“No more’n what I heard. What a body hears ain’t always the truth.” His unshaven face tightened, and his eyes turned cautious, like a deer at the snap of a forest twig. “Anyway, it don’t matter either way. Things done can’t be undone. Nothing we can do about—”
Simon reached across the counter and seized Blayney’s buckskin coat. Seams ripped. “I want it straight, Blayney, and I want it now.”
“Sir?”
Simon stiffened at the sound of his son’s voice. Shame pricked him. He released the coat, drew in air, wiped sweat from his forehead, and prayed for calm. “Carry the pelts into the back room, John. Take your sister.” When they didn’t answer, Simon glanced back.
They both stood sagging in the log-framed doorway, arms loaded with furs, looking as lost and confused as Simon had been the first time he stepped foot on American soil.
Defeat speared through his confusion, his exhaustion, his grief—until it was the only thing that made sense to him. He had come here to make something of himself. To accomplish matters of worth and build something with his own hands. What good had he fulfilled?
In one day, everything had been destroyed.
Ruth was dead.
His children broken.
His life spiraling in so many directions he could not catch the pieces fast enough to keep them from escaping.
“See here, there’s a slice of bread and molasses for the two of you, if you hurry to do your bidding.” Blayney stepped back around the counter, readjusting his coat with a smile, though his cheeks were flushed.
The children nodded and scampered away.
Silence filled the room, as heavy as the burdens cloaking themselves around Simon’s heart. He faced his friend, shoulders slumping. “Blayney, I—”
“Forget it. I’ve been mauled by a bear twice over. A little jostling now and then feels like a flea.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Two of the strangers from the ship were having rum in here four nights ago. They did some babbling. Things that didn’t make a heap o’ sense to me.”
“Like what?”
“Like what a laugh it was that they was to be hanged the next morning back home.”
“You think they are prisoners?”
“Possible.” Blayney shrugged. “I’ve heard tell of the Crown sending convicts here to the colonies and selling them to servitude when they got here. Fact is, one o’ the boys I had with me in Virginia was an indentured servant come from England. But this…” He scratched his head. “Don’t know. Something different. These men strode off the ship without nary a chain, and if you ask me, there ain’t no ragpickers or lace stealers ’mong the lot o’ them.”
“You think they were shipped over illegally.”
“Don’t know. Don’t know how a body could find out either, or do anything ’bout it if he did. Not from overseas, that is.”
The children returned, and when Blayney went to fetch the promised bread and molasses, Simon stepped back to the porch and raked his fingers through his hair. Afternoon sun burned his face. Nothing made sense. He had too many questions.
He needed answers.
“Made for pretty things.”Ruth’s words punctured him. He glanced at his hands, spread them open though they shook.“Promise me you will use them for pictures…not hurting…Simon…”
“Mr. Fancourt?”
Simon turned back to the doorway, glanced down at the wrinkled letter Blayney held out to him. “What is this?”
“’Twas in the last time you came, but I forgot to give it to you.”
Simon took the letter and turned it over. Sunlight glistened off the smudged paper and elegant script. He drew in a breath.
Sowerby House?
Mamma was gone.
Georgina stared at the empty carriage—the damask fabric, the plush beige seats, the ruffled curtains and swaying tassels. Emptiness hollowed through her.
