Chapter 11
Bleu crossed Opequon Creek and took a little-traveled deer trail to reach Winchester, the county seat.
On a rise north of the settlement sat Fort Loudoun with its barracks, storehouses, and well.
This vile post, Colonel Washington had called the square garrison with its diamond-shaped bastions and twenty-four cannon built a few years before.
Once the site of a former Shawnee village, the settlement now held a courthouse, an Anglican church, a jail, and a great many poorly built houses.
He rode down a main thoroughfare, looking for lodging.
Within a half hour he’d secured a room at the Golden Buck Inn, a handsome two-story stone building on Cameron Street that reminded him of the Rose and Crown.
With Windigo stabled, he was free to seek the courthouse.
As he walked toward the unfamiliar building, he weighed what he was about to do. Since leaving the crossroads he’d not had a moment’s peace. Brielle’s stoicism at his leaving hadn’t fooled him though she’d tried to put up a brave front. Titus’s outright dismay hadn’t left his mind either.
How was it possible to become so attached to two strangers in so short a time? One in particular? He, a soul who roamed far and wide, rootless and homeless, caught between two worlds in a sort of no-man’s-land, had experienced something he had no words for in any language.
Seemingly overnight the Rose and Crown had become less than respectable.
A brawl broke out in the tavern yard over an accusation that someone had cheated at cards.
Pewter candlesticks from the public room and a ham from the smokehouse were filched.
Griffiths’ mood became fouler and Brielle and Titus more chary.
A blur of heated days passed. And then at midnight, once again, they climbed the stairs to the attic though the bar below refused to quiet, surely disrupting lodgers’ sleep.
Never had she wanted the older Mr. Griffiths back more than now.
At least he maintained order. Never had he tried to enter her room be it daylight or dark.
Once a sort of refuge and reprieve, nighttime held a new danger.
Bidding Titus goodnight, she slipped inside the dark, humid space.
When she raised her hand to draw the bolt her fingers met rough wood instead.
The sudden plummeting in her stomach made her nauseous.
Her safety—her slim security—vanished. In the pale moonlight through the window she saw that the bolt Bleu had put in place was missing.
Never had she dreamt that possibility. It turned her to ice despite the stifling attic.
She wasted no time, crossing over to knock softly at Titus’s door. “Needs be I sleep in here tonight.”
Yawning, he nodded and pulled out his trundle bed as she entered. “You sleep on the topmost mattress and I’ll lie nearer the floor.”
But would this deter Griffiths? Titus’s door had no lock, no bolt …
In minutes he was asleep, his steady half-snore like the rasp of a saw.
Eyes wide open, she listened for a footfall, a creak on the stairs.
Tomorrow she would rise even earlier, emptying chamber pots and scrubbing floors and washing linens.
She needed rest to face whatever needed facing, yet fear kept her from it.
An hour passed. She could tell by the slant of the moon. The slightest noise sent her heart racing. The footfall she dreaded was heard around three o’clock. A slow, shuffling step that bespoke an abundance of ale and ill intent. She heard the familiar groan of her door as it pushed open.
Breathless, her pulse ticking so hard it hummed in her ears, she summoned the only defense she had. Into the darkness of Titus’s unlocked room she whispered the words she’d stitched onto a sampler she’d worked by her mother’s side long ago.
I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep; For thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.
Brielle pulled bread from the bake oven and sensed someone behind her.
Setting the loaf on the trestle table, she met Griffiths’ irate gaze.
His bloodshot eyes were mere slits, his clothing disheveled.
Reaching into his pocket he withdrew the iron bolt and tossed it onto the table with a little clatter.
“Don’t lock me out, Miss Farrow.”
Fury blotched his face scarlet. She took a step back, glad the table was between them or he might have struck her. Suddenly tongue-tied, she swallowed nervously. Perhaps silence was the best answer.
“Where were you last night?”
She didn’t look at him. Taking up a knife, she began slicing roasted meat she’d pulled from the spit. “I slept elsewhere for my own wellbeing.”
“Your wellbeing?” He snorted. “If you do it again I’ll take you to court and charge you with running away. You’ll be whipped and branded on the cheek with the letter R. I’ll double your indenture time—or worse. No official in Virginia will believe the word of a bondswoman over her master.”
True enough. She’d read advertisements for runaways in the Virginia Gazette. Even if they fled cruel conditions, they were often caught and their master’s won. No matter that the charge was often a lie.
He reached out and took a piece of meat, downing it like a dog in two gulps. “No bolt nor lock. No sleeping elsewhere. Remember it or else.”
When he left the kitchen her unsteady legs gave way. She sat down hard on the table’s bench, staring at the bolt. Titus found her there, his expression alarmed as she was rarely idle.
“You all right?” he whispered. “Did Griffiths hurt you?”
“Nay.” Not yet.
Clearly addled, Titus reached for a broom and started sweeping. “I snuck out to see Tamsen’s grave and made sure my cross is still standing.”
She looked at him, still disbelieving his sister lay buried. “I meant to place some flowers there.”
“Griffiths would switch me good if he found me wasting time as he puts it.”
“You work harder than any lad I know.”
“The tavern’s full again and it’s only the forenoon. On account of the wind, I reckon.”
She looked out the nearest window where pewter clouds scudded across a darkening sky and promised a thunderstorm. Despite the protective presence of so many guests, she couldn’t rid herself of the dread of Griffiths’ threats because she was well convinced he was entirely capable of inflicting them.
He had timed his return carefully. Not too early to rouse a man muddled by drink.
Not too late lest he find Griffiths irretrievably into cards and surrounded by bad company.
Mid-afternoon, Bleu approached the crossroads to the tavern and found it overflowing if the folks on the grounds and porch were any indication.
Given he didn’t mean to stay long, it didn’t matter.
Clouds hung heavy and distant thunder mimicked a panther’s growl to the east. When he came into the tavern’s yard beneath its wind-rustled trees he expected Titus to run out and greet him, seeing to the horses, no doubt asking why there were two instead of just Windigo.
When that didn’t happen, Bleu did the deed himself, wondering what he’d find when he entered the tavern as the stables were full.
Once past the crowded porch and inside the passageway, he removed his cocked hat in anticipation of Brielle.
Confined to the kitchen, he guessed. Despite his rather mercenary mission, he couldn’t deny his swelling need to make sure she’d come to no harm in his absence.
He knew men and Griffiths was among the worst of the breed.
Crass, unpredictable, grasping. Capable of unspeakable things.
Men and women eyed him as they entered and exited the public rooms and went up and down the stairs.
Something smelled burnt. He saw Titus serving first one table then the next, a harried look on his face.
Had he no help? Bleu continued walking toward Griffiths’ office, surprised to find him there.
A man—one of the hired guards he remembered—stood by the fireless hearth.
The airless room was rife with ill feeling.
Bleu exchanged a hard, wordless look with the guard who went out.
Standing, Griffiths remained behind his desk. “What brings you back here, Galant?”
“A business matter.” Bleu moved into the room and shut the door.
“Be quick about it. The tavern is bursting and I’ve little time to waste.”
Bleu tossed the leather pouch he’d been carrying onto the cluttered desk. “I’ve come for your two indentures. Miss Farrow and Titus Owens.”
Surprise flashed across Griffiths’ sweaty face as his hand shot out to finger the offering.
“Spanish dollars,” Bleu told him. “Pieces of eight.”
Griffiths smirked. “The woman and boy are hardly worth that.”
“They’re worth a great deal more.”
“I can’t part with them.” He let go, the coins clinking. “I’ve no other help at present.”
“Tell your guards to make themselves useful.” Bleu’s gaze traveled to the cracked window and saw another hired gun near the stables. “It’s a fair deal and you need the money.”
Griffiths stiffened. “How would you know?”
“I’ve just come from Winchester where I confirmed that you are the late Griffiths’ heir despite my doubts. You’re a wanted man, monsieur. Wanted, in fact, across much of Virginia but somehow your gambling and thieving haven’t caught up with you.”
For a trice Griffiths’ ire faded to alarm.
“Your debts are many, addicted to dice and drink as you are,” Bleu continued.
“There’s a new debtor’s jail beside the Winchester courthouse.
Perhaps now would be the time for me to post an advertisement in Virginia papers telling your creditors of your whereabouts.
Once that becomes known you’ll have neither tavern nor indentures. ”
Bleu reached for the pouch, half-amused when Griffiths seized it with a cat-like swipe. “Take your indentures and get out of my sight.”
“Count the coins and write down our arrangement.” Inking the quill on the desk, Bleu extended it. “I’ll tell Miss Farrow and the boy they’re free.”
He couldn’t keep the mockery from his tone nor tamp down his soaring elation. Leaving the office, he sought the kitchen and found it empty though plenty of pots and pans spat and burbled in the hearth. The back door was open wide as if the Sabbath raid that dark day had never happened.
He stepped outside as another growl of thunder came from the east and the sun hid behind a bank of clouds.
Somehow it seemed fitting to find Brielle in the garden for that was his shining memory of her.
Surrounded by beauty. Trying to hold tight to something lovely amid the turmoil.
Her back was to him as she bent and picked mint hurriedly, adding it to her basket.
Had she run out of the mint punch the tavern served?
At so mountainous a moment he reverted to the language nearest his heart.
“Venez, nous partons.”
Come, we are leaving.
She whirled around, upsetting her basket and staring at him as if he was a phantom.
He held out a hand, savoring the sudden joy in her expression.
And then she burst into tears, her hands covering her face as her shoulders shook with silents sobs.
He’d seen his sister, Sylvie, do the same when overcome and she had no words.
He set down his gun, retrieving the basket at her feet—and the spilled mint—though she had no need of it now.
His own eyes were damp, and he wanted nothing more than to put his arms around her till her emotional storm quieted.
As it was, on one knee before her, he handed her the basket when she lowered her hands and looked at him again.
“Please repeat to me what you said.” A dozen questions clouded her eyes. “I think I misunderstood.”
Brielle looked at Bleu, every inch of her wanting his embrace if only to steady her. His sudden appearing turned her to jelly, her shock at seeing him eclipsed by his more shocking words.
Come, we are leaving.
We? Other than the trinity, never had there been a more blessed we, at least to her.
She stared at him, afraid to hope what she’d heard was true.
His intensity told her there was much more.
“We’re leaving here together—you, me, and Titus.
Your freedom has been paid for, your contracts fulfilled.
Griffiths is signing the transaction now.
All that needs doing is gathering your belongings. ”
Taking back her dropped herb basket, she tried to make sense of what he just said. What sort of man bought one’s freedom? Freedom for the both of them couldn’t have come cheap. Why had he done so?
“Titus was last in the public room.” The boom of thunder jarred her into action. “I’ll collect what we have from the attic.”
The satisfaction in Bleu’s expression—the feeling in his eyes—was something she’d need to unravel in time.
For now, an urgency to depart overtook her, as if Griffiths might change his mind and freedom was fleeting.
She all but ran up the back stair to the attic.
Her belongings—and Titus’s—were blessed few.
In her haste she nearly forgot her most beloved possession, her mother’s jewelry box.
Wrapping it in a petticoat, she safeguarded it for travel.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to quiet her emotions as she returned downstairs. This morning’s confrontation with her former bondsman had lost its power. The iron bolt still lay on the kitchen table.
Bleu’s return seemed nothing short of providential.