A Wild Yearning (2 page)

"To yon noisy clods sittin' against the wall. And mind you don't spill a drop," she called out to Delia's retreating back, "or I'll have the cost of such outta yer wages."

As Delia carried the tray to the group of topers sitting on benches in the back of the room, she noticed one of them was the blacksmith, Jake Steerborn. In spite of her disillusionment with Tom Mullins, Delia was still glad to see that, with his master otherwise occupied, the young man wouldn't be caught slacking on his chores.

Hanging on a peg above Jake's head was a gamecock trussed in a leather satchel. The bird was making a low churring sound, perhaps in pleasant anticipation of the coming fight. There was a cock platform in back of the Frisky Lyon, and all the waterfront knew a high-stakes match had been set up for later that evening between Jake's champion bird and one of Sally Jedrup's.

As Delia bent over to set the noggins on the ring-marked trestle table, the blacksmith laid his soot-stained hand on her backside. He rubbed his palm in circles on her rough petticoat made of old mattress ticking. "Will ye wager a three-pence on my fighting cock tonight, Delia girl?"

Delia grabbed his thick wrist and removed the straying hand. "Ye won't find me tossin' tuppence at a lost cause," she answered tartly. In a way she was giving him fair warning for Sally Jedrup was known to coat the beaks of her birds with garlic to repulse an opponent and to shoot brandy down a cock's throat to enhance its fighting spirit.

Wrapping his arm around Delia's waist, Jake yanked her against him. "Aw, Delia, have a heart. What d' ye say we have ourselves a li'l fun afterwards?" He fished into the pocket of his leather apron. "Look here, I'll give ye a pair of silver shillings. Two silver shillings for just a few minutes of yer time—"

Delia pushed against his chest. "Let go of me, Jake."

But Jake's arm tightened, pulling her down to plant a wet, sloppy kiss on the swell of her breast where it rose from beneath the confines of her tightly laced bodice. For Delia this last assault was one too many. Reaching behind his back, she snatched up one of the noggins of rum and poured it over Jake Steerborn's head.

Jake's arm fell from around her waist. He sat in stunned silence while the burning, sticky liquid oozed in rivulets down his beefy face. Then he jumped from the bench, roaring curses.

Delia was ready for him. Swinging the wooden tray in a wide arc, she slammed it hard against the side of the blacksmith's large, shovel-shaped nose. The men around them all burst into loud laughter. Tears of pain flooded the blacksmith's eyes and he brought his hand up to his face.

"Jesus, Delia," he sputtered from behind the big palm that covered his throbbing nose. He wiggled the monstrous appendage back and forth to ensure it wasn't broken. "What did you want to go an' do a thing like that for?"

Unabashed by what she had done, Delia nevertheless started backing up, putting a healthy distance between herself and the giant blacksmith. "Ye'll learn in future to be keepin' yer filthy lips and hands to yersel', Jake Steerborn."

"I meant no harm."

"Hunh!" She turned around to find her path blocked by the broad figure of Sally Jedrup.

"What the hell do ye think yer doin', ye strumpet?" the woman leaned over to hiss in Delia's face. "D' ye want t' bring the coppers down on us for causin' a riot?"

Delia lifted the tray above her head. "Out of my way, ye filthy old bawd, or I'll brain ye as well, see if I bloody don't."

"Well, I never!" Sally exclaimed, though she did step back out of striking distance of Delia's menacing weapon. "Aye, girl, well ye can just keep on goin' then 'cause yer not workin' for me no more, ye're not. No, nor in any other grog shop on the front either, not if I have aught t' say about it." And, as Delia did keep going, out the open door of the Frisky Lyon and into the late afternoon sunlight, Sally Jedrup screamed after her, "I hope ye and yer old tosspot of a father starve, I do!"

Delia had almost reached Clark's Wharf before she realized she still held the wooden tray in her hand. She walked all the way to the end of the pier and sent the tray spinning into the bay, then started to laugh. But her throat seized up and the laughter caught in her chest.

Oh, she had made a right mess of things this day, she had. Bloodying her father's head—it would be days before she dared go home, and even then she'd better hope he was either so falling-down drunk he'd be incapable of taking his rage out on her, or too sober to want to.

And there was Tom. Like a fool she'd actually harbored dreams they might marry someday when his service was up. She'd pictured having a home of their own above a blacksmith's shop, with a row of children all sitting like building blocks around the kitchen table, her stirring something spicy and bubbling on the fire, him having a pipe and his tot and watching her with contented, sleepy eyes. Delia's throat closed as she swallowed a sob. Aye, a fool she was, taken in by Tom's handsome face and honeyed words. She didn't know which had shattered the illusion so hurtfully, his easy assumption that she could sink to whoring or the look of hate and fury in his eyes when she thought he was going to hit her.

Now this latest—losing her job at the Frisky Lyon, and all over foolish, besotted old Jake, who was only after a little fun and hadn't meant any real harm. "An' what d' ye think ye're goin' t' live on now, ye wooden-headed fool?" she berated herself aloud. "D' ye think ye can eat pride?"

Delia stood at the end of the pier as the sun began to set behind the shrouds and ratlines of the ships in the harbor. In the mouth of the estuary a fisherman sculled his dory homeward and the tide brought in strings of rockweed to wrap around the barnacle-encrusted pilings. A gull swooped down low over her head, squawking shrilly. For some reason the familiar sound brought fresh tears to her eyes. It was the loneliness of it, she supposed.

A movement at the corner of her eye caused Delia to turn back toward the row of shops jammed close together along the wharf. She watched a couple of officers from the frigate
Moravia
stroll up to the bulletin board that told which ships were in port. The few local men who had been perusing the notices of available berths quickly took themselves off. Everyone always gave the English sailors a wide berth, for the Royal Navy, with its gangs of pressmen, was not popular with the people of Boston.

Battening down a sigh, Delia retraced her steps along the pier. A brisk evening breeze had come up, stirring the piles of refuse that littered the wharf and sending a page of the
Boston News-Letter
to wrap around her legs, breaking her stride. Delia bent over to free herself from the newspaper's clutches. She was about to toss it away when a word in tall black print caught her eye.

Delia folded the newspaper into a more manageable square, but she was not adept at reading, for she'd had little schooling. Sounding out the letters by moving her lips, she was able to make out two of the larger, darker words—
woman
and then
wife.
The rest was beyond her.

She was about to give up when a shadow fell across the newspaper. Delia looked up into the face of one of the English officers she had spotted earlier. The insignia on the epaulets of his fancy blue coat proclaimed him to be a lieutenant. He was tall and quill-thin, and his hair was pulled back into a tight queue and clubbed with eelskin. But his smile was friendly.

"Good afternoon to you, mistress," he said in an educated voice. "I was noticing you before, standing at the end of the pier, and I thought you looked a little lonely. I was wondering..."He smiled, and a light flush suffused his pale, hollowed cheeks.

Lonely indeed! At any other time Delia would have scoffed at the lieutenant's shopworn flirtation, but instead she decided to take advantage of his forwardness.

She gave him her most brilliant smile. "Can ye read, sir?"

The lieutenant thrust out his thin chest like a turkey cock. "Aye. Of course."

"Could ye read this for me, then? Out loud?"

WOMAN SOUGHT FOR WIFE. This freehold Yeoman of the Merrymeeting Settlement, Sagadahoc Territory, The Maine, finding himself in dire Circumstances upon the Death of his Wife and left with the care of two young Daughters, agrees to provide a Home for a good Woman willing in turn to assume the Responsibility of Wife to said Yeoman and Mother to his two young Daughters. Said Woman shall be of strong Mind and Body and of exemplary Christian and moral Character. Interested Parties may apply to Tyler W. Savitch, M.D., in temporary Residence at the Red Dragon Inn, King Street, Boston.

The lieutenant's voice trailed off and he stared at Delia, a pleased grin on his face. She looked back, smiling as well, but she wasn't really seeing the man. She was thinking: a farmer would have built himself a house. And there would always be plenty to eat on the table. A man left with two motherless daughters might be good to a woman who would be agreeable to caring for his children and looking after his home...

"The Red Dragon... Tyler W. Savitch, M.D.," she repeated aloud. "What does that mean—M.D.?"

"Medicinae doctor.
It means the fellow went to university. Surely you aren't considering applying for the position." The young lieutenant laughed and stroked Delia's cheek. "You're too lovely to waste on some dirt-grubbing farmer in the wilderness—"

Delia plucked the newspaper from his hands. "I thank ye for yer trouble, kind sir."

Delia stood within the large shadow cast by the town house and looked across King Street at the tightly packed row houses and shops. In the middle, standing out by virtue of its grandeur—and the giant, colorfully painted signboard swinging above its doors—was the Red Dragon Inn.

No leather aprons would dare patronize the taproom of this establishment, Delia thought. No, only those of the "better sort" frequented this gentlemen's pub. She imagined how it would be inside, although she'd never before dared to set foot in any place so grand. The gentry would sip their drinks from pewter tankards while smoking on their clay pipes. They would play cards or read newspapers, but there would be no unseemly noise or behavior to disturb the genteel atmosphere.

An ostler and the porter, both done up in red and gold livery and wearing curled periwigs, stood before the entrance having a bit of a gossip. Delia had hoped to approach Tyler W. Savitch unobserved, but after waiting impatiently for several long minutes, she realized she would have to brazen her way past the stuffy inn's hallowed, and guarded, portals.

Gathering up her skirts and lifting her chin high in the air the way she imagined a real lady would do, she approached the entrance, dodging around a broom seller, water carrier, and knife grinder as she crossed the crowded street.

"Excuse me, good sirs..."

The men in red and gold livery stopped talking and turned of one accord. They looked Delia over, from the mud-stained hem of her ragged, striped petticoat to the top of her head, bare of any modest kerchief or clout. The ostler was a man her father's age, short and compact with smooth skin pulled tautly over his padded features. He gave Delia another look, and his nose, pink and round like a bunny's, began to twitch.

The porter, who was taller and much younger, gave her a leering smile that revealed brown, jagged teeth. "The kitchens are round back, m'dear. Though we've no openings for a scullery maid, I fear."

Delia smiled back at him. "I've not come for work, thank ye. Do ye know where I might find a Mr. Tyler W. Savitch"— she searched her memory for the correct appellation—"M.D.? I've an appointment," she added. It wasn't a lie; well, not much of a one. After all, the advertisement had read "interested parties may apply..."

"Oh, so you've an appointment, do you? And I'm the King of England!" the ostler exclaimed, chuckling so hard at his own joke that his periwig tilted askew. Then the amusement abruptly left his face. "Be off with you, wench, afore I call the constables."

"Hold a moment," the porter said, pausing to open the door for a stout gentleman wearing a high-crowned beaver hat nearly as tall as he was. "There've been all sorts of females in and out to see the doctor this past week and more. Aye, and most no better than the likes of this one—begging your pardon, mistress."

The ostler cast another disparaging eye at Delia, then "tsked" and shook his head. "Strange doings, aye, strange doings... He's aiming to set up a bawdy house to my way of thinking."

Delia was beginning to have the same suspicion. Deciding she didn't want to see Tyler W. Savitch, M.D., after all, she started to turn away.

"Here now, mistress, the doctor's out just now," the porter called after her in a friendly way, only to spoil it by giving her a lewd wink. "But he's taken himself a suite, and you can wait for him in his sitting room."

The ostler raised questioning brows but held his silence.

For a moment longer Delia hesitated. But, she reasoned, if she didn't like the looks of the doctor, she would simply leave and that would be that. After all, nothing too horrible was likely to happen to her in such a grand place as the Red Dragon.