Saving Marina. Lauri Robinson
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box,” he assured her. “For Grace to sit upon so she can see over the table.”
“That’s a splendid idea.”
The expression on her face was a mixture of surprise and delight, a sight that intrigued Richard. He pulled his eyes away and gathered the box. After he set it on the chair, he lowered Grace upon it and took a seat himself. The table was soon set with plates and silverware and a host of foodstuffs in plated dishware. It made sense that William would have such luxuries while many colonials still used wooden spoons and trenchers. Ships hauled crates of dishware and utensils to America regularly, had for years.
“Marina insists on feeding us more than two times a day,” William said. “She claims her family ate morning, noon and evening, even on Sundays. I’ve told her on a ship, a man eats when a meal’s prepared, whether it’s the middle of the day or the middle of the night.” He chuckled before adding, “I’ve grown accustomed to her ways, those of my family from the old country that I’d forgotten about until she arrived, although that too we keep private.”
Having traveled the world, Richard had eaten meals at all times of the days, but he knew a custom of the Puritans was two meals a day, morning and midafternoon, after church services. He also knew their penchant for allowing no work of any kind on Sundays, including preparing meals. If there were no leftovers, they ate bread and water or fasted. He’d witnessed it on the ship that had carried Sarah and her family to America. From what he’d seen so far, Marina did not fit into the Puritan world in any way. So why was his daughter here rather than with one of the families in the village?
“We’re not trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes,” William continued. “We just don’t need any more fingers pointed at us.”
Although he could assume, Richard asked, “Why would fingers be pointed at you?” Following William’s gesture, he began to ladle food onto his plate. The bowl Marina had set before Grace contained clear broth, while the soup he spooned onto his plate had been thickened and contained chunks of chicken, carrots and potatoes, as well as dumplings. There was also bread and a thick pudding that smelled of maple syrup, and cider for their earthen mugs.
“I told you.” Sighing heavily, William looked at Marina, who’d just sat down, before he said, “They believe Marina’s a witch.”
Tension returned to Richard’s neck—his entire spine, actually. This witch business was more than frustrating. It had become an assault against his good sense. Over the years, he’d spent time with many types of people and cultures. In some countries people worshipped witches; in others, they feared them. Went so far as to hire witch hunters to eradicate them from the countryside far and wide. He’d never believed one way or the other, but had met a few witch hunters and would be hard-pressed to come up with a more evil profession comprised of more wicked men.
His gaze crossed the table to land on Marina. Her chin was up and her gaze solid as it met his, eye for eye. He might admire her grit, but others wouldn’t. A witch hunter he’d met in Scotland a few years ago, John Kintor, claimed that was how he recognized a witch, by the way she stared into a man’s soul. Kintor’s father had been a witch hunter, too. Several years ago father and son had captured more than two hundred witches in less than a year—or so they claimed.
A cold knot formed in Richard’s stomach at the thought of Marina encountering the likes of Kintor. “Why would they believe that?”
Her gaze drifted toward Gracie for a fraction of a second before she stated, “Because I agreed to stand trial for being one.”
“Only be—”
“Uncle William,” she interrupted before her uncle could say more. “The food is getting cold.”
“Oh,” the old man said as if he’d just noticed the food on the table. “Eat up, Richard.”
Richard opened his mouth but closed his lips when Marina bowed her head and recited a prayer quietly. He’d never encountered a witch and doubted he ever would, but either way, he highly doubted they prayed before eating.
When she lifted her head, her attention immediately went to Gracie. “Go ahead,” she said softly. “You can eat all you want.”
Gracie glanced his way and Richard responded with an affirmative nod, quite amazed that his daughter would expect his approval. He had very little experience around children. None, actually, other than the few who’d been on the passenger ship he’d captained years ago, the same one that Sarah had been on. He had a child now and held no regrets on it. Last night had been a sleepless one, full of worries about what he’d do with a daughter. Today, it didn’t seem so bad. Hiring a family to take care of her wouldn’t be hard. He just needed to figure out where he wanted that to be. There were plenty of choices in numerous ports around the world. Perhaps he’d let her decide.
With that thought, Richard lifted his spoon and began to eat.
As far as meals went, it was tasteful and filling, but far quieter than he was used to. Sailors were a hearty bunch. Given food, ale and others to talk with, they became even more boisterous. The only noise at this table was the clink of silverware and thud of ale cups. That was strange for him. Certainly out of the ordinary. The men he sailed with were first-rate and energetic, and mealtime was a noisy affair.
Richard glanced across the table. Not even a witch would be able to keep them in line. The idea almost brought a grin to his lips. Marina was no more a witch than he was, but if she chose to believe otherwise, so be it. Once Grace was well enough, he’d leave this place and never return.
A question of how Grace would fare on his ship formed, but it was not something he needed to worry about. As his daughter, she’d be more protected than gold. Setting down his spoon, he reached over to roll up the sleeve that had fallen to almost cover her hand. “You like the soup?” he asked.
She nodded, but her eyes went toward the plate of bread in the center of the table.
Richard retrieved a slice and pulled away the crust. Breaking up the soft center, he dropped the chunks into her broth. Grace smiled and he patted her head, half expecting a chiding from Marina. Prepared, he lifted his gaze to the woman.
A gentle smile graced her lips, and she made no attempt to pull her gaze from his. She was patting her lips with her napkin, and Richard held his breath, wondering what she was preparing to say.
Instead of her voice, a knock on the back door interrupted the silence.
“Marina, I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes,” Anna Pullman said with tears streaming down her cheeks. “They killed her. Just like that. They put a rope around her...”
“Hush now, Anna,” Marina whispered while stepping out on the stoop. Her friend had used the back door, which was fortunate if anyone was on the road but unfortunate considering those sitting at the table could hear. “Come to the garden with me,” she said, pulling the door closed behind her with one hand and the other on Anna’s shoulder.
“The garden?” Anna stammered. “They just killed Elizabeth. I can’t think of carrots and onions. People cheered and clapped. Oh, Marina, what are we going to do?”
“We are going to walk to the garden,” Marina said gently. “We don’t want anyone to see us being idle.” If anyone on the road saw Anna talking to her, the young girl would be arrested, but Anna needed comfort right now and Marina couldn’t overlook that. There were a few families who’d befriended her and Uncle William, and she’d come to care for each of them.
“Of course we don’t,” Anna said bitterly as they walked toward the garden beside the barn. “Lord knows what Reverend Hickman will do if he learns of two idle women. Oh, Marina, it was so awful.” Anna sniffled as new tears began to fall. “Elizabeth cried and pleaded, swore on the heavens she wasn’t a witch, even while they were putting the rope around her neck.”
“Hush