September 1733
The afternoon sun glinted off the apples that Mallie had just washed in the river. She held the basket out to Margaret, Derby, Biddy, and Ellery, and then sat down next to them in the shade of a tree. Derby studied her and smiled. Under her curled, dark lashes, both her eyes glinted with gold in the autumn light. She bit into a crisp apple and smiled back. Life had settled into a predictable rhythm: Mallie now slept in the passage outside the parlor—which was now Bradnox and Cassie’s room—except on Sunday nights, when she slept with Margaret and Biddy. Abigail had married Ryan Hearne and had moved to his plantation.
Derby playfully bumped his bare toes against Mallie’s, and she recognized the invitation to take a walk. They followed the glimmering river until they were out of sight of the others. Mallie hiked up her skirts and waded into the river until the water reached her calves. Derby removed his shirt and dove in. “Come all the way in,” he beckoned.
“I’ll drown.”
“I’ll teach yer ‘ow ter swim.”
“I would need to undress, and my shift would get wet.”
“I would need to undress, and my shift would get wet, m’lord,” he said, playfully mocking how proper her speech had become. She gave him a flustered look, and he splashed her while she screeched with laughter.
“Stop that!” She stepped out of the water, sat on the bank, and watched Derby dive and surface, again and again. He finally got out and sat next to her. She glanced at his back, which was scarred from a whipping at the hands of Jason. His neck would forever bear the marks from the irons he had worn on the ship. She lowered her gaze and noticed the outline of his member, straining against his wet breeches, and immediately jerked her head back toward the river. He leaned in and kissed her ear, his lips cool and wet. Mallie’s skin tingled, but she did not budge. He took her chin in his hand, turned her face, and looked directly into her startled eyes. She placed one hand on his chest as though to push him away. He gently pressed his mouth to hers and waited. Mallie felt time stand still. At last she parted her lips and kissed him back. He slid off her cap, his fingers undid her bun, and her long hair cascaded down her shoulders, black and glossy like licorice Pontefract cakes. His fingertips grazed her scalp; blood rushed to her head, and she moaned. He laid her down, hiked up her skirts, spread her legs, and pulled down his breeches.
“No!” She pushed him away, this time forcefully.
“Mallie, please . . .”
“No!”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to be trapped like Margaret.”
“I promise I won’t get yer with child.”
“No.”
He relented and rolled on his back, arms folded over his face. “I should go back ter me quarters,” he said curtly.
“Please don’t be angry with me.”
She watched him walk away, her body roiling with unfamiliar sensations. Wishing to be alone, she started walking back to the kitchen, stuffing her cap in her skirt pocket. When she reached the orchard, she walked along its edge, picking up stray apples that had fallen to the ground. Suddenly, someone jumped out of the bushes from behind, seized her by the hair, and dragged her into the brush. She screamed, but the man pinned her on the ground and covered her mouth with a dirt-covered hand, pressing down so hard that her lips and gums hurt. She saw Ephraim’s pocked face hovering an inch away from hers, and from her throat came a muffled cry. She jerked her head furiously left and right until her teeth found his fingers. She bit down as hard as she could and heard a rabid howl. His grip loosened and she screamed again. He punched her, sending a flash of pain through her head. Then his weight was being lifted off her, and through blurred vision she saw Derby wrestle him to the ground. Derby flipped the man onto his stomach, hooked an arm around his throat, and choked him until he went completely limp. He released him, and Ephraim’s head hit the ground with a dull thud. Derby rushed to Mallie’s side and knelt down at her side.
“Are yer all right?”
She buried her face in his chest, sobbing. A hacking sound made them both turn. Ephraim had come to.
“If yer ever touch ‘er again, I will kill yer,” Derby snarled, standing over the cowering man. He helped Mallie to her feet and joined arms with her for support. As they walked away, she turned and looked back nervously. Ephraim was still on the ground, rubbing his neck and wheezing. They had almost reached the kitchen yard when they ran into the last person she wanted to see.
“Mallie! What happened?” Bradnox stared in shock at Mallie’s swollen blue and purple eye. He whirled on Derby. “Did you do this?”
“No, sir!” Derby protested.
“No, sir, it wasn’t him.” The irony of the planter’s indignation was not lost on her.
“Who was it?” Bradnox asked, his eyes smoldering with subdued fury.
#
Mallie, Margaret, and Biddy stood over Ephraim’s freshly covered grave in the workers’ burying grounds. The planter had given him such a beating that the man had died the next day.
“He deserved it, you hear me?” Margaret asked. Mallie nodded, but her face was tight. “He would’ve raped you.”
“I know.”
Mallie stared at the mound. In London, even as a child, she had been aware of the fact that murders were as much a part of the city as its fog. But—as far as she knew—she had never before lived in such proximity to anyone who had killed another human being. Worse—killed them with impunity. Now she knew that no matter how elegant and handsome, no matter how well spoken, compared with many of the stinking, toothless, crass men who frequented the Covent Garden brothel, Bradnox was far more dangerous.
#
September 24, 1733
Blair woke up bursting with joy. He would soon, at long last, be sailing to Ireland to marry Janet. He had not heard from Ronald in all these years, but he was confident his brother would keep his promise and return to Philadelphia. He combed back his hair, which now reached his shoulders, tied it with a black ribbon, put on his cap, and went downstairs to the chandler’s shop.
“Good morning, Alice,” he said.
“Look who’s in a bright mood today!” she replied. Having finished her indenture, she was now working for the chandler for wages.
In the cordwainer’s shop, Chastity, the slave girl whom Craig had bought when Betty’s indenture had ended, was stoking the fire. Craig wasn’t there. Blair and the journeymen, used to their boss’s absence, began to work alone. It was not until after dinner that Craig came down, his face puffy and his belly like a pregnant goat’s.
“I do believe there’ll be days when I’ll miss yer shop, Jeffrey Craig,” Blair said, looking all around.
Craig looked up from the shoe he was working on. “What?”
“My indenture expires next month.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
I must have misheard, Blair thought. “I’m sorry, what did ye say?”
“Thee is mistaken. Thy indenture doesn’t expire yet.”
“It does.” Blair felt a pinch at the base of his neck. “It’s hard tae believe four years have passed.”
“Thee signed an indenture for seven.”
Blair went mute for a moment. The journeymen had stopped working and were looking from Blair to Craig.
“I most certainly didna.”
“I’ll show thee.”
Craig went upstairs and returned with the indenture. Blair’s blood drained to his feet when he saw that, where it should have said Willing to serve William Rawle or Edward Horne or his Assigns 4 Years in Philadelphia, the number 4 had been replaced by a 7.
“That’s no what I signed,” Blair said, completely bewildered.
“It’s in writing.”
“Ye altered it.”
“That’s a scandalous accusation.”
“I’ll go tae the mayor.”
Craig cleared his throat and took back the indenture. “Thee may certainly do so.”
“It was written in that book, the day ye bought me,” Blair said confidently. All that was needed was to go to the courthouse and ask to see the records. And he wasn’t about to wait. “I’m going now,” he announced, and walked out the door.
#
Standing on the courthouse balcony, Blair gnawed on his thumbnail. Craig had of course followed him, indenture in hand, straight past the line of immigrants and agents waiting their turn, and up the stairs. Blair had knocked on the courtroom’s door with determination and had stated his predicament with such conviction that Mayor Griffitts had sent the clerk to find the indenture book for the year 1729 right away. In the meantime, Blair and Craig had been asked to wait outside, and the mayor, Governor Gordon, and four aldermen were left to scrutinize the original indenture. Blair gazed down at a gaggle of Palatines waiting to come up and take the Oath of Allegiance to Pennsylvania.
“Blair Eakins, come inside.”
Blair’s insides bunched up when he turned and saw the clerk standing at the balcony door, empty-handed. Inside the courtroom, he and Craig stood side by side—Blair now a full head taller—facing the mayor, the governor, the aldermen, and a German interpreter.
“We don’t see any indication that there was a four where there’s now a seven,” the mayor declared, returning the indenture to Craig. “Does thee have the book?” he asked the clerk.
“It was lost in a fire two years ago,” the clerk replied.
Blair had not felt the ground drop under him like this since the time Janet had been raped. “Are ye sure ye looked everywhere?”
“Yes.”
“I can help ye look again.” Blair’s eyes were wild.
Governor Gordon looked at Blair with impatience. “Our clerk has done his best, and we have work to do.”
“The man who was clerk at the time might be able tae find it,” Blair insisted.
“He was taken by the smallpox last year.”
“What about the agent who sold me?”
“Young man, that’s quite enough,” Governor Gordon said, raising his voice. “It’s inconceivable that William Rawle would remember, and I’m not going to inconvenience him.”
“Jeffrey Craig’s wife must remember!”
“Blair!” The governor slammed his hand on the desk. “We’re not going to bother Tacey Craig either.”
Blair’s chest heaved, his breathing audible through his nose. “Am I tae remain indentured an additional three years?”
“No,” the governor said, “you’re not serving any additional time at all. This document shows you signed up for seven years, and that’s what you’ll serve. My clerk will make a new entry this very moment, so that three years from now there’s no question about it.”
“Thank thee very much for thy assistance in settling this misunderstanding,” Craig said, taking Blair by the arm. “We’ll leave you all to your busy day.”
Blair pulled free, his face red. “I can buy that time from Jeffrey Craig.”
Mayor Griffitts raised his eyebrows. “Thee has money?”
“Aye.”
“How much?”
“Nine pounds.” That would buy about ninety gallons of rum, or 560 pounds of muscovado sugar, which Craig’s wife liked so much.
“How did thee come by this money?”
“I earned it.”
“How?”
“Playing the fiddle.”
“Where?”
Blair realized he had just confessed to breaking the law. The truth was, however, that everyone knew servants went to taverns, and no one could do much about it. Maybe Craig would accept the money.
“In taverns.”
Mayor Griffitts turned to the cordwainer. “Jeffrey Craig, did thee know this?”
“I did not. For the past four years he’s had my permission to lodge with Katherine Moore. I assumed she gave him boarding in exchange for small chores. He had assured me he was not involved in any illegal activities.”
Blair’s voice seethed with indignation. “I’ve never missed a day o’ work.”
The mayor was unmoved. “Blair Eakins, thee will not lie out anymore. All the fruits of thy labor during the time of thy indenture belong to thy master. Therefore I order thee to deliver all thy money to Jeffrey Craig.”
#
At the chandler’s shop Blair crossed his arms and ground his teeth as a constable grabbed his bag and poured its contents onto his pallet. The chandler looked on, indignation gleaming in her eyes. Craig picked up a wooden box and opened it; there was nothing inside but a few farthings and pennies, two black pillar candles whose shape left much to be desired, a comb, and writing implements. The few coins in Blair’s pockets, plus the coins in the box, added up to nowhere near the money he had claimed to have.
“Mought it be he doesn’t have that money?” the constable suggested.
“It could be a ruse he conjured up in his desperation,” Craig conceded. He turned to the chandler. “Katherine, I thank thee for lodging him all these years. I apologize for any inconvenience.”
“It’s been no inconvenience at all. I wish all my boarders were as trustworthy as he.”
Blair gathered his things and followed Craig, all the while suppressing an overwhelming desire to either take off running, or jump on him and vent his anger until the cordwainer was unrecognizable.
#
September 30, 1733
Mallie returned from the privies to the kitchen to find an angry Bradnox standing at the door.
“Come with me,” he grumbled. Ever since Ephraim had attacked her, she had been spending Sundays in her quarters, mostly to avoid Derby, but now she wished she had gone to the field workers’ quarters with Margaret and Biddy after all. She followed Bradnox to the hall in the main house, where Cassie waited. It was clear she had been crying, but there was something else that made her look odd. It took Mallie a moment to figure out what was different: it was her eyebrows.
“I told my wife she wasn’t allowed to pluck her eyebrows,” Bradnox said in a stern voice. “But she disobeyed me.”
“Can’t you wait until tomorrow?” Cassie asked. “It’s Sunday.”
It took one single piercing look from Bradnox to keep Cassie from uttering anything else. Mallie groaned inwardly. She knew what was coming. Over the years Bradnox had embraced her role as “whipping girl” with enthusiasm: whenever Cassie upset him, he would take out his anger on Mallie. Five minutes later Mallie was walking back to her quarters, her back burning with fresh marks from Bradnox’s crop. She had managed not to cry, as an act of defiance.
“What’s wrong, Mallie?”
She turned and saw Derby approaching. She tried to say nothing was wrong, but as soon as she tried to utter one word, she began to sob. He put an arm around her, and she hugged him tightly. He held her until she had spent all her tears. They walked to the kitchen, where he listened in livid silence, as she told him about being Cassie’s whipping girl.
“Do Margaret and Biddy know?”
Mallie nodded. “I tried to hide it, but . . . they’re not stupid, and Mr. Bradnox is not discreet.”
“Yer poor, sweet girl.” Derby reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do yer want ter be alone?”
“No, don’t go.” She sat on the edge of her chair and nestled her head on Derby’s shoulder while he determinedly kept his hands on his thighs. She brought her cheek to his and nuzzled against it, feeling the unfamiliar roughness. In one quick motion Derby sat her on his lap. As he looked into her eyes, she could feel her heart pumping. He kissed her, and she kissed him back. The warmth she had felt that day by the river spread through her, like water spilling over fertile soil. She ran her fingers through his hair. He picked her up and carried her upstairs.
“Which is your spot?” he panted.
He should go, she thought. “That one.”
He laid her down gently and lay next to her. He slid his hand under her skirts, brushing the inside of her thigh. Her mind made a feeble attempt at being judicious and then capitulated. She was ensnared in a vortex in which she and Derby spun and tumbled. She felt so light-headed, she was certain she would pass out, but instead her senses were heightened. Derby’s eyes seemed to radiate light; when his hands caressed her, she jerked as if embers grazed her skin. She felt him sliding into her, then a bite of pain that could not be pain because she craved more of it, and she wanted to cry with joy. Pain and pleasure fused and rushed through her veins and converged in one focused burst of ecstasy, catching her completely unawares.
“Are you all right?” Derby asked afterward when they were lying side by side, holding hands and catching their breath. She stared at the ceiling, deep in thought. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked into her eyes, forcing her to return his gaze.
“I think you can teach me to swim now.”
His laughter echoed in her ears as her limp body succumbed to sleep. When she awoke, she found him staring at her. Startled, she tried to sit up, but he gently stopped her.
“It’s all right; I’ve been keeping watch.”
“What time is it?” she asked, alarmed.
“It’s early.” His hands immediately went about removing her skirts.
“Stop! What if Margaret or Biddy walk in?”
“Mallie!” he replied, playfully mimicking her tone. “Yer know that as long as ‘tis light out, they’ll stay out.”
She could not argue. The sun was starting to set when he finally left. Perched on the window, she watched him go, her heart swelling. He looked back, a drunken and satisfied smile on his lips, and she shooed him away with a wave of her hand.
#
December 1, 1733
Blair walked into the Three Mariners Inn and approached the tavern keeper. “Has anyone collected the letter I left with ye?” he asked.
The tavern keeper reached into a basket on a counter and pulled out a folded and sealed letter; Ronald Eakins in Blair’s handwriting was written on it. “I’m sorry, lad, no one has claimed it.”
Ronald’s indenture had ended more than a month earlier, and still Blair had found no word or sign from him at any of the city’s taverns. He had inquired and left letters at every one of them—except the ones in Hell Town—and there were close to a hundred. He squelched a feeling of abandonment. Ronald would not disregard his promise, would he? Maybe, for some reason, he had tried to run away and had gotten more time. “Do you want to take the letter?” the tavern keeper asked.
“No. I’ll leave it here.”
Blair headed to the Penny Pot, trying not to entertain the thought that Ronald might have fallen victim to any one of the wilderness’s many dangers. He knew, from his mother’s letters, that she had not heard from Ronald either. Although Blair endeavored to sound positive when writing to her and encouraged her to keep hope, he could tell that after all these years, she had none left.
#
Blair sat at a table at the Penny Pot, staring impatiently at the door. At long last Johannes arrived. With him was a stocky man, a man who would show Blair how to get to Donegal. Johannes perfunctorily introduced them, and they sat down. The man pulled out a map and splayed it on the table. Blair leaned forward, eagerly scanning the paper.
“This is Philadelphia,” the man said, pointing to a black dot on the lower right-hand corner of the page, with the letters PH next to it. Blair followed the man’s index finger as he traced the paper and described the path to take: northwest about four miles to a fording spot on the Schuylkill. Just the thought of fording the river made Blair anxious, but he would have no choice: no bridges crossed the river, and although he could easily pay the ferriage fee, ferrymen were required to ask for passes in an effort to catch runaway slaves and servants. Blair paid close attention to the rest of the man’s directions, then gave him some money, folded the map, and put it inside his jacket.
“If you’re traveling by yourself, this isn’t the season,” the man warned as the tavern door opened and snowflakes blew in. “Walking over the frozen river will be easier than fording it, but you might freeze to death before you make it to Donegal.”
“I understand,” Blair replied. If Ronald was not back by the first sign of spring, he would go looking for him.
#
March 1, 1734
Over the rhythmic sound of streams of milk hitting the bottom of the pail, Mallie heard the barn door open. Her heart fluttered, and she turned, Derby’s name on her lips. Disappointment stung her when she saw Bradnox. She stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “Do you need something, sir?”
“I didn’t mean to kill the man. I want you to know that.”
“Yes, sir,” she stammered, confused. He strutted straight to Mallie and grabbed her by the waist. Her mind buzzed with alarm; he had never done such a thing.
“You’re not a child anymore.” His speech was slurred, and he reeked of tobacco and rum.
“Sir, please let me go!”
She tried to peel his arm off, but it was like trying to bend an iron bar. He dragged her to the rear of the barn, muffling her protests with a hand over her mouth. He pushed her down on loose piles of straw behind some bales, pinning her down under his weight. “I’m not going to hit you, and I’m not going to hurt you. Just stop fighting me. I promise I’ll be kind.”
She banged her fists against his solid back and shoulders until her hands hurt, then grabbed at his hair. He wrapped his fingers around her wrists; it took one single squeeze for her to release her hold. He clamped one hand around both wrists and brought them behind her head, while with the other hand he pushed her skirts out of the way. She screamed.
“Scream again, and I’ll sell Derby.”
She stopped fighting. She turned her head, eyes tightly shut, Bradnox’s grunts and hot breath in her ear.