Fortunate Son (8 page)

Sometime during the night the rain became silky drips that finally stopped. Now the mottled-pea-green grass in the churchyard of Christ Church Cathedral was arching its wet back to the warm sun rising over the Irish Sea. Everything was quiet and still, save various fluttering birds scurrying through the air, their soft chirps claiming the churchyard as their own. Then a breeze slipped through, wrapping itself around the massive walls, brushing through the cool damp space between the cathedral and the Four Courts of Justice. And in that narrow passage was Mary Sheffield, standing between puddles, gazing absently toward the half-lit churchyard, an empty stare across an empty space below an empty sky. The night was over. Her boy had not come.

“Lord God,” she prayed, whispering, “I beg of you to keep my Jamie safe.” Then she added, “…and that he may forgive me.” She stopped and bit her quivering lip, her chin lowering. “Can I ever be forgiven? My heart is broken. It is broken, Lord.” She turned, walked back into the chapterhouse, then farther on, into the cold nave. Wiping back her tears, she made her way to the prayer candles on the back wall, and there lit two—one for each person she loved, smiling faintly at the one for Jamie.

Wasting no time, Mary returned to the chapterhouse and sat down at a large walnut table, where she found the items she had asked Father Pilchard to leave—a small sheet of parchment paper, a quill, and an inkwell. She softly dipped the quill pen, then alighted it across the rough paper, slowly and carefully drawing out her words, inscribing a letter to her boy. She wrote methodically, stopping now and again to redip the pen. She knew what she wanted to say, what she must say, what she had to tell him. He had to know the truth. Above the faint scratching of her pen, came her tender hum of
Greensleeves
, as if involuntary, as if it too sought her boy and his forgiveness. Time moved slowly as she wrote. When she was done she re-read her words, fixed one line, then blew across it gently. Convinced it was dry, she folded it, dripped candlewax to seal it, and placed it in her reticule draped around her waist.

Withdrawing outside, she watched the bleak sun rise unmercifully. She closed her eyes with a sigh, and rubbed her tired face, feeling old. But she also felt relieved in some peculiar way, having written words of confession, truths she had never before uttered. The cold breeze was growing stronger so she tugged the hood of her red cape, tightening it. Perhaps she was free of her secret, but she was still without her boy. She had failed him. She hated herself for being such a wretched mother, for letting Jamie ever feel abandoned. Now she must give up. It was time to go. If she lingered much longer, the
Courtmain
would sail without her.

A similar fast breeze was whistling over the deck of the
Courtmain
, the ship swaying softly against its mooring. The sudden sound of the stern hatch creaking open snapped Jemmy from his sleep. Light filtered into the between-deck. With his arms still bent behind him, shackled to the post, he sat up as straight as he could, groaning in pain.

“I'd have me a knot in me neck,” said the old voice. Jemmy slowly looked in its direction. Sitting across the deck in squalid filth, bent under the low ceiling, was an aged, disheveled man. His lips were puffy brown and his leathery face was deeply wrinkled and splotchy. His hair was a mat of dingy grey tangled with sprigs of hay. One eye was blind white, but the other was light blue, startling in contrast to its moldering frame. It was gleaming with life, as if it belonged to someone else. This eye was staring at Jemmy. “A knot, I would indeed,” the man continued.

“Would ye?” Jemmy asked irritably, feeling the pasty muck in his mouth. He desperately needed to urinate.

“Dis evenin', I'll show ye how t' sleep against dat pole. On yer side. Dere's art t'it.”

Jemmy ignored the man. His mind hummed in a spiral of confusion like a child's top spinning wildly in a wooden box, ricocheting off the sides. What happened last night? Why was he on the
Courtmain
? Surely Richard was now giving him over to Mary. That must be right. Why else? But why would Captain Bailyn beat him and force him there if Richard was giving him over? Why not leave him at Christ Church? Because Bailyn loved to inflict pain. But where was Seán? Why was their skull drawn on that wall? Jemmy could not keep his thoughts straight. Surely Charity had said for him to be in Copper Alley so Bailyn could capture him. Yes. But why had Seán come too?

“So, dis eve, I'll learn ye, aye?”

Pain raged in Jemmy's head, throbbing, melding with the unbearable aching throughout his whole body. Touching his side, he found pus oozing. Then he looked down and saw his swollen ankle.

“Ye can't sit like dat, ye'll—”

“I'll be on deck by this evening,” muttered Jemmy.

The skeletal man grinned, revealing his two crooked, mud-colored teeth. “Well now! What makes ye dink dat, lad?”

Jemmy let his head sag to his chest. He had no interest in continuing a conversation with this carcass. Surely his mother would be boarding soon. He would shout for her then. She would hear him, have him released, and by this evening he would be traveling with her safely to England. He soared at the idea of it. Speaking further to the old man was pointless.

But the man persisted. “Ach, do tell lad. Are ye goin' to break dose shackles and make fer de gangway? Eh? If so, den spirit us both from dis hole o'shite.”

Jemmy kept his eyes focused on the floor. Suddenly he realized his cloak was gone. He remembered wearing it in the pelting rain. He pictured it—the bloodstains, the holes. Yes, he had been wearing it. But that was before Bailyn. Before he was taken.

“Ye'd have t'be a silky with a basket o' magic, t' do it. Ye would,” the wretch continued, cocking his chin, the bright eye looking up at the low moldy ceiling.

Jemmy also studied the droopy beams, though he was not sure why. “A silky to do what?” he asked, surprising himself that he had spoken the thought aloud.

“T' spirit us out o' here, like I said. What's de matter? Ye deaf too?” Then the two ancient teeth started a cackling that Jemmy was certain would never end.

*

“M'lady, you startled me!” Charity exclaimed as Mary threw open the door.

“Why did Jamie not come?” Mary flashed, stepping into her own bedchamber, a bit surprised to find Charity there.

“Did he not?” Charity's face flushed as she stood up from Mary's vanity. “M'lady, I know not! I spoke to the boy, Seán. He said he'd tell Master James.” She glided across the room, taking Mary's hands. “You look so tired
,
m'lady.” Mary pulled away.

The butler tapped on the open door, then entered carrying a small amber chest. He set it on the bed, then left. Charity stepped back, retreating across the room, watching Mary. Without saying a word, Mary pulled a brass key engraved with the letter “B” from her reticule and unlocked the chest. Easing the curved lid back, she lifted out some white damask that was lying across the contents and placed it on the bed. Then she removed a gold locket and popped it open. She stared at the little picture till her hands began to shake, then quickly kissed it, snapped it shut, returning it to the chest. Then she pulled the letter for Jamie out from her reticule and placed it gently in the chest, over the locket. After carefully returning the damask to its place, she closed and locked the lid with the key. Her fingers moved over the chest's smooth inlaid floral pattern. “You told Seán? As I instructed you?”

“I have so told you, m'lady.” Charity froze for a moment, her brow wincing.

Mary looked at Charity, her servant, her friend. Forcing a smile, she crossed the room to give her a hug. It wasn't Charity's fault that Jamie hadn't arrived, right? How could it be? As they embraced, Mary suddenly focused on the dress Charity was wearing. She pulled back, running her fingers across the creamy-yellow brocade silk. “This is my Tresard dress?” she demanded.

Charity stammered, “Aye, m'lady. Faith be, I meant no offence. I was only trying it—”

Mary studied her face. Something was different. Something was wrong. Now she remembered she had startled Charity when she entered the bedchamber. Charity was sitting at Mary's vanity table—wearing Mary's lip paint. Mary touched Charity's lips, feeling the pasty paint. “Charity,” she began, her voice tense with rising anger, “What's about you this morning?”

Charity protested, “Nothing, m'lady. I was—”

“We said our goodbyes last evening.…” Mary stepped back. “And this morning, when you must have thought I wouldn't return…you're wearing my
dress and
lip—”

“M'lady, I can explain,” pleaded Charity. “As you had asked me to bring the remainder of your things to England. When I was to join you there in a fortnight—”

“And what of it?” Mary slung off her cape.

Charity began to undress. “‘Tis nothing, m'lady—”

“Were you expecting a visitor? You were, weren't you?”

“My hand to you, nay,
m'lady! Truly not.” Charity's fingers were fumbling to loosen the long ribbon of ivory buttons. “I was wrong to do this.”

Mary could see a tear glistening in the corner of Charity's eye. There was more to this. A faint suspicion began to emerge, but Mary could not quite see it. There was something deceitful here, something concealed, something foul. Charity must have believed Mary would not return, and yet Charity was to travel to London herself in only a few weeks, escorting Mary's furniture and other belongings. Was that it? She blurted, “You're not coming to England?”

Charity didn't answer, only averted her eyes, tears running down her cheeks.

“Do tell me what I am seeing here.”

“I beg your forgiveness m'lady, I—”

“Am I right?”

Charity lowered her chin. “Aye, m'lady. I cannot go. I must retire from your service.”

Mary turned away as the room filled with thick silence.

“Can you forgive me? The yellow silk rustled with a soft crispness as Charity stepped from it. “I was muddled. I didn't know how to tell you. You know my simple mind. I get confused.”

Mary sat down, slumping forward in her chair. She rubbed her neck, then caught a glimpse of herself in the wall mirror. Trying to arrange her disheveled hair, she whispered, “I'm so tired.” She studied Charity's image in the mirror. “You've a man. A new one. But you won't tell me his name.” She raised a hand to stop Charity's objection. “You gave me a name, I know. But I harbor no faith in it.” She pivoted around to look directly at her.

“Forgive me, m'lady,” Charity murmured, “but I cannot betray his…his trust.”

Mary watched as Charity began to dress in a dark blue gown. The morning sun was streaming past the long tapestried curtains, falling across the floor, lighting Charity in a glow at the center of the room. She considered Charity's beauty, her radiance. “We've known one another for over fifteen years.”

“Aye, m'lady.”

“For fifteen years we have shared our secrets. Both yours and mine.”

Charity's jaw tightened. “This man ‘tis truly not of your concern, ma'am.”

“None of my concern! To the contrary, I do believe he is!” Mary stood, picking up the yellow dress. “Last night, I followed the plans
you
arranged!” She gestured wildly with the dress in hand. “I went to Christ Church. They rang the bell. I waited. Hours, Charity! But Jamie never came.” Mary's bloodshot eyes glared. “I waited all night. Then I come home to this!” She slung the dress across the room. She felt her tears searing down her cheeks.

“M'lady!”

“And now you seem not surprised by the news that Jamie never came.” Her face blazed anew. “Where is he, Charity? Where's my Jamie?”

“M'lady, please!”

“God help you if you had a hand in any harm to—”

“Upon my oath, I did not!” Charity clamored. Weariness overcame Mary and she stumbled backwards, collapsing in the drawing chair. Charity came to her. “M'lady, you are exhausted.”

Mary could barely move, much less think. She forced herself to calm, taking deep intentional breaths, closing her eyes. Surely Charity would never betray her, she reasoned, and what did it matter that Charity had a new man, that she had tried on her dress? Mary's arms felt heavy. She leaned forward, resting her face in her cupped hands, mumbling through her fingers. “Perhaps I am wrong.”

“I can assure you—you are.”

Mary slowly lifted her head, attempting to regain composure. Another deep breath. “My Charity,” she began, her voice much softer now, “are you not coming to England with me?”

Charity fidgeted, then answered faintly, “No, m'lady. I cannot.”

Mary looked into her eyes—eyes she had trusted. After all the years they had been together, how could Charity leave her? Tears were returning, but she held them back. The time for that had passed. She stood, wavering not to flop back, regaining her well-practiced poise. She crossed the room, picking up her cape, wrapping it around her shoulders. She began to tie the hood with shaky fingers. Charity stepped forward to help. Mary watched her servant's pretty eyes as Charity fixed a knot, then tied it correctly under Mary's chin. “He must be wonderful,” Mary said with a conceding sigh.