Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

M ercy blinked twice before rubbing her eyes and rising. The night before was spent in torment, waves of anger and shame washing over her in turn. She should have considered herself lucky that her sleep had been interrupted by thoughts of Rory instead of dread about her future, but she didn’t. No, she had never considered herself lucky.

What’s that?” Amity asked sleepily. The goats were bleating furiously in alarm. Mercy furrowed her brows then leapt from bed.

“Do my stays, Amity. Quickly,” she added, once she’d dressed with lightning speed. Amity was sitting in her bed and looking up, wide-eyed.

Amity, too, knew that their futures would change for the worse now that their father was gone. They had talked about it many, many times before, but had never come up with a suitable solution to the problems their father’s impending death posed. Between the two of them, they’d served up several hairbrained ideas, including running away to join the Shawnee (Amity’s idea), dressing as men and pushing farther west (also Amity’s idea), and traveling unchaperoned to Belhaven to apply as ladies’ maids (Mercy’s idea.) Secretly, Mercy had always hoped their father would die after Amity was already married, so that both sisters could be under her husband’s protection.

As it was, James Barnett had made a spectacle of his death and Amity, only seventeen, had not yet found anyone she wanted to marry. The goats bleated loudly and Mercy grimaced. She knew there would be dogs fighting for scraps, she just hadn’t expected them to come prowling so soon.

Amity finished Mercy’s laces and got up to dress herself. Mercy quickly tied her hair into a braid and pressed the flyaways down behind her ears before shoving it all beneath a bonnet. Once Amity was fully clothed, she went to Mercy’s side.

“No, dear,” Mercy said, taking her hands. “You must go through the back window and take Cameo.” Understanding what her sister was asking of her, Amity gritted her teeth.

“I won’t leave you here,” she said quietly.

“You will,” Mercy said firmly. “Just for a little while.” When it looked as though Amity was going to fight her, she took her hands and squeezed violently. “I love you, dear Amity, and I need you to go. Just for now. I need you to, dearest.” Amity searched her eyes and then her head bobbed in a reluctant nod.

Once she’d helped Amity through the back window, Mercy began to breathe rapidly. She pressed a hand to her stomach in an effort to calm herself. It wouldn’t help her to appear so fearful. Stoicism was her last weapon. Mercy filled her lungs and stepped out of the cabin.

The first thing Mercy noticed was that the goats were out of the barn and in the clearing, still acting skittish. The Macleods had obviously been at work earlier this morning, as there were new boards resting against the structure, but they were nowhere in sight. Good, Mercy sighed in relief. They’d made themselves scarce, just as they’d been instructed should anyone come visiting. Finally, Mercy spotted whom she’d suspected would come lurking first: Edward Teague.

Teague was a red-faced, corpulent, scar-riddled man with sour breath, a man who had fewer scruples than teeth, which meant that he had around four. He was a friend of her father’s and had always encouraged the worst of James Barnett’s behaviors. When Granny was still alive, and she’d send Mercy to retrieve her father from the tavern, Teague was invariably by his side, taking what little money James had in a game of cards. More than once, Teague had pulled young Mercy into his lap with fat, grubby hands and made promises to take care of her, promises that felt more like threats. The memories sent chills up Mercy’s stick-straight spine.

“Mr. Teague,” Mercy said, trying to temper her panic. Teague was peering into the chicken coop, and there was no doubt in Mercy’s mind that had she gone off with Amity, Teague would have taken the chickens, the goats, and anything else not nailed down. He would have robbed them blind. And then he’d be back the next day, offering to help them—at a price, of course.

“Ah, Miss Barnett,” Teague said, stepping quickly away from the coop and bowing his head. His eyes poured over her body, from her toes to her breasts to her head, and Mercy’s blood ran cold. His call on them would not be polite. “I’ve come to offer my condolences.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mercy said, nodding stiffly. When she didn’t say anything more, Teague took a few steps forward. Though Mercy wanted desperately to flee, she held her ground.

“I wonder if you knew, Miss Barnett,” he said slowly, “of an arrangement I made with your father.”

“I’ve no knowledge of any arrangement, sir,” Mercy replied, her heart thumping against her ribcage. What idiotic thing did Father do?

“Please,” Teague said, within arm’s reach now. “Let me enlighten you.”

“Sir,” Mercy said, her voice catching.

“You see,” Teague said, smiling widely to reveal a few yellow teeth, “James had always wanted to make sure you and little Amity were taken care of.” Mercy narrowed her eyes. That didn’t sound like her father at all. “And years ago, over a game of cards at the tavern, we came to an agreement.” Mercy’s mouth dropped open in horror. Had her father bet Teague the farm? It would be just like him to gamble big and lose. Teague lived in a cramped hovel in town—of course he would want the farm. What would she and Amity do without the land? “Sweetling,” he said, and Mercy jumped as his sausage fingers clamped over her shoulder, “we will marry, as soon as possible.”

“No,” Mercy sputtered before thinking. Marry? She drew her arm away and looked at him as one would a parasite. Teague’s countenance changed rapidly.

“You will wed me, and bed me, Mercy Barnett,” he said, flecks of spit flying from his mouth. “But the order in which those actions occur is entirely up to you.” Her skin went cold when she realized what he meant. “Your father owed me quite a lot of money, and I decided to forgive his debts in exchange for…”

“He sold me to you?” Mercy asked, incredulous. That was one thing she hadn’t expected from her useless fool of a father. “I don’t believe you,” she said, her eyes narrowing, her hands squeezing into fists.

“Ah,” Teague said, reaching into his coat pocket. “I thought you might say as much, so I remembered to bring the document.” Teague kept talking, but Mercy couldn’t hear him over the blood rushing through her ears. She took the paper from Teague and stared at it. Her father’s handwriting. His signature. She couldn’t read, but she knew then that it was true. Here, she’d been worried about her father waging the farm, when it was her body and soul that he’d gambled away.

“He sold me to you,” she repeated, this time sounding dazed.

“If you want to think of it that way,” Teague sneered, “go ahead. I will call on Reverend Hawes upon leaving and let him know he should expect us tomorrow afternoon.” Teague looked around, at the skittish goats, the half-torn down barn, and seemed unimpressed. “James really let this place go to hell, didn’t he?” Mercy blinked, her tongue frozen in her mouth. Teague looked back down at Mercy and took her limp hand. His touch filled her with revulsion but she was unable to pull away. “We’ll spruce it up, won’t we, sweetling?” he asked.

“She can’t marry you,” Amity yelled, running from behind the cabin.

“Amity,” Mercy said weakly, still feeling numb.

“Miss Amity,” Teague said, dropping Mercy’s hand and leering at her sister. “My, you’ve grown into a woman. How utterly delectable you are,” he said, practically salivating. Bells were clanging in Mercy’s head, but she was still struck dumb by what her father had done.

“You can’t marry Mercy,” Amity cried, then took a few steps back as Teague started towards her. Suddenly Mercy heard the heavy thumps of rapid footsteps approaching from behind them.

“Get behind me, Amity,” Rory growled when he appeared at Mercy’s side, his chest falling and rising evenly. Amity’s eyes widened, then she quickly scurried behind Rory’s giant frame. Mercy watched Rory reach his hand back and grasp Amity’s arm reassuringly, all while staring down at the slick, pudgy face of Edward Teague.

“Excuse me, sir,” Teague managed, sounding shocked and offended, “but who are…”

“Miss Amity is right,” Rory said severely. “You cannot marry Miss Barnett.”

“And who are you to tell me…” Teague sputtered.

“He is Miss Barnett’s betrothed,” came Cailean’s voice from behind them. Mercy swayed a bit and Rory put a large hand on her back to steady her. She watched Rory turn and stare at Cailean, then over at Rabbie, whose arms were crossed over his chest. Amity looked as astonished as Mercy felt, but she saw her sister press her lips together in determination and nodded. Rory then whipped his head back to stare daggers at Teague, who looked as though he was shriveling up like a slug in salt. Throughout the exchange, Mercy’s mind floated above her body, understanding the words as if they had been said in French.

“She cannot be betrothed,” Teague huffed. “She is owed to me.”

“You will tell me the sum that her father was indebted, and I will pay it.” Though Rory knew he was making a good show of being in control of his senses, he was barely holding himself back from killing the man for daring to touch Mercy, let alone think of “wedding and bedding” her. What relief he would feel, taking hold of the man’s corpulent neck and squeezing the life from him. Such a man, the kind who would tell a woman that her recently deceased father had sold her to him, did not deserve to live. Rory worried, momentarily, that the man would not leave in time, and he would be forced to murder him in front of the Barnetts.

“This is outrageous,” Teague spat, the thick skin of his face turning bright red. It looked as though he might die of a heart attack and save Rory the trouble of killing him, but he finally huffed and sputtered. “I have the document, Miss Barnett.”

Rory snatched the paper being waved about so fast that the man’s eyes widened in fear. Then, Rory surprised them all, even himself, by crushing it into a ball and shoving it into his mouth. He could feel five sets of wide eyes on him. When he began to chew, the man gasped.

“Leave,” Amity demanded from behind Rory. “Leave now.”

The man spun and stalked away. Mercy began to sway, but no one else in their little party moved. He was near the carriage road when he turned to yell back at them. “I’ll be back, you nasty slut.”

For a moment, Rory was surprised to find himself in the dirt with both his brothers on top of him, but then he realized that in a fit of rage he had started to sprint after Teague and they had tackled him to the ground.

“It’s a good thing he didn’t see that,” Cailean said, out of breath. “He would have died of fright.”

Rory spit the wad of paper onto the dirt. “Would have saved me the job,” Rory growled. Cailean snorted and Rory felt one brother’s weight leave him, then the other’s. As he pushed up from the ground, his eyes found Mercy’s, which were clouded over. Amity took her by the arms and shook her gently.

“I can’t believe you ate his papers,” Cailean said from the ground. Then he fell back and laughed, a great belly laugh. “I’ve never seen anything so bloody funny in all my life,” he managed to say through guffaws. “Your jaw working on those papers. Did you see the look on that man’s face?” he asked Rabbie, who didn’t seem as amused. “Yer a scary bastard, Rory. One scary bastard.”

“Sister?” Rory watched Amity search her sister’s face for any clue to how she was feeling, but Mercy’s face was as blank and imperceptible as an overcast sky. Rory approached them slowly. “Are you truly betrothed to Rory?” Amity whispered.

“Aye,” Rory said quickly. When he had made that promise to himself last night to be Mercy’s protector, he hadn’t imagined this, but now that it had come to pass, it felt like the most favorable thing in the world. He couldn’t help but enjoy the blistering excitement of belonging to her.

He went to Mercy then and grasped her hands roughly. “Mercy,” he said softly, his eyes pleading. Mercy merely blinked. “I can protect ye, lass,” he said. “We can protect ye,” he said, motioning at his brothers, “and Amity, too,” he continued. “Ye’ll never want for anything, and that monster will never put his hands upon ye again.”

She raised her head and met Rory’s eyes, which he knew were filled with emotion. She nodded imperceptibly.

“Right. Let’s find this Reverend Hawes, then.”

After Amity had taken Mercy to the cabin to rest, Rory told his brothers that they should ready the barn for a wedding while he went down the mountain to find the preacher. First, though, he needed to go back into the woods where he’d been felling trees and retrieve his waistcoat and cravat.

When he sauntered back through the clearing, he stopped by the barn, where he heard his brothers talking in low voices inside.

“Why did ye say it, Cailean?” he heard Rabbie ask.

“Did ye not think a marriage would be more desirable than a murder?” Cailean asked. Rory smothered a laugh. His brother knew him too well. “I know ye don’t approve of staying here, Rabbie…”

“I don’t,” Rabbie admitted. “I wish them well, but I’ve no fealty to the Barnetts. I am grateful they saved your life Cailean, for surely they did,” he said quickly. Rory guessed Cailean had tried to say something contrary. “But staying here is dangerous. Not just for us, but for them, too.” Rory leaned against the outside of the barn as the blow of Rabbie’s words hit him.

“Dangerous?” he heard Cailean exclaim inside. “That horse’s arse today seemed more dangerous than…”

“Aye,” Rabbie said. “But what do ye think would happen to the Barnetts if Crawley found us? They could get caught in the crossfire, or be punished for aiding convicts.” Rory put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and pinched. Rabbie, in all his pragmatism, was right.

“Alright, Rabbie,” Cailean said as if he had him trapped. “Then why did ye just stand there when I said it?”

“Cailean,” Rabbie said, sounding exasperated. Rory heard him draw in a deep breath. “Ye’re right—Rory would have killed that man. And if he had, we’d need to be off this very night, traipsing about in a winter wilderness with British scouts about, not to mention the native tribes, and wanted for murder .” He paused for a long time and Rory felt himself straining to hear more. “After this hasty wedding,” Rabbie continued, “which will effectively secure Mercy’s land for both her use and ours for the winter, we’ll continue rebuilding her barn, then head west in the spring, as planned.”

“But Rory,” he heard Cailean start to say, but Rabbie cut him off again.

“Ye know I owe a debt to Rory that I cannot repay in this lifetime,” he replied. “And I don’t pretend not to see his obvious attachment to the woman.” Rory closed his eyes tight and grimaced. “But I believe that come spring, Rory will do what’s best for us.”

Meanwhile, Mercy was coming back to herself, piece by piece. She was overcome with sorrow, for herself and for Rory Macleod, who seemed to feel duty-bound to save her and her sister from Teague, as she had saved Cailean from death. She couldn’t let him marry her this way, could she? She glanced at Amity, who still looked as though she’d managed to escape the jaws of death by the skin of her teeth. Yes, after that interaction with Teague, she could marry Rory Macleod, even though he didn’t love her. It was only a marriage in name, and perhaps after the Macleods had left in the spring, the sisters could keep on pretending to the townspeople that he was still there, that they were still married. Couldn’t they?

Yes, Mercy thought grimly, she would marry him and steal his name and use his protection. She hated herself for it, hated the way the world was, how it forced her hand, but she would.

“Call it off,” she said suddenly. It was perhaps the tenth time she’d said it. At this point, Amity merely rolled her eyes when she heard the plea, as she knew that in a moment or two Mercy would remind herself that it actually was a pretty, neat solution to a very messy problem.

“Dear, hold still,” Amity said soothingly. “I don’t want to put a pin in your ear.” Mercy sighed and let Amity brush back her hair and do as she wished.

“This really is unnecessary,” Mercy muttered.

“It’s not,” Amity exclaimed. “You really do look angelic.” Mercy snorted. “Though you don’t sound it,” Amity added.

“Call it off,” Mercy groaned again after a long silence. At that, Amity tugged roughly on the brushed back style she was creating and Mercy let out a squeak.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear, did that hurt?” Amity asked innocently.

“Yes,” Mercy said, not falling for it for a second.

“There,” Amity said, a bit breathless. “Now stay there while I find Mother’s gown!” Mercy turned and raised an eyebrow.

“Mother’s gown?” she repeated, dubious.

“Yes.” Amity’s voice was muffled as she searched through the trunk at the foot of her bed pallet. “I hid it between rags long ago when Father started snooping through my things,” she continued. Mercy bit back an apology to Amity, knowing it would go unaccepted. She realized then that she’d never need to apologize for their father ever again. “Ah,” Amity said finally, and pulled a light blue gown from beneath tattered brown shirts.

Mercy inhaled sharply: the taffeta silk was cornflower blue, and shone wherever the sunlight touched it. Intricate white lace trimmed the neckline and sleeves, and the bodice tied up the front with black laces. Though it was several decades out of fashion, the beauty of the workmanship and textiles made it perfect for the occasion.

“Here we are,” Amity said, pulling out a clean, white petticoat. Mercy reached out and touched the buttery-soft folds of the skirt and was stunned into silence.

“Wherever did Mother get a gown like this?” Mercy asked.

“I truly have no idea,” Amity answered. “It was from before she met Father.”

“Did Mother once have a wealthy suitor?” Mercy asked, winking.

“It’s possible,” Amity answered thoughtfully. “We never knew much about Mother and Granny’s past.” Mercy nodded, thinking of the slaps she’d received whenever she pressed Granny for more information about their lives before. Our mother? Pursued by some upper-class gentleman? It seemed highly unlikely, seeing as she’d ended up with someone like James Barnett. “Let’s get it on.” Amity grinned.

After Amity had pulled the petticoat over Mercy’s hips and fastened it tight, she helped her shrug on the gown and lace the bodice. Mercy became increasingly uncomfortable, realizing that the neckline was far lower than anything she’d ever worn before, and the dress barely clung to her shoulders, revealing a little too much of her collarbones.

“Amity, not so tight,” Mercy complained, grabbing her stomach. She could feel the gown hugging the few curves she’d developed recently from eating so well.

“Oh, Mercy,” Amity said, standing back to admire her efforts. “You look like a queen. Really, you do,” she said when her sister rolled her eyes. “I wish we owned a looking glass,” Amity said forlornly. “Then you could see how truly enchanting you look.”

“My dear,” Mercy said, taking Amity’s hands in hers and pulling her down so that they were both sitting on Amity’s bed pallet. “Now that Father is gone, our circumstances can change. He won’t be drinking up all our money anymore. Dearest, I will buy you a looking glass. And fine clothes, like these,” she said, looking down at the gown. “You will be accepted into the Clintock’s parlor. You will marry a handsome soldier. I promise you, dear Amity, I’ll take care of you. Our lives are going to change for the better.” Amity’s eyes grew misty at her sister’s declaration, then she grinned.

“I love you, sister,” she said simply, and Mercy pulled her into a long, warm embrace.

Rory made his way around the town in the valley below stealthily, like a cat in a hound kennel. He didn’t like showing his face, and liked revealing his accent even less. He feared most British colonists detested Scots, and might assume he was a convict. Still, he had learned from other prisoners aboard the cargo ship to the Americas that the backcountry was filled with Irish and Scots freemen, Germans and Dutch settlers. If he just kept a low enough profile, he could retrieve Reverend Hawes from the chapel and be back on the mountaintop in no time.

It hadn’t been that easy.

Once Rory had found the little brown chapel past the town’s medicinal springs, he’d been disappointed to find it empty. Not merely empty of people, but devoid of all furnishings, including pews. He’d had to backtrack and ask a nearby farmer if it was, indeed, the chapel.

“Aye,” the elderly farmer said in a familiar Scottish lilt, tilting his straw hat up off his wrinkled face. It warmed Rory to hear his voice, though if he’d had to guess he would have said the farmer had come to the colonies from the lowlands, and not the Highlands or the Isles. Surely he hadn’t been indentured, but had rather chosen to start anew in the colonies.

The farmer, to his credit, didn’t ask Rory where he was from. “But ye won’t be finding the good father there.” Rory frowned and stretched his neck. This exercise was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated, and he wanted this whole mess to be over and done with. He refused to think of anything beyond the actual ceremony, as the thought of having Mercy afterwards, of taking her in his arms and showing her that he was hers, would drive him mad before he even retrieved the preacher. The farmer wiped his brow with a white kerchief from his pocket and leaned on his rake, giving Rory a crinkly-eyed grin. “Might be at the Halfway House,” he said.

“I’ve no money to give ye for the information, sir, but if ye’ll take my word that I’ll do one day’s work for ye, I’d much appreciate directions to this Halfway House.” Rory straightened his spine and awaited a response. The farmer widened his eyes in surprise, coughed a little, and shot out a hand for Rory to shake.

“Ye seem to be a good man, and I shouldn’t like to take anything from ye, but my whole field needs turning ‘fore the snows set in. Ye can see I’m not a young man anymore.” He shrugged his shoulders in defeat.

“I will be back tomorrow,” Rory promised, looking over the land. It would take him and Rabbie no more than half a day to turn the soil to overwinter the land. The farmer looked so pleased that he might topple over. “The Halfway House?” Rory asked, reminding him.

“Ah yes, aye.” The farmer nodded. “Ye’ll just go tha’ way, down the carriage road here, and head south.” He snaked his hand in front of Rory to show him. Rory nodded.

“Thank you, Mr....”

“Mr. Clyde Bell,” the farmer said, shaking his hand once more. “I thank ye, truly, Mr....”

“Call me Rory, please,” Rory said, nodding respectfully. The old man nodded and waved as he made his way back to his farmhouse.

Rory backtracked to the medicinal springs and took a left onto the carriage road, and quickly discovered that the Halfway House was a busy tavern. After surveying his surroundings and finding that no one in his vicinity seemed to give a spit about his being there, he took a deep breath and opened the Halfway House door with a loud creak.

He was greeted with the haze of tobacco smoke and the stench of urine and unwashed hair, the telltale smells of drunkards. In one corner of the tavern, two men were pulling at the skirts of a painted woman, who by all appearances seemed to enjoy the romp. By the front window, several men sat around a table engaged in a game of dice, their eyes glazed over with greed and cider. Rory approached the bar slowly, his nostrils slightly flared, alert as though he were in the sparring fields with a broadsword. He felt naked without a weapon, but he was starting to get used to it.

“Cider, jack, or whiskey?” The barkeep barely looked at Rory and instead busied himself with wiping up what looked to be blood from the bar. He was a smaller blonde man, but he held himself with dignity and had mastered the art of seeming wholly uninterested in the goings-on of the tavern. It seemed as though this man’s job was to serve spirits and stay out of everyone’s business, which would make it harder for Rory to find Reverend Hawes. He should have never come to town with no money.

“I can trade a day’s work for a dram of whiskey,” Rory said gruffly. At this, the barkeep looked him over and pulled at his yellow moustache.

“You’re big,” he said simply. Rory stayed very still. “Scots?” Rory nodded reluctantly. “Can you fight?” Rory nodded again. “Where are you staying?”

“Up the mountain,” Rory said quietly, leaning towards the barkeep. The barkeep narrowed his eyes.

“Were you acquainted with James Barnett?” the barkeep asked under his breath, preserving the privacy of the conversation. Rory nodded once.

“He hired me to repair his barn.” The barkeep studied Rory’s face for a moment before dropping his eyes and pulling a bottle of whiskey from underneath the bar. He poured the golden liquid into a glass and slid it to Rory.

“I’ll find you when you’re needed. Things here can get a little...out of hand, at times.”

“Aye, I understand,” Rory said, taking a quick sip from the glass. It wasn’t half bad. He drained the rest of the glass and looked from left to right. “Where might I find Reverend Hawes?” he asked the barkeep quietly.

The barkeep pointed to the far wall, where a man snored, propped in a chair. “Little late for last rites,” he said to Rory. Of course he’d have heard of James Barnett’s passing.

“You’d be surprised,” Rory said, one side of his mouth turning up into a smile. He made his way over to Reverend Hawes, who had quite obviously partaken in quite a bit of ale, the empty glasses on the table next to him serving as evidence. His hair was a shock of white, peppered with gray, but his beard was still quite brown. A wooden cross strung through a leather cord hung around his neck, but the man wore no other clothes that would signify that he was the preacher of this town.

“Reverend Hawes,” Rory said softly, leaning down to the man’s ear. When he didn’t budge, Rory shook him gently.

“Lord as my witness!” the old man shouted as he opened his bloodshot eyes. “Oh,” he said when he saw Rory. He yawned. “What is it, my son?” he asked stoically.

“Ye’ve got a wedding to attend to, Reverend,” Rory said, crouching.

“Have I?” Reverend Hawes asked, blinking rapidly. “Well, well. Shall we get to it? Lead the way, sir!” Rory stifled a grin as the preacher lurched forward and steadied himself. “William, I’ll be needing that book back,” he called over to the barkeep. William nodded and pulled a bible from behind the bar.

Rory leaned around Reverend Hawes’ swaying frame and took the book from William, who nodded to Rory. Rory hadn’t anticipated giving out so many favors so quickly in the day. He’d help Farmer Bell tomorrow, and he’d come back to the Halfway House when William sent for him. Rory had as many shortcomings as any other man, but neglecting a vow was not one of them.