people. And just because they seemed kind, didn’t mean that they were. Her lips formed a thin line. She’d learned that lesson on her wedding night.
Her body trembled when the cool air hit the bare skin of her arms and she rubbed her hands up and down them briskly, trying to chase away the goose bumps. "I shouldn’t be in here." Faylinn’s heart felt as though it was trapped in a vise. "I can’t help in here," she anguished. She stood there, listening to the rain, wind, and the constant hum of muffled the voices. The urge to bolt from the room was nearly overwhelming. But she continued to wait. Numb.
Green eyes flew open and her sagging head snapped up. She was falling asleep standing up. Slightly disoriented, she climbed into bed and snuggled down beneath the thin quilt, sinking deeply into the straw mattress, shivering.
Faylinn closed her eyes tightly. They still burned from the sting of salty seawater.
How we made it here from the island in this weather I’ll never know.
She’d had to row the entire way herself.
Will’s words repeated in her mind.
‘It’s in God’s hands.’
She exhaled raggedly, her entire body aching with a bone-weary exhaustion the likes of which she’d never known.
Maybe if I sleep, the time will pass more quickly and everything will be all right.
Her heart lurched, and she pulled the musty quilt up to her chin, saying a prayer to the God
she wasn’t sure existed at all. Not for herself, but for someone she loved.
Her last thoughts before she drifted into a deep slumber were of Bridget and the amazing happenings of Cobb Island.
Had it all happened in the past two days?
It seemed like weeks. She drifted back, hazy images running together in her mind….
Banging furiously on the bedroom door. "Judith! Where have they taken Bridget? Where, Judith? Dammit! Open the door! Please!"
The sound of a bolt being thrown and the door opening slowly. The guilty, frightened eyes of her stepdaughter causing her blood to run cold. "She’s to be executed as a witch."
Feeling dizzy. Sick. "Wh…What?"
"You’ve got to hurry. You don’t have much time. She’s at the cliffs on the other side of the island. Run, Faylinn."
A frantic ride on a high-strung, white stallion, through the pouring rain…Thunder booming and the sky opening up all around her.
Seeing her. Shock. They’re going to burn you at the stake? A flash of lightning showing marred, bloody flesh and weary blue eyes, one nearly swollen shut. My God, Bridget, what have they done to you?
Flying into her arms…
The only kiss that ever mattered.
Pressing a sharp dagger into her hands. "Please live!"
A timeless moment. ‘I love you!’ being screamed louder than the rolling thunder, without a single word being spoken.
The cliff? She can’t… Not for me. Not for anything! Don’t, Bridget. "No, Bridget. Nooo!!"
Faylinn bolted upright and the quilt and rough linens pooled at her waist. Her heart was pounding. "My God." She lifted a shaky hand to her face and willed herself to start breathing normally.
Once she’d caught her breath, green eyes shifted sideways. The fire was still burning brightly and had managed to knock the chill out of the air. By the looks of the torch on the wall, she couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour or two.
Her head was still throbbing but she wasn’t as miserably cold as she’d been earlier.
I just have to be patient,
she chanted inwardly.
I could have stayed and helped… I could do… do… something.
She laid back down in a huff but soon her eyelids began to grow heavy.
Giving in to the insistent demands of her body, she tightened her grip on the covers, wishing she could disappear beneath their safety. Nothing could touch her there, she knew. Her mother had promised her.
You were right, Mother. The monsters didn’t get me.
Faylinn’s hazy mind roamed freely as her grip on the bedding loosened.
Soon she was softly crooning a lullaby to her son, smiling at his sleepy face. Then she was laughing with Bridget on the shore as a large, unexpected wave washed over them as they dug for clams. In the blink of an eye, the surf at Cobb Island was replaced by the rocky beach of the mainland.
"Just a little further. God, won’t this rain ever stop? Wait. A farm?" Squinting through the pouring rain. "Yes, that’s smoke from the house’s chimney. Keep walking. Move!"