Her Wicked Sin (11 page)

Chapter Eleven

Willard was a ball of fire beneath Henry as they entered the bustling dockside portion of Salem Town. Men bickered their trades—some with good nature, others harsh in their tones—and all well-encased in the stench of idle water and decomposing fish. The morning, though cold, seemed to catch and hold the foul smells, leaving Henry to think with discontentment of the odor a thickly heated summer afternoon might bring.

Much of the activity stilled as he rode past, no doubt to gaze upon Willard’s exceptional stride. Henry doubted the men had seen such a gait on a horse, as a number of decades had passed since pure Friesians had arrived in New Amsterdam to the south. It was yet another door opened, as in truth Henry had not realized how closed his privileged life had been until he felt called upon to wander in search of his brother. Though Henry had traveled extensively, never had he tarried in the arena of the common man. His father had instilled the sense to hurry past what he referred to as the unfavorable slump of society, effectively distancing his son from much of what his world had to offer.

Henry took in a deep breath of rotting air and forced the smile from his lips. Verily, the words he shared with Lydia had been true. He could not claim how recently he learned them to be fact, but it mattered not. His discoveries captured the whimsy of boyhood even as his body strained to be husband and man. They made for a wonderful medley of sensations, and through Lydia he had taken on a whole new discovery of himself.

As for his father’s approval of Lydia, Henry would be unwise to feel he could set his foot and make his father bend. But Henry did hold hope there would be eventual acceptance, as he favored the lands for the future of his own children.
His and Lydia’s
. The thought filled him with such elation he found himself frightened by the emotion. What if she found him a temporary solution and nothing more? He could not look into her eyes and conjure such a thought, but she was not there to look upon for reassurance.

Rather, he had on approach a gruff, bearded man whose clothes were stained in the telltale hues of blood and guts. His stiff-legged stride might have been imposing had Henry not sat heads above.

“Good day, Sir,” Henry said as the stranger stalked roughly upon him.

“Who ye work fer?” the docks man said, his arms folded across his front. “We don’ need the likes of ye causin’ trouble for the workin’ lot of us.”

“I am not here on business,” Henry replied, trying to steady Willard, who refused to still. Prancing and snorting, he made a terrible show of himself, drawing attention from all corners.

The man stared, a frown etched into his sun-leathered face. “Ye have no business here.”

Henry did not know if the words were a question or a proclamation, but he did not wish to ire the man. “I am seeking my brother,” said Henry. “I am told he works at the docks.”

“No man o’ yer kind o’ means employs here,” the man advised. Gesturing to what appeared to be the stain of fish innards, he added, “Who chooses this? Perhaps he don’ wish to be found, to be sendin’ ye on such a search.”

“Perhaps not, but we ask nothing of him but to see his mother in her illness.”

The man seemed to consider Henry’s words. “Do ye brother have a name?”

“Robert Carter,” said Henry. “Though he may use an alias.”

“A great many do.” The stranger shrugged. “I don’ see yer likes around here often, but if I see ye again we can talk if I learn this Robert wishes discovery.”

The cryptic reply left Henry in suspicion the man knew exactly of whom Henry spoke, but his inclinations mattered not. He would not see information from this man. Henry had not mentioned his brother’s most notable feature—a limp arm—and chose now to keep the information close. If word got back to Robert he was hunted so specifically, he might be all the more difficult to find.

Henry swallowed frustration. “While you consider if Robert wishes to be found, know there is coin in exchange for information.”

The news gave his companion pause, but did not break him as Henry expected. The man simply nodded curtly and walked off with a staggering gate. Was he drunk?

Frowning, Henry turned Willard and headed away from the waterfront as he considered his next step. There were dozens of other men working, but the man who came forth seemed to think himself the spokesman of the group. With the others under scrutiny, each averted eyes before meeting his gaze. Henry did not expect he would glean any more information from them that day.

Having drawn away from the docks, he traveled more or less parallel to the water’s edge, taking in the austere lines and edges of the tall ships at port. There were few at this time, which both narrowed and seemingly made less possible Henry’s search. If his brother could not be found among such a small grouping of men, then what of Henry’s chances of finding him at all? The man who had spoken knew of Robert—the uneasy shifting of his eyes proved evidentiary—but mention of coin had not been enough. This likely meant either Robert had traveled on to places unknown or his friend’s loyalty extended far beyond the unnamed value Henry offered. Considering the man’s offer for further discussion should Robert favor discovery, Henry tended to believe the former.

And there were few other places to look this day. Late winter brought few in trade to the small port, as winter’s harsh days brought more ships to the larger and more sheltered ports of Boston and New Amsterdam to the south. Activity was sparse away from his initial point of approach.

Though prospects looked dim, Henry rode over much of the town grid, hoping against odds he would happen upon his brother’s familiar face. Thanks to an onshore wind, the salt and mucky scent of the ocean freely courted him. At one time the smell had been one of adventure, but several weeks in the waters between Boston and London had changed his perception. Even the wealthy passage aboard ship afforded no luxury, so he feared consideration of the scourge of conditions for the common man. But for all of the filth, there, tucked among his memories of the voyage, were those of Robert.

Henry and Robert had never been particularly close. Only four birth years separated them, but the chasm was hastened with miles of resentment—every one of them confounded by what could not be changed: Robert’s father had been lost and Henry’s was not. Robert had wanted nothing of the expansive grounds on which he had been raised from his early years, and the sentiment boiled into blatant disrespect for his stepfather. Over time, Henry’s father had become increasingly less tolerant of Robert’s distaste until their relationship had been altogether severed, but there were some good memories among the bad. Feculence of the ship’s passage aside, the trip to London had been one of them.

In a family full of sisters on a ship with little to experience aboard but new and varying degrees of filth, Henry and Robert had finally been brothers. They had spoken of adventure and travel and where they hoped their lives would lead. They had procured enough whiskey for ten men, then, soused, discussed at great length which maiden each favored bending over a barrel. The latter exchange existed almost unending, as there was nothing else on the ship to so greatly capture the interest of young men as dreams of lifting a woman’s skirts—at least not until a month into their London trip when Robert saw those thoughts to fruition. His suppositions turned into great detail, and the young woman in question began casting shy looks in Robert’s direction. The affair had lasted until the day she had appeared bruised and battered, after which she had remained largely secluded in her cabin for the rest of the voyage. Robert had said she had taken a fall, to which Henry had enquired if from the mast for the damage so great. Robert took Henry’s question as a challenge to the maiden’s honesty, and thus had ended the bit of camaraderie established between brothers. Fortunately for Robert, the young woman’s injuries had not precluded her service, as Henry had caught glimpses of Robert visiting her quarters a time or two thereafter.

At the time, Henry had been most envious of Robert’s conquest. Now, Henry knew of the consequences of such an affair, and by graces above—and the belligerence of a stubborn horse—he also knew the feel of a woman’s pure desire. Though he would not discount the purported graces of the maiden who ministered to Robert on the ship, Henry also felt certain his brother had experienced no pleasure like what had been found within the confines of the marital bed. But even that expectation dimmed Henry, for he wanted his brother to have found inkling of those dreams he had shared as a young man. Verily, losing his father had been a tragedy, but casting aside his mother thereafter was a crime without excuse.

After a thorough tour of Salem Town, Henry made a final visit to the docks. The man of his earlier acquaintance stopped his labor to watch as Henry rode past, but neither man acknowledged the other and Henry still found no sign of Robert. With a sigh not of defeat but of determination, Henry tipped his hat and turned Willard, releasing the animal into a high-paced trot. Once they reached the outskirts where neither man nor beast crowded the roads, he gave Willard his head and breathed deeply the chilly air made into a stiff wind by the horse’s rapid gallop.

Perhaps the day had not been wasted, but one thing was made clear: Robert did not want to be found. Henry’s search would not end this day. Facing that singular fact, there was but one thing to do: go home.

But first he had a stop to make—one that would change everything.

…

Try as Lydia might, no amount of stabbing fabric with brass needle could shake the unease stemming from her earlier encounter with Goodwife Abbot, though she pondered it to great extent over her mending. They had never shared a cross word, so for such terrible accusations to stem from a woman who had many times called for Lydia’s aid came as a shock. She could not help but wonder if Rebecca Mather had a stake in the claims, though the Abbot children’s roles were most clear. Lydia did not favor speaking ill of anyone—let alone a child—but their unkempt appearances and devious, self-approving smirks did not marry well with her inner sensibilities. They took too much delight in Lydia’s fearful reaction—almost as if they counted accomplishment in their mother’s allegations.

Lydia hoped some of her frustrations would be lost with her activity, but no matter how fiercely she worked the fabric she did not find release. Worse, the hour had grown late and Henry had not returned. Had he found his brother? And if so, would she see him again? As much as she tried to prepare herself for that inevitable end, she could not fathom falsehood in Henry’s words or in the tenderness of his touch. But to think him hers for a lifetime seemed a grace beyond reach—one she could no more dream than forget.

Just as her mind closed on the thought, the rear door swung inward. Startled, Lydia jumped, sending the brass needle deep in her finger.

“We are in need of a mouser,” Henry said. He staggered slightly from the doorway, fumbling to close it behind. “Vermin already in the grain.”

Lydia jumped to her feet, the discarded mending falling to the floor. Ignoring his concerns over the feed, she clutched his arm and steadied him. “Are you hurt?”

“Fear not, lovely Lydia, for I am not damaged. It is merely the drink.”

Though his words were delivered with an affable, boyish smile, they struck terror within her. While she herself had given him drink to better cope with his injury their meeting night, the effect on her battered heart was far removed from the surge of fear she now experienced. To see him come through the door in such a way affected her so terribly she could scarcely force the breath from her chest. She released her grip on his arm and stepped well away.

Her distaste must have been evident, for his eyes widened and found focus on her face. “What is it?”

Lydia held up a shaky hand, needing him to maintain his distance. “Worry not. You merely startled me.”

Her explanation did not rid his face of its concern, but he did not approach. Instead, he found the table in a series of unsteady steps and sat in his favored chair.

A bit unsteady herself, Lydia nervously smoothed her skirts and was quickly reminded by the discomfort in her fingertip of her injury. This gave cause to examine the wound, whereupon she found nothing but the tiniest speck of evidence—entirely disproportionate for the amount of pain it caused. Still, she was grateful for the distraction.

“It is your former husband, is it not?”

Lydia looked from her finger to Henry, her mouth forming a little O. Quickly, she snapped it shut.

“He was a drunkard.” Henry looked to his hands where they sat folded on the table and shook his head. “I should have known.”

“No,” she said, approaching him. “You have done no wrong. I am sorry to lay my old worries upon you.”

“They are not old worries if they haunt you still.”

“No matter. They have no bearing on what is now.”

Henry pushed from the table and, taking careful steps, met her where she stood. “Everything we bring to our union has bearing. I am deeply sorry for any angst I have caused.”

Bit by bit, tension eased from her chest and limbs. “Worry not. You are a far different man.”

He captured her hand in his and led her to the bed. Sinking onto the straw-stuffed bedtick, he pulled her to his side. “Perhaps if you tell me of him, you will relieve yourself of some of the pain.”

Lydia hesitated. “Surely you do not wish to hear the details.”

“Verily, he is a bastard. The worst I can want is for his dispatch, so it is most convenient he has already met his fate.” He touched her chin, drawing her attention from the floor to his face. “No matter how deserved his end, it is still a great burden you have been unable to share to this day. Please tell me.”

Tears heated her eyes—not for the horror of her past, but for the gentle nature of the man at her side. After a long moment, she cleared her emotion-thickened throat and fought for beginning words. “I was just a girl,” she said. “Nearing the age of matrimony, as talks prevailed of finding a suitable husband. During this time I traveled with a friend and her family to Boston, whereupon days later a letter found me. It related the loss of my parents and siblings in a fire that destroyed our house. There was nothing left.”