Страница 19 из 45
She glanced hastily at Thomas, who was scowling as he jabbed the fire with a poker. A
“Better if you don’t argue with him,” he breathed, his lips barely moving. “Don’t fight back too much.”
She watched his back as he left. The room was empty, quiet, save for the crackle of the fire, the beating of A
Thomas straightened, and turned. “I thought we had an agreement.”
A
“I thought, any man comes in here looking for a piece, you send him up to that fancy cathouse on Salem Street. And yet I see you, a damned slut, making cow eyes at every man in here, right in front of me.”
She ran, but just as her fingers touched the latch, she felt the poker slam across her shoulders. She cried out, fell against the door. The next blows landed on her back, but Thomas, tired of imprecision and mindful of leaving visible marks that would make the punters uneasy, dropped the poker and relied on the toe of his boot.
When his rage diminished, Thomas stormed out. A
She eventually forced herself up, pulling herself onto a stool. No bones broken, this time.
In her quest to find security, independence, she’d first tried the law, and when that wasn’t enough, she’d put her faith in her husband’s strength. Now…she wasn’t sure what would work, but knew she would be damned if she gave in. Not after all she’d done to make the place her own. Her father had taught her the value of a business, repeated it over and over, as she held his hand while he died. He said there were only two books she needed to mind, her Bible and her ledger, but now the latter had her in deep trouble. She moved stiffly to the bar, poured herself a large rum, drank it down neat, exchanging the burn of the liquor for the searing pain in her back.
Thomas didn’t return in the morning, but A
She moved stiffly that day, easier the next, but late the third evening, when A
It was Hook Miller.
She didn’t offer a drink. He didn’t ask for one.
“Why not sell to me, A
“I told you: my father said I should never sell. Property-it’s the only sure thing in this world.”
Miller didn’t seem bothered, only a bit impatient. “There’s nothing sure, A
She said nothing. Felt the paper she kept in her shoe, the copy of the document that gave her the Queen’s Arms, the property, the right to do business. Now they were, he was telling her, worthless. After all her work, all she’d done…
Suddenly, A
“Indeed, I have just left him.” Miller stood straight, smiled crookedly. He continued, mock-serious: “He’s…down by my wharf. He couldn’t persuade you to sell, but he’s still looking after your interests.”
The blood froze inside her. Thomas was dead, she knew it.
Miller tilted his head and waited. When she couldn’t bring herself to respond, he left, closing the door behind him.
The paralyzing cold spread over her, and, for a blessed moment, A
Better, A
Still trembling, but at least able to think, she climbed the stairs to her rooms. She saw Thomas’s good shirt hanging from a peg, and buried her face in it, breathing deeply. She took it down, rubbing the thick linen between her fingers, and considered the length of the sleeves. She stared at the peg, high on the wall, and reluctantly made her decision.
Everything was different in her new shoes. Since she was used to her thin slippers, the cobbles felt oddly distant beneath the thick soles, and it took her awhile to master the clunkiness of the heels. She relied on a population used to drunken sailors to ignore her, relied on the long cloak to conceal most of her blunders. Thomas’s clothes would have been impossible, but she still had a chest full of her father’s things, and his boots were a better fit. Best not to think about the rest of her garb. She needed to confirm what Miller had hinted, and she couldn’t be seen doing it. A
Somehow, her need to know for sure was stronger than fear, than embarrassment, and the bell in the Old North Church chimed as she found her way to Miller’s wharf. The reek of tar and wood fires made her eyes water, and a stiff breeze combined drying fish with the smells of spices in nearby warehouses, making her almost gag.
The moon broke through the clouds. She walked out to the harbor, feeling more and more exposed by the moment…
Nothing on Miller’s wharf that shouldn’t be there. She stopped, struck by a realization. Hook would never lay the murder at his own doorstep.
The urge to move a short way down to the pier and wharf that belonged to Clark, Miller’s detested rival in business, was nearly physical.
At first, A
The half hour rang out, echoed by church bells across Boston and Charlestown, and A
Three-quarters of the way down the pier, A
Among the pilings, beneath the pier, all ma
A body.
Even without seeing his face, she knew it was Thomas, his fair hair floating like kelp, the shirt she herself had patched billowing around him like sea foam. A wave broke against the piling of the pier and one of his hands was thrust momentarily to the surface, puffy and raw: the fish and harbor creatures had already been to feast.
A
She brought the bottle of rum to her room, drank until the cold was chased away and she could feel her fingers again. Then she drank a good deal more. She changed back into her own clothing and, keeping her father’s advice in mind, opened her Bible. In an old habit, she let it fall open where it would, closing her eyes and placing a finger on the text. The candle burned low while she read, waiting for someone to come and tell her Thomas Hoyt was dead.