17

Pity it is that thousands of my country people should be starving at home, when they may live here in peace and plenty.

Roderick Gordon, Scottish ship’s surgeon

“I’m Richard Osbourne of Glasgow, and this is Captain Moodie who’ll see you safely to Virginia.”

The glare of sunlight on deck bespoke a sweltering three o’clock. All around them a great many sweating, harried sailors were preparing the ship to leave port.

At her silence, Osbourne said solemnly, “I hold yer indenture. For three years ye’ll be in service, starting aboard this ship. Though with the babe . . .”

She hugged Larkin closer, like a child would a beloved doll. Would they send her back to the Neptune, encumbered as she was? A wild panic took hold, followed by a hundred unasked questions burning in her brain.

Behind her a shout rang out announcing another arrival. Had she lost her senses? Surely her mind was filling with fancies much like the wind-stiffened sails. She stood slack-jawed as Magnus stepped onto deck. Soon he stood before her. Silent. Equally overcome. She herself could not choke out the barest greeting.

He looked from her to Larkin. Befuddled. Transfixed. Knowing him as she did, sensing his surprise, she wondered if he was trying to reconcile the time since her arrest and a baby’s birth.

“The bairn was given into my care by his aunt, who succumbed to gaol fever yesterday,” she said above the rising wind lest it whip her words away.

“God rest her soul,” Magnus said. He studied her, obviously noting she’d lost a stone or more since she’d left Kerrera, for he said, “Yer well?”

“As of this moment, aye.” This she could barely squeeze past her throat as it tightened with emotion. “And ye?”

“Well enough.” His eyes flashed wry relief. Here they were, he no freer than she, by the state of his convict clothing.

Osbourne shook his hand, conveying a warm association, while the captain stood aloof. All looked at her as Larkin gave a shriek, his gaze and wee hands drawn above his head to a sail being raised. Magnus cracked a smile.

Osbourne chuckled. “We might turn the wee lad into a seaman, aye?”

His kind words assuaged her somewhat. “He’s little trouble. Mostly he sleeps. He’s partial to goat’s milk.”

Osbourne nodded. “I’ve a young son. Infants are fascinating creatures. And this one seems inordinately fond of you.”

She nodded, still puzzling that out. Larkin seemed to have fixed his affection on her from first glance. Had his mother possessed red tresses? She’d never know with his aunt gone so fast, a host of questions unasked. She focused on the immediate present. “Am I to be the only woman aboard?”

The captain spoke when Osbourne was distracted by a cabin boy at his elbow. “The other female prisoners and indentures should arrive soon, as well as a few select male prisoners to round out the crew.”

Select males with sailing expertise? Was Magnus now an indenture, same as she? What of Larkin? Born to a disorderly girl, with a convict aunt, was he a convict too? By the time they reached Virginia, if they did, he’d likely be crawling, a lap baby no longer.

Captain Moodie was regarding Larkin as if thinking the very same. No doubt he’d be the only infant on board.

She met Magnus’s eyes and saw more than simple concern there. Oh, for a quiet corner to talk. He seemed a bit at odds with her again, much like when he’d left Kerrera long ago. Time and distance had driven a wedge between them once more. Or did he bear her a grudge over Isla? But surely he’d been behind her transfer to the Bonaventure. He had friends in high places, both in the city and in the country. And surely Providence was at play most of all. How else could they share the same ship?

One look at all the bobbing boats in so busy a harbor, as well as the hundreds of felons, bespoke the miraculous, lofty connections aside.

The Scotsman across from her was now a hero in homespun, a far cry from the kilted childhood laird she knew, but one who’d always had her best interests at heart.

For now, she’d take comfort in that and her belief that the Lord had a plan, come what may.

That night Magnus dined at the captain’s table with Richard Osbourne. Amid the wink of candles and myriad dishes that bespoke a ship still in port, Magnus listened more than he spoke, at least till called out by his hosts. Much needed learning. Even the drift of conversation eluded him.

“We struck the doldrums after Cabo Verde, going ten miles back again from where we’d started the day before,” the captain said between bites of beef.

“A wretched business any time of year,” Osbourne replied. “I well recall my black leather trunks turning white with mold one sailing. I even failed to free my razor from its case it rusted so fast.”

Magnus’s thoughts tripped down the companionway to Lark, whose accommodations he was unsure of. Small as an ant he felt aboard such a vessel. The ship was crawling with what appeared to be a crew of hundreds. There seemed little room left for even a dozen female convicts and no need for male convicts turned sailors. The term convict troubled him, yet he was one, was he not?

He held fast to the memory of Lark on deck, the sun making a fiery halo of her hair. The shock he’d felt at finding the babe bearing so sharp a resemblance to her still lingered. Anyone who didn’t know better would think the braw lad her child. In his amazement, he’d not asked the lad’s name.

Osbourne merely seemed bemused by the unexpected bairn while the captain was harder to read. But since Osbourne owned both ship and cargo, the captain was in his hire and did his bidding.

God be praised.

For now, he’d rest in the fact Lark was safely aboard. Granted, she’d lost the robust quality, that vibrant spark, she’d always had. Pale as parchment paper she was, shaved thin by lack of nourishment but not by some wasting disease, heaven forbid.

Did she feel as lost as he did? No longer mistress of the castle stillroom but now an indentured mother to boot. And he—in the humble garments that scratched his skin—no longer Kerrera’s bereaved laird but a homeless criminal.

God be praised anyway.

As the sun set and the gulls circled the last day of July, there came twenty-seven women in brown serge, that lackluster convict color that seemed to flatter no one and call out every flaw. Larkin on her hip, Lark held herself apart as the manacles were struck from their wrists one by one, knowing a close association with these unknown women might prove fatal to her charge. When she pondered the babe, it seemed God had saved him for some special purpose. Not that these women intended harm, but some seemed bound for the infirmary with their coughing. She prayed none would see a rough coffin made by the ship’s carpenter.

Kissing Larkin’s brow, she murmured in his ear, “May ye be fruitful, wee one, and health, honesty, and happiness be yer gifts.”

Then came the men, selected for their sea legs. She turned away, keeping her eyes down. She was vaguely aware Magnus kept to the quarterdeck, the officers’ domain, which was elevated and enclosed with a railing. And off-limits to most, be it crew or convicts.

At daybreak, the Bonaventure set sail against a livid scarlet sky. Lark watched from her bull’s-eye window, as the hatches were not yet open to allow women on deck. While Larkin slept in her bunk, she leaned into a post, wincing at the creak of timbers and shouted orders above as the ship heaved and shuddered and seemed more inclined to sink than sail.

More than the terrifying noise, the nose-curling smells, and the nauseating motion was the sickening sense of separation. From Scotland. Granny. All she held dear. Never had she wished to leave it. Hugging the post to stay on her feet, she set her jaw so hard she feared her teeth would crack. For a few inexplicable seconds, Granny’s presence seemed to hover.

Keep count of yer blessings.

Blessings, aye. Magnus. Health. The potted garden on deck that awaited her tending. The pocketed coral beads. And the babe now wedged against the bunk’s far wall, safe from rolling.

A shout sounded and the hatches were finally opened. She enclosed a sleepy Larkin in the sling and began a sort of graceless dance to the rhythm of the ship, grabbing a handhold there, bending a knee here, taking a sudden step to the side or even back a step as she managed the tween deck and then the hatch.

Squinting at first, Larkin soon looked about in wide-eyed wonder. He had an endearing habit of burying his face in her bosom when a sailor came near, as if men were strange, untrustworthy creatures undeserving of a second look.

“Ye must be braw and brave as befits yer name,” Lark said as he stared up at her. “A fierce warrior, aye.”

High above them the sails filled and stretched taut as the Bonaventure found her sea legs. The women in brown serge struggled to find theirs as they emerged through the hatch after Lark.

Saltwater tubs for washing awaited them, and instructions to hang their bedding to air on the yards and rigging, overseen by the ship’s surgeon and a lieutenant. Matrons were chosen as mess captains who dispensed rations from the cook and then oversaw various tasks. A collective grumble went round as some were sent to milk the cows and goats in the bow while others cleaned poultry cages. Skilled needlewomen were set to mending and making shirts from stores of linen. Lark was led to the specially constructed plant cabin on the quarterdeck.

Full of milk, Larkin fell back asleep in the sling as Lark walked about her new domain behind the main mast. Even now Captain Moodie kept to the windward side, spyglass in hand.

She turned her attention to the bounty of plants on all sides of her. Tea trees. Two potted artichokes. Sage. Sorrel. Mint. Tarragon and chives. Currant trees and parsnips and bright-faced marigolds. Fragile hyssop and pennyroyal beside hardy balm and sprawling mint, all in good health. Two of the hives she’d seen earlier were situated among the pots, bees zigzagging hither and yon.

Her fingers brushed a velvety wand of lavender, its purple spires bending in the wind. A few plants already looked slightly spent. Pushing a finger through the soil, she gauged their thirst much as the Bonaventure’s navigator fixed the ship’s position.

Magnus was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Osbourne. Had the owner of the Bonaventure stayed behind in Glasgow? If so, ’twas a loss. He seemed kind. Shrewd. A true Christian gentleman.

She moved toward a water cask and used a wooden dipper to water the plants in need, trying to get her bearings and take note of what was where.

“I hear you’re skilled in botany.” Lieutenant Blackburn, the ship’s surgeon, stood behind her, his blue uniform a contrast to the common red and gray cloth of the enlisted seamen. His tricorne hat was tipped at a jaunty angle, his smile a rarity among the stern-faced sailors. “And are an apiarist.”

She straightened, amused by the grand titles. “Simply the mistress of the stillroom and bee yard.”

“A modest lass, aye? And an angel in disguise, given the bairn isna yer own.”

She looked at him in surprise. News spread like fever from masthead to stern, obviously. “’Tis impossible to forsake a baby.”

“He’s a lucky lad.” He knelt to inspect a mulberry plant. “These are flourishing and well on their way to producing silk. I’ve been experimenting in my cabin with cottonseed and cochineal beetles with less success.”

“For scarlet dye, ye mean?”

“Aye. Perhaps you’d care to come below and have a look.”

Heat inched up her neck at his scrutiny, her water dipper dangling from her hand. What could she say to this? Few could afford cochineal-dyed garments. She’d only seen them in shop windows in Edinburgh.

“The dye sets more firmly on woolens,” she murmured, resuming her watering. “Or so I’ve heard.”

He nodded, left, and then returned with a journal, quill, and ink. Sitting down on a sea chest, he made a desk of sorts. “We’ll work together, you and I. Osbourne has given me charge of recording the health and progress of his unusual botanical garden you’ll tend.”

Relief riddled her. It was business then. She went about her new duties, a bit queasy from the ship’s rolling. Several convict women had fled their assigned tasks at the forecastle and hugged the ship’s rail, white-faced and sick. Seasoned sailors worked around them, every bit as busy as the bees in the buzzing hives.

She took a step toward a hardy mint as the ship careened. Fearing her feet were about to come from under her, she grabbed at the nearest anchor—Surgeon Blackburn’s coat sleeve.

His reassuring chuckle eased her. “Mayhap you’re better off without your shoes. There’s a reason these sailors go barefoot.”

She let go of him as the deck settled, her stomach with it. Dare she shed her shoes, stockings, and garters in front of him?

“I can turn my back if you like.” He did so without her aye, the gesture gallant. “This ship is an alien world, you’ll soon find, with its own unwritten rules.”

The sun-soaked planks, worn smooth by salt water and scrubbing, warmed her bare soles. Already she felt less ungainly. Slipping or falling might harm Larkin. Better she be bare of foot than have an injured babe.

The surgeon turned a page. “Why don’t you tell me the name and state of each plant to begin. Osbourne insists on a close accounting.”

For an hour they worked. She shared names of the few plants he didn’t know while he taught her the scientific names of the ones he did, explaining how they’d best protect them in a gale.

“Lord willing, we won’t have one,” he said with a good-natured wink, shutting the journal.

She bit her lip to still the questions raised by the scar across his stubbled jaw. With a last pointed glance, she got the gist of his sun-darkened features. Eyes like green glass. Tawny hair queued in back with a black ribbon. Powerful shoulders. ’Twas a face and form that lingered long after one quit looking. He moved with perfect balance, bespeaking years at sea much as his scar bespoke conflict. He was neither young nor old . . .

A shout went up from the forecastle. “All aback forward!”

She looked to the surgeon and he explained, “The head sails are pressed aback by the wind’s sudden change.”

There were a great many sails and a great many men aloft, but her gaze fixed on one. Something about his silhouette, the way he moved . . .

A different sort of wooziness swirled through her, as keenly felt as that of the retching women at the ship’s rail.

Clad in trews—the cropped pants of sailors—and wearing a skullcap, Rory MacPherson was no longer the captain of the Merry Lass but a common jack-tar, as sailors were called. How had she missed him? Granted, there were upwards of two hundred souls aboard, and a dozen or more male prisoners had arrived late yesterday. Had he been among them?

What were the odds of the three of them sharing the same ship? Her gaze swung to the horde on deck. Magnus was still missing. Her stomach lurched anew though the deck stayed level. Had Magnus slipped away before they’d set sail like his friend Osbourne, much as the former captain had come aboard at the last? Had some deal been struck that he’d had no time to tell her about? Shouldn’t she be glad for him, if so?

The thought punched her in the stomach.

Lord, nay.