Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
The bell woke him before dawn.
Not the gentle ship’s bell he’d grown accustomed to aboard the Corbeau, but something heavier—a plantation bell that rolled across the fields and through the servants’ quarters summoning them to wake.
Brodie opened his eyes to darkness broken only by the first gray hint of morning through the window.
Across the room, Thomas was already moving. Cloth rustled as he dressed. Water splashed in the basin. Every movement carried the efficiency of a man who’d done this hundreds of times before.
“First bell means you’ve got twenty minutes to wash and dress.” His voice was low, almost conversational.
“Second bell means Mrs. Browne starts docking meals for tardiness. She doesn’t make idle threats.”
Brodie sat up, the straw mattress crackling beneath him. His body ached from yesterday’s ride and the tension of being sold like cargo. Again. The black feather from the beach was still tucked in his belongings, and for a moment he considered throwing it away. Superstition had no place in survival.
But he left it where it was.
Cold water from the pitcher helped chase away the last fog of sleep and the dreams that had plagued him—storms and stones and a woman’s voice calling his name.
He scrubbed his face and neck, then dressed in the servant’s clothes the widow had provided—simple breeches and a shirt of decent quality, better than field clothes but marked with the subtle signs of his station.
Nothing with any ornamentation. Nothing that would let him forget his place.
“What’s the routine?” he asked, lacing his shirt.
“Servants’ hall for breakfast. We eat before the family rises.” Thomas tied back his dark hair, checking his appearance in the small mirror.
“After that, you’ll likely serve the widow her morning meal. Mrs. Browne will show you the way. Don’t speak unless spoken to, don’t drop anything, and for God’s sake don’t stare at her.”
“I’ve served aboard a ship for four years. I know how to keep my balance.”
“This isn’t a ship.” The other man turned, his expression serious. “On a ship, you’re part of a crew. Here, you’re an object for her to admire and use as she wishes. Remember that, and you might survive with your pride intact.”
“What’s this about a shipwreck?” Brodie pulled on his boots. He’d heard voices late last night in the hallway—urgent whispers, people moving with purpose.
Thomas paused. “You didn’t hear? Storm out at sea yesterday wrecked a merchant vessel on the rocks north of here. They searched the beach all morning.”
“Anyone survive?”
“Only one. The new governess.” His expression was unreadable.
“Mrs. Browne found her wandering out by the old garden, disoriented. She says it’s a miracle.”
Something cold bloomed in his chest. “A miracle.”
“Or witchcraft, depending on who you ask. Margaret’s already crossing herself every time the girl’s name is mentioned.” Thomas shrugged. “Either way, the widow’s got her governess, which is all that matters to her.”
The second bell rang before Brodie could press further.
They quickly descended the servants’ stairs together, joining the stream of men and women making their way to the dining hall. But the usual morning quiet was broken by excited chatter—everyone was talking about the shipwreck, the rescue, the only survivor.
“Saw the wreckage myself,” someone was saying. “Ship broken apart like kindling. No one should’ve lived through that.”
“Mrs. Browne said the girl was still wearing her traveling clothes when they found her. Soaked through but not torn. How does someone survive that without a scratch?”
“The old gods were watching over her,” Duncan’s Scottish burr carried across the hall. “Mark me, there’s more to this than chance.”
Brodie studied the faces as they entered. The red-haired Irish woman he’d noticed last night—Margaret—sat near the end of the long table, her striking green eyes watching the doorway. She caught his gaze and made a quick sign against evil, her expression troubled.
Thomas led him to seats midway down the table. A serving woman ladled porridge into their wooden bowls—thick with molasses and studded with bits of plantain, better than the ship’s gruel Brodie had grown used to, but he barely tasted it.
“That’s Margaret,” Thomas said quietly, nodding toward the Irish woman. “Been here three years. Transported for theft—though she swears she was innocent. Don’t believe everything she says, but don’t cross her either. She knows things.”
“What’s she afraid of?” Brodie kept his voice low.
“The new governess. Margaret thinks anyone who survived when the rest of the passengers, captain, and crew drowned, is either blessed or cursed.” A bite of porridge, then: “The old ways run deep with the Irish. She’ll be watching that girl like a hawk.”
“Did anyone see what happened? How the ship went down?” The skies had been clear when they’d sailed into port, but Brodie knew how fast a storm could rise up.
“The storm came up sudden, ship went down at sea. Bodies washed ashore, well what was left of them. Found the governess hours later, stumbling along the grounds like she’d just woken from a dream.”
Thomas wiped his mouth. “The widow doesn’t believe in miracles. She believes in value. That girl had better prove she can teach Philippe, or she’ll find herself on the next ship back to Philadelphia… or worse.”
Mrs. Browne swept into the hall, her presence immediately snapping every eye to attention. “MacLeod. With me. The widow takes her breakfast in twenty minutes, and you’ll be serving.”
Brodie set his spoon down and followed her out, aware of every eye tracking his movement. Behind him, the conversations resumed—more speculation about the shipwreck, more whispers about miracles and curses and what it meant.
Mrs. Browne led him through the warren of hallways that connected the servants’ areas to the main house.
“The widow is in fine spirits this morning,” she said as they walked. “The new governess arrived at precisely the right moment—she’s been without proper instruction for Philippe for weeks. She sees it as providence.”
“Providence that an entire ship of men drowned?”
The housekeeper’s expression didn’t change. “The widow believes God looks after those who look after themselves. The sailors should have seen the storm coming. The governess did, and she survived.”
“That’s not how storms work.”
“Nevertheless.” Mrs. Browne stopped outside the breakfast room door.
“The widow is particular about her morning routine. She breaks her fast precisely at seven. You’ll serve her chocolate, bread, preserved fruit, and whatever Cook has prepared fresh.
You’ll pour, you’ll clear, and you’ll not speak unless directly addressed. Is that clear?”
“Aye.”
“She may ask about the shipwreck. Everyone’s talking about it. If she does, answer honestly but briefly. She values a good story, but she won’t tolerate idle gossip.”
They entered a bright room that faced the morning sun.
A small table had been set with fine china and crystal, the silverware gleaming against white linen.
Through the windows, Brodie could see the gardens and, beyond them, the fields where workers were already moving between the rows despite the early hour.
A tray waited on the sideboard—a silver pot of chocolate, delicate cups, a basket of bread rolls still warm from the oven, small bowls of guava preserves and mango slices.
“Stand there.” Mrs. Browne positioned him near the sideboard. “When she enters, you’ll bow slightly. Not too deep—you’re a servant, not a supplicant. When she seats herself, you’ll pour the chocolate. Wait for her to taste it before you do anything else. She’ll tell you what she wants next.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then you wait.” Her expression was implacable. “You’re furniture until she requires you to be otherwise.”
Furniture. Another kind of chains, then.
Mrs. Browne left him there as Brodie stood in the silence of the breakfast room, watching the sun climb higher and the shadows retreat across the polished floor.
He counted his breaths, absorbing the room’s details the way he’d learned to study new ports—looking for exits, for weapons, for anything that might prove useful later.
The windows opened onto a veranda. From there, perhaps a ten-foot drop to the gardens below.
One door led back to the servants’ areas.
Another door on the opposite wall probably connected to the main hallway.
The silverware on the sideboard was heavy enough to serve as a weapon if needed, though he’d have to be desperate indeed to—
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Brodie straightened, forcing his face into a placid expression as the door opened and the Widow Delacroix entered.
She wore a morning gown of pale yellow silk that made her honey-colored skin seem to glow. Her dark hair was pinned loosely. Those amber eyes swept the room before settling on him with an expression that made his jaw tighten.
Satisfaction. As if he were a painting that had been hung exactly where she’d envisioned it.
“Good morning, Mr. MacLeod.” Her voice was warm, pleasant, utterly false. “I trust you slept well despite all the excitement?”
“Well enough, madame.” He bowed slightly, as Mrs. Browne had instructed. “What excitement?”
“The shipwreck, of course. Half my household was on the beach yesterday, searching for survivors. Did you not hear the commotion?”
“I heard voices. I didna ken what had happened.” I was too busy being betrayed and sold.
“A merchant vessel out of Philadelphia, carrying supplies and passengers. The storm drove it onto the rocks.”
She arranged herself at the table, silk skirts pooling around her like liquid gold. “Every person drowned, except one. Such a waste. But the governess I’d been expecting survived without injury. Remarkable, really.”
“Remarkable,” Brodie echoed, moving to pour her chocolate.