Cape Cod Noir

ARDENT

BY DANA CAMERON

Eastham



Having reached a despairing state, Anna Hoyt, as a last resort, found herself in church.

Her legs betrayed her, and she sat down heavily, the roll of winter seas having taught her a different way of walking in the weeks during the passage from London. At least the salt air in the meetinghouse was mingled with fresh, without the closeness of shipboard life. The hard plank seat of the pew was welcome because it did not move, the silence of the church a blessing after the unceasing roar of wind and waves.

She was no more than hours away by sail from Boston across Massachusetts Bay, in the town of Eastham. She longed to see her tavern, the Queen’s Arms, and had sacrificed much to preserve her livelihood there. Her trip to London had opened her eyes to the restrictions of rank and sex, the power of learning, and the astonishing ease with which men could be manipulated, even to murder. And while she knew in her heart she belonged in Boston, she also knew that her former life pouring beer for sailors and fishermen was impossible. She had money now, and a glimpse of the wider world that fed a kind of ambition, but for what, she did not know. The question had plagued her over the weeks of travel: if she could not be what she had been, and was not allowed to be what she might want, what would she do?

Once, she’d actually climbed the stairs from her quarters on Mr. Oliver Browne’s ship Indomitable and gone to the railing, looking at the waves: angry, white-capped slate. She hesitated, then would not jump, for anger at those who’d placed her in this position: the men who conspired for her property, the men who would use her quick wit for themselves, the laws that constrained her as a woman.

The welcome rage sustained her.

Just before dawn on the last day, within sight of land, she observed an unholy light. Beautiful tongues of orange and pink and green stretched out into the sky, and Anna realized she was watching a building burn.

“Someone’s lost money tonight,” said her traveling companion, Mr. Adam Seaver. Then: “We must stop here, to attend an errand. They’ll put us ashore.”

No doubt it was on behalf of their mutual benefactor and employer, Mr. Browne. Still answerless, Anna was neither relieved nor angered by the delay; she merely nodded.

But the Sunday morning bustle at their inn reminded her of her own establishment. She glanced at the exquisitely dressed manikin on her table, but Dolly had no answers for her. And when she turned to her well-worn Bible for comfort and instruction, her eyes blurred so she could not read. Denied this, she pulled on her blue velvet cloak and left.

The village was set against sandy dunes on a sheltered harbor, a spit of land that curled protectively against the bay. Outside the inn, she saw a crowd standing around the burnt ruin of the building she’d seen from the ship. No more fiery beauty here: heavy timbers burned to charcoal jutted out from the collapsed wreckage against the clear sky, like so many black marks on a blotter. Turning away from the gathered townspeople, Anna saw a man in a towering fury shaking a boy half his size. The child’s thin arms and legs practically rattled with the movement, and tears streamed down his filthy face.

“You little shit of a liar!” Flecks of spittle flew from the man’s lips. “First you say you saw a man, then a girl. Which is it?”

“Both!”

The man dropped the boy, and kicked him until his anger was dissipated and the boy stopped moving.

Anna shook her head. She walked until she found the meetinghouse by the creek.

She did not pray. She didn’t have it in her to ask for favor. The church was only another container for her emptiness. She went through the rituals absently, without solace.

But there was information to be had. The vehemence of the sermon, drawn from Leviticus, about the land turning to whoredom, alerted Anna. The red and sweating face of the preacher, and his steadfast refusal to look anywhere near the lovely lady in the third row, confirmed it. The preacher would have chosen a milder topic if he hadn’t been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Two women in front of Anna barely concealed their amusement. “Come Monday,” one whispered to the other, “she’ll be right back at it. Where else would our betters get their release?”

They ceased only when the warden raised his eyebrows. Anna added this observation to her present perplexity. The lady who seemed to be the object of the sermon hadn’t asked permission to ply her trade. She was in church, nodding with the best of them, free to ignore the implications. She was certainly doing well for herself, in one of the better pews, modestly but well dressed.

She makes her way well enough, asking no leave of anyone, Anna thought. If it is my will I serve, what do I want?

As the preacher delved into the exact nature of the hellfire that awaited sinners, Anna stood, ready to leave. There was nothing for her here, only more men with more words to shape the world for themselves. She had to leave or go mad.

Something stopped her, and she almost rebelled against it, but pausing showed her the reason. Out the window, she saw him peering in furtively. Blond hair, more ash-gray now, but the same face. The same cant to the shoulders, an old injury never healed, but so recognizable, so dear.

Anna sat, smoothing out her gown, as if it was all she’d meant to do. She put her head down on clasped hands.

Her eyes closed, she had but one thought, as urgent as prayer, over and over: Look at me.

She tilted her head, still on her hands, and opened her eyes.

He saw her. The intake of breath, the widening eyes revealed his recognition, and confirmed her suspicion.

Not dead. Not lost.

Restored to her.

Emotions in a flood of memories, good and sweet and sad. Suddenly, Anna had a reason to keep searching for her answers.

After the final hymn, she got up and walked away from the congregation, moving in the direction he’d indicated. She saw him vanish into a slender stand of trees by the churchyard, beyond sight of the parishioners. Slowing by the gravestones to see whether she was observed, she followed him through the late winter snow.

He was hunkered down against a tree, waiting for her. His face, like his strong hands, was older, and browned with the sun. Once they had been thought a match for each other: her blond hair fine and light, his thick and unruly. Good features on both faces, hers more precisely delicate, his kept from fae beauty by the scars of his work and weathering, but well formed, nonetheless.

Anna stepped forward. He rose and clasped her shoulders, peering into her face.

“It is you.”

She nodded. “It is.”

“I thought it was some dream, seeing you.”

“I thought you were a thousand miles away, Bram Munroe, making your fortune. How do you come to be so close to home?”

“Ill fortune at every turn, Anna, kept me tethered here, and betrayals kept me from returning to Boston. I would not let my bad luck follow me to you.”

They embraced. It started to rain, with heavy, cold drops, and she shivered. They both laughed.

“I’m a respectable widow now. There’s no shame in being seen together near a warm fire.” This much freedom she had, at least. The gift of a kingdom.

He nodded, but didn’t move. “I’d not tarnish our meeting—a public disagreement with my former employer. A trifle, but seeing him would sour the moment.”

“But … you are well?”

“The better for seeing you, Anna.”

A shadow moving beyond the trees. Seaver, walking to the inn.

Anna collected herself; he could not have seen them. “I cannot stay. Tell me where to meet you, and I’ll find you later.”

“There is a shack on the dunes of the strand. Meet me there, late tonight.” He pressed her hand to his lips. “Oh, Anna.”

“Tonight.”

For the first time in many weeks, Anna smiled.

Here, then, was what she’d been waiting for, the reason she’d continued when all seemed lost. A fresh start with an old love, plenty of money, and new ideas. No burden of her husband Thomas Hoyt, as dead a weight alive as he was deceased. The Queen was no longer a coffin confining her; Bram and her fortune made space enough.

These happy thoughts fled as she entered the inn. Adam Seaver was sprawled out before the large fire, boots off, a pewter mug, large enough to stave in a man’s head, on the table by his side. It was a cold day and there was room enough around the fire for the other patrons, but they found places away from Seaver. Perhaps they knew him, perhaps not, Anna thought. Knowing Adam Seaver was not necessary, if one had eyes to see and a brain to reason.

He seemed to sense her arrival, for he opened his eyes to slits, then sat up. “Mistress Hoyt.”

There was no avoiding him now. On the ship, she’d kept to herself, pleading illness, and he had been satisfied with that.

“Mr. Seaver.”

“You look very well.” He stretched, and looked more closely. “Sermons agree with you.”

He couldn’t have seen us, she thought. She looked straight at him. “I’m glad to be off the ship.”

“You’ll dine with me tomorrow. We have business.”

“We have no business. Mr. Browne asked for you to stop.”

Seaver said nothing at this bald rebellion. Before, when he had spoken to Anna, it had been as if Mr. Browne himself had done so. He shrugged. “I would consider it a kindness, then, if you would.”

There were no manners from Adam Seaver that did not conceal worse things. Anna understood she’d gone too far, too quickly. “Of course.”

“I stop to collect on a debt, but the gentleman we dine with has many problems that keep him—repeatedly—from paying Mr. Browne. I admire your ability to understand people. And I know Mr. Browne does.”

“I am happy to help,” she said.

“Tomorrow evening, then. Across the harbor, the old tavern on Great Island.” Seaver flashed a brief, broken smile, no more warm than it was lovely, and settled back to doze.

I’ll help, this one last time, she thought. Then we’re done. I’ll be my own woman, with the man I’ve always loved, and I’ll have no more of you.

She arrived at the shack after dark, her heart aloft. She carried a large jug filled with rum, and it swung heavily against her skirts. She tapped lightly on the door, and let herself in.

Bram was on her in an instant, sweeping up high, so her gown brushed the narrow walls and her hair grazed the ceiling. He stumbled, his boot causing a clank of glass bottles rolling on the tamped earth floor, and overturned the candle that lit the small room.

“Anna, Anna, ’tis the very fates bring us together now.” He set her down and restored the candle carefully, with a kind of reverence, then kissed her wrists.

She found herself eager for him. With her husband, intercourse had been the price for protection. There had been no one since him, really, and she’d long ago forgotten the act might be for other than bargaining.

Later, he sighed. “You’re the only one who’s ever understood. No other man or woman could see me for what I am.”

“Surely there’ve been others who’ve recognized your qualities.”

“Never. Every time, every place, I found nothing but louts, ignorance, a desire for the mediocre. No appreciation for artistry.”

“Such brilliance, to be ignored!” She put her hand on his shoulder, suppressing a smile. “They little knew they abused a lord among smiths!”

He pinched her hand playfully. “You mock me, I fear.”

“I don’t! I know the excellence of your hinges and bolts.”

“I am Vulcan! My hammer and tongs forge miracles! The coals and heat are quick to obey me!” He laughed with her. “Drink to me now, my love!”

Tilting the jug to Anna’s mouth, he sloshed the liquor over her lips. The dark spirits ran over her chin, sharp, sweet, and sticky. With his tongue, Bram traced its path across her jaw, and down her throat, burying his face in the lace at the top of her gown.

Anna shifted under him, trying to find a comfortable spot on the lumpy pallet. She sighed with happiness, intoxicated with love.

They woke in each other’s arms. Bram rolled over, cradled his head, moaning, but made a brave show of it when Anna looked at him.

“It’s nothing. A pounding head is a small price to pay for such a reunion.”

“We’ll be in Boston in two days,” she said. The hopefulness that attended the thought was a sensation virtually forgotten since he’d left so abruptly five years ago. “I’ll set you up there in a shop of your own.”

He nodded eagerly. “It will be good to be back where I belong, back among the embers, bending metal to my will.” He hesitated. “Anywhere else but Boston, though. I have enemies there.”

“How so?” she said, smiling. “It’s not possible. An age since you left, and all unpleasantness long forgotten, I’m sure.”

“Alas, my former master—in title only!”

“Who is this man? I’ll have him run out of town.” She was proud to realize she had some influence now, a way to solve his problems for him.

“Bah, a bully of the first order, and he is dead, thank God. But his cousin, the one who threatened me, has a long memory. A sod the name of—Owen? Oliver. Oliver Browne.”

Anna’s heart seemed to stop beating for a long moment, before it resumed with a painful thump.

“But it is no matter,” he continued. “We can go anywhere else, and be happy.”

She thought again of her tavern. Must she choose between the Queen and Bram? There was nothing to be gained by asking aloud. Anna nodded, smiled, and dressed, and with a heavy soul and a newly aching head, she made sure no one was about as she slipped away to her room.

Had Samuel Stratton walked into the Queen’s Arms, Anna would have nodded welcome, as to anyone else, and offered him one of the better chairs. Then she would have signaled her man, Josiah Ball, who handled the heavy lifting and peacemaking. He would address the more volatile regulars, finding pretext to send them home. She would go about her business, pausing only to make sure the cudgel she kept behind her bar was at hand when violence broke out. Something in Stratton’s carriage, and that of men like him, alerted her, like dark clouds and a drop in the barometer told of a storm. If Adam Seaver was a man to rely quietly on his reputation, retaliating privately and viciously, Samuel Stratton wore his aggression as a cloak, flourishing it at every opportunity, spoiling for trouble.

She recognized him as the man who had beaten the boy.

Stratton looked well enough—tall and hale and dark—and he seated her with a gruff and rusty courtesy. This she understood was a rarity, a gesture to Seaver’s presence and Browne’s influence. It extended only that far; for as soon as the tavern-keeper’s wife deposited their dinner on the table and left, he ignored Anna and turned to Seaver.

“My works have been bedeviled of late. My still and stores were destroyed in the fire, and I can’t supply Mr. Browne nor pay him his interest until I rebuild. If you’d convey that to him, I’d be obliged.” Stratton used his knife to joint the roast bird, and then forswore cutlery as he ate the wing, using the tablecloth to wipe his fingers. “I may be delayed for months.”

Seaver helped Anna to a plate of oysters, but took nothing for himself. “And the nature of this devilry?”

“Petty theft, and worse: arson and murder. My man was burned alive, trapped in the building when it went up.”

Suddenly, Anna was reminded of another fire, long ago. Just before Bram had left.

“Someone has a grudge against you,” Seaver said. The humor in his words suggested this was no surprise.

Stratton only grunted. “Someone will pay for it, when I find ’em.” He threw the bones down, and rubbed his greasy hands together. The light in his eyes caused Anna to turn to her plate. “I think I know who it is. A little weasel I thought I could get cheap. A smith with ideas too big for him. I’ll string him up by his balls, and when I’m done with him, hungry seagulls won’t touch what’s left.”

Bram. Panic seized Anna.

“Interesting,” Seaver said. “I’d like to inspect the site. I am required in Boston shortly, but I would present a full report of your troubles to Mr. Browne, and your request to—once again—delay payment.”

At this invocation of Browne’s name, Stratton grew less agitated, more unsure. “Thank you.”

Anna and Seaver left shortly thereafter, claiming fatigue, and returned to their inn across the harbor.

“What think you of our host?” Seaver extracted his pipe and tobacco pouch.

“He lacks … economy. I saw him beat a boy almost to death, when he could have had the information he wanted for a piece of bread and bacon fat.”

Seaver shrugged. “And the current matter?”

Anna spoke carefully, trying not to let memory—Bram’s former master watching his house burn down—color her words. “He’s either lying or mistaken.”

“How so?”

“Thieves don’t set fires; they don’t want to get caught. It was an accident, or perhaps he set the fire himself, having removed the equipment first, to save paying what he owes Mr. Browne while secretly distilling elsewhere.”

“I see.” Seaver considered this. “The man killed inside?”

“Accidental or intentional, the fire covers the deed. Do you think Stratton cares about anything but his profit?”

“I think you are right, Mrs. Hoyt.” He rose, and grinned. He did not truly smile, as his teeth were not made to express happiness. “I shall examine the place. Thank you for your opinion.”

She nodded goodnight, not trusting her voice, and climbed to her room.

The door was ajar.

Her heart quickened. It mustn’t be Bram, not here …

She rested her hand against the door, as if to discern his presence, then pushed it open.

A movement by the curtain. Anna took two steps to the table and her Bible. She picked it up, and from the recently repaired binding withdrew a strong, slender blade. The steel was German, sharp and bright, flat for concealment in the spine of the book.

Holding it behind her skirts, she said, “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

The curtains twitched again, and a bedraggled girl, barely twenty, stepped out. “Please. It’s only me.”

Anna knew the inn’s household; this girl was no part of it. “Who are you? What are you doing here? I have no time for thieves.”

“I’m Clarissa. Please … I need … Take me away from here.”

A smell of molasses and charcoal and sugar burnt to acid assailed Anna’s nose. “You’re the one Stratton is looking for. You started the fire.”

The girl straightened herself, jutted her chin out. “I didn’t. I have money, I can pay my way, I just need help—”

“Money you stole.” Her sureness, her lack of servility, immediately set Anna against her.

Clarissa shook her head. “My own,” she said haughtily. “I stole nothing.”

“Show me.”

The girl unknotted a stained handkerchief. It was filled with small coins, the sort of sum accumulated with great care over a long time. A pair of new pieces of silver shone among them.

Anna took a step forward and slapped the girl twice, hard. “Those two you stole.”

Clarissa’s face burned, but she held Anna’s stare. “It’s mostly my own, with whatever was in the man’s pockets. Exactly what I was owed—and if I kept the stillery running, shouldn’t I have my wages? He wouldn’t pay me.”

“So you killed him?”

“An accident. In defense of my own person, when he tried to take advantage. And when I saw he didn’t get up, I knew I’d have to leave here forever. He had no more use for the money.”

“And the fire?”

“I know nothing about it, I swear.”

Anna waited for the truth.

Clarissa relented. “The door opened, another man came in. I hid. I watched him pull apart the still and strike a light to a barrel of spirits. I got out as soon as I could.” She shivered. “I was not certain he would ever leave, he stared at the flames so.” She held out the money again. “I only need help. I can pay!”

“Why come here?”

“You stood out, on your way to church. With your fine clothes and cloak, you weren’t here to stay. I thought you might need a lady’s maid. And you’re a stranger.”

“I dined with Mr. Stratton tonight. A stranger to these parts, but not unknown.”

The girl blanched. “Then let me leave.”

Anna turned, and barred the door. “Sit. I may have use for you.”

She glanced at Dolly, cold and mute on the table, as she reached for her Bible. She let the book fall open where it would, and began to read in Proverbs, the twentieth verse of the twenty-sixth chapter: Where no wood is, there the fire goeth out; so where there is no talebearer, the strife ceases.

Anna sighed and stared at Clarissa, who’d not moved all the while. She’d admitted killing Stratton’s man, and had been at the fire. She had a grievance against Stratton.

Anna needed to save Bram from Stratton. She opened a trunk, studied the bottles there, selected one, and left the girl in the room, locking the door behind her.

Anna could not see for the tears in her eyes as she stumbled toward Bram’s shack, splashing along the sandy shore. The salt water soaked her skirts, making them heavier and heavier, as if clutching fingers were dragging her down. The more she moved, the more difficult it became, but she slogged on until she reached the path. She sat exhausted, on a vertebra of one of the great whales they fished and slaughtered here; the place was never free of the stench. She stared at the moon, wishing it would strike her blind or remove the terrible choices before her. A few miles to the east was the wild ocean, stretching for a world away, seething, chaotic. Here, calmer waters separated her and home and all she knew too well. She sat between them to choose.

She could not hand Bram to Seaver.

She could not abandon the Queen’s Arms, leave with Bram, forsake what she had. It was little enough, but hard-won and more than she’d ever dreamed of.

She thought for another hour, shivering under the moonlight. She got up heavily and walked toward the shack where Bram was sleeping. She unlatched the door, now knowing the trick of keeping it silent, and pulled it closed behind her. She watched him by the light of a guttering candle, asleep on the old pallet, snoring, as she struggled with the hooks and lacings of her sodden clothes. With patient fingers she worked; then, naked and numb, she slipped under the covers next to him.

He stirred, shuddered awake, but smiled when he saw her. “I was dreaming of you. And now you’re here, conjured from the sea.” He started. “You’re cold as the grave—”

She put her hand on his mouth and climbed on top of him, feeling his warm body beneath her.

An hour later, when it was quiet and they could hear the wintry rain on the roof of the shed, Bram kissed Anna on the back of the neck.

In response, she reached for his hand and kissed each finger. Her lips slid down past his knuckle. He sighed, contented.

She eased the ring off his index finger, slid it onto her own, then looked into his eyes.

“I heard Samuel Stratton is looking for you. I won’t let him have you. We’ll run away, to New York. There’s a ship tomorrow night.”

He sat up. “Let us go now! I can find a horse—”

“No, be patient. I must keep them from you forever. Can you trust me to do that? I have a plan, and will come aboard the ship at the last minute, just before it sails.”

He stared at her, then dropped his head in agreement. “Anna, you must take care. If anything should happen to you, I’d die.” He held his hand over the flame of the candle, until a blister raised. “I swear it.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “I understand. But you must trust me.”

“With my life.”

She found the bottle she’d brought with her and offered it. “Drink to it, then.”

As Anna left, Bram was still and silent. She hadn’t realized what hope did to a person, until this moment. Unrealistic expectation coupled with … something. Optimism.

It was terrible. She wept as she found her way back to her room.

The next day, Anna returned to Boston and the Queen’s Arms, and found it much the same as before she’d left for London, in the care of her man Josiah. As welcome as its familiarity was, the tavern’s walls seemed to press in around her, leaving her breathless.

All was well, but not yet to her liking.

If she had given up Bram, not willing to relinquish the small fortune and cupful of power she’d carefully amassed, neither was she ready to return to drawing beer and measuring rum. By choosing to thwart Browne and Seaver and Stratton, she’d chosen more.

There was no certainty in life. She’d learned the power of social barriers in London, but she’d also learned how laws could be winked at, and yet public esteem maintained, by the respectable whore in the Eastham church.

So more it must be, and by her will, rather than certainty.

But carefully, carefully. She would never be free of Browne and Seaver, but she might learn to work … in their margins. Alongside them, if not beneath them.

In the next days, she went to the merchant Rowe about the purchase of a piece of his land outside the city. They shook hands after negotiating; he had a faint smile on his face. Hers was quite determined. It would be the first of many such purchases she’d make. She had plans of her own now.

She sat at her desk, entered the transaction in her ledger, then drafted a note to the lawyer Clark, giving him instructions about the purchase and asking him to find a secondhand copper still for her. She considered who she would employ in her future enterprises and drew a list. It was short, but every one reliable.

There was a knock at her door; the taproom boy was there, announcing a visitor. His eyes were wide.

Seaver? It might be a short career, then, if he discovered her betrayal. She looked to the little blond manikin and asked, “Dolly, what is the right lie?”

The caller was Clarissa.

The girl looked much better for a change of air and a change of dress. Fresh-scrubbed and the gray under her eyes replaced with roses, she was the picture of modesty. Better, she was unrecognizable, even in Anna’s blue velvet cloak.

“Mr. Munroe took my absence well?” Anna asked.

Clarissa laughed.

Anna shrugged, surprised at how little she felt now, only glad her plan worked. “But he won’t be back?”

“Oh, no. He won’t dare come to Boston, now that he believes you left his ring at the site of the fire for Mr. Seaver and Mr. Stratton to find. He cursed you, roundly and foully. Even threatened to kill you—I wasn’t sure I’d escape his rage—but the money you paid the captain was enough to keep him on board, while I slipped back ashore. He won’t show himself here.”

Anna nodded, trying not to look at her battered Bible. There was a slight gap between the pages in the middle, where she’d hidden Bram’s ring. “Where no wood is, there the fire goeth out.”

“What’s that?”

“From Proverbs. You can read?”

Clarissa nodded.

Anna hesitated. The girl owed her much and was clever enough. Perhaps she would do.

“Start with this, then.” She handed Clarissa a new Bible. “You’ll need to read, if you’re to work for me, and you’ll find many answers here.”