Authors: Beyond the Dawn
“Damn you, McNeil,” she whispered helplessly.
With a rueful laugh, she came into his waiting arms. McNeil’s throat thickened with urgent desire. He roughly unrobed her. He kissed her with fierce, savage hunger, and for the next few minutes he took not one thought for his sweet Flavia. For a few minutes his devastating loss was as far from his mind as Williamsburg from the moon.
When he lay back, sated, all senses at rest, the baroness lazily rolled toward him.
“Why,
McNeil?” she demanded with sleepy good nature.
“Why
won’t you marry me? I make you happy in the bedchamber. We are good friends as well as lovers. I’m rich. I’m not unattractive. I would be a charming hostess for your house on York Street.”
As though to endorse her mistress’s proposal, Annette’s long-haired white cat leaped to the bed, nuzzling McNeil’s hand, begging for a head scratch. He shoved the cat off the bed and dropped his hand on Annette’s back.
He placated her with a lazy pat on the fanny.
“Go to sleep.”
But she would not be placated.
“Is it because I’m older than you?” She waited for an answer. When it didn’t come, she tried again. “Is it because I can’t give you children?”
The question irritated him.
“Go to sleep, damn it.”
McNeil rolled away, punched his pillow and settled into his nap. Marriage? Children? God knows, such subjects had been foreign to his mind until Flavia. The huge-eyed girl had stirred alien feelings in him. An adventuring, seafaring man all of his life, he’d never yearned for hearth or home. Until Flavia.
The baroness sensed she’d struck pay dirt.
“It
is
the issue of children.”
He emitted a growl of protest.
“Let me sleep,” he ordered, “or you’ll find yourself treated
exactly
like a wife. I’ll beat you.”
She giggled, then lay back with a long sigh.
“What vain creatures men are. They set such store in having an heir.” She giggled her low throaty giggle. “Like old Spindle Shanks, the duke of Tewksbury, McNeil? Lord knows what he did to get
his
heir! It’s rumored that he poisoned his first two duchesses because they proved barren. Though some say he sold them into an African seraglio and only pretended they died of illness.”
McNeil had gone tight as a coiled spring at her mention of Tewksbury.
“Be silent, Annette,” he warned.
Ignorant of his relationship with Flavia, she blithely rattled on.
“Of course, the duke finally got his long-awaited heir from poor dead Flavia. But I wonder . . . suppose . . . Flavia cuckolded him? Suppose she saw the handwriting on the wall... married several years and no sign of children. Suppose she assumed it was the duke’s fault? Suppose she assumed the duke was unable to father a child? Suppose she decided to lie with a servant to get with child? Suppose—”
McNeil lunged out of bed. His heart raced. Blood hammered thickly in his jugular vein and thundered in his temples. His vision went black. He couldn’t see. Yet, for the first time, he saw clearly. Judas, how stupid he’d been! How blind! She’d come to him that night on the quay, frightened to death but determined to see the liaison through. His heart stopped as the enormity of what he now knew hit him like a lightning bolt.
I have a son!
he exulted.
My Flavia is dead, but our son—our son lives!
Galvanized into action, he seized his clothes and threw them on. He had to get out. Had to think, plan . . .
Forgetting the baroness existed, he wrenched the door open, strode down the hallway and vaulted down the stairs, two at a time. Annette’s alarmed voice echoed after him, fading under his strident, booming footfalls.
“McNeil? What . . . where are you going? McNeil? You won’t forget you’re escorting me to the governor’s birthday ball tonight? McNeil?”
Chapter 8
May 1754 -- Chestertown, Maryland
“Jane! Jane Brown! Get down here, you worthless chit. Earn your keep, girl. This is Market Day. You’ve the hens to do, peas and lettuce to pick. Your master’s not yet seen hide nor hair of his breakfast. Must I shout my lungs out? Jane!”
Flavia groaned. The straw-filled mat snapped crisply under her as she stirred. Surely she’d been asleep no longer than five minutes. She was bone-weary. Every muscle hurt. Even in her dreams she’d gone on stooping and bending, stooping and bending as she and Neddy planted the huge garden in green beans.
She forced her eyes open. Blinking, she tried to get her bearings in the windowless attic loft. A dull gray glow illuminated chinks where chimney mortar had pulled away from siding.
Dawn? Already?
Flavia’s heart jumped in dread. She flung herself up, her shoulders twitching in sharp recall. She’d no desire to feel Mistress Byng’s switch once again.
Swiftly, she threw on the ill-fitting muslin clothes that marked her as a bond servant. She grabbed a mobcap. There wasn’t time to wash or even pull a comb through her thick, coppery curls. Such niceties would only earn her a thrashing at best. Mistress Byng would accuse her of primping.
She hoped fervently that Neddy was awake and about his duties in the barn. The boy was simpleminded. Given a specific duty, Neddy would plunge in at once. But let a bird fly by or a dog bark, and Neddy was as easily distracted as a three-year-old. His poor, undeveloped brain could not find its way back to the assigned duty. As a result, Neddy got more than his share of beatings.
Her heart ached for the boy. Bound to Josiah Byng at the age of six, Neddy was now fifteen. He must serve until twenty-one. Even at twenty-one, Flavia doubted the Byngs would take pains to explain freedman status to the boy. Doubtless they would use fear and food to keep the lad bound to them for life.
Not daring to take time to straighten her cot, Flavia rushed down the creaking loft ladder and into the large lime-whitened kitchen that was the center of the Reverend Josiah Byng’s modest house.
The fire was already blazing in the hearth, a sure sign that Flavia’s day would be an unpleasant one. As she hurried to the larder cupboard to start the corn cakes, Mistress Byng hauled herself up from lighting the fire. Her lips puckered.
“I shall speak to the magistrate, Jane. Your slugabed ways cost me dear. The magistrate shall be persuaded to indemnify me for your laziness. He shall extend your indenture by a year.”
Flavia swallowed back rising anger. It was Mistress Byng’s usual threat. In the first months, Flavia’s knees had gone watery with fear whenever she heard it. And she heard it often, being all thumbs at servant work and unable to please. But now she knew her rights. An indenture could be extended only if a bondservant ran away or stole.
“The time cannot be more than half-past four o’clock,” she returned coolly. She lifted a heavy piece of crockery from the cupboard and measured cornmeal into it.
“ 'Tis Market Day and well you know it, girl. Market Day requires an early rise.”
Flavia sighed tiredly.
“I prepared everything last night. The cheeses are wrapped. The tins of butter stand in cold water in the springhouse. The egg basket is packed.”
“Packed well?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Last Market Day it was
not
packed well. You let Neddy carry the basket, and three eggs got broke before they could be sold.”
Flavia’s head throbbed. She was tired. The woman’s shrill voice gave her a headache.
Incautiously, she blurted, “You packed the eggs last time, ma’am.
You
told Neddy to carry the basket.”
Mistress Byng’s small hard eyes lit with challenge.
“Oho, missy! Saucy, ain’t we? Shall the magistrate hear of it? Have a yen to ride Chestertown’s public whipping post, do you?”
Flavia reddened in anger. Her headache banged, increasing. Its throbbing pain made her throw caution to the wind.
“I know the law,” she said. “Insolence must be proved before the judge will condemn a bondservant to the post.”
Mistress Byng’s sallow complexion darkened, and instantly Flavia regretted her boldness. Oh, why had she risen to the baiting? Now the heartless woman would revenge herself where it tortured Flavia most. She would vent her anger on Neddy.
Before Flavia could offer an ingratiating apology, the kitchen door banged open. Neddy came tramping in, his bare feet caked with barn soil. He was a gangling boy, all wrists, elbows and feet. Sudden growth had rendered his breeches short.
As he entered, his eyes flew to Flavia in unabashed adoration. His slack mouth achieved a clumsy smile. Clumping across the clean pine planking, he toted a bucket of fresh cow milk.
“Uh, uh, Jane—uh, uh—Neddy ‘member. Uh, uh, uh—Neddy—uh, uh—milk Daisy.”
Flavia threw him an encouraging smile.
“Good boy, Neddy.”
She rushed to rescue the bucket lest the boy spill, earning himself a scolding or worse. Mouth slack, Neddy stood basking in the warmth of her praise. Like an eager puppy, his eyes begged for a pat on the head. She gave it and Neddy glowed. Excited, he gestured toward the door.
“Uh, uh—Neddy—uh, uh—go milk Daisy, uh, uh.”
Flavia shook her head.
“No, dear. You just milked Daisy, remember? You may milk her tonight. After supper.”
Neddy’s eyes brightened with a new thought.
“Supper—uh, uh—Neddy eat—uh, uh.”
Concerned to get the child out of the house when the mistress was in one of her foul moods, Flavia whispered, “Hush, Neddy. Good boy. Run and take Daisy to pasture. Do it for Jane?”
But her ploy didn’t work. Loath to leave her, Neddy dawdled, and Mistress Byng was across the kitchen in a trice. Lips pursed, she peered into Neddy’s bucket.
“Why, there’s dirt in the milk!”
She swung round at the boy. “You drooling fool. Jane,” she commanded, “fetch the switch.”
Neddy’s glee died. Confusion filled his eyes, then fear. He began to blubber. He was almost the size of a man, but he plucked at Flavia’s skirts, trying to hide behind them.
“It’s only a speck,” Flavia said. “I’ll strain it, ma’am. The milk will come good as new.”
But Mistress Byng didn’t want solutions. She wanted revenge. Striding to the stone wall that housed the fireplace, she seized a willow switch from where it hung among iron skillets. She swooped back upon the howling terrified boy.
Aghast, Flavia threw her arms around the child. “Please! Don’t beat him, ma’am. He doesn’t understand.”
But the switch reared upward, knocking into a bunch of dried herbs that hung from the beam along with smoked hams and bacon. A shower of aromatic bits floated down, increasing the woman’s vexation.
“‘Understand’?” She smote the boy on his bare, defenseless legs. “There’s only one way to train a fool. Understanding must be beaten into him.”
Neddy screamed as the switch reared up again. Flavia shut her eyes. Before the blow could land, a door opened and the Reverend Josiah Byng emerged from his study. The clergyman’s face was red with irritation. Tearing off his reading spectacles, he gave the proceedings an ill-tempered glance.
“Neddy again! How many times shall he interrupt my morning prayers? Wife, give me the rod. I shall take him to the woodshed and chastise him proper.”
“No! Oh, no, sir—” Flavia cried out, but Josiah Byng silenced her with a baleful look.
“God bless you, Mr. Byng,” Mrs. Byng simpered. “It quite puts my arm out of joint, disciplining the lad.”
To Flavia’s despair, Neddy was wrenched from her arms and was dragged, howling, across the kitchen and out the door.
“Spare the rod,” Josiah Byng intoned loudly as the beating commenced, “and spoil the child.”
With tears for Neddy welling up, Flavia blindly turned to her chores. Through the boy’s screams, she could hear the whistle of the switch and the splat when it found its target. Her hands shook as she rushed to slice the bacon, layered it in a long-handled black skillet and settled it upon a trivet in the fire. Flicking tears from her eyes, she cracked eggs into the cornmeal, added leaven, wheat flour and milk, and stirred furiously. As Neddy’s howls of pain and terror came, tears spilled down her cheeks and into the batter.
Mistress Byng was satisfied.
* * * *
Forgetful of the morning whipping, Neddy trudged along at her side in the May spring sunshine, his eyes wide with childish delight. It was Market Day, and he was happy. For a few hours he was free of the Byngs, and he was in the company of his beloved “Jane.” When he tramped through a mud puddle, joyously splashing and setting his sack of trussed hens to cackling in fright, Flavia didn’t scold him for it. Let him have his fun, she thought.
Her spirits always lifted on Market Day, too. Although she must sell Mrs. Byng’s wares and account for every penny, the day afforded a measure of freedom. There were friends to talk with, news to glean. She’d made friends among Chestertown’s indentured. One or two were well-bred like herself. It wasn’t an uncommon practice among English gentry to discipline an incorrigible son or daughter by sending him or her to the colonies under indenture.
Above all, Market Day always brought news of Chesapeake Bay shippers. Sometimes she heard tidbits about McNeil & McNeil. Already she’d learned that Garth and his brother owned two ships, that Garth had houses in Williamsburg and in Hampton, Virginia. News! Her pulse raced in anticipation. Shifting the heavy egg basket to her other arm, she quickened her step and hurried Neddy along with his load of cheeses and chickens.
The wagon road twisting down into Chestertown teemed with market-goers and smelled of the baaing, bleating, mooing livestock that was being driven to market. Chester-town’s dogs loped along the road, assaulting everything that moved with wild, hoarse barks, and farm boys hallooed at one another above the chaos or shouted jibes as they prodded a cow or a sheep toward Chestertown.
Steering Neddy along, Flavia absorbed all the sights and sounds. An itinerant fiddler shuffled along, practicing his notes as he went. With the deftness of a dancer, he avoided fresh piles of steaming manure without missing a note.
Two girls with long sticks drove a flock of geese. The geese waddled along, rearing up and hissing whenever a barking dog ventured too close. One of the town’s ne’er-do-wells came cantering down the center of the dirt road on his big bay, scattering livestock and people alike.