Petals on the River (36 page)

Whether her subconscious summoned forth an evil incantation or, more

farfetched, providence yielded to her beck and call, a silky voice

queried from behind her, "What're ye gonna do bout them two, Mrs. Fitch?

Ye aren't gonna let Sh'maine's lover get away with callin' yer pa a

thief, now are ye?"

Gertrude turned her bulk stiffly about to face the woman who posed such

a question, and with a confident smile, Morrisa Hatcher sauntered from

the doorway of the adjoining building, where she had deliberately

tarried to hear the whole exchange.
 
The last Gertrude had seen of

Morrisa was when the harlot had strutted away from the ship with the

bawdily garbed older woman who had bought her.
 
In high spirits, Morrisa

had thrown kisses to all the sailors who had called to her and had

invited them to come visit her at the tavern.

"What does it matter to you, Morrisa?" Gertrude asked haughtily.

" Tain't none o' my concern, Mrs.
 
Fitch, but it just seems ta me ye

ought ta see bout silencin' all them lies they're tellin' bout yer pa,"

Morrisa replied with an indolent shrug.
 
She had been displeased by

Potts's recent failure to deal a death blow to her adversary and could

now see a need for another monkey on her leash.
 
Gertrude Fitch had

served her well enough on the ship, albeit through Potts, but if handled

right, the old crow could be a useful ally.
 
According to what Gertrude

had said while liberally lauding her father aboard ship, it would only

be a matter of time before he docked somewhere north of Virginia.
 
"If

Lord Turnbull was right here today, I'd bet me last shift he'd set his

mind on doin' somethin' bout them two."

Against the shrewd wiles of a skilled manipulator, Gertrude was as

pliable as rain-soaked mud.
 
Her pride swelled at the harlot's

deliberate magnification of her parent's importance, and she deigned to

consider her suggestion.
 
Gertrude knew that within a fortnight or two

her father would be sailing into the harbor of New York on the Black

Prince, no less than the biggest and best of his merchant ships. Perhaps

if she were to arrange for a message to be awaiting him when he arrived,

he'd be willing to sail south and deal with this Thornton fellow.
 
Once

they faced the wrath of J.
 
Horace Turnbull, the colonial and his bitch

of a bondswoman would soon realize the insanity of telling their

vindictive lies about him!

Gertrude conveyed her gratitude with a crisply cynical smile, the best

she could manage for the slut.
 
"You needn't fret yourself over such

matters, Morrisa.
 
I'm sure ere long they'll both reap their just

recompense."

Morrisa emulated solicitude with a troubled frown.
 
"Seein's as how Mr.

Turnbull is so well-known an' admired, m'liedy, it just seems a bloomin'

shame when a common yokel like that colonial can sully yer pa's good

name." She smiled and waved coyly at Captain Fitch, making him bluster

in red-faced discomfiture.
 
Easing his plight only slightly, Morrisa

took her departure of Gertrude with the same light fluttering of her

fingers.

"A right good evenin' ta ye both."

Gertrude jeered in distaste as she watched the fancy-garbed harlot

saunter leisurely toward the tavern.
 
Then she cast a glare toward her

husband, who had carefully fixed his gaze on some insignificant spot in

the opposite direction.
 
The fact that Gertrude hadn't let him out of

her sight since leaving England saved Everette the odious task of

answering a lot of angry accusations.
 
He had been as much her prisoner

as had the convicts on the London Pride.

Once again lending her attention to the young woman in the cobbler's

shop, Gertrude frowned menacingly and shook a fat finger as if chiding a

naughty child.
 
"You filthy little bogtrotter.
 
I'll make you sorry

yet."

Shemaine shrugged off the muffled threat and faced her master again.

"I think you deliberately provoked the woman, Mr.
 
Thornton, and I could

kiss you for it."

Gage leaned forward slightly with a broader grin.
 
"If that's a promise,

Shemaine, I'll collect when we get home."

"Well, I really wasn't .
 
.
 
.
 
I mean, I was only .
 
.
 
." Shemaine was

rather astonished at the colonial's ability to unnerve her, for she

couldn't recall ever being flustered in Maurice's presence.
 
And her

betrothed was a marquess, for heaven's sakes!

Becoming aware of the cobbler waiting expectantly, Shemaine in .

dicated the man in helpless confusion.
 
"Shouldn't we order the shoes

now so we can get back to your cabin before dark?"

Lifting a hand, Gage bade the man to draw near.
 
"Miles, I've got a girl

here who needs to be fitted for a pair of shoes.
 
Can you accommodate

us?"

The gray-haired man hurried forward eagerly.
 
"Sure thing, Gage."

"Shemaine .
 
.
 
." Gage politely made the introductions.
 
".
 
.
 
. Mr.

Miles Becker.
 
Miles .
 
.
 
.
 
may I present Mistress Shemaine O'Hearn."

Miles Becker nodded a jerky greeting.
 
"Miles, if you'd prefer, Miss

O'Hearn," he offered with a fleeting smile.
 
Motioning for her to take a

seat in a chair, he settled on a stool in front of her and slipped one

of the oversized shoes off.
 
He admired the trimness of her stockinged

foot for a moment before he raised his gaze to the greenest eyes he had

ever seen.
 
A seasoned bachelor, he was rather astounded by his suddenly

racing pulse as he stared into those sparkling orbs.
 
He didn't dare

trust himself to speak as he measured her foot and traced an outline of

it on a piece of wood.
 
Yet he could not entirely ignore her effect on

him.
 
It was tantamount to the giddiness derived from strong libation,

which he felt in great need of at the moment.

Gage's brows gathered slightly as he detected the shoemaker's sudden

confusion, for it was not difficult to discern the reason for it.
 
Being

within close proximity to Shemaine O'Hearn certainly had its

disadvantages, he realized.
 
Indeed, if she was able to stagger the wits

of a bachelor like Miles Becker with nothing more than an innocent

stare, then no man would be safe from her beauty and guileless charm,

least of all one who was ever near.

"What kind of shoe will you be wanting, Miss O'Hearn?" Miles inquired,

his voice quavering.
 
He cleared his throat nervously, hoping she

wouldn't notice his discomposure.

"Something serviceable," Shemaine answered, marveling at the change in

herself.
 
Not so long ago she would have ordered the costliest silk or

the softest leather for her slippers without suffering the slightest

concern over how they would last.
 
But that had been when she could rely

upon her father to pay for all her clothing and accessories.
 
Now she

had to consider the limited resources of the man who owned her and

refrain from being a burden.
 
"They must wear well and not cost too

much."

"I've got two styles that fit those requirements," Miles informed her as

he stepped to his workbench.
 
After sorting through a small jumbled

pile, he brought back two different kinds of shoes which he was sure

would serve her well.
 
"These are rather bulky and not much to look at,

but they're extremely durable, miss."

Shemaine was somewhat distressed at the ugliness of both and wondered

how she would be able to wear them for any measurable length of time

without the stiff leather blistering her feet or their burdensome weight

causing her legs to cramp.
 
Unfortunately, she couldn't allow herself to

worry about such minor details.
 
She was a bondslave, she reminded

herself, and indentured servants could ill afford to be choosy.
 
"If

it's all right with Mr.
 
Thornton .
 
.
 
."

Two pair of eyes lifted inquiringly to Gage, drawing his attention away

from the girl.
 
Chiding himself for being no less vulnerable to

Shemaine's allure than Miles Becker, he took a shoe in each hand and

examined them side by side, then tested the pliability and weight of

each before handing them back with an admonition.
 
"You're not shoeing a

horse, Miles.
 
The girl will need something lighter and more flexible

than these cumbersome clogs."

"A better leather will cost you more money, Gage," the cobbler advised,

"and may not last as long."

"Did I ask you to worry about the size of my purse?" Gage questioned

testily.
 
'Now let me see what else you have.
 
I'll not see Shemaine

hobbled by those clumsy things."

Miles complied, and they finally settled on a more suitable pair that

was also better looking.
 
Gage counted out coins for a deposit and then,

with a nod of farewell to the cobbler, lifted Andrew in his arms and

followed Shemaine outside.

Dusk had settled, and lamps had been lit in the tavern a short distance

down the boardwalk.
 
Boisterous laughter and a lively plucking of a

stringed instrument drifted from its doors and flowed into the street

beyond.

"Daddee ...
 
me ...
 
hungee...."

"So am I, Andy," Gage replied, realizing he hadn't stopped long enough

to eat anything since the morning meal.
 
"Too hungry to wait until we

get home to eat."

Glancing at Shemaine, he jerked his head toward the establishment.

"It's not a proper tavern or a coffeehouse like some I've visited in the

Carolinas.
 
There's usually a lot of drinking and revelry going on