Authors: Julie Doherty
Chapter 45
In the brick outbuilding serving as both kitchen and washhouse, Mary hunched over a washtub, a position made increasingly difficult by her growing belly. She rubbed a tablecloth across the ridges of a washboard, desperate to remove the stain that, if discovered, would earn the maid a beating. That poor soul could take no more.
At the far wall, the maid’s mother—and Lafferty Hall’s cook—hung a trussed chicken from the hearth’s crane, then slid a drip pan underneath it.
The room was stifling in spite of the open windows, but Mary would not—could not—go back into the house. Not yet. Not until she removed the stain and the puffiness left her eyes.
Henry wore the garb of a frontiersman, not a navigator. Gibson lied about the contents of Henry’s letter. If only she had been able to read that letter for herself. Now it was gone, stripped from her by the devil himself, along with her maidenhood and her dignity. She’d seen her master toss the letter into the fire. Its words were lost to her. So was Henry.
“Twice, Ruth. I’ve lost him twice.”
Ruth handed her two sachets of herbs that, by the smell of them, were soaked with apple cider vinegar.
“You put dem on your eyes, Miss Mary, and it make the swelling go down some.” She changed the subject. “Dat tablecloth looking better now.”
Behind them, the kitchen door shrieked on its hinges and startled them both. Ruth stiffened and backed against the wall, her eyes bulging and her glance darting from the door to the sachets on Mary’s lap.
Mary dropped the sachets into the water to cover them with the tablecloth and suds.
“Mary, ye’ve been in here all day.”
Her master’s voice rarely failed to raise the hairs on her arms.
“I have to be if ye want a cloot on your table and linens on your bed afore the day is oot.”
“Come back to the hoose. We can sit and admire the garden, talk about hame.” His usually posh voice always reverted to its native dialect during times of agitation.
“I will. Gi’ me some time to get this cloot on the line.”
He left without closing the door.
Ruth gave her a pitying look.
“There’s naught to fear.” Mary rose and closed the door, severing the sight of her master stumbling up the stairs of his mansion’s side entrance. “He’s been in his cups, by the looks of things. He’ll be asleep by sunset.”
She renewed her scrubbing, her thoughts locked on the memory of Henry’s expression. He would think her a trollop. That was good. He would forget her now.
“Watch now, Miss Mary, or you’ll puts a hole in it.”
Mary hadn’t realized how hard she’d been scrubbing. She rested her arms on the rim of the washtub and watched froth gyrate on the surface of the water.
Ruth said, “Abraham thinks your man will come back.”
Mary fished one of the sachets out of the water. “Pray that he does nae. The devil in yon hoose is counting on it.”
Chapter 46
“He what?”
Edward’s head fell back just as a flock of mallards flew overhead.
Dear God. Henry.
Magi reached for something inside the cart. “He sent these with me. Says one of them will explain.” He handed Edward a bundle of letters. “The ox is tired and hungry. I’ll see to him.”
He set about unyoking the ox while Edward sat on the threshold to read the letter from the registrar. Edward understood why Henry went to Philadelphia, but he wished the lad had come home first. They could have gone together. Henry was too impulsive, too gullible . . . too much like himself at that age.
He refolded the letter and turned his attention to those bound with twine. When he untied them, they scattered across his lap. His name looped across the face of each in the same embellished hand: Sarah’s.
He opened the first and smiled at her poor spelling.
Dearest Edward,
You are hardly away, and I’m in teers. I have closed the tavern for now, lost in the unfayrnesse of losing you just as I found you. Why did I not begg you to stay? I suppose I feart the soundnesse of my own feelings. How can love be bourne out of a few days? It is nothing short of madnesse.
Oh, that wretchet brigg, that miserable oaken hulk that carried away my own beeting heart. I shall never have it—or you—returnt to me. I canny bare it, and yet I must.
God willing, by the time this letter reaches you, you will be knee high in a field of wheate, and I will have forgotten you.
Be well now and always.
Yours,
Sarah
Edward tenderly refolded the letter and swallowed his regret. It took months for his passion to dull and fewer than thirty seconds to revive it. He counted the remaining letters. Four. Four letters to slice open his middle, yank out his guts, and set his empty carcass ablaze.
This was turning out to be one of the worst days of his life.
He broke the seal on the second letter.
Dearest Edward,
A month has past since we parted. You will be halfway across the sea now, and unaware that things are getting bad in Amerikay. They say we will soon be at war with the French, and I worrie how you will get on.
I reopent the tavern, and business is thryving. Your brother was among the first to pass through my door. He comes offen and has not given up the search for you, nor will he. Be careful.
And now, Edward, I must share news that you will find surprising, though I hope not unwellcome. I am with child, yours, of course. I have not yet begun to show, and I have told only Thomas. We may joyne you in Amerikay, as to stay here means facing charges and demandes to publycly name my child’s father. With Sorlie skolking about, this will put you and our bairn in danger. The monie for fynes would be better spent on fayre to Amerikay, do you not agree? Oh, how I wish to have your thotts on the matter.
Yours,
Sarah
Edward rose and staggered, lightheaded and wheezing, to the creek. He pressed Sarah’s letter against his chest.
What have I done? A bairn, an innocent life, fatherless
. . .
He sat on a stump next to the babbling waters of the Cocolamus and opened the third letter.
Dearest Edward,
Autumm is upon us, and I am well. I am blest by an easy condishun. Even at four months, I can still hide my bellie with the proper garmints. The worst of it is the fateeg, but knowing what my punnishment would be, if discovert, is reason for battling through it. I have no desyre to have my ears nailt to the pillery, and I will not submitt to a publyc whypping.
Thomas and I have decidet to come to Amerikay. In a fortnight, we will have the monie for our fayres. A December voyege means I might bring our child into this world abord a ship, but recint events I shall share below have left me no choyce.
A family named McFarlin has been calling on your Sorlie to read letters from one of their relashuns in Amerikay, a man who reportett seeing you in Philladelfia. Shortlie after, I overheart talk in the tavern between Sorlie and a saylor named William Tompsin, the latter having the most grating Cocknie tung. This man claimt to know you by descripshun and said you could probly be found with a girl named Mary Patersin.
I fear that Sorlie has found your trail, beloved. I only hope this letter reaches you afore he does.
Yours,
Sarah
Edward dropped his head into his hands. Of course, someone else would have to read Alexander’s letters. Sorley was about the only literate man left in County Donegal. Edward should have foreseen this; he’d been too weak to think clearly at the time.
Autumn. Sarah wrote in autumn, when she was four months along. That meant late October. With Sorley’s wealth, he could have left Ireland immediately. He might already be established in Philadelphia.
Philadelphia, where Henry is, looking for Mary Patterson.
Trembling, he scanned the letter again, seeking one line, in particular.
This man claimt to know you by descripshun and said you could probly be found with a girl named Mary Patersin.
Edward’s dread mounted. Was it possible that Sorley found Mary? Had he paid fifty pounds for a common servant? He rose and sprinted to the barn, the letters fluttering in his hand.
“Magi, I must go to Philadelphia. Will ye be able to manage on your own?”
Magi raised an eyebrow.
“Of course ye will. Forgive me, I canny think.”
“What happened? Is there something bad in the letters?”
Edward told him everything, including his suspicion that the merchant Lafferty was his brother.
“Henry told me about his uncle’s hatred.” He gestured toward the papers in Edward’s hand. “Henry did not read those. He has no reason to suspect that Mary’s master is anything but a merchant.”
“That is my fear. Sorley could be using Mary as bait. He wants that torc, and he’ll stop at naught to get his grubby hands on it.”
Magi looked at the sky. “The moon will be bright tonight. You could get at least partway.”
“The Sabbath will see me in Philadelphia.”
Edward left Magi currying the ox and returned to the threshold to tear open another of Sarah’s letters, bracing himself for its suspected content—details concerning the punishment she received for fornication. He had little hope she’d been able to sail away before someone noticed her—or more rightly,
their
—crime.
Dearest Edward,
You canny know the joy I felt upon getting your letter. Reeding that you share my feelings was a tonick upon my troubled soul, and your request that I joyne you in Amerikay has sent my spirits to the clouds. I had already planned to do this, but feart arriving in Philladelfia only to find that you were dead or did not share my feelings.
I am gratefull, too, for the monie you sent. Fayres are deerer now, as the troubles with the French have decreest the number of ships serving Derry. I have put your gift to good use by booking passege for myself and Thomas abord The Brotherhood. It is becoming difficulte to hide my rising bellie. Thankfully, a cloak is not consydert odd in the cold wether that is upon us. Once we set sail, if someone enkwires, I can say that I am a widowe left in a bad way. No one will question a woman in morning cloths, of which I still have plenty. I will be safe, my love, and I promise you that I will fite to keep our child alive with me.
I wish that I had news of your brother, but I have closed the tavern and kept myself hidden under the gise of illniss.
Yours,
Sarah
There was one missive left. Edward brushed a finger over Sarah’s perfect script and turned the letter over to gape at its unbroken seal. It would be her last communication, he knew, sent just before boarding
The Brotherhood.
Had her voyage been successful, she would have made it to Philadelphia in late February and sent more letters from there; she hadn’t, and her silence announced her unhappy fate.
He rubbed a fist against his aching chest. His lust killed her, and their unborn child with her. Most likely, both of them lay at the bottom of the sea with James Patterson. Henry might also be dead, if he fell into Sorley’s trap. For all Edward knew, he was alone in the world now, a failure to everyone he loved.
Dread and grief collided and sapped him of his strength. He entered the spinning cabin on weedy legs to pack a few essentials. He could do nothing to help Sarah and their baby, but Henry was another matter. If Sorley so much as touched him . . .
He lifted the rifle and its accoutrements from their places above the hearth, then poured the contents of his shot bag into his hand, wondering which of the lead balls would split Sorley’s skull.
Chapter 47
Edward huddled next to the fire built inside a tree butt near Stony Creek. His breeches and stockings remained damp from fording the Susquehanna. The task saved him money but renewed the ache in his hip, a joint now chronically cranky and susceptible to re-injury.
He’d covered a lot of ground, and his body knew it.
The duck roasting on a hickory spit in front of him spattered fat and sent a plume of smoke billowing up inside the tree. He should have boiled it. Smoke was dangerous.
He left the fire and carried his rifle to a nearby limestone ledge. There, he stripped down to his shirt and draped his breeches and stockings across the sunny rocks. Pain stabbed his hip as he sank to the leaves. An ant crawled onto his bare thigh, and he flicked it off. It landed on his haversack, the haversack carrying Sarah’s last letter.
Now would be a good time to read it. There would be no witnesses to his sorrow except the multitude of birds perched in the canopy. He peeked over the rocks into the hollow below. There, the tree butt glowed and his dinner smoked. He had time.
He pulled the haversack closer, then took out Sarah’s letter and held it for a while. Her words lay in his hand, the last he would have from her.
His nose began to run, and he wiped it on his sleeve. He took a deep breath, prepared himself for the inevitable, and broke the seal. She wrote much, so much that she penned words in one direction and then turned the page at a right angle to continue. It rendered a crosshatched mess that Edward found difficult to read.
Dearest Edward,
Had I known the difficultie ahead of me, I would not have come.
He stood, and the hem of his shirt tickled his bare thighs. She made it. Dear God, she made it!
The wind fluttered the paper, and he flattened it against a rock.
The seas were ruff for much of our sail, and just when they calmt, we were chaste by a French pryvateere. Thankfully, we outran her, but not afore they fyred upon us. Thomas, who had been callt up on deck with all the other able bodyed men, took some splinnters to his bellie and died a fortnite later, I am sorrie to say.
Edward sank to the soft earth, no longer noticing his aching hip. Poor Thomas. Poor Sarah. He would never forget the anguished faces of those in steerage handing up their dead. He saw them still, in nightmares that sat him up in his bed.
The child. What about our bairn?
The letter trembled in his hand.
A few days later, with the passingers yelling Land ho around me, I suffered my first pang of laber. Our bairn arrived as I feart—afore either of us was reddie. Our brigg had a man on bord who knows some about medisyn and he brought our child into the world at the mouth of the Dellawair River while we waited for the ice to clear. You have another son, Edward. I have named him John Thomas Wilkerson, which I hope, if this letter finds you, does not cause you any distresse, for I could not very well give him your name, espeshly since I do not know which you are using, or even if you are alive.
John was week for a time, and so was I, but we were fortunitt to have Syng looking out for us. He hales from Cork, but lives now in Philladelfia. He saw that John and I were taken to a pesthouse, but my trunks did not followe us. I lost everything, which is why you must forgyve me for not sending this letter prepayd. I will confyne my words to a single sheet to spare you cost.
I have found work with a widowe Syng knows, and she allows me and John to live above her seamstresse shoppe on Arch Street, between Front and Second. We do well for ourselves, and I want you to know that if your pashun has fayded, or if taking us on would cause you undo hardshippe, then I understand. Do not pity my fate, dearest Edward. Our son gives me more joy than I ever thought possible.
Always,
Sarah
A tear rolled off Edward’s cheek and splattered onto the paper. He blotted it with his sleeve to keep the words from smearing.
The silly woman. Of course he would go to her! Wasn’t that just like Sarah to think she could shoulder the entire burden of raising their son? Premature widowhood probably gave her that stubborn streak.
He refolded the letter and swiped a hand across his damp cheeks.
A twig snapped behind him. Something hard pressed against the back of his neck.
“Arms up,” a voice said.
Edward lifted his hands skyward. He looked for his rifle, and his heart sank when he saw it leaning against the rock drying his breeches. A leap would not see him at his weapon.
“Higher,” the voice behind him said.
Edward complied.
“Now dance a jig.” The words turned to laughter. Henry’s laughter.
Edward whirled around to face his son.
“Jaysus Mighty.” He slapped the back of Henry’s head, then pulled him into an embrace.
“Father, let me go. I canny breathe.”
“If ye e’er scare me like that again, I swear to God—”
“I was only teasing ye.”
He grabbed Henry by his elbows and pushed him an arm’s length away. “I am nae talking about ye startling me, son. I mean going off to Philadelphia on your own. Ye should have come hame first. When Magi told me, I thought my heart would stop dead in my chest. I lost your maw. I canny lose ye, too.”
Henry swung his musket off his shoulder and leaned it next to his father’s rifle. He stretched his arms wide. “As ye can see, naught happened to me. It seems to me like ye’re the one who should nae go places alone. I saw the smoke of your fire for the last two hours. If I’d been a Delaware Injun or a Frenchman, ye’d be dead now and missing your hair. Just what are ye doing here anyhow?”
Edward retrieved his breeches. “What do ye think I’m doing here?” He slipped into them. “I was coming to find ye.” He scanned the ridgeline. “Did ye find Mary?”
“Aye, I found her all right.” Henry peered over the rock ledge into the hollow. “Is that grouse or duck ye got cooking?”
Edward hopped into his stockings. “Duck.” He could tell by Henry’s expression that the lovers’ reunion had not gone well. He slid his feet into his moccasins. “Is she alive, son?”
“Och, aye, she’s got more life in her than I expected.”
He was puzzled by Henry’s cryptic answers and worried by his son’s frown and too-set jaw. He would give the lad time. They would discuss it over a bite to eat, and then Edward would break the news he hoped Henry found welcome: they were going right back to Philadelphia.
Edward lifted the spit off the sticks and sawed through the duck’s charred breast. He handed Henry a slice of meat on a piece of bark.
Henry accepted it mechanically. He was pale, his mouth still agape. “I have a brother?”
“His name is John.”
There it was, and Edward would suffer no shame because of it. He and Sarah were adults, and they conceived John in love. He sat back and waited for Henry’s reaction.
“I have a brother.” Henry’s delight revealed itself in a widening grin. “Ye sleekit auld dog.”
Edward exhaled. “I’m glad ye are nae angry.”
“Angry? Why should I be angry? I have a brother!”
“And we have more mouths to feed.”
“More help, though, and a woman in the hoose.” Henry stabbed the stringy meat. “God willing, this is the last of your cooking I’ll have to suffer.” He blew on the steaming bite. “A woman makes a hoose a hame, I’ll tell ye that much. Ours was ne’er the same after maw died. And Thomas, he’s a big man. Wi’ his help, we can add a room to the cabin and break open another field or two.”
Edward hacked more meat off the duck’s breast. “Thomas did nae make it.”
Henry pressed a hand to his belly. “Och, nay.”
He knew what Henry was thinking. Without Thomas, they would never have made it onto
The Charming Hannah
.
“That’s a shame,” Henry said. “He was a good man, a real good man. We’d have died wi’oot those raisins he smuggled for us. God rest him. Die at sea, did he?”
Edward nodded.
“Sarah must be gutted.”
“I reckon so. She’s alone in Philadelphia wi’ John.” It felt odd to call him by name. John, his son. “She was sick for a time. Customs stole all her things.”
“Bastards.”
“She found work as a seamstress. I only found oot, Henry, just minutes afore ye showed up today. Had I known, I would have gone to her sooner—”
“Of course, Father, of course.”
“Same as ye did, when ye found oot about Mary.”
Henry’s eyes turned steely.
“Come now, son, what of her? What happened? Is she still wi’ Lafferty?”
“Aye, she’s wi’ him.”
“Did ye see him for yoursel’?”
“Nay.”
“I ask, Henry, because I have reason to think he’s your Uncle Sorley.”
“What?” Henry stiffened. “Father, that is nae funny.” When Edward didn’t laugh, he added, “How . . . how can that be? Uncle Sorley is . . . H-he’s in Ireland.”
“Wi’ us gone, the MacFarlanes needed someone else to read Alexander’s letters.”
“Uncle Sorley.”
“I should have guessed Alexander would mention seeing us. I was nae thinking clearly at the time. We were doon so low. All I could think of was finding Mary and getting to the cabin.”
Henry scratched his temple, evidently trying to fit the details into recent events.
“There’s more,” Edward said. “In one of her letters, Sarah mentioned o’erhearing Sorley talking to a Cockney sailor who claimed to know us by description.”
“Thompson.”
“Aye, and he knew about Mary. Said if Sorley found her, he’d find us.”
“But that’s impossible. Thompson’s in the Leeward Islands.”
“He
was
in the Leewards, where vessels stop to pick up rum on their way home. Thompson could have found a position on another vessel easily enough. I’ve done a fair amount of thinking on it, Henry. Lafferty and Sorley are one and the same. For all we know, Alexander e’en named our brig. Ye know how detailed his letters are. E’en if he did nae, there were only a few vessels oot of Derry in June. Sorley could go to the merchants’ offices and keek at the passenger lists. He might have guessed we’d trust a Donegal man for our passage. He likely looked on our false names wi’ suspicion, but it was when Thompson showed up, bitter and in his cups, that matters became clear. Sorley probably greased up the mate to learn all he could. Mary’s name alone would be enough to interest him, for reasons I canny say, but when the mate linked her to us, then Sorley probably went to the merchant’s office and found her name on the passenger list for
The Charming Hannah
, along with Edward and Robert McAdams.”
“Then he knows we’re using false names. He can have us charged.”
“All he has to do is find the right bait to lure us in from the backcountry.”
“Mary.”
“Aye. Why else would a man pay fifty pounds for a common servant?”
“But how did he find her?”
“Throw doon enough coin, and a man will find ye a grain of sand in a wagonload of wheat. Sorley followed Gibson’s trail, same as we did, only he had wealth on his side. The registrar’s letter said Gibson’s wife betrayed him to the authorities. No doubt she was paid well for that treachery.”
“Father, there’s something I have nae told ye. Mary is . . . She’s wi’ child.”
“Ye’re sure?”
“I saw her mysel’.”
“Did ye ask her about it?”
“I could nae face her. She opened her legs for someone else.”
“Do nae be so vulgar, son.” Edward was already thinking the unthinkable.
“Ye think the bairn is his?”
God in heaven, he hoped not.