When his rage diminished, Thomas stormed out. Anna remained on the floor, too afraid and too hurt to get up. She measured the grain of the wood planks while she thought. Thomas would go to Miller, reassure him the sale was imminent. Soon she would have no choice.
She eventually forced herself up, pulling herself onto a stool. No bones broken, this time.
In her quest to find security, independence, she'd first tried the law, and when that wasn't enough, she'd put her faith in her husband's strength. Now...she wasn't sure what would work, but knew she would be damned if she gave in. Not after all she'd done to make the place her own. Her father had taught her the value of a business, repeated it over and over, as she held his hand while he died. He said there were only two books she needed to mind, her Bible and her ledger, but now the latter had her in deep trouble. She moved stiffly to the bar, poured herself a large rum, drank it down neat, exchanging the burn of the liquor for the searing pain in her back.
Thomas didn't return in the morning, but Anna hadn't expected him to. He often stayed away after a beating, a chance for her to think over her sins, he'd told her once before. But never for more than a day or two.
She moved stiffly that day, easier the next, but late the third evening, when Anna was about to bar the door for the night, a man's hand shoved it open. Maybe Thomas had had a change of heart, had come home--
It was Hook Miller.
She didn't offer a drink. He didn't ask for one.
"Why not sell to me, Anna Hoyt?" he asked, warming his hands at the fire. "I want this place, so you might as well save yourself the trouble."
"I told you: my father said I should never sell. Property--it's the only sure thing in this world."
Miller didn't seem bothered, only a bit impatient. "There's nothing sure, Anna. Wood burns, casks break, and customers leave. And I've had the lawyer Clark make your rights over to Thomas. Take my money, leave here."
She said nothing. Felt the paper she kept in her shoe, the copy of the document that gave her the Queen's Arms, the property, the right to do business. Now they were, he was telling her, worthless. After all her work, all she'd done...
Suddenly, Anna had a dreadful thought. "Where's Thomas? Have you seen him?"
"Indeed, I have just left him." Miller stood straight, smiled crookedly. He continued, mock-serious: "He's...down by my wharf. He couldn't persuade you to sell, but he's still looking after your interests."
The blood froze inside her. Thomas was dead, she knew it.
Miller tilted his head and waited. When she couldn't bring herself to respond, he left, closing the door behind him.
The paralyzing cold spread over her, and, for a blessed moment, Anna felt nothing. Then the shivering started, brought her back to the tavern. Anna's first thought was that her knees would give way before she reached the chair by the fire. She clutched the back of it, her nails digging into the upholstery. When she felt one of them snap, she turned, took three steps, then vomited into the slops pot on the bar.
Better, Anna thought, wiping her mouth. I must be better than this.
Still trembling, but at least able to think, she climbed the stairs to her rooms. She saw Thomas's good shirt hanging from a peg, and buried her face in it, breathing deeply. She took it down, rubbing the thick linen between her fingers, and considered the length of the sleeves. She stared at the peg, high on the wall, and reluctantly made her decision.
Everything was different in her new shoes. Since she was used to her thin slippers, the cobbles felt oddly distant beneath the thick soles, and it took her awhile to master the clunkiness of the heels. She relied on a population used to drunken sailors to ignore her, relied on the long cloak to conceal most of her blunders. Thomas's clothes would have been impossible, but she still had a chest full of her father's things, and his boots were a better fit. Best not to think about the rest of her garb. She needed to confirm what Miller had hinted, and she couldn't be seen doing it. Anna was too familiar a figure to those whose lives were spent on the wharves, and most of them would be friendly faces. But not if she were caught. If they caught her, so scandalously dressed in britches, well...losing the tavern would be the least of it.
Somehow, her need to know for sure was stronger than fear, than embarrassment, and the bell in the Old North Church chimed as she found her way to Miller's wharf. The reek of tar and wood fires made her eyes water, and a stiff breeze combined drying fish with the smells of spices in nearby warehouses, making her almost gag.
The moon broke through the clouds. She walked out to the harbor, feeling more and more exposed by the moment...
Nothing on Miller's wharf that shouldn't be there. She stopped, struck by a realization. Hook would never lay the murder at his own doorstep.
The urge to move a short way down to the pier and wharf that belonged to Clark, Miller's detested rival in business, was nearly physical.
At first, Anna saw nothing but the boards of the pier itself. She climbed down the ladder to the water's edge, hooked one of the dinghies by its rope, and pulled it close. She boarded, cast off, and rowed, following the length of the pier. Though she preferred to be secret, there was no need to muffle the oarlocks; the waterfront's activity died down at night, but it was never completely silent along the water. Sweat trickled down her back even as thin ice crackled on the floor of the boat beneath her feet.
The half hour rang out, echoed by church bells across Boston and Charlestown, and Anna shivered in spite of her warm exercise.
Three-quarters of the way down the pier, Anna saw a glimpse of white on the water. She uncovered her lantern and held it up.
Among the pilings, beneath the pier, all manner of lost and discarded things floated, bobbing idly on top of the waves: broken crate wood, a dead seagull, an unmoored float. There was something else.
A body.
Even without seeing his face, she knew it was Thomas, his fair hair floating like kelp, the shirt she herself had patched billowing around him like sea foam. A wave broke against the piling of the pier and one of his hands was thrust momentarily to the surface, puffy and raw: the fish and harbor creatures had already been to feast.
Anna stared awhile, and then maneuvered the boat around. She rowed quietly back to the ladder, tied up the dinghy, and headed home.
She brought the bottle of rum to her room, drank until the cold was chased away and she could feel her fingers again. Then she drank a good deal more. She changed back into her own clothing and, keeping her father's advice in mind, opened her Bible. In an old habit, she let it fall open where it would, closing her eyes and placing a finger on the text. The candle burned low while she read, waiting for someone to come and tell her Thomas Hoyt was dead.
Hook Miller came to the burial on Copp's Hill. As he made his way up to where Anna stood, the crowd of neighbors--there were nearly fifty of them, for nothing beat a good funeral--doffed their hats out of respect to his standing. Miller's clothes were showy but ill-suited to him, Anna knew, and he pretended concern that was as foreign to him as a clean handkerchief. He even waited decently before he approached her, and those nearby heard a generous offer of aid to the widow, so that she could retreat to a quieter life elsewhere.
The offering price was still an affront. When she shook her head, he nodded sadly, said he'd be back when she was more composed. She knew it wasn't solicitousness but the eyes of the neighborhood that made him so nice. The next time Miller approached her, it would be in private. There would be no refusing that offer.
When Seaver came in for his drink later, she avoided his glance. She'd already made up her mind.
The next morning, she sent a note to Hook Miller. No reason to be seen going to him, when there was nothing more natural than for him to come to the tavern. And if his visit stood out among others, why, she was a propertied widow now, who had to keep an eye to the future.
He didn't bother knocking, came in as if he already owned the place, and barred the door behind him. She was standing behind a
chair, waiting, a bottle of wine on the table, squat-bodied and long-necked, along with two of her best glasses, polished to gleaming. One was half-filled, half-drunk. The fire was low, and there were only two candles lit.
He bowed and sat without being asked. His breath was thick with harsh New England rum. "Well?"
"I can't sell the place. I'd be left with nothing."
Miller was silent at first, but his eyes narrowed. "And?"
Anna straightened. "Marry me. That way...the place will be yours, and I'll be...looked after."
"You didn't sign it over to Thomas."
"Thomas Hoyt was as thick as two short planks. I couldn't trust him to find his arse with both hands."
Thomas's absence now was not discussed.
Miller pondered. "If I do, you'll sign the Queen's Arms over to me."
"The day we wed." Her father had given her the hope and the means, but then slowly, painfully, she'd discovered she couldn't keep the place alone. She swallowed. "I can't do this by myself."
"And what benefit to me to marry you?"
Her hours of thought had prepared the answer. "You'll get a property you've always wanted, and with it, an eye and an ear to everything that happens all along the waterfront. More than that: respectability. This whole neighborhood is getting nothing but richer, and you'd be in the middle of it. What better way to advance than through deals with the merchant nobs themselves? To say nothing of window dressing for your other...affairs."
Miller laughed, then stopped, considered what she was saying. "Sharp. And a clever wife to entertain my new friends? It makes sense."
"Those merchants, they're no more than a step above hustling themselves. We can be of use to each other," she said carefully. She'd almost said need, but that would have been fatal. "Wine?"
He looked at her, looked at the bottle, the one empty glass. "Thanks."
She poured, the ruby liquid turning blood-black in the green-tinged glasses, against the dark of the room.
He stared at the glass, his brow furrowing. "I've more of a mind for beer, if you don't mind."
She looked disappointed, but didn't press him. "You'll have to get a head for wine if you expect to move up in the world." She rose and slid a pewter mug from a peg on the wall, then filled it from the large barrel behind her bar.
Miller smiled, thanked her. She raised her glass to him, sipped. He saluted and drank too.
It was then he noticed the large Bible on the table next to them. He reached over, flipped through carelessly.
"Too much theater for one about to be so soon remarried, don't you think?" He flicked through the pages, as if looking for something he could make use of. "Devotion doesn't play. Not around here, anyway."
Anna suppressed her feelings at seeing him handle the book so roughly. She shut it firmly, moved it away. "My father said it was the only book besides my ledger to heed."
Miller shrugged. Piety was unexpected, especially after her reaction--or lack thereof--to her husband's murder, but who could pretend to understand a woman? Her reaction aroused him, however. Any resistance did. "Let me see what I'll be getting myself into. Lift your skirts."
Anna had known it would come to this; still, she hesitated. Only a moment. But before Hook had to say another word, she bunched up the silk, slippery in her sweaty palms, and raised her skirts to her thighs. Miller reached out, grabbed the ribbon of her garter, and pulled. It slithered out of its knot, draped itself over his fist. He leaned forward, slid a finger over the top of her stocking, then collapsed onto the table. His head hit hard, and he didn't say another word.
Repulsed, Anna unhooked his finger from her stocking, let his hand fall heavily, smack against the chair leg. She straightened her stocking, retied her garter, then picked up the heavy Bible. She hesitated, gulping air, then, remembering her father's words and the fourth chapter of Judges, nodded.
I must be better than this. I must manage.
She reached into the cracked binding of the Bible and withdrew a long steel needle. Its point picked up the light from the candle and glittered. Her breath held, she stood over the unconscious man, then, aiming carefully, she drove it deep into his ear.
Shortly, with a grunt, a shudder, a sigh, Miller stopped breathing.
She had been afraid she'd been too stingy, miscalculated the dose, unseen in the bottom of the pewter mug, not wanting to warn him with the smell of belladonna or have it spill as it waited on the peg. Her father had been frailer, older, and when she could stand his rasping, rattling breathing no longer, could wait no longer to begin her own plans for the Queen's Arms, she had mixed a smaller amount into his beer. No matter: either the poison or the needle had done its work on Hook Miller.
Anna threw the rest of the beer onto the floor, followed it with the last of the wine from the bottle. No sense in taking chances. She had a long night ahead of her. She could barely move Hook on her own. Slender though she was, she was strong from hauling water and kegs and wood from the time she could walk, but he was nearly two hundred pounds of dead meat. She'd planned this, though, with as much meticulousness as she planned everything in her life. Everything that could be anticipated, that is. Thomas's ill-conceived greediness she hadn't counted on, nor Miller's interest in her place. These were hard lessons and dearly bought.
She would be better. She would manage.
She went to the back, brought out the barrow used to move stock. With careful work, and a little luck, Anna tipped Miller from his chair into the barrow, and, struggling to keep her balance, wheeled him out of the public room into the back kitchen ell. She left him there, out of sight, and checked again that the back door was still barred. She twitched the curtain so that it hung completely over the small window.
Lighting a taper from the fireplace, she considered her plan. A change of clothes, from silk into something for scut work. She had hours of dirty business ahead of her, as bad and dirty as slaughtering season, but really, it was no different from butchering a hog.
A small price to pay for her freedom and the time to plan how better to keep it.
Holding the taper, she hurried up the narrow back stairs to the chamber over the public room. When she opened the door, her breath caught in her throat. There was a lit candle on the table across from her bed.
Adam Seaver was sitting in her best chair.
Anna felt her mouth parch. Although she'd half expected to be interrupted in her work, she hadn't thought it would be in her own chamber. But Seaver had wanted to see what she'd do--he'd said so himself. She swallowed two or three times before she could ask.
"How?"
"You should nail up that kitchen window. It's too easy to reach in and shove the bar from the door. Then up the stairs, just as you yourself came. But not before I watched you with Miller." He pulled an unopened bottle from his pocket, cut the red wax from the stopper, opened it. "I'll pour my own drinks, thanks. What is the verse? After she gave him drink, Jael went unto him with a peg of the tent and smote the nail into his temple?"
"Near enough."
"A mistake teaching women to read. But then, if you couldn't read, you couldn't figure your books, and you wouldn't have such a brisk business as you do." He drank. "A double-edged sword. But as nice a bit of needlework as I've ever seen from a lady."
Keep breathing, Anna. You're not done yet. "What now?" She thought of the pistol in the trunk by the bed, the knife under her pillow. They might as well have been at the bottom of the harbor.
"A bargain. You're a widow with a tavern, I'm the agent of an important man. You also have a prime piece of real estate, and an eye on everything that happens along here. And, it seems, an eye to advancement. I think we can deal amiably enough, and to our mutual benefit."
At that moment, Anna almost wished Seaver would just cut her throat. She'd never be free of this succession of men, never able to manage by herself. The rage welled up in her, as it had never done before, and she thought she would choke on it. Then she remembered the paper hidden in her sho
e, the document that made the tavern and its business wholly her own, and how she'd fought for it. She'd be damned before she handed it over to another man.
But she saw Seaver watching her carefully and it came to her. Perhaps like Miller not immediately grasping that the obvious next move for him was civil life and nearly legitimate trade--with all its fat skimming--she was not ambitious enough. Instead of mere survival, relying on the tavern, she could parlay it into more. Working with Seaver, who, after all, was only the errand boy of one of the most powerful--and dangerous--men in New England, she might do more than survive. She saw the beginning of a much wider, much richer future.
The whole world open to her, if she kept sharp. If she could be better than she was.
She went over to the mantel, took down a new bottle, opened it, poured herself a drink. Raised the glass.
She would pour her own drinks, and Seaver would pour his own.
She would manage.
"To our mutual benefit," she toasted.
THE DARK ISLAND
BY BRENDAN DUBOIS
Boston Harbor
She was waiting for me when I came back from the corner store and I stopped, giving her a quick scan. She had on a dark blue dress, black sensible shoes, and a small blue hat balanced on the back of thick brown hair. She held a small black leather purse in her hands, like she knew she was in a dangerous place and was frightened to lose it. On that last part, she was right, for it was evening and she was standing in Scollay Square, with its lights, horns, music, honky-tonks, burlesque houses, and hordes of people with sharp tastes who came here looking for trouble, and more often than not, found it.