Chapter 37
Huxley frowned when Mary returned hours after her abrupt departure. “Take these to the guests at the far-right table,” he directed, handing her two bowls of conch stew. The broth was noticeably thin on vegetables. “Not like you to abandon your post.”
“Not like you to wait for an earful of gossip,” Mary said. She delivered the bowls, then returned to the blazing hot kitchen. She felt dizzy. She must have run too hard in the heat. If she could just sit down …
“Fine,” Huxley relented with an exaggerated sigh. “What happened?”
She told the cook about the incident at the dock, including what she’d overheard. “Bonny lives near the middle of the island. Right under the nose of the governor. Bonny must work for Rogers now. The carriage went in that direction.”
“The prick.”
She knew Huxley was referring to the new governor, but Mary felt the word was equally fitting for Bonny.
“Will Rackham and his crew make their way here tonight?”
“Unclear.” Mary thought that was beside the point. She wasn’t sure Rackham would be in the mood for merriment for a long time. And she rather hoped not to see him drunk on rage and wine.
“More rum?” came a singsong request from a stranger leaning into the kitchen.
“Here,” Mary said, handing him a squat glass bottle. When the man had left, she leveled a stare at Huxley. “What are we to do about Anne?”
“We?” he scoffed, filling more pewter bowls with the thin broth. “That little miss made her choices. Gave ’er a place to sleep, good food to eat.” He gestured toward the hearth and cast-iron cauldron. “I don’t see what there is for me or you to do.”
Huxley wasn’t wrong. But was he right?
Disappointment settled into her gut as she delivered the meal to the dining room.
Between the barking orders and the riotous laughs, her head thrummed.
The hearth burned too hot, the tobacco from the pipes smelled too strong.
She willed her brain to think, or maybe not to think.
To return to that deep, inner well of calm and knowing that used to guide her so long ago.
Stepping into the night air, Mary paused outside the threshold of the Jubilee.
A quiet evening, a startling contrast to the bustling tavern.
The stillness soothed her after such an unsettling day.
Wind brought in a fishy smell from the sea.
The summer stars gleamed as if newly polished.
She could read these constellations like the pages of one of Bjorn’s books.
She’d done so as a navigator for Captain South-wick and again, later, for the rogue crew that had interrupted her passage to America.
Pausing to study Draco’s curve and the luminous shape of Aquila bejeweling the Summer Triangle, Mary shifted her weight and felt a small thump of awe in her chest. She missed the weight of a ring dial and navigational divider in her hand—of being a person with a heading and clear goal.
Of late, she’d resorted to mindless work, saving coin for her next, unknown step.
Would ambition ever rise in her again? She missed the texture of a mottled map, a sense of certainty and purpose.
How had she ever gotten so lost? So far from home?
Ma’s face as the ship pulled away from the dock.
The pit of helplessness as Mary was drawn out to the open sea.
I’ve never had a home.
No, that isn’t true. You know that isn’t true.
She’d had a home in Bjorn. It had been three years since his death, three years since the baron had stolen her home and declared her “unnatural and unworthy” of connection to the Van Acker family.
Mary summoned Bjorn’s image: His squint in the sun atop a horse and that furrow in his brow while writing letters by a crackling fire.
His hands massaging her neck after a hard day of work at the inn they’d built together.
The tops of carrots in the garden shooting up in the spring.
That specific, startling green during the long, summer days in the glorious, tucked-away town of Breda.
The sheen of the oak floor at the Three Horse-Shoes and the rickety third stair that they always meant to fix.
Henry stopping in town for a drink every New Year, dressed in his finest, drinking to their mutual survival and the end of a miserable war.
There he was, just there—among their other friends and patrons—raising a glass to Mary and Bjorn’s health.
Bjorn’s health. Never the same after the war. The shot he took for her.
Mary found her footing again, starting toward the west end of town, where she and Thomas kept a single room.
Maybe it wasn’t so surprising, Mary being here—she was the daughter of a pirate, after all.
She wished she’d asked Ma more questions.
Had her father ever walked these sand-covered streets or sailed into this aquamarine harbor?
Did he also live with regrets?
A rustle in the bushes stopped Mary in her tracks. She whipped around, then drew the flintlock pistol she kept in her jacket pocket. Her ears pricked.
The rustle continued. And it wasn’t the wind or a lizard.
Mary felt her pulse rise in her throat. She knew that running was the surest way out of this—she outran most men, always could.
But curiosity gripped her. Was it a hutia?
Thomas wouldn’t say no to some fresh meat, even a small rodent.
It wouldn’t be the first time she landed a clean shot in the dark of night.
“Who goes there?” she said, pistol raised. She tested the bush by kicking at a frond.
Then, out spilled a woman brandishing a tiny knife. “Read, is that you?”
“Anne?” Mary lowered her weapon. “What the Devil are you doing out here?”
“Escaping!” Anne’s knife fell to the ground and she flung her arms around Mary.
Sticks and leaves covered her dress. Mary froze, baffled.
“Lord, I worried you might be a stranger come to drag me back to Bonny. There’s no time to explain.
Please, can you let me sneak into the tavern?
Is the bar cleared out? I need a place to hide until morning. ”
Mary pocketed her pistol. “At the one place where the whole world will be looking for you?” Even though Mary couldn’t see Anne’s face, she could feel the vibrating hum of fear and exhilaration and nerves. What had it taken to get away from Bonny? And what might he do if he caught her again?
“The second most suspicious place, maybe,” Anne fumbled. “The first place would be the Ranger. I already scanned the docks from a hill above. There are soldiers posted all along the harbor.”
There was no way for Anne to slip off this island undetected. Not with the governor’s involvement. But how could Mary say this aloud?
With staggering clarity, Mary finally saw what her soft spot for this young woman was all about. It was her blind hope and youth. The way she, too, had been abandoned. In worrying after Anne, she was reaching back in time to be the wiser guide she’d always wanted for herself.
Huxley was right. This wasn’t her problem. And yet …
Don’t do anything impulsive or draw attention to yourself.
A second passed, then another. “Come with me,” Mary said decidedly, pulling off her jacket and tossing it over Anne. “We have to move. Now.”
“Where?” Anne picked up the knife she’d dropped. Heaven help her. She needed to learn to use that little prop.
“I share a room with one of Rackham’s former crewmen on the other side of town.” Mary couldn’t bring herself to call Thomas a lover, to herself or to Anne—whatever Anne would make of the situation. “He’ll be shocked and not so generous as I, but he can keep a secret.”
Anne stiffened. “You’re suggesting that I spend the night with two men?”
Mary sighed. She’d been so worried about her own secrets that she hadn’t considered Anne’s actual concerns. “Anne, no harm will come to you—I promise.”
She gave a curt nod of understanding, then they were off.
Anne couldn’t stay at the Jubilee, and she also couldn’t escape Nassau by running—not after what Mary witnessed on the docks. But all that bad news could wait until tomorrow.