Blackhearts (2 page)

between herself and his stall as possible.

The devil hang him. If Master Drummond wants venison for

his son’s return, he should come down here and buy it himself. If
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the butcher tries to touch me again, I’ll stick him like the pig he is.

Only after she was several rows away did Anne stop and

lean against a brick wall to catch her breath, aware of the suspicious glances thrown her way.

Despite the fact that it was a major seaport, most of the

inhabitants of Bristol were still unused to Anne’s appearance.

She was the illegitimate daughter of a prosperous English mer-

chant and a West Indies slave, and people didn’t know how to

react to the mix of her mother’s coppery skin and her father’s

blue eyes. It was obvious Anne didn’t fully belong to either race, and others often viewed her with either distaste or distrust.

Wearily she straightened, her fingers reaching for her moth-

er’s small, gold watch hidden in her pocket, a habit whenever

she was upset or distressed. She needed to find something else

to cook for dinner, and quickly. With rows and rows of stalls,

it would not be too difficult to find a new butcher, but she

doubted she’d be able to find the same quality.

The church bell chimed the top of the hour, which meant

Anne needed to head back to the manor, but there was no

decent venison to be found. Desperate, Anne settled instead

upon a clean stall near the edge of the market and bought two

pheasants from a small, elderly woman with a hunched back

and frail shoulders.

The woman took the coins Anne handed her and slipped

them into her pocket, watching Anne intently the entire time.

Anne ignored it, used to the scrutiny by now, after years of

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prying glances. “Do you ever have venison?” Anne asked, the poultry safely tucked beneath her arm.

The old woman nodded. “Aye, but we sold out first thing

this morning.”

Just my luck.

“I’ll be back in the future,” Anne assured her, before heading

into the busy horde. From now on she would buy from the old

woman’s stall. Anne was the only one that Master Drummond

sent to the market. There was no need for him to discover where

Anne acquired his meals—she did not understand why he took

such an active interest in his purchases anyway.

Part of her hair escaped her thick braid and cap, and she

impatiently stuffed the stubborn black strands underneath,

thinking of all the work that had yet to be done. A party of six would be eating dinner that afternoon, and she needed to get

the pheasants home as quickly as possible.

Her feet turned in the direction of the harbor. Shrimp was

a favorite treat of Master Drummond’s, and she had enough

money left over. Although it wouldn’t be a lot, it might be

enough to dampen his ire. If she could not secure the shrimp,

she feared he might send her back to the workhouse, where

she’d have to labor alongside the rest of the city’s penniless

inhabitants in exchange for handouts. The thought sent a shiver

running down her back.

As Anne approached the docks, the sound of seagulls

intensified and the bells on distant boats could be heard more

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clearly. Her father had sometimes brought her here very early in the morning or late at night, when not many people were

about. He’d said that the presence of the sea gave the very skies a special quality, one that could not be duplicated.

There was freedom here. It flowed through the air and lifted

the sails of the vessels as they left. How often in the last five months had she been tempted to stow away, sail off, and leave

this life behind? Her mother had filled her head with stories of the West Indies, and her father had always promised to take her

to her mother’s island one day.

The familiar sights and sounds of the waterfront drew Anne

in. It was hard to take a breath without inhaling the scent of salt and fish, and no one could speak without having to raise their

voice over the cries of the gulls. Anne managed a smile, her first one all week.

The fishmonger she usually bought from saw her coming

and straightened, returning her smile. “Good morning, Anne.

You’re a bit late this morning, aren’t you?”

She nodded regretfully. “Yes, indeed. I don’t have much

time, but I need some shrimp,” she said, referring to the small

barrel behind him, full of the plump, gray crustaceans. “Two

pounds should do.”

He flinched. “I’m truly sorry, but those have been pur-

chased.”

Fear sharpened Anne’s voice. “What? The whole barrel?”

“Aye. Someone came in and bought the lot.”

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“But I must have two pounds. Surely you can spare some,”

she said.

“They’re not mine to spare. Though, you can ask him your-

self, if you like,” the fishmonger said, pointing at someone over Anne’s shoulder.

She turned in time to see a large figure approaching. He was

at least a head taller than she, with a broad chest, and muscu-

lar legs clearly visible in the brown breeches he wore. A cutlass hung from his waist, beneath his short jacket. He was tanned,

and the hair on his head and the beard on his face were as black as the thatched roofs surrounding the dock.

She took an involuntary step backward as he stopped beside

her. He gave her a cursory glance, his green eyes bright, before turning his attention to the fishmonger. His voice was smooth

and low when he spoke. “Instead of taking them myself, I’d like

you to deliver—”

Desperation drove Anne to interrupt him. “Please, sir.

Might I have a word with you?”

Once again those green eyes turned in her direction. This

time he afforded her a more complete perusal, and she swal-

lowed the distaste in her mouth. He was no gentleman. His

appearance suggested a simple sailor, someone who could not

possibly afford the entire barrel.

“Yes?” he asked.

“It’s about the shrimp. I was wondering if I could take two

pounds from the top and pay you for them.”

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A woman came from behind and called to the fishmonger.

He turned to help her, leaving the shabby sailor and Anne to

their conversation.

When he had first approached, she’d thought him much

older, for he was taller than most men. On closer inspection, she realized he couldn’t have been more than nineteen. His expression warmed as he considered her. He was interested, clearly,

but Anne wasn’t sure if it was her proposal or her appearance.

“There is more than one stall that sells shrimp,” he said.

She was not to be deterred. She’d already lost one battle this

morning and could not afford to lose another. The last cook

who hadn’t provided the master’s favorite meal for a special

occasion had been fired and kicked out onto the streets.

As much as Anne disliked living in the Drummond house-

hold, it was preferable to the gutter. And if she went to another household, there was no guarantee she could secure enough

funds to begin a new life. “Yes, but this man has the most hon-

est scales and the freshest fish. Since I am unable to buy from

him, I have no choice but to ask you. Surely you would not miss

two pounds,” she pressed.

The corners of his mouth lifted, and his green eyes twinkled.

“Ah, but I would. Have you considered oysters as a substitute?”

Anne pursed her lips. Master Drummond hated oysters.

“No, it must be shrimp. Please, I have a very important meal—”

It was his turn to interrupt. “I, too, have an important meal,

for which I need the entire barrel.”

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No doubt trying to impress some girl and her family.

“I have enough coin. How much would it take?” she asked

briskly.

He paused for a moment, still considering her. She shifted

uncomfortably beneath his gaze but refused to back down. The

crowd surrounding them thinned, evidence that time was wast-

ing. Her eyes begged him to comply.

“Perhaps I’ve been too hasty. We could discuss the price,” he

said, reaching boldly for her arm.

An image of the butcher flashed before her eyes, but this

time there was no table to separate her from her attacker. Jerk-

ing free of his hold, Anne brought the pail forward, hitting the sailor soundly between the legs. He dropped to his knees, the

breath escaping his lungs with a pained
“Ooof,”
his eyes no longer twinkling.

“Keep your hands to yourself, you filthy sea rat! Even if you

were to offer me the full barrel, I wouldn’t go anywhere with

the likes of you!”

For the second time that morning, Anne rushed away from

an unwelcome advance, cursing softly beneath her breath. She

felt the sailor’s eyes following her, burning a hole into the back of her head, but she didn’t turn around. He was in no condition

to give chase, at least not now.

Hurrying from the docks, she reached once again for her

mother’s pocket watch. A shiver ran down her spine and she

sent up a silent prayer, asking that Master Drummond’s heart

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would be softened and that she wouldn’t find herself on the receiving end of his fury.

Anne also prayed that her path would not cross again with

that of the sailor’s, for if it did, she knew with certainty that she would not leave the encounter unscathed.

1 0

C H A P T E R 2

Anne

When Anne arrived home two hours later, anxiety tightened

her chest as it always did when the large gray manor came into

view. It was cold and unfeeling, much like its owner, as if each wall were carefully designed to suppress joy.

Sheltered in the grassy downs several miles from the center

of town, the property lay behind an ornate wall and gatehouse.

It was rumored that Master Drummond had chosen this resi-

dence because his wife had fallen in love with the nearby woods.

Anne knew the nine bedchambers and seven chimneys of the

stone structure by heart, for on more than one occasion she’d

been forced to clean them all.

As she entered, the estate buzzed with activity. Everyone

appeared to be elbow deep in chores and preparations. Margery, the housekeeper, bickered with the elderly gardener about the roses

for the table settings. Margery had gray hair and a pronounced

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limp (for one leg was shorter than the other), and as head of the kitchen, she took her duties seriously. If Mrs. Drummond had still been alive, Margery would have been second in command to her.

The two housemaids bustled about with dusting cloths,

trying to shine the brass and polish the silver. Even the three-

legged cat had something to do as it scurried away to devour the unlucky mouse clenched between its teeth.

“Well, it’s about time you showed yourself. What were you

doing for so long?” Margery pounced as Anne hung her shawl

on a peg near the back door. “Did you go out into the woods

and kill the deer yourself?”

Steeling herself against the housekeeper’s anger, Anne

turned to face her, the lie ready on her lips. “There was no good venison to be had today. Master Drum—”

Margery’s eyes narrowed, and she cuffed Anne on the side

of the head. Luckily, she never used much force.

Anne’s cap flew off, but she caught it with her hands as

her thick braid fell down her back, setting loose several more

strands of hair.

“What? No venison? The master said he wanted venison

for tonight, what with his son being gone for so long. The next

time he requests it, make sure you get to the market earlier.”

Anne nodded, preparing herself for a second strike. She

didn’t mention that she’d been up since before dawn. Any

earlier
, and she could have milked the cows for the farmer down the road.

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“It’s a good thing I made the master’s favorite tartlets. At least you did right with the shrimp,” Margery said, limping over to the fireplace to stoke the embers.

“Shrimp?” Anne asked, her head snapping up.

Margery gave Anne an odd look. “Aye, shrimp. I didn’t

think I’d given you enough for a whole barrelful, but that’ll

feed the lot of them, to be sure.”

Confused, Anne left the pail and pheasants on the table and

followed Margery into the pantry. There on a shelf was a barrel

of shrimp. The same barrel Anne had seen earlier that morning.

Margery read the surprise on her face and hesitated. “You

did ask the fishmonger to deliver them, didn’t you?”

What was the right thing to say? Anne truly could not

explain how the shrimp had gotten here. She was merely grate-

ful that they had, for it meant that she would have a roof over

her head, at least for one more night. And it meant that she

could keep the leftover coins still in her pocket.

Every time Anne went to market, she saved whatever

change she had left, for Master Drummond did not pay her

nearly enough so that she might eventually afford passage on a

ship bound for the West Indies. She’d also taken to pilfering the odd spoon or empty goblet from the household.

In a few weeks’ time she would sell it all and leave on the

Deliverance
. Surely no one would expect her to be so bold as to depart on her master’s ship.

Margery waited. “Well?” she asked.

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“The fishmonger delivered them,” Anne said, not quite phrasing her statement as a question.