Goddess Born (8 page)

“I don’t know about
all
of the Colonies,” I said, feigning modesty. Bracing his arm, I carefully pushed the needle into the skin, drawing the thread through to the other side of the cut. He clenched his jaw tight, but kept his arm in place.

“Did you really kill three men today?” I asked, partially to distract him, though I also wanted to know what had happened.

“Yes,” he said. “But it’s not so grand as it sounds. The first man I killed with a lucky shot from the pistol when they first attacked us. The second man went to my sword after some fighting, and then, well, you know how the third man died.” Sweat beaded his forehead, and his face had lost most of the color gained from the whiskey.

I nodded my head rather than try to speak around the tightness that had formed in my throat. The image of the demon hovering above me was still too fresh. I took several stitches in silence, and had nearly reached the end when Henry spoke again.

“Selah, I’m sorry you had to suffer under the hands of that man before I could get to you.” His voice sounded deeper than usual.

“You were a little preoccupied.” I clipped the thread and tied off the last of the stitches.

“Please know I tried to come sooner. We were outnumbered two to one.”

“You came just in time,” I said with perfect honesty. My aching stomach would mend, but another minute and my fate would have been entirely different. In those last seconds before Henry arrived, rape had seemed inevitable, as was the possibility of having my throat slit and being left for dead.

Scooping some salve from the jar, I rubbed it over the neatly closed wound. His arms were thickly muscled, and with the fighting skills I had witnessed today, any man would be greatly disadvantaged at the wrong end of Henry’s sword. Which explained why Dirk Fletcher had shot him in the back from the safety of a horse.

His arm dressed, I moved behind him to see what could be done about the pistol wound. He shifted his weight on the bed, making it easier for me to get to his back. “You know, I have almost no memory from the time I was shot until shortly before we arrived at the inn.”

“It’s not uncommon,” I said, rethreading the needle. “You bled quite a bit and had gone into shock.”

“Yet, I have this one vague recollection, and it doesn’t make any sense at all. It happened when I was lying on the ground while you were kneeling beside me. There was an intense flash of light followed by a sudden rush of warmth into my back where I had been hit. It sounds crazy now,” he laughed softly, shaking his head. “But at the time I thought I had died, and you were an angel come to fetch me home.”

My hand jerked suddenly, jabbing the needle into his back. He jumped and sucked in a hard breath from the pain. “I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “You...you were in shock...and...and... the mind, you see...it can play strange tricks when under duress.” My voice wavered to a halt.

He took a few more deep breaths, leaving me to stew in agonizing silence.

“You speak true about the mind, madam,” he said dryly after a minute had passed. “For I’m still very much alive. As for my angel, you are solid flesh and blood and currently in possession of a very sharp needle.”

A shaky laugh escaped me. By good fortune, I stood behind him, keeping my face and wildly shifting emotions from his view.

“I’ve no doubt it was a hallucination of sorts,” he continued. “But never before have I witnessed something so real. Are you sure there aren’t a pair of feathery wings tucked into your gown?” He was jesting, of course, though I failed to find the humor.

“You were rather diverting in the carriage afterwards,” I said, desperate to change the subject.

“Oh, pray tell, madam, what did I say?”

“Well, you told me that you weren’t really Henry Alan.”

His shoulders tensed as he turned to give me a sideways glance. “Did I happen to offer another name?”

“No, just that you weren’t who I thought you were.” He twisted around a little further, and I had to stop working. “If you don’t sit straight, I may end up sewing your elbow to your scapula,” I warned him.

Reluctantly, he obeyed and turned back around. “And what did you think of my confession?” His casual tone did little to hide his real interest.

“That you were in shock and talking nonsense.”

One last stitch closed the wound, and I spread on the salve before wrapping his torso with the strips of linen. His chest was so broad I had to reach my arms around him to properly secure the ends.

“Do you worry that I may have been telling the truth?” he asked.

“Not really.” I stepped back to admire my handiwork. “You are Henry Alan and I am Selah Kilbrid. Nothing more, nothing less.”

* * *

We slept late the next morning, and didn’t get on the road until the sun had reached high noon. The letter to Henry’s father was given to the proprietress along with a substantial sum of money to ensure it reached Captain Harlow by the following week. Ben had tried to persuade me to also send a formal complaint against Mr. Fletcher, but I refused outright. Such a grievous attack would cause quite a stir in Philadelphia. If either Henry or myself were called to testify, our own crimes would certainly be discovered. Ben reluctantly agreed that with four of Fletcher’s men dead and a good slice across the arm, a more primitive form of justice had already been served, and no further action was necessary.

The glimmer of friendliness I had experienced yesterday while sewing Henry’s wounds had disappeared, and we spoke very little in the carriage, keeping mostly to our own thoughts. I inquired some about his home in England, but received only ambiguous answers in reply. He asked very few questions about Brighmor and Hopewell, opting to spend his time staring out at the passing landscape as though he were trying to commit every tree and stone to memory.

“How far is Boston from Philadelphia?” he asked, out of the blue.

“I’m not sure. Maybe three hundred miles as the crow flies.”

“And if one is not a crow, what is the best way to get there?” He had shifted his gaze from the landscape and was now staring at me intently.

“I’ve never been myself,” I said. “Traveling over land would be difficult—the roads are poor, and past eastern Pennsylvania, the Indians are rumored to be hostile. I believe the best way would be by boat, first into New York and then north along the Atlantic. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he said, returning his gaze to the window.

If I were more suspicious by nature, I would have been tempted to read motives beyond an interest in Colonial geography into his apparent fascination with the terrain. For the next while I watched him closely, but his thoughts were carefully guarded and I gleaned nothing except that he needed a shave.

After yesterday’s rush, Ben rode the horses slower, and it was early evening when we passed our first familiar landmark. As Brighmor Hall came into view, my heart swelled with an onslaught of emotions. It should have been impossible to feel so much at one time—grief, anger, and fear contended for space, but even beyond these, was a great sense of relief to finally be home.

The carriage came to a stop at the front entrance where I saw our head housekeeper, Mrs. Ryan, waiting to greet us along with the rest of the household staff. In general, we did not stand by such ceremony, and I assumed Mrs. Ryan had called everyone from their duties to welcome the new Master of Brighmor Hall. She had most certainly acted in haste as there could not have been more than a few minutes’ notice before we arrived.

Alice and Mary, the two chambermaids, wore friendly smiles, while Karta, the cook, appeared her usual somber self. Evie, the scullery maid, was an anxious girl who looked like a nervous child next to Karta’s mountainous form. I studied each of their faces, struck by the realization that, along with Ben, these women were the closest thing I now had to a family.

Henry stepped out of the carriage and then turned to assist me, his jaw clenching from the strain to his injuries. I released his hand the moment my feet touched the ground, and we stood side by side in the shadow of the big stone manor.

“Welcome to Brighmor Hall, Mr. Kilbrid,” I said. “Let me present the staff and then you may get situated in your room.”

Eager to be by myself, I kept the introductions brief before disappearing in through the front door and dashing up the stairs. Without stopping in my own chamber, I continued on to my father’s. Although he had died the day after I left for Philadelphia, and most likely been buried in the family plot by sundown the following day, I needed to be near him somehow, to sit among his things and feel his comfort.

Mrs. Ryan must have ordered the drapes to be left shut out of respect, but I found little solace in the dark room. Crossing to the windows, I pulled back the heavy panels, hooking each one around the black iron tiebacks to let in the last of the day’s light. Though the sun sat low on the horizon, it chased away the worst of the shadows from the room.

As in my father’s life, everything remained in perfect order, without a speck of dust in sight. The bed was neatly made, and a single book rested on the nightstand next to a fresh candle, giving the impression of his imminent return. At his dressing table, his hairbrush and comb sat alongside a large porcelain pitcher and bowl, as if he had just used them this very morning. On the other side were his shaving razor and a clean hand towel. Taking a seat at the table, I pulled in a long deep breath that carried my father’s familiar scents. Filled with the heady smells of leather and bergamot, it was easy to imagine that he still lived until my eyes fell on a gold pocket watch toward the back of the table. Resting on a silver tray with his other accessories, it vanquished any remaining doubts of his death—he never left the room without the watch directly on his person.

I reached out and picked it up. Flipping it open, I read the inscription:

To my dearest
,
with all my love

The sole reason he hadn’t been buried with his beloved watch was because it had once belonged to my maternal grandfather, and my father insisted I would someday want to pass it along to my own husband. At present, this seemed highly unlikely with my fiancé dead, and his proxy being a surly servant bent on hating me. If each girl was allotted only one Prince Charming per lifetime, mine had unfortunately been struck with the palsy and tossed overboard into the Atlantic, along with my best chances of a happily ever after.

Holding the watch firmly in my hand, I crossed over to the windows to look out over the hundreds of acres of newly sprouted wheat. The past several days had been a whirlwind, leaving me little time for anything other than making it from one minute to the next. Now alone in my father’s room, I felt the magnitude of my situation and knew it would be impossible to run Brighmor by myself. I had minimal knowledge of how to manage labor or keep books, let alone how to successfully grow crops. My cousin, the real Samuel Kilbrid, was supposed to take over all of this upon my father’s death. Overwhelmed by the responsibility, I was just about to sit down and indulge in a much-needed cry when I heard someone approach the door.

“May I come in?” Henry asked.

“Of course.” I didn’t move from the windows, and he crossed the room to where I stood. “Is there anything you need?” I asked.

“Well,” he started hesitantly. “Mrs. Ryan has had my belongings delivered to your room, but I was sure you’d want to make other arrangements.”

I grimaced, realizing I had neglected to tell her otherwise on my rush into the house. “Yes, I will have your things brought to my brother’s old room.”

He let out a breath of relief. “Thank you.”

Unsure if he needed anything else, I looked at him expectantly, but he was staring down at the watch in my hand. “May I see that?” he asked.

Caught by surprise, and lacking a ready excuse, I reluctantly surrendered the watch. “It belonged to my father,” I said as Henry turned it over in his large hand.

“It’s an amazing piece. My father has something very similar. I believe this one was made in England.” He opened the lid and read the inscription.

“Most likely, since it came over with my grandparents. It was supposed to go to my husband when my father died.”

Henry nodded in response.

“Oh!” I said suddenly struck by the idea that he may have misunderstood my intentions. “I didn’t mean...the watch was my father’s, and I couldn’t just give it away. I hope you don’t think I was offering it to you.”
Good heavens!
I sounded like an imbecile, but in my panic the words tumbled out before I could sort them into something less insulting.

Hazarding a peek at his face, I caught sight of a frown. “I would never assume such a thing,” he said brusquely, handing back the watch. “Please excuse me for interrupting.” He gave a curt bow and left the room.

Well
,
that was positively awkward
, I thought once he was gone. No denying my words had been clumsy and even offensive, but what else was I supposed to do under the circumstances? I wasn’t about to give up a family heirloom to have it hawked within a week for passage to Boston or even all the way to England. His dignity may have been smarting, but it would mend soon enough—the watch, on the other hand, was irreplaceable.

Any hopes I had that Henry might forget my rudeness by evening meal were gravely misguided. He spoke not a word to me directly, and the moment his boiled beef and carrots were gone, he excused himself from the table. When the front door shut, I assumed he had gone out for a walk, which suited me fine considering what lousy dinner company he had been. I finished my meal at leisure and then went into the small sitting room to read.

Two hours passed without sign of Henry, and I found myself glancing out the windows to look for him. It was full dark, and I hoped he hadn’t gotten himself lost, or worse yet, opted to walk all the way back to Philadelphia. Close to midnight I went up to my room, determined to send Ben out in the morning if he hadn’t come back.

I got ready for bed, but couldn’t sleep a wink. Instead I sat up in an armchair near the empty hearth, jumping at every sound. My mind bounced uncomfortably between worry that he had somehow fallen into trouble and anger at being so quickly abandoned. What if he had discovered the small clearing in the woods? Crossing into the Otherworld carried enough risk, I didn’t need Henry poking around and asking uncomfortable questions about the altar.