The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(48)
Nicholas grabbed his belly in mock pain and heaved a hungry sigh. “Now ye’ve done it. Better make yer visit quick, Miss, or I’ll be forced to eat the other treats ye’ve brought along.”
“You’re too easy to tease.” Oriana laughed as she turned to tap on Mrs. Newcomb’s cottage door.
Within moments, the door opened and a gaunt woman with her hair slicked back in a neat bun appeared. Dark circles shadowed her once-lively brown eyes. “Miss Thorpe. It’s so good of ye to come.”
“A good morning to ye, Mrs. Newcomb.” Oriana turned and waved at Nicholas before stepping across the threshold.
Four children sat on the mattress in the corner, their ages ranging from two to seven. Though their clothes were ragged, they were clean, as was the inside of the house, even if sparsely furnished.
Mrs. Newcomb relieved Oriana of her package of worsted wool. “This will be put to good use, Miss. I’ve finished me sweaters and will fetch them for ye now.” She placed the bundle on a table lined with tin plates and then moved across the earthen floor and disappeared behind a screen.
“How are ye today, children?” Oriana asked, her eyes stinging with tears.
“Did ye bring us food, Miss?” Joseph, the eldest child, stepped forward, his eyes hopeful as he looked back over his shoulders at his sisters and brother.
“Aye.” Oriana nodded, lowering the basket. “I’ve brought ye several savory pasties, gingerbread, and saffron cake.” She placed a finger over her lips. “But ye must promise to share with your mother.”
Joseph produced a wide grin and gladly took the basket from her. He carried the bundle to the table, leaving Oriana to swallow back her heartache. The boy was too thin for his own good. Saints preserve her, they all were.
Struck speechless, she stepped forward and stroked the boy’s head, then tapped his chin. “Ye must take good care of your mother, Joseph. She’s very important, as are ye and your sisters and brother.”
He nodded vigorously, having already assumed the role of protector. “I will, Miss.”
Mrs. Newcomb returned with her own bundle tied with twine. She laid her hand lovingly upon it and looked up at Oriana with tired yet determined eyes. “I managed to finish two frocks for the children at the orphanage.”
Oriana was delighted, but she wasn’t surprised. Respectable knitters produced one knit-frock a week. And Mrs. Newcomb had definitely proven to be one of her most competent and reliable workers by doubling this goal each and every week.
“I’m impressed as always, Mrs. Newcomb.” Employing Mrs. Newcomb kept the woman from leaving her children behind and packing eight to ten frocks on her back, knitting twelve miles to Plymouth with an extra skein of yarn hidden in her skirts as she walked.
Cornish women were never idle, but Mrs. Newcomb wasn’t well, and it showed. The reality of the widow’s health hit Oriana hard. What would become of the children if something happened to the woman and she could no longer provide for her family? Oriana patted Mrs. Newcomb’s hand as the transfer of merchandise was made.
“Take care of yourself and the wee ones, Mrs. Newcomb.”
“I am.” She raised her chin. “I will.”
Oriana wasn’t entirely convinced. “Ye are no good to them if ye cannot work.”
At this, Mrs. Newcomb quieted. The muscles in one of her forearms stiffened, and her fingers began to shake. Color drained from her face. “I understand, Miss. Ye needn’t worry. More sweaters will be ready when ye return.”
Oriana said a silent prayer for Mrs. Newcomb and her children. Guilt settled in her chest. What would happen to them when Oriana was gone?
“I’ll return with foodstuffs next week,” she promised.
If Charles doesn’t reach me first.
Fourteen
Several SHIPS have TRAGICALLY met their ends near GUERNSEY in the CHANNEL ISLANDS. The BOARD OF EXCISE has recruited esteemed PIRATE HUNTER Captain G of HMS DRAGON to join the search for the BLACK REGENT. The ADMIRALTY assures this PAPER that the SEATONS of ABBYDON COVE have also joined the HUNT.
~ Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post, 13 October 1809
Whitewashed thatched cottages sat atop granite hills and cliffs filled with blooming sea campion and gorse, their facades peering west as if daring the brutal climate to throttle them off their foundations. It was this confrontational spirit that Walsingham admired most about Cornwall as he galloped past hedges lined with bluebells, ferns, and bracken.
The sea thundered beyond the weathered hawthorn trees, attesting to the wind’s unruly might, and the gulls’ harrowing screams multiplied, then faded in its wake. Brilliant sunlight bore down on Walsingham as he rode over the rock-strewn terrain. He was a wanderer, a seafaring captain easily pleasured by heaving decks beneath his feet and an occasional jaunt on shore. He felt no connection to the land other than the sustenance it brought to the living. He kneed the bay, vaulting over thick bramble-covered hedges to turf-covered hillsides in pursuit of a woman he couldn’t remove from his mind.
Oriana Thorpe . . . Cornwall was her land. These superstitious people were her friends, customers, and, for all he knew, might be her relatives, too. Was that why she cleaved to the Marauder’s Roost the same way she’d clung to Old Bailey and Samuel’s folktales and music?
Whether she decided to live her last days in the Roost or not, Oriana’s fate was in his hands. If he didn’t stop Carnage, it was possible she’d lose everything, including her life. He’d breathe his last breath before he allowed that to happen. He’d make sure Oriana didn’t end up dead like Midshipman Jellet or the men aboard the Windraker. Preventing her demise involved inestimable courage. It meant speaking the truth, no matter who or how much it hurt. He had but one chance to make things right with Oriana, and he wouldn’t allow diplomacy or ambition to stop him this time.