JoAnn Wendt Read online

  It was useless to argue. She’d best humor the young man and get it over with. Within the ballroom, fiddlers had swung into an even jauntier jig. Shouts of gaiety echoed out to the terrace. She slapped her hand to his palm.

  “Now,” instructed the young man, “follow my feet. It is step-hop, step-hop, step-hop. Move backward on every hop.”

  He’d become so amusingly sober about playing the part of dancing master that Flavia giggled. Complying, she raised her skirts with her left hand and began to hop. She giggled at the silliness of the step. There was no dance like this in England. And certainly nothing so wildly improper had ever been danced at Tewksbury Hall. But the step and the music invaded one’s blood. Soon she was laughing gaily and hopping about as enthusiastically as her dancing master.

  “And with whom do I have the pleasure of jigging?” he teased as he jigged her backward across the terrace.

  “Flav—”

  She stopped dead.

  The young man was forced to stop in mid-hop, too. That, or run her down. She tore her hand from his and clapped it to her booming heart. Fear surged through her. In the light-heartedness of the moment, she’d forgotten . . . forgotten . . .

  “Jane Brown, sir,” she gasped, gulping deep draughts of chilly night air. “I am indentured to the Reverend Josiah Byng of Chestertown.”

  He bowed playfully.

  “Your servant, Bondslave Brown. I am Raven McNeil.”

  She died. Died a thousand deaths. The terrace spun giddily. She was disembodied, numb. Had no legs, no arms, no tongue. She could formulate no reply, make no movement.

  He grinned wryly.

  “I see you do not care for the name Raven. Well, Bondslave Brown, you must blame the name on my mother. While my late mother was the grandest of women, she was also a bit of a jokester. It seems that as I was being birthed, the midwife caught sight of this.” He gestured toward his thick black mane.

  “Coo!” the midwife cried out, “it no be a babe, Mrs. McNeil, but a devil-black raven!”

  He waited for her to laugh. When she didn’t, couldn’t, he said lightly, “Perhaps it is ‘McNeil’ that Bondslave Brown objects to.”

  She groped for her voice. Long moments elapsed before she found it. Shakily, she whispered, “I do not object to either name. I have heard of the name McNeil.”

  He grinned cheerfully.

  “Of course you have. Everyone in Maryland has heard of my brother, Captain Garth McNeil.”

  Her knees went weak. Reaching out to the oak tree, she steadied herself.

  “He’s not here?” she whispered.

  “Who?”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “Oh. My brother? Why? Do you think he would do a better job of teaching you to jig?”

  She hung suspended in terror as he went on teasing her. Then, as an afterthought, he threw out the information she prayed for. “Garth isn’t here. He’s in Amsterdam. Or London. Or,” he said with a laugh, “China, for all I know.”

  She went limp with relief. Staring up at Raven McNeil, she searched his face. Of course, they were brothers. The family resemblance was unmistakable. If the two were set side by side and put to a comparison, Raven McNeil would come off the handsomer brother. His features were more even than Garth’s, his olive skin unroughened by sea wind. But Garth’s was the dearer face. The face she longed to see.

  She wanted to run. Run from this misery. Yet, if she did, she would be cutting this slight thread. This thread that carried her close to Garth. Staring up at Raven’s handsome, puzzled face, she was overwhelmed with a larger thought. Raven is my baby’s uncle!

  Wrestling her wild emotions into subservience, she finally managed to ask, “And you, Raven McNeil. Are you a ship’s master, too?”

  He laughed as though she’d made an extremely funny joke.

  “Lord, no. When I was ten, Garth took me to Barbados. I puked all the way there and puked all the way back. Seasick as a dog. When I was twelve we tried it again. Same puking story. When we berthed in Norfolk, Garth took me aside.” He cocked his head boyishly. “‘Raven, old man,” Garth says to me, “some of us are born to the sea, some to the land. You belong to the land. Stay planted, lad.”

  He laughed at the memory, adding, “I manage the land part of our business, procuring shipping contracts. We’ve three ships now and enough business to take all the pleasure out of life.” He grinned. “I’d rather spend my time teaching bondslaves to jig.”

  The music in the ballroom flared up, and Raven’s glance shot to the windows. He frowned and for a moment Flavia panicked, thinking he meant to go. There was so much more she wanted to know, wanted to ask.

  “Do you live with your brother?” she blurted.

  Again he laughed as though she were joking.

  “God, no!” His eyes grew serious for a moment. “You’ve incredible blue-green eyes, Jane Brown,” he murmured, then flitted to her question. “Live with Garth? Not likely. I’d be a damned intruder. Garth usually has a woman. Not a doxy, mind you. A lady of quality. His current lady is the baroness Annette Vachon.”

  Her heart fell. She’d known, of course. But to hear it confirmed was a different matter. Sadness tugged her shoulders downward.

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  Raven McNeil laughed cheerfully.

  “See here, Jane Brown. I’ve taken a fancy to you and your incredible eyes. Will you become my mistress?”

  Her head jerked up in shock.

  “I shall buy out your indenture tomorrow. Tonight! This very hour!” he amended.

  “No!” she cried out. “Oh, no. Never.”

  He grinned ruefully.

  “I haven’t the French disease. I’ve money. An even temperament. I’m always cheerful. Healthy as a horse. In fact,” he said with a laugh, “feel free to examine me as you might a horse you contemplate purchasing.” Hooking his finger into his mouth, he exposed even, white teeth. He accompanied this bit of foolery with a loud whinny.

  Flavia’s panic subsided into laughter.

  “I shall buy your indenture, Bondslave Brown. I shall set you up in your own small house in Williamsburg. You shall breakfast on sweetmeats every morning and dine on them too, if you wish. You shall have three Negroes to flog. And you shall go to the theater every evening in your own landau. At the theater you shall be given your own bucket of spoilt fruit, and you shall feel free to pitch it at any actor who displeases you.”

  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 t
ook 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.