Scattered Seeds (3 page)

Chapter 3

Conyngham returned the paper to the drawer. He wrote their false names on a passenger list and on two passes, which he then handed to them. “Any baggage?”

“Naught but what we carry,” Edward said.

“We sail with the tide on Thursday, weather permitting. Any questions?”

“When can we board?” he asked, still inwardly celebrating the reduced fare.

“Dawn, Thursday morning.”

His triumph seeped away. “But, sir, that is two days from now. We have no lodging, and ye have the last of our coins in your box. Mayhap we could be of some use. We could cook or help ready the ship. I’m a cooper. My son and I are skilled carpenters. We could help load provisions.”

“Believe me, my good man, after a minimum of seven weeks at sea, you will thank me for sparing you two days on board. I am truly sorry, but I can allow no passengers on my brig before Thursday. She’s being smoked this morning for loading on the morrow. I have no need of coopering or carpentry. We are well maintained and in need of no repair, and my crew are quite capable of fitting out my brig all by themselves. You might ask around at the inns and barter a day or two’s lodging in exchange for your labor.”

Edward’s stomach churned. They could not waste money on lodging, yet sleeping in the open risked discovery. His face burned, but he offered no further argument. He nodded to the merchant and winked at Henry. “Come, Robert.”

Once outside, Henry asked, “Where did ye get that money? And why did ye tell him our name was McAdams?”

It was time to tell the whole of it. “I could nae use our gi’en names, because I did nae pay our hearth tax or the tithes. We’re outlaws now, Henry. We’ll be wanted for our unpaid debts, including the rent we owe your uncle. We must be on that boat and away, or else Conyngham keeps our coins and we rot in a jail . . . or worse. There’s no going back now.”

“Is all our money gone?”

“Most of it. The lowered fare helped.” With care, they would have enough to gain a foothold in Pennsylvania. “None to waste on lodging.”

“The tavern where we saw the notices had rats aplenty. Mayhap we could offer to rid the keeper of the infestation.”

“It’s worth a try. The work would be done at night. We’d run little risk of discovery.”

They hurried back to the Laughing Cow, where a handsome proprietress sent clouds of dust billowing through the open doorway. Judging by the way she handled the brush, her modest clothes concealed a healthy physique.

Edward rapped on the doorframe, startling her.

“No,” she said, her whirling hand a blur. “Go away. There’s naught here for the likes of ye. Look to a Quaker for benevolence. Ye’ll find none wi’ me.”

“It is nae benevolence we seek, woman,” Edward said, offended yet strangely charmed by her pluck. “We mean to work for our keep, and only two nights’ worth at that.” He smiled, amused by her belligerence and enchanted by her fiery eyes. He hoped her husband appreciated her.

The woman leaned on her brush handle and studied him. “What can ye do?”

He caught her inspecting him as he strode across the dingy room to rock a table. “Rickety tables mean spilled ale and grub, and spilled ale and grub means a mess to clean. I can fix that. The lad can redd up your storeroom, mayhap take care of the rats.”

She pursed her lips and considered his offer, in truth, a mighty bargain. “Two nights, no more. First sign of drunkenness and ye’ll be oot on the street, mind. Ye’ll work at night so ye do nae disrupt my trade. A widow canny afford to close, not e’en for a day. The lad can empty the ashes and redd the storeroom. I will gi’ him a ha’penny credit for each rat he kills. I hope he’s better at it than that good-for-naught terrier I feed.”

A widow.

“Much obliged.” He bowed, sorry now he wore his tattered cloak. “Tell us where we will rest our heads, and we will be oot of your hair until ye summon us.”

She directed them to a ladder, then climbed behind them into a loft, where a pitcher and bowl crowned a chest and a mattress lay on a platform.

He was glad Henry would have a bed again, even if it was for two nights only.

“The blankets are nae the thickest, but the bed is bug-free. My late husband was a carpenter, God rest him. Ye can use his tools. I’ll not have ye under foot, mind, so stay here until closing. I’ll gi’ ye a len’ of the tools then.”

He offered no argument. He had his own reasons for avoiding her patrons.

She started down the ladder, then stopped. “I’m Sarah, by the by. Sarah Wilkerson.”

“Edward McAdams.” He nodded toward Henry. “My son, Robert.” He bowed again.

“Mind me.” She continued her descent. “If I catch so much as a sniff of deceit, ye’ll soon be learnin’ to sit wi’ my brush handle stickin’ oot of your arse.”

He was still laughing when she disappeared, and he spent several minutes afterward wondering about her. In the five years since his wife’s death, Sarah was the first woman to catch his eye. Of course he would meet her two nights before leaving Ireland forever. Such was his luck.

He doffed his cloak, draped it over the chair’s back, then sat down to rub his aching thighs.

Henry collapsed face-first on the bed. He rolled over onto his side and held up one of the bed pillows. “Smell this.”

Lavender. Elizabeth’s favorite.

“It smells like Maw.” Henry pressed his nose deeper into the pillow.

Edward smiled at the child he and Elizabeth conceived in love. He remembered that frosty night well, with its clear moonlight streaming into their bedchamber to illuminate their lovemaking. They’d relished the novelty of each other’s bodies in unimaginable ways. Henry came the following summer, the embodiment of their love for one another, an innocent son with ears like open oyster shells.

What would Elizabeth say if she knew Henry’s bones would never join hers in the Irish soil? He detested himself for taking Henry from her, but his fear for their son’s future was greater than his self-loathing. If Henry stayed in Ulster, he would inherit only an early grave.

With his chest aching, he watched Henry drift off to sleep. Only when Henry snored did he lift a pillow from the bed. He pressed his face into it and wept, imagining Elizabeth, still bound in linen and resting on the lavender and woodbine flowers picked for her eternal bed.

Forgive me, Beth.

He was losing her for the second time, surrendering her to Ireland, the mystical, verdant homeland their son would never see again.

Chapter 4

“Ye’d best wear the torc,” Father whispered. “If we have to run, we’ll want it wi’ us.”

Henry hooked it around his neck, then retied his neckerchief. He pressed his fingers against the cotton at his breastbone and felt the hardness of the gold above it. It felt right, empowering, and warm. He was invincible now; it first belonged to a powerful king, after all.

The tavern buzzed with patrons who recited poems or played lively tunes on whistles or fiddles. Late in the evening, bagpipes wailed a lament up to the rafters.

Just after this solo, Henry heard the door open and a familiar voice offer greetings.

“E’ening, lads.”

“McConnell,” men replied in unison.

Henry eased up and looked at his father, who raised a finger to his lips.

“Sarah, a bowl of stew,” Uncle Sorley said. A bench scraped below. “Rotten night oot there.”

“Aye,” a gruff voice replied. “What brings ye oot in it?”

“Looking for my brother.”

“Which one?”

“Edward. Archibald woke up this morning wi’ Edward’s sow rooting up Martha’s flowers. Went to take her back and found Edward gone, along wi’ his lad and all of their possessions.”

Another voice chimed in. “Could nae be carrying much. I heard Edward fell on hard times after his wife passed. Shame, that. Remember that horse of his, Macken? What did he call that beast?”

“Paddy, I think.”

“Aye, ye’re right. It was Paddy. A Maguire-bred Fermanagh horse. That horse could plow a field like it was soft butter. How’s a man go from owning a horse like that to sleeping on a dirt floor?”

“Carelessness, though it pains me to say so, him being my brother and all. I’m worried he’s got himsel’ into a predicament. He’d be too proud to come to me for help. I’ll have to seek him oot.”

“He’s blessed to have a brother who cares,” a man said. “Here’s to your luck in finding him.”

There was a long pause, and then a multitude of cups and flagons thumped as men set them down.

Henry’s face burned. He ground his teeth together.

Father frowned and shook his head.

“Ah, thank ye, Sarah,” Sorley said. “It looks delicious, as always. When are ye gonny get spoons, woman?”

“I had spoons. Could nae keep ye pack of ne’er-do-wells from stealing them.”

“Speaking of ne’er-do-wells, I’m sure ye heard I’m looking for one. Have ye seen a Donegal man and his son about these parts today?”

“Derry’s a big place. I see lots of things.” Her voice was firm. “Lots of men from County Donegal come here regular, as ye yoursel’ know.”

Father slid to the edge of his seat.

Henry touched the torc beneath his neckerchief and prepared to run.

“The man I’m looking for is of medium build wi’ blue eyes, a brown wig, and holey stockings. He wears blue breeks and a brown waistcoat five years oot of fashion. Shoes are good though, brown wi’ red heels. The lad wi’ him has wheaten hair. Clubs it at his nape and ties it wi’ black ribbon. Breek bottoms are so tight they canny be buckled. No?”

Father cocked his ear.

Henry held his breath.

The silence stretched until Sarah broke it. “Nay, sorry. Have nae seen anyone like that th’ day.”

Father closed his eyes and tilted back his head.

Henry exhaled quietly.

God bless her, Sarah could be trusted.

“That’s the last of them. Ye can come doon,” Sarah said.

Henry rushed to the ladder, glad to drop below the cloud of ale-scented smoke choking him in the loft.

Sarah glanced at them while counting coins next to a long knife at the bar. She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped short of asking the question probably scorching the tip of her tongue. Instead, she wrinkled her nose, sniffled, and slipped on an apron.

“There’s a wash bucket next to the door in the storeroom.” She dropped her earnings into her apron pocket, then adjusted her ruffled cap. “Fill it wi’ water from the barrel and bring it in. Watch ye do nae dip it lye by mistake.”

Father lifted a lantern off the bar, then gave it to Henry and gestured toward the storeroom door. “Let’s go.”

The storeroom reeked of fermentation and mold. In the shadows, tiny eyes glittered like stars. Henry kicked dirt from the floor at one of the rats, and the rodent waddled away, either drunk or apathetic. Its indifference ignited his fury and raised the hairs on his arms.

The bucket was not beside the door, but teetering on a heap of broken staves. Father carried it to the barrels. He lifted lids to sniff the contents in each. “Bring the lamp closer, Henry. I do nae want to find the lye and scorch my nostrils.”

“Why would she not just keep the water closest to the door?” Henry waved away swarming fruit flies and concluded Sarah’s tavern sorely needed organization.

Father scooped a drowned rat out of a barrel. “Water has little use in a tavern.” The rat rolled, bloated and stiff, over to Henry’s feet. “She’s on her own, too, remember. No man around to keep her right. Folk lose their will when they lose their mates.”

Henry surveyed the dishevelment around him and knew he could put the storeroom to rights. He thought about Sarah’s situation. Childless widows struggled, and judging by the condition of her supplies, this one needed help-badly. He would do his best for her.

When they finally located the water, they filled their bucket, then carried it back to the bar.

“Dump some in yon pot and swing the crane o’er the flame.” Sarah’s apron pocket was flat again.

A dusty tray of carpentry tools sat on the bar where her knife had been.

Father lifted out a hammer and some chisels while Henry carried the bucket toward the hearth.

“My late husband’s tools,” she said. “I’m feared the last dolt to use them did nae take great care.”

“I’ll leave them in good order.”

When the water was hot, she poured some into a squat quarter-barrel, then lathered up a cloth for washing the tavern’s cups.

Henry picked up another cloth and started drying them.

“Ye’re a helpful bugger.” She smiled. “It’s a comfort to know there are still men raising decent sons.”

Father wasted no time in addressing her dilapidated tables and benches. He hammered in shims and replaced pegs to strengthen the furniture’s joints. As soon as he overturned a bench, Sarah asked the question Henry had been dreading.

“So, what are your real names?”

Henry froze, his cloth mid-swirl inside a tankard.

Father eased upright and faced her.

“If Sorley is your brother, then I know ye’re a McConnell, so it spares me the guessing there, but what are your gi’n names?”

Father spoke first. “I did nae lie about my gi’n name. I am Edward, but my son’s name is Henry, not Robert.”

She wrung out her cloth and started scrubbing the bar top. “And what did ye do that Sorley McConnell is looking for ye?” Her hands were pink from strong lye soap. “Am I harboring thieves?”

Henry gasped and answered before his father had a chance. “Certainly not.”

“Then what?” Her gaze drilled into him. “What have ye done against Sorley McConnell?”

Father answered for him. “We owe him rent. That is all.”

“That’s it? Ye have nae hamstrung his cattle or broken doon his fences?”

“Nay.”

She returned to her scrubbing, scowling over her work. “Well, more’s the pity. I wish ye had. My late husband had dealings wi’ him. A bit too friendly wi’ the lobsterbacks, that one. Canny be trusted. If he were my brother, I’d go away too.”

“Ye seemed friendly enough wi’ him.” Father returned to his work, his cheeks a blistering red. His jaw was a little too set, his attention a little too focused on the overturned bench.

Her work finished, Sarah dried her hands on a fresh towel. “I’m heading to bed. Help yoursel’ to a heel of a loaf.” She doffed her apron and hung it on its peg. “See to yon rats,” she told Henry. “A ha’penny credit each, mind, so do a good job.”

He nodded. For a good lady like Sarah, he would murder the vermin for free.