Newportes Newes had been founded by an Irishman a hundred years earlier and had originally been settled by more of the same. Shemaine would have probably felt right at home in the hamlet had she known the inhabitants better, but after first coming in contact with Mrs. Pettycomb and Roxanne, she had good cause to be cautious. Then, too, she wasn’t sure how the populace of the small hamlet would receive her once word got around that she was a convict from Newgate Prison. And in light of Mrs. Pettycomb’s indiscretion, Shemaine could assume the news had already reached every ear.
A small, white-haired woman had just taken leave of the general store when Gage drew the wagon to a halt in front of it. He jumped down to tether the horse to a nearby hitching rail and, upon facing the elder, touched the brim of his hat politely.
“Good morning, Mrs. McGee.”
“An’ a right fair good mornin’ ta ye, Gage Thornton,” she bade cheerily, leaning on a cane as she approached him. “What brings ye ta our fair hamlet on this fine, bright day, an’ yer bold, handsome self escortin’ such a pretty young stranger an’ yer wee, fine son?”
Gage embellished his own words with an impressive Irish brogue. “Ah, ‘twould be rare indeed ta find in this whole wide world a colleen prettier than the widow Mary Margaret McGee.”
“Ha!” The woman tossed her fine head in disbelief as Gage lifted Andrew down from the wagon, but her bright blue eyes twinkled with pleasure nevertheless. “Do ye expect a clever woman like meself ta believe yer winsome lies, ye good-lookin’ devil?” she queried impertinently. “I’ll not have ye be thinkin’ I’m like all those other addlepated fillies who drool every time they espy ye comin’ inta the hamlet. But ‘tis good o’ ye ta visit us so’s I can see for meself what ye’ve done. I’ve been hearin’ such wild rumors ’bout ye, I came nigh ta hitchin’ up me shay an’ drivin’ out ta yer cabin just ta see if they be true.” Her gaze settled on Shemaine, and as if deciding a matter in her mind, she slowly nodded. “Aye, the gossipmongers have done her justice. A bogtrotter, so I’ve heard from one sour soul who’s been in the tavern sippin’ whiskey for nearly half a day.” She waved an elegant hand, casually indicating the establishment next door. Then her grin widened to show an unmarred set of small, white teeth. “Ta be sure, had the callused oaf been more me size, I’d have whittled him down with me cane for slanderin’ such a noble race as the Irish an’ callin’ the lot o’ us bogtrotters . . . as if that clumsy codfish ne’er saw a marsh in all o’ England!”
Shemaine’s trepidation rapidly vanished at the irresistible humor of Mrs. McGee. The widow was certainly a pleasant surprise after her first two encounters with the citizens of the hamlet. The woman inspired some hope that there were others of a similarly delightful nature in the area.
Mary Margaret gestured imperiously, silently commanding Gage to lend assistance to the girl. “What? Have ye forgotten yer manners, fine sir? Or would ye be thinkin’ since she’s yer bondswoman she’d be havin’ no need o’ yer help ta get down from a wagon?”
Suffering a bit of chagrin beneath the woman’s good-spirited needling, Gage faced the conveyance and, flicking his eyes briefly upward, beckoned Shemaine across the seat. As he slipped his hands about her slender waist and swept her to the boardwalk, Shemaine noticed that his face had taken on a ruddy hue beneath the bronze, as if he were abashed at the possibility that she might think him rude or uncouth. It did strange things to her heart to perceive that boyish quality in such a stalwart man. Obviously he cared about her impression of him.
“Madam, may I present Miss Shemaine O’Hearn to you,” Gage announced, whisking his hat off with debonair flair. Even so, he had to drag his thoughts away from the realization of just how close his fingers had come to encircling the girl’s waist. Even thin, she had more curves than a cabinetmaker could work into a serpentine scroll. He swept a hand gallantly to indicate the elder. “Shemaine, this grand lady is perhaps the most notable member of our small community, the undeniably dignified, sweet-tempered widow, Mrs. Mary Margaret McGee.”
“Ah, go on with ye!” Mary Margaret chortled, and waved away his extravagant flattery with a graceful flourish of a fine-boned hand. Facing the younger woman, she smiled kindly and clasped Shemaine’s thin hand in her own. “ ‘Tis a pleasure ta make yer acquaintance, dearie, an’ if there be none other in this hamlet who has done so, may I say welcome ta ye.”
“Your kindness is greatly appreciated, madam,” Shemaine responded with genuine honesty.
Mary Margaret lifted an inquiring gaze to the tall man who now stood holding his son in his arms. “Would a fine gentleman like yerself be opposed ta an old widow takin’ yer bondswoman off ta meet a few o’ the inhabitants o’ this hamlet?”
Gage cocked a wondering brow as he met the woman’s stare. Then he scanned the street, spying several young bachelors who were much closer to the girl’s age than he was. Though he was fond of the elder, he was certainly not blind to her romantic bent. She had already arranged at least three marriages between newly arrived members of the Irish race and long-established residents of the hamlet. He would not take it kindly if she encouraged some fellow to start pestering him about selling the girl. “I’ll leave Shemaine to your care, Mary Margaret, but I beg you not to create mischief behind my back.”
The woman displayed a fair bit of indignation. “Now what kind o’ mischief would ye be thinkin’ a helpless widow like meself might be capable o’ doin’, Gage Thornton?”
He remained implacable. “You have the subtle wiles of a matchmaker, Mary Margaret, and I’ll not have you plucking some young swain’s heartstrings to win sympathy for my bondswoman. In short, I won’t be selling her to some infatuated Romeo so he can take her to wife. Do I make myself clear?”
Mary Margaret curbed a desire to smile in sweet contentment as she raised an elegant brow in feigned innocence. “What say ye, Mr. Thornton? Should I be thinkin’ ye’ve cast yer sights on this one yerself?”
Gage struggled to remain unruffled beneath the woman’s steadfast stare. “Think what you will, Mary Margaret, but if you would wish to remain my friend, have a care how you conduct yourself with my property.”
The elder dipped her elegant head in acknowledgment. “Yer warning is well taken, sir. I shall take special care.”
“Good!” With a curt nod, Gage left them and carried Andrew into the general store.
Smiling thoughtfully, Mary Margaret turned and, resting her dainty hands upon the handle of her cane, gave Shemaine a slow, exacting perusal. “Ye’re a pretty thing, ta be sure,” she stated at last. “No doubt, with ye gainin’ a place in Mr. Thornton’s household, ye’ll soon be the envy o’ every young maid an’ spinster livin’ in the area. I can only hope they don’t get too green-eyed mean over ye hookin’ the finest fish in the sea. They’ve been tryin’ ta catch that fine, sleek grayling in their nets for nigh the whole year past. There’s one in particular I should warn ye ’bout, but then, mayhap ye’ve already met her.”
Carefully avoiding the curious stare the elder had settled upon her, Shemaine feigned naïveté. “I’m not exactly sure whom you mean, madam.”
Mary Margaret regarded Shemaine with unyielding persistence until she regained that one’s cautious attention. “I perceive, dearie, that ye’re an intelligent girl, and there’s no need for me to explain. Watch yerself with Roxanne,” she advised. “She’s been moonstruck over yer master for some time now, perhaps as long as eight or nine years, certainly well before he met an’ married Victoria. Lately Roxanne has had everyone in the hamlet believin’ that Gage intended ta marry her, what with the way she’s been outfittin’ her trousseau an’ talkin’ ’bout him as if he were her very own. If yer master doesn’t wed her, she’ll be blamin’ ye for causin’ the split. If he does, then ye’ll likely be sold ta another before the nuptials are exchanged.” Mary Margaret paused, wondering if she would see some indication of the other’s dismay, and when the delicately refined features remained discreetly void of emotion, a tiny seed of respect began to germinate within her breast. Too many of the prettier fillies were rash and frivolous, spilling every secret without giving the slightest heed to the consequences. Mary Margaret heaved a reflective sigh. “But I can’t rightly see that happenin’ though, since he warned me against stirrin’ up the hopes o’ other men.”
“So far, madam, I’ve found Mr. Thornton to be a kind and courteous gentleman,” Shemaine stated carefully. “He’s treated me far better than I ever expected to be and has made no improper advances or demands.” Her declaration was made with prudent deliberation in an effort to snuff out any rumors that might have been going around. She knew people were bound to talk about them. Mrs. Pettycomb had boldly stated as much. But she hoped to remain unimpaired by such slanderous chatter long after she returned to England, though it be seven years from now.
The elder slowly nodded as if championing her cause and then, after a moment, pointed down the lane with her cane. “Let’s walk a ways. I dare not take ye the full length o’ town seein’ as how his noble self is anxious ta keep ye a secret from all the other hot-blooded males who are lookin’ for a mate. Ta be sure, there’s been a serious shortage o’ decent women in the hamlet, which has made the area a ripe haven for another sort entirely, but their kind usually hang around the men in the tavern an’ leave the streets for the rest o’ us, at least durin’ the daylight hours.”
Without comment Shemaine fell in beside the widow, and they progressed at a leisurely pace as Mary Margaret, with a flourish of a bony hand or a nod of her white head, drew her attention to several establishments located along the boardwalk. Shemaine took special note of the apothecary shop when Mrs. McGee described the owner, Sidney Pettycomb, as a fine, upstanding member of their community. Having met his wife, Shemaine could only reserve judgment of the man.
Several chattering matrons bustled out of the shop, oblivious to everything but what they were discussing until they espied the two who approached; then they nearly stumbled over each other in their haste to reenter. There was an immediate flurry of activity as each of them struggled for a favorable position behind the window, and much like a gaggle of excited geese, they stretched their long necks and bobbed their bonneted heads up and down in an effort to see Shemaine better.
“Don’t be alarmed by those biddies, dearie,” Mrs. McGee cautioned, tilting her bead ever so slightly to indicate the group. “They’re some o’ Mrs. Pettycomb’s cohorts. They’ve no doubt heard o’ ye an’ are eager ta dissect ye for themselves.”
Shemaine glanced askance at the variety of faces pressed near the glass, but the group fell back almost in unison as Mrs. McGee waved and called out a cheery greeting.
“Good day, Agnus, Sarah . . . Mabel . . . Phobe . . . Josephine,” she greeted, marking each of the women with her eyes as she named them. “Fine weather we’re havin’ today, is it not?”
If the matrons had hoped to remain inconspicuous behind the window, then the elderly woman made their failure obvious as she named them one by one. It brought an amused smile to Shemaine’s lips, not only because of the sudden astonishment and discomfiture of the gossips but because of the delightfully puckish humor of Mary Margaret McGee.
Mrs. McGee grinned at her young companion. “I’d be a-thinkin’ the lot o’ them might’ve imagined themselves invisible behind the glass, like wee mice huddlin’ in a corner.”
Since none of them could have been considered tiny by any stretch of the imagination, the elder’s comment seemed all the more farfetched. Shemaine began to giggle as she looked into the blue eyes that twinkled with mischievous mirth. The woman was so delightful, Shemaine couldn’t help but feel safe and at ease in her company.
They continued on their way, but after passing the only inn in the hamlet, they paused, and the elder gestured toward the end of town, where the blacksmith’s shop and house were located.
“Roxanne an’ her father live over there, but neither o’ them is kindly favored toward the company o’ strangers. . . .” The delicate brows shrugged upward briefly. “Or even neighbors, for that matter. Hugh Corbin is just as surly now as he used to be when he had a young wife at his beck an’ call, but Leona deserted the family years ago ta run off with a travelin’ man, leaving Roxanne ta learn firsthand what it means ta live alone with an ornery brute of a father. One would think she’d have grown up timid, bein’ constantly under her pa’s thumb, but I think Roxanne has more’n her fair share o’ Hugh Corbin runnin’ in her veins. If she doesn’t crack open his head one o’ these days ’cause o’ the way he orders her ’bout, ‘twill be a wonder, for sure.”
“I think she’s to be pitied,” Shemaine murmured quietly.
Mary Margaret looked at Shemaine in alarm. “Aaiiee, don’t ye be givin’ her none o’ that ta her face or she’ll be turnin’ on ye like a wild banshee! Ta be sure, Roxanne will not take it kindly, ye pityin’ her. ‘Tis what drives her near mad now, thinkin’ we’re all feelin’ sorry for her ’cause she’s been a homely spinster for so long.” A sad smile touched the elder’s lips as she thoughtfully considered the red-haired beauty. “But ye’ve a keen eye an’ a sympathetic heart, Shemaine O’Hearn. She is a wounded soul what needs pityin’. An’ far be it that any o’ us should condemn her, seein’ as how she’s had ta live with a grumpy ol’ bear all these many years.”
“Why do you suppose Mr. Corbin is like that?” Shemaine asked, thankful her own father had carefully nurtured his family with love and respect. Strangers and casual acquaintances had not always fared well in his presence, however, for his temper had a way of showing itself in a forceful way whenever he was pushed or prodded. A wise man it was who minded his manners around Shemus O’Hearn.
Mary Margaret chuckled. “Oh, dearie, if I knew that, I’d be a soothsayer. Still, ‘tis been on me mind all these years that Hugh had his heart set firmly on sirin’ a son an’ ne’er forgave his wife for losin’ the one what was born ta them early on in their marriage. Though Leona carried the babe full term, he came stillborn, ne’er drawin’ a breath beyond his mother’s womb. Or at least that’s what we were told. Hugh made sure they kept ta themselves even then an’ wouldn’t allow the neighbors ta help. ‘Twas four years later when Leona finally delivered another child, but Hugh didn’t take kindly ta it bein’ a girl. After Roxanne, there ne’er came another, an’ shortly after the girl’s fifth birthday, Leona was seen buyin’ a fancy comb from a travelin’ salesman. That stingy flint, Hugh, was overheard yelling and raising a loud ruckus ’bout how he’d ne’er given her coin ta make such a purchase though she took in washin’ ta help out. The next afternoon, the rovin’ man came ’round ta their place again, an’ Leona slipped out o’ the house an’ was ne’er seen again. She was a pretty li’l thing, ta be sure, an’ with the way Hugh treated her, no one could blame her much for following her heart. ‘Tis truly a pity that Roxanne took her looks from her pa and not her ma.”
Suddenly a harsh, fiendish shriek rent the serenity of the village, drawing the startled attention of both women toward the boardwalk in front of the tavern, where a grotesquely deformed hunchback was cowering in terror at the feet of a tall, burly, lank-haired man who was guffawing loudly as he pummeled the deformed man with a stout stick. With savage cruelty, the ruffian kicked his victim in the stomach and viciously maligned him, calling him every foul name that found its way to his tongue.
Months ago that same huge, hulking form which towered over the disfigured man had been etched with startling clarity in Shemaine’s memory. Despite her outrage over his mistreatment of another human being, it was the sight of Jacob Potts that compelled her to tear herself away from Mrs. McGee. Catching up her skirts, she raced toward the tavern as if rage had set wings to her feet.
“Shemaine!” Mary Margaret cried in sudden alarm. “Have a care, child!”
Shemaine’s ire reached its zenith as more blows rained down upon the hapless, shivering hunchback, and as she ran, she railed at the top of her lungs, “You filthy, bloodsucking swine! Leave that man be!”
Although the feminine screech reached a higher pitch than he could remember ever hearing on the London Pride, Jacob Potts knew without a doubt that it was the one he had been straining to hear amid the diverse jargon of the colonials. Now, at last, he would vent his revenge on the bogtrotter for all the times she had made him feel like a bumbling dullard. No bog-Irish tart had a right to be so uppity and high-minded. Still, the idea of slicing the girl’s throat with a knife had been Morrisa’s idea, not his. It was a command she had given nigh to three months ago. But that particular method was too swift and sure to sate his own desire for vengeance. He wanted Shemaine O’Hearn to die a slow, agonizing death.
Tossing away the stick, Potts set his arms akimbo as he observed the girl. His grin grew cocky and his pig eyes gleamed in malevolent pleasure as the prize for which he had been searching rapidly approached. “Why, if’n it ain’t the bog-Irish tart comin’ ta stick her nose in me affairs again.”
“You sorry excuse for a man!” Shemaine snarled through gnashing teeth. “I’ve had enough of you bullying poor innocents.” Passing a barrel of long, wooden ax handles that had been placed in front of the general store, she snatched one out and, upon reaching Potts, swung it about with every measure of might she could muster, catching him across the ear and alongside the head. His loud yowl of pain promptly brought men and fancy-dressed women stumbling from the tavern to gawk at them in surprise. Though the ogre held a hand clasped over his bloodied ear and continued to howl in deafening anguish, Shemaine would not relent. Drawing back her makeshift club, she clasped it in both hands and whipped it around again with brutal determination, this time bashing the knuckles of the hand that Potts held over his bruised ear and scraping it upward across the top of his head. Had it been a knife, Shemaine might have accomplished a scalping right then and there, but the affront to his pride was too much for Potts to bear. With a roar of rage, he caught the stick in a meaty fist and, twisting it from her grasp, tossed it aside. His eyes fairly blazed with fury as he reached out and seized Shemaine by the throat. Lifting her to the tips of her toes, he hauled her abruptly forward until his sour whiskey breath tainted the air she struggled to breathe. His heavy lips twisted in a gleeful smirk as she hung helpless in his grasp.
“This time ye’ll die, bitch!” he hissed as his long, thick fingers slowly tightened around the slender neck. “An’ this time ye can be assured Mistah ‘Arper ain’t here ta save ye!”
Shemaine clawed at his tightening hands, trying to pry them away from her throat, but she could not free herself from his grasp. Neither could she draw a breath. Though it seemed a useless effort, she fought valiantly on, seeking to break his stranglehold, but her strength began to slowly ebb, and her grip on his wrists slackened. The broad visage before her, the gaping faces of the people, even the sun in the sky became a dark, indistinct blur. Vaguely she became aware of someone, perhaps the hunchback, pushing through the crowd of onlookers. But the man seemed so very far away that she could not hope he would reach her in time to loosen the steely vise around her throat and save her from death. Her arms sagged listlessly to her sides as she gave up her feeble attempts. It would be over very, very soon.
Gage had left the general store to see what the commotion was outside and had stepped near the crowd to peer over the shoulders and heads of those who buttressed the outer ring of onlookers. It was the sight of Shemaine hanging by her throat in the grasp of some brawny hulk of a beast that sent his temper soaring. With a savage curse he caught the nearest spectator by the scruff of the neck and threw him aside. Shoving others right and left, he pushed toward the core of the circle, scooping up the handle that Potts had thrown aside as he went. Reaching his goal, he drove the blunt end of the stick into the soft, protruding belly of the tar with enough force to double the man over with a loud grunt of pain, breaking the brute’s tenacious grip on the girl and sending him stumbling backward.
Gage pivoted sharply to catch Shemaine as she crumpled forward. He promptly swept her up in his arms and searched her face, but she lay frighteningly limp within his grasp, having slipped into the netherworld of the unconscious. Her head lolled over his shoulder as he lifted her higher. After pushing and elbowing his way through the crowd, he almost ran with her toward the general store, where Andrew watched in trepidation from the door.
The sound of running feet and a warning scream from Mrs. McGee made Gage step deftly aside just as the great oaf lunged forward to tackle him from behind. Meeting nothing firmer than thin air, Potts sailed past with arms flailing. For good measure, Gage planted a boot firmly on the man’s broad rear, sending him hurtling helplessly into the empty space beyond the boardwalk. Several feet away, Potts landed facedown in a large puddle of muck, which, in the preceding hours, had been liberally enriched with fresh manure from passing horses. Spewing out a mouthful of filth, he pushed himself to his hands and knees and struggled to rise. But his feet slipped and skidded on the slick bottom, and he pitched forward again, gulping more of the vile sludge. His second attempt was equally ineffectual and his third swiftly aborted. Loud, guffawing laughter soon accompanied his frustrated efforts to leave the muddy hole, and by the time he managed to extricate himself from the foul ooze, the crowd was in hilarious uproar. Heckling catcalls and cries of “Mudsucker!” liberally christened him as he trudged dripping and stinking down the street.
“Sheeaim hurt, Daddee?” Andrew asked worriedly after following his father into the store.
Gage laid Shemaine on a reclining leather chaise and knelt on one knee beside it. She had not yet roused from her oblivion, but she was breathing, and that gave him hope, small as it was. He glanced aside at his son, whose eyes were swimming with frightened tears, and tried to soothe the boy’s tender heart. “Shemaine will be all right, Andy. Don’t fret now.”
Andrew sniffed and wiped at his tears as Mary Margaret and the storekeeper, Adam Foster, approached. The latter had scurried to pour water into a basin and now set it down on a small table beside the chaise. He stepped near Gage to look down at the girl, unconsciously blocking the boy’s view.
“This is awful,” Mr. Foster fussed in a dither. Vexed by the incident, he continued his ranting in short, incomplete statements. “Attacking a woman in such a vile manner! Should be drawn and quartered!”
Mary Margaret sighed ruefully. “A pity the punishment isn’t allowable here in the colonies.”
Deterred from reaching Shemaine or his father, Andrew glanced aimlessly about the store until he detected a movement near the entrance. Peering intently into the shadows behind a collection of hoes, rakes and shovels that stood on end in a small barrel next to the door, he crept closer, thinking it might be a dog or a cat that had wandered into the store. Then his eyes began to adapt to the tenebrous gloom behind the equipment. They widened abruptly as he finally spied the darkly clad form crouching there in pensive silence. It was a ghastly being with short legs, long arms and shaggy tan hair hanging over a jutting brow. It was a truly monstrous sight for a young child to settle his gaze upon. Venting a terrified shriek, Andrew did an abrupt about-face and, tottering full tilt around the elders, threw himself against his father and clutched at him in desperation.
Gage lifted his son in his arms and glanced around to see what had given the boy such a fright. Then his eyes lit on the deformed man who had lumbered forward into view, and he understood the reason for the child’s panic.
“What is it, Cain?” Gage asked kindly, rising to his feet. “What do you want?” He was puzzled by the hunchback’s presence in the store, for Cain usually kept well away from strangers. He only came into the hamlet to barter with Mr. Foster or to have his mule shod by Hugh Corbin. Otherwise, the man was rarely seen.
Cain shuffled forward warily despite the impediment of malformed legs, arms and shoulders that had hung askew from birth, but he paused in indecision as Andrew strained away and began to scream again in fright. Quieting his son with words of reassurance, Gage set him down beside Mrs. McGee, who took Andrew’s hand and led him to the back of the store to show him a jar of sweets.
Tilting his head askance, Cain peered from a badly distorted face as the taller man approached. It was the first time Gage could remember ever being able to draw near the hunchback without seeing him scurry away. Perhaps, more than anybody, Cain realized how hideously ugly he was and preferred hiding himself. His nose was large and queerly pugged, his eyes set at odd angles beneath heavily shagged brows. His teeth were sparser and in a copious mouth that hung awkwardly agape, his tongue had a tendency to loll uncontrollably. Several jagged cuts and lacerated scrapes on his face still oozed blood, giving evidence of recent abuse.
“Did you want something, Cain?” Gage questioned the man again.
The hunchback lifted a large, hairy hand toward Shemaine, who had not yet revived. Then he gaped up at Gage again as he issued a garbled question. “Sha dawd?”
Gage frowned a moment, trying to decipher the muddled speech. Then comprehension finally dawned. “No, she’s not dead. She just fainted. She should come around after a while.”
Cain thrust his hand clumsily in the pocket of his thin, ragged coat and withdrew a pair of slippers which had fallen from Shemaine’s feet while she hung senseless in Potts’s grasp. “Har shaws.”
“Thank you,” Gage replied, frowning in bemusement as he accepted the shoes. It was rare indeed that Cain displayed such concern for another or went out of his way to return lost possessions, especially when it meant that he would have to show himself to any of the villagers. “I’ll tell Shemaine that you brought them back. She’ll be grateful.”
“Shamawn?”
“Shemaine O’Hearn,” Gage pronounced carefully for the man’s benefit, unable to understand what had aroused Cain’s interest in the girl. In the nine years Gage had lived in the area, he had never heard the hunchback say as many words as he had managed to speak that day. A few villagers had expressed doubt that Cain could even talk, but that had been mainly the opinion of those who had kept their distance from the man, believing him demented.
As an infant, Cain had been left on the doorstep of a half-crazed old woman who had lived by herself in a crude hovel in the woods. Because of his deformities, the elder had dubbed him Cain, for she had averred the poor babe had been severely marked by a finger of God. Over the passage of years the previously feisty woman had become increasingly frail and finally succumbed before Cain’s ninth year. Thereafter the child had had to scrounge for his mere existence, but the hag had required Cain to work for his keep at an early age and had taught him how to trap, grub, and forage for food. He still lived in the woman’s hut, keeping to himself for the most part, but when he had a need for essentials that he couldn’t find in the woods, he would bring deerhides, rabbit fur and other pelts to trade with Mr. Foster. Even then, Cain took care to remain in the shadows and secret nooks where it was safe until the storekeeper gathered whatever supplies he had come in for.
On rare occasions, and at the persistent urging of the storekeeper, the hunchback would relent and bring in wooden birds that he had a talent for carving, allowing them to be sold. But according to Foster, Cain disliked parting with them because he considered the sculptures his friends, and although Foster had promised Cain a goodly sum to encourage him, none had been forthcoming for some years now.
With the possible exceptions of Mr. Foster, Mary Margaret, and Hugh and Roxanne Corbin, most of the townspeople were afraid of Cain and, if he happened near, were wont to shoo him away with brooms, sticks, rocks, or whatever else came readily to hand, but to Gage’s knowledge the man had never done anyone any harm. Indeed, from what he had heard and seen with his own eyes, he was convinced that Cain had far more reason to be afraid of the villagers, for the young toughs were prone to use him as a whipping boy to prove their manhood—or, Gage mentally jeered, the lack of it.
A shadow fell across the doorway, and Gage glanced up to find Roxanne poised on the threshold in indecision. Though he was still stewing over her threats, he gave her a curt nod of recognition, deciding it was wiser by far not to antagonize her. At his stilted greeting, the hunchback shuffled awkwardly around to peer toward the portal.
“Cain didn’t hurt her, did he?” Roxanne asked apprehensively, shifting her gaze toward the unconscious Shemaine.
“As far as I know, Cain had nothing to do with the incident,” Gage replied stiffly. “The man who attacked her was a sailor from the London Pride. I’m not sure how it all started, but he seemed intent upon killing her.”
Mary Margaret came forward with Andrew in tow. “I can tell ye what happened,” she volunteered. “I saw it all with me own eyes.”
Although the elder had halted within easy reach of Cain, Andrew was almost oblivious to his presence, for he now had a sucker to hold and admire until his parent gave him permission to eat it.
Gage was curious about the attack on Shemaine and directed his full attention upon the woman. “What did you see, Mary Margaret?”
The elder gestured toward the couch. “That dear, brave girl thrashed that odious sailor with a stick after she saw him beating Cain, an’ she came nigh ta losin’ her life for it, too, despite all those drunken souls who were standin’ ’round watchin’ it all happen. Were I a man, I’d have given those clods a cuff or two ta bring them out o’ their senseless stupor! Ta be sure, they were sailin’ with six sheets ta the wind. Aye, an’ ‘tis sorry I am that the Irish are so fond o’ talkin’ an’ sippin’. The more they tipple, the more they prattle.”
“Shemaine will be all right, won’t she?” Roxanne queried worriedly.
Mary Margaret was amazed at her concern. “Aye, she’ll be as good as ever after a bit o’ rest an’ tender care.”
Roxanne smiled rigidly, sweeping her gaze toward Gage. “You be sure and let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Gage couldn’t imagine himself being so foolish. Still, he found himself amazed anew at her change of moods. To say that she was erratic at times might have been an understatement. It all depended on her perspective, how she saw things that personally affected her. “No need to concern yourself, Roxanne.”
Nodding a silent farewell to him and then to the elder, Roxanne stepped back from the door. Then she lifted her hand and beckoned to Cain. “Come along now before you get into more trouble.”
The hunchback cast a glance toward Shemaine, then obediently left the store and scuffled along the boardwalk with his cumbersome gait, moving in the general direction of the blacksmith shop.
“Poor soul.” Mary Margaret sighed, stepping to the door to watch him go. “He’s like a lost, mangled sheep searching for a shepherd to lead him. I think he’d be loyal to anyone who would befriend him.”
“Do you find it unusual that Roxanne concerns herself over his welfare?” Gage inquired as he sat down on the couch beside Shemaine. He dipped a cloth into the basin of cool water and began to bathe the girl’s face as he awaited Mary Margaret’s response.
The elder sighed and shook her head. “They’re both lost sheep, at odds with this hamlet and, I think, the world.”
Floating slowly upward through an eerie fog, Shemaine became increasingly aware of a painful constriction in her throat. She swallowed, and then winced at the agony it caused her. Rolling her head on the leather cushion beneath her head, she opened her eyes a mere slit and tried to focus on the cherubic face that was braced on two small fists near her own, but her eyelids scratched like dry parchment against the tender orbs, causing tears to start.
“Andrew?” she whispered raspingly. “Could you ask someone to fetch me a glass of water?”
“Daddee?” The boy glanced up to find his father already leaning forward with a tin cup in his hand.
“Here’s some water, Shemaine,” Gage said, slipping an arm beneath her shoulders and lifting her up. He was amazed once again at how light and fragile she felt against his arm. It was certainly a poignant reminder of just how long it had been since he had held a woman in his embrace. He pressed the cup to her lips and held it as she slowly sipped, as closely attentive to her as he had been to Andrew earlier that morning.
Mary Margaret came near and leaned on her cane as she contemplated Shemaine over the top of Andrew’s head. She was relieved to see some color returning to the girl’s cheeks, for she had begun to worry that some permanent damage had been done. “That was a very brave thing you did, me girl, takin’ up for Cain, but I must say ye were also very foolish, considerin’ the size o’ that buffoon ye attacked.”
“Cain?” Shemaine wheezed. Her brows, gathered in confusion, for she was unable to remember anyone by that name. “Who . . . ?”
“The hunchback, dearie.” The elder supplied the information with a pitying smile. “His adoptive mother thought the name suited him.”
Gage set the cup aside and lowered his bondswoman back to the cushion. Reasonably assured that she hadn’t been harmed beyond repair, he couldn’t keep still any longer about her moment of folly. “Why didn’t you call me and let me handle the matter, Shemaine? I wasn’t so far away that I couldn’t have heard you, had you done so.” He leaned forward to command her attention with a stern frown. “I won’t have you risking your life like that again, do you hear?”
Shemaine felt like a child being reproved by her father. It didn’t make her feel any better knowing he was right. It was unsettling to realize just how foolhardy she had been and what the consequences might have been if she hadn’t been snatched away. Potts could have killed her. Still, she was pricked by her own lack of consideration for Gage. He would have been hard-pressed to find the funds to buy another bondswoman. Indeed, he might have been left for some time without a nursemaid to tend his son.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton. I fear I lost my head when I saw Potts beating that poor man,” she apologized contritely. “I should have been more careful and considerate of the great sum you have invested in me. I shall strive to be more thoughtful in the future.”
Gage was incensed at her faulty conjectures. “Do you honestly think the forty pounds I paid for you is worth more than your life?” he asked angrily. “ ‘Tis the foolishness of endangering yourself that I speak of. Who was that man, anyway? Don’t tell me he’s the one you warned me about.”
“Aye, Jacob Potts, the sailor from the London Pride,” Shemaine answered in a hoarse croak. “Before I left the ship, he vowed to kill me.”
“He very nearly did!” Gage retorted tersely, exasperated with her because she had blindly ignored the man’s threats and attacked him, in all probability provoking deeper grudges. For her own peace of mind, he hoped it wouldn’t be too long before the tar put to sea again.
Shemaine was unable to remember anything beyond the shadowy haze that had swept over her and was curious to know how she had managed to be so lightly scathed after Potts’s assault. “What made him stop?”
“Mr. Thornton saved ye, dearie,” Mary Margaret answered in Gage’s stead. She had listened attentively to his scolding and was pleased that he actually seemed to feel a genuine concern for the girl and not his own purse. Living so near the village, she had been privy to all the ugly rumors that had cast him as a cold, insensitive man, but she had reserved her opinion, preferring to see irrefutable proof before condemning him as many in the hamlet had relentlessly done. In spite of the gossip, she had grown rather fond of the cabinetmaker throughout the years, adopting him into her heart as she would a son, which she had never been fortunate to have. She found it difficult to imagine herself being such a poor judge of character that she would have come to admire a murderer. “Ye should’ve seen his handsome self plowin’ through all those men ta get ta ye.”
Gage tossed a perturbed scowl toward the woman. He was sure she saw prospects for matrimony in every unattached couple she crossed paths with, but he knew only too well the risks of the widow expressing such ideas about town. With Roxanne threatening to incriminate him, her hopeful chatter could well prove his undoing. “Don’t make it out to be more than what it was, Mary Margaret.”
The Irish woman smiled sweetly, taking his rebuke in stride. For as long as she could remember, Gage Thornton had been persistently reticent about himself and shrugged off praise as if it were the plague. He had once saved a four-year-old girl from drowning in the river, but when her parents and most of the townsfolk, who had witnessed his daring rescue from shore, had tried to cheer and clap him on the back, he had handed the child over to her mother with a strong admonition to watch the youngster in the future. Then he had strode through their midst, pausing only to pick up his musket and pack, which he had tossed aside before plunging into the river. After sliding his canoe into the water, he had taken his leave in the same aloof manner that people had come to expect of him.
The fact that he was disinclined to let the girl know that he had nearly uprooted the whole circle of men to get to her side made Mary Margaret wonder about his reasons. Was he embarrassed by his warrior spirit? Or was he averse to having others suspect that, like all the other men who might admire Shemaine and feel a strong attraction to her, he was perhaps one who found himself hopelessly smitten?
Mary Margaret smiled at the idea that the tall, rugged man was so vulnerable. It only affirmed that he was human, a trait that many in the hamlet had voiced doubts about. But such judgments had been made from a distance by those who snooped and spied from behind shaded windows, much like those plump hens in the apothecary shop, for none who really knew the man had ever spoken harshly of him.
Now Gage Thornton had a new enemy, Mary Margaret mused, thinking of the tar wallowing in the mudhole. But hopefully this one would be gone in a few weeks. “ ‘Tis sure I am that Mr. Potts will be seeking vindication now that he has been made the laughingstock o’ the village. Indeed, he’ll be ready ta kill us all if anyone happens ta call him ‘Mudsucker’ in his presence.”
Gage’s disposition softened a trifle, and a grin passed briefly across his lips. “After being laughed out of town, I doubt that Jacob Potts will ever want to show his face again in Newportes Newes.”
Shemaine scoffed. “It has been my experience that Mr. Potts pays back double for any offense he has been subjected to. He’ll not rest until he avenges himself.”
“Then the two o’ ye will likely be seein’ the man again,” Mary Margaret predicted somberly “because ye both shamed him ta the core. Imagine! A little slip o’ girl givin’ that big hulk a proper threshin’! An’ if that wasn’t enough, her master bootin’ him inta the muck. Potts’s pride has suffered mightily under yer insults. He’ll not be able ta live it down for years ta come.”
Gage rose from the lounge and faced the elder, desiring to change the subject for Shemaine’s sake. “I have business to take care of while I’m here in town. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, Mary Margaret, I’d like to leave Shemaine with you for a while so she can rest.”
“ ‘Twill be a delight ta have her as a guest in me home,” the elder avowed. “And I’d consider it an honor if ye’d let Andrew stay with me, too. He’s such a good boy, I love ta have him around. I’ll even cook us up a bit o’ food, so ye needn’t fret they’ll go hungry afore ye get back.”
“Your kindness is appreciated, madam.” Gage glanced around in search of the storekeeper, who, at the moment, was nowhere in sight. “If you’ll excuse me, I must find Mr. Foster and thank him before we take our leave.”
Mrs. McGee casually indicated the rear of the store. “I believe Adam was headin’ toward the back the last time I saw him.”
Gage completed his mission in short order and returned to escort the women outside. Once in the wagon, Shemaine took Andrew on her lap to make room for Mary Margaret on the seat beside her. Gage climbed in and, slapping the reins, set the mare in motion. They traversed the road through Newportes Newes and, a few moments later, halted in front of a small, quaint cottage located on the outskirts of the hamlet. Gathering Andrew in his arms, Gage accompanied the two women to the door, measuring his pace to the careful steps of his bondswoman, who refused his assistance. After seeing her settled, he took his leave in the wagon, pledging to return as soon as he could.
Three hours later, Gage finished loading supplies in the wagon, having been enlisted to make several dining pieces for a wealthy woman from Richmond. With the order, he had been able to recoup almost half of what he had spent for Shemaine’s papers. It relieved the strain on his budget considerably, and he was confident that progress would again be made in a good, timely order on the ship.
He returned to the Widow McGee’s cottage and was silently motioned into the interior by the elder. She laid a finger across her lips and pointed to a closed door down the hall.
“Shemaine laid down with Andrew ta put him ta sleep ’bout an hour ago,” she whispered softly. “Since then, I haven’t heard a peep from either o’ them.”
Gage stepped quietly to the portal and, after a light knock that gained no response, turned the handle and pushed the door slowly inward. The sight that greeted him warmed his heart as it had not been warmed in many months, and he crept forward carefully to bask in the wonder of the scene. Shemaine and Andrew were both sleeping soundly. Sharing the same pillow, they were cuddled spoon fashion in the middle of the bed with Andrew on his side with his back against the girl’s chest. Her cheek rested against his curls and her arm lay over him, like a mother with her son.
“Would ye be carin’ for a cup o’ tea, Mr. Thornton?” Mary Margaret murmured quietly from nearby.
Gage glanced around, surprised to find the woman leaning against the doorjamb. She smiled at him, and he inclined his head a slight degree, not at all sure that he should take the time, for he needed to get home soon and he still hadn’t taken Shemaine to the cobbler to order a pair of shoes.
“ ‘Twould be an awful shame ta disturb such peace, do ye not think, Mr. Thornton?” the woman ventured, contemplating him covertly.
Gage’s eyes were drawn back to the bed, to the sight of Shemaine lost in slumber. She looked immensely delicate and beautiful, like a small, bright flower in a shady spot of verdant green. Her soft, pink lips were slightly parted, as if she anticipated being kissed by a phantom lover. Her silken lashes, of a dark brown hue, rested on cheeks that had grown rosy in her sleep. Her round bosom rose and fell in languid repose against the small back of her sleeping companion, and at that moment, Gage almost envied his son.
“She must be exhausted to sleep so soundly,” he mused in a hushed tone. “I cannot imagine she was able to get much rest on the voyage over here.”
Mrs. McGee followed his unswerving stare and thoughtfully tilted her head as she, too, contemplated the girl. “She’s a rare beauty, isn’t she?”
Gage cocked a wondering brow as he cast a glance awry at the widow, for it was apparent what she was about. But he curbed the temptation to question her plans to make a match. “Do you have the tea already brewed, or should I awaken Shemaine and Andrew and be on my way?”
“Smooth yer ruffled plumes, me fine-feathered peacock,” Mary Margaret gently chided, beckoning him to follow as she led the way back to the hearth. There she took up the teapot and thoughtfully poured a cup full. “If I’d have ye speak the words with the girl, ‘tis only a desire o’ me own ta see ye an’ yer son with a good woman in the house.”
“How can you say that Shemaine is good when you don’t know anything about her?”
Mrs. McGee smiled and tapped a forefinger against her temple. “I’ve a bit o’ wisdom up here in me noggin an’ can see what’s plainly in view before me eyes.”
“And what is that, old woman?” Gage questioned as she handed him a cup of tea.
“Shemaine is as much o’ a lady as any woman in this village. I can see it in the way she walks an’ carries herself. She has the confident, refined elegance o’ one who’s been well tutored and instructed in the social graces. I can hear it when she talks, despite that wee bit o’ an Irish brogue. She’s well worth the hefty price ye paid for her, Mr. Thornton, if ye didn’t know it.”
“She’s all of what you say, and more,” Gage admitted. “Her talents are unlimited. Andrew is already becoming attached to her. Perhaps you saw his concern when he thought she had been hurt. She’s very good with him, better than—” He paused suddenly, realizing he was being much too verbose about the girl.
“Roxanne?” Mary Margaret supplied the name in a gently questioning tone, not wishing to set the man at odds with her.
“Shemaine has a way about her,” Gage said, preferring not to answer the elder’s query. “She’s very gifted.”
“Oh, no doubt. No doubt.” The elder paused to take a sip from her own cup and then settled in a rocking chair in front of the hearth. For a lengthy moment she stared into the flickering flames as she savored the brew. Then she tossed a quick furtive glance toward the tall man. “But I should warn ye ’bout the rumors that are already makin’ their way ’bout town, many with the aid o’ Mrs. Pettycomb, who, if she minded her own business as much as she did others’, would be a blessed saint.”
“I can imagine the rumors are not very pleasant,” Gage muttered above his teacup. “They never are.”
“When ye’re as handsome as yerself, sir, ye’re bound ta cause talk, but when ye’ve also got a girl as winsome as Shemaine O’Hearn livin’ under the same roof with ye . . . well, such talk is almost ta be expected. Some folks are aleady callin’ her foul names an’ sayin’ as how ye bought her for yerself ta sport with. Ta be sure, they’ll be watchin’ her belly ta see if it grows heavy with child.”
The muscles tensed in Gage’s cheeks as he stubbornly declared, “I bought Shemaine because she’ll be able to teach Andrew how to read and write in years to come.”
“Is that the only reason?” Mary Margaret inquired softly.
Gage looked at her in surprise, but for the life of him he couldn’t make any denials to the elder’s unspoken insinuation, for he’d be lying through his teeth.
“If I were a man as fine as yerself, ownin’ a bondswoman as comely as Shemaine,” Mary Margaret ventured, “I’d not allow any space for the rumors ta hatch. I’d marry the girl an’ grin with pride when the ol’ biddies see her belly growin’.”
Her guest raised a brow in quizzical wonder. “You never give up, do you, Mary Margaret?”
“What in the world do ye mean?” She feigned innocence with a sweet smile.
“You know very well what I mean,” Gage challenged. “The realms of the lower world would freeze over ere you’d cease your attempts to marry off couples. You have a very determined nature, madam.”
The elder grinned back at him as she shrugged her thin shoulders. “What do ye expect? I’m Irish!”
Gage tossed a pleading glance upward. “Heaven protect this Englishman from all the Irishwomen in the world!”