“It’s too late.” She was shaking now, too, with something unnamed, unnameable. Shaking with the need to strike out at him, even as her mouth went soft and open to his.
It was a mistake, she knew that very clearly and yet she kissed Liam, because she could see no other thing in the world but the loss of him and the hurting, all the years he had been away and she had missed him, because she had always missed him and always would. He was lost to her but she would kiss him once and it would have to be enough; she could kiss him and take joy in the fact that he was kissing her back, his strong hands on her face, his fingers tangling in her hair, his thumbs on her cheekbones while she tasted his mouth, so sweet and warm. For this one moment she could hold on to him, tender and without reservation.
When they finally pulled apart they were both breathing hard, too hard to speak any of the words that didn’t need saying anyway. Hannah’s throat was thick with fear and dread: that he would try to keep her here; that he would let her go. And so she turned and walked away, leaving him this time, leaving him for good.
Chapter 11
By ten o’clock Jemima Southern had seen every single one of her plans for Anna Hauptmann’s wedding party go wrong. She hadn’t danced with Isaiah Kuick or Liam Kirby or even Claes Wilde. Of the three men, Wilde was the only one to ask, but not until he had danced with every one of the married ladies and almost all of the unmarried girls. He came to ask after he had stood up with Dolly and Becca, and after Hannah Bonner had turned him down.
Jemima cut him off without an excuse or a smile, just as she had turned down the Camerons one after the other and Mr. Gathercole with his silly little bows and the trappers who stank of the bush, and even Jed McGarrity, rude as it was to refuse the bridegroom himself. Eventually they stopped asking, walked past her as if she weren’t there at all. With every dance her back grew stiffer and she felt the knot in her stomach pull a little tighter. She wouldn’t let it show, not here, not in front of all of Paradise. But she watched.
She watched Isaiah Kuick, who showed no interest in the dance at all, or in anything but drink. He sometimes came to the door to scan the room, looking hard at the fiddlers and then going back to join the men in the judge’s old study. She watched Hannah Bonner, in one of those gowns they had brought back from Scotland, out of fashion and still too fine for a country dance. The green didn’t suit the dark of her skin, but then she didn’t seem to care, just as she pretended she didn’t take note of the men whose eyes followed her wherever she went.
Hannah Bonner danced with Jed McGarrity and Mr. Gathercole, but turned down most all the single men, sending them away with a smile so she could sit and talk to Dolly Smythe and Eulalia Wilde, until Eulalia’s brother Claes came to claim Dolly for a second dance. From the way she smiled up at him with those crossed eyes, it was clear that Dolly Smythe considered two dances as good as a marriage proposal. Stupid Dolly, who would never learn the most basic and important of lessons: the worst thing a woman could do was to show a man that he had power over her.
The hardest insult was Liam Kirby, who never even looked at her though she stood near him for ten minutes or more while he talked to Ambrose Dye. When Jemima had listened long enough to figure out that they were talking about the runaway, she turned her attention back to the dance. Hannah had just stood up with Jock Hindle while his wife sat fanning a face as red as cherries.
“You be gentle with him, Hannah,” called out Mistress Hindle. “He ain’t so young anymore.”
Laughter swelled up and away, and in the silence Ambrose Dye’s voice could be heard through the room.
“Red bitch.” With no rancor at all, as if he were just calling Hannah Bonner by her true name. “Got no business among white folk.”
It was almost funny, the way they all froze to hear the truth spoke aloud. Elizabeth Bonner stood and took a step forward but Hannah put an end to it all by herself, calling out clear and loud.
“Reuben, Zeke, have you forgot what those fiddles are for?”
And just as sudden as the silence had fallen it was gone, lost in the fiddle music and the talk, louder now, as if they had taken a vote and decided it was best to just ignore Ambrose Dye, outsider that he was and would always be.
All of them were content to pretend, all but Liam, who looked as if he had swallowed lye. He stood like that for all of “Molly Brooks,” fists at his sides, and then when the dance was done he followed Hannah into the hall.
A laugh caught in Jemima’s throat to see him make such a fool of himself but she swallowed it down, as bitter as winterbloom. And still she could no more keep herself from following him than she could have stripped naked in the middle of the crowded room.
The argument had already started by the time she got there. Hannah and Liam, toe to toe, his head bent down toward hers. Talking low, but clear enough. And Hannah shaking her head, refusing to meet his eye. The doorway to the kitchen was crowded with children, mouths gaping and eyes as round as pennies. Men spilled out of the study to watch, grinning and elbowing each other. Jemima had the hot urge to slap each and every one of them. Then it was over and Hannah walked right up to Claes Wilde where he stood with his sister and claimed the dance she had turned down earlier, as if that were her right. Liam went back to his spot near the overseer, with a face as stiff as bark.
The children disappeared into the kitchen, the men into the study. Jemima stood and watched the dance, took note of people coming and going. Nathaniel Bonner came in and Peter Dubonnet went out. And Isaiah Kuick standing at the door, staring at her plain as day. All night she had been waiting for him to take note and there he was, looking at her like she was a pony with a broken leg, a creature with no good use in this world.
A great weariness came over Jemima, all of her anger washing out of her, draining away like life’s blood. She went into the hall and opened the front door. Stood there for a moment feeling the chill of an April night, saw the sky crowded with stars like unblinking eyes. She saw a cloak hanging on a nail and took it, not caring very much who it belonged to, and then she stepped off the porch and walked away toward the barn.
She found an empty stall with a scattering of old hay. With the cloak of boiled wool wrapped around her Jemima fell into an uneasy sleep; dreamed of her dead mother and woke to the sound of whispering. For a moment Jemima was confused enough to imagine herself in the bed she had shared with her brothers, and then the faint smells of milk and leather and animals long gone reminded her where she was, and why.
But she hadn’t dreamed the voices.
“All winter,” said Isaiah Kuick. “All the long winter.”
“Too long.” The overseer’s voice, but Jemima had never heard it like this, low and soft. “I thought you’d never give me the sign.”
She tried to calm the beating of her heart, to still the breath that stirred the hay beneath her cheek. Listening with all her concentration to the sound of mouths touching wetly. She was a child again in the dark, unable to sleep through the noise from the next bed. Every night, as sure as the coming sunrise there would be the rustling of bedclothes and sharp words from her father as he pulled and prodded and climbed on top of her mother. His hoarse grunts and her whimpering, like a small animal in a trap; the creaking of the ropes that held the tick mattress, the whole bedstead rocking, on and on and on.
She could not remember her parents ever kissing; she herself had never kissed another human being, but still Jemima knew very well what she was hearing. She blinked hard, willed her eyes to focus. Turned her head just enough to look into the stall across the way, where under an unshuttered window filled with moonlight she could just make out two shapes, twisting and turning as clothing fell away to the floor. And then the line of a naked back bent forward, the sound of flesh on flesh, a sharp gasp.
“Oh Christ, oh Christ.”
“Shhhhh.” A whisper, soft and softer. “Shhhh.”
Jemima Southern trusted nothing more than her own eyes, and what she saw was men mating like dogs. Wh
at she heard was the talk of lovers who knew each other well, tender words of encouragement, sweet Lord yes, and more, and oh please. Isaiah Kuick on hands and knees and Dye bent over him, using his backside like other men used a woman’s front. She could make out the white of Kuick’s leg, his arm, his head hung low, mouth open and gasping, in pain or pleasure or both. Dye’s free hand busy between Kuick’s legs, stroking in rhythm with the pumping of his hips. And then he arched his back and put his face up to the starlight and Jemima saw the most unbelievable and strange thing of all: the man she knew as the overseer—distrustful, cold, mean unto death—that man was gone. The face Jemima saw in the starlight was alive in a way so overwhelming and personal that she must close her eyes, blinded for a moment by a stunned and wordless joy that was not meant for her to see. When she looked again, the two men were still joined together, gently rocking.
This was no strange dream, but a gift. Unexpected treasure, as solid as gold.
Now they’re done, she thought. Now they’ll go. She needed time to sort out the thoughts that raced through her head: her father’s voice as he read from the bible, fragments of verses she had not understood but had memorized because he required it of her: thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination … leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men working that which is unseemly. And the widow’s voice: heathens and papists and eternal damnation and Mr. Gathercole, I do hope you’ll read from Leviticus today, we are all in need of a consuming fire.
The widow. Jemima imagined the widow in her chair by the window, always watching, ever keen to uncover transgressions against God and herself. Jemima felt the stab of her embroidery needle, heard that thin voice, so sure of her place in the world, so sure of her son. The way she looked at him, the plans she had for him. Pride cometh before the fall. Jemima mouthed the words silently and imagined the widow’s face if she were to walk into this barn and see the overseer using her precious Isaiah like a whore. Lucy Kuick’s only son was a sodomite.
The men were talking face-to-face, kissing now and then. Their voices were lower and Jemima couldn’t make out much of what they said to each other, but the tone was clear enough, gentle and loving and almost more of a shock than what had come before. Then Dye slid down Isaiah’s belly and Jemima watched, not so much disgusted or outraged as she knew she should be, but simply amazed and more than a little curious to see a man put his head between another man’s legs to suckle like a baby at a full teat. The pleasure it gave both of them was obvious and a mystery too, and she studied it carefully while another part of her mind raced backward through the months she had schemed to get Isaiah into her bed.
She understood now that her open door meant nothing to him, would never mean anything to him. But that didn’t matter, not anymore. Once she had hoped to lie underneath him as many times as it took for him to get a child on her, but tonight he had given her something better. Now he could deny her nothing at all.
Then they were standing again, brushing the hay from each other’s clothes, hands lingering here and there. Talking days, and times, and opportunities.
Thursday, said Dye, and Kuick laughed.
As if either of us could wait that long.
It was the first time Jemima had ever heard him really laugh, without any trace of mockery.
When they were gone she lay for a while, making plans. Twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour she had watched them, and in that short time her whole life had changed. So deep was she in this knowledge that the sound of footsteps took her by surprise and she froze, thinking they were coming back to start again. If she had stood up too soon and they had found her here, what then? Dye would simply kill her; she knew that without doubt.
But it was Liam Kirby and he was alone. She knew him by his size and the gleam of his hair in the light of the stars. He stood without moving for a long minute, his hands at his sides.
He was waiting for Hannah, and that made perfect sense: Jemima must watch Liam take Hannah as the overseer had taken Isaiah Kuick; she must listen to the things he would say to her, love talk, sweet words. This was the price she would have to pay for the advantage she had been given, and it was bitter.
After a long time Jemima began to realize that Hannah was not coming. He was here alone, and hiding. Hannah had refused him, and he had sought out this place to lick his wounds. For a moment Jemima was stunned by the depths of her good fortune, and then she whispered his name.
He started, turned sharply. “What are you doing in here?”
“Waiting for you.” Her fingers moved to slip her sleeves off her shoulders, letting her breasts spill out as she moved toward him.
He stepped back, but his eyes were fixed on the white flesh, the dark of her nipples. “No,” he said. “No.”
She reached out and touched him, ran a finger down the front of his breeches as she had seen Isaiah Kuick do not half an hour ago. He jerked, clasped her hand to stop it, held it still. Sucked in breath between teeth clenched hard.
“But think, Liam.” His gaze was fixed on her breasts, and he still held her hand against him. She could feel his flesh stirring, his breath on her skin. “Nobody will ever know.”
She freed herself, turned her back to him as she raised her skirts high. “You don’t have to look at my face,” she said, feeling the chill air on her bare flesh. “You don’t have to look at me at all. You can pretend I’m … somebody else.”
He was silent as she went down on all fours with her skirts rucked up around her waist, her knees spread to expose her sex, her forehead bedded on her crossed arms. Then she heard him groan and he was behind her, loosening his breeches. When he knelt between her legs she felt him shaking, felt the heat of his damp flesh, the soft and hard of him. But he hesitated and she held her breath, understanding somehow that at this moment the wrong word would ruin everything.
He said, “I cain’t marry you if you get with child.”
“Why, that’s all right,” said Jemima, rocking her hips backward, brushing against him and feeling him jerk. “That don’t matter none, Liam. I’m going to marry Isaiah Kuick, anyway.”
He cursed and came to her, leaning forward to grasp a breast in one hand while he supported himself with the other, shoving and prodding to part reluctant flesh, pushing hard and harder still while Jemima bit her forearm to keep from crying out. With a curse he let go of her breast to grasp her buttocks, angling her hips up and spreading her flesh with his fingers to ease his way. Now when he thrust, once and then again, she could not hold back her scream; one last thrust and with that he tore her flesh and seated himself deep inside her.
“Damn you,” he groaned. “Damn you to hell.”
In spite of the pain she smiled to herself. Wiggled and clenched at him with every muscle until he groaned again and gave in to it. She welcomed the invasion and the burn and the pull and push, his strong hands, his roughness, his teeth pressing into the tender flesh of her neck as he worked his hips, thrusting as if he wanted to climb inside of her. Jemima clenched her teeth against the roaring pain and rocked her hips to meet him, heard him grunt in surprise and pleasure and then the trembling overtook him and he emptied himself inside her in hard little jerks.
He was gasping and muttering to himself, damn you damn you damn you. But he was still hard, his flesh trembling wet.
Jemima wiggled and flipped over on her back. She lifted her hips and wound her legs around his waist to pull him back inside her. She would keep him on top of her all night, use her hands and her mouth if she had to, put what she had learned from the sodomites to good use. Make him forget Hannah Bonner and the nameless wife, milk him like a cow, make him spill his seed until he was dry.
After tonight he would never forget her, would never dare ignore her again. When Liam Kirby walked past her he would remember this, remember the way they had been joined in sweat and blood and seed and sin.
One way or another she would marry the widow’s only son, but it wo
uld be easier if she was with child. She tried to count the days in her head but the heavy heat of Liam rutting inside her got in the way; he pushed her legs apart roughly and then, still not satisfied, he put a hand under her right knee and lifted it, pressed it to her shoulder so that she was splayed open to him. With the next thrust he touched a spot so deep inside her she must cry out again, in pain and surprise and approval. He covered her, pressed her into the hay with his weight, threatened to split her in half, and she gloried in it; put her hands on his buttocks and pressed him home.
If he didn’t get a bastard on her this time, she would seek him out again, and how could he refuse? Then Isaiah would claim what Liam had put inside her as his own, or he would pay the consequences.
By the time Jemima made her way home the moon had set and a frost had come down, so that she needed to take the handrail on the bridge or risk falling. She was limping a little, her thighs raw and bruised and sticky, and deep inside a burning itch. Her shoulders and breasts and belly stung where he had marked her with his teeth and the scrape of his beard: she had driven him hard, and he had paid in kind. Every muscle hurt, but for once in her life Jemima Southern was satisfied. She had come to the wedding party to get the best of one of them, Liam Kirby or Isaiah Kuick, and now she had them both. Them, and Hannah Bonner too.