Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(36)

“Where is the colonial, Ruark Beauchamp? Was he not to hang today?”

“Let go o‘ me, ye bloody toad! Be off wit’ ye. I got business o‘ me own.”

With one thick, brawny hand, he snatched the guard close until the two men stared nose to nose.

“Where is Ruark Beauchamp?” Pitney roared. “Or would ye be wantin‘ yer head on backwards?”

The guard’s eyes bugged, and he loudly gulped. “ ‘E’s dead, ’e is. They took him out in the van an‘ ’anged him at dawn, afore the crowds gathered.”

Pitney shook the man until his teeth rattled. “Are you sure?”

“Aye!” the guard croaked. “Hicks brought him back in a box. ‘E’s all sealed up fer ’is kin. Let go!”

Slowly the heavy hands loosened, and the man slithered to his feet in relief. Incensed, Pitney ground a white-knuckled fist into his beefy palm and snarled a curse. He spun on his heels and returned with the same rapid pace to the dramshop, flinging the door open with a thundering whack. His narrowed gray eyes carefully searched the room, but no sign of the Scotsman remained.

It was a long ride back to Newgate, and Pitney enjoyed it even less than he had earlier surmised. Receiving the same story of Ruark’s death from Hicks, he could do naught but accept the closed coffin with the name Ruark Beauchamp burned on its top. John Craddock helped him place the box into a horse-drawn cart, and Pitney journeyed to a small, deserted byre on the outskirts of London. There, securing the doors behind him, he began his work. He dragged a heavier, more ornate casket to the cart and placed it near the one from the prison.

It was much later when Pitney tapped with a chisel, marring the threads of the bolts so the lid of the ornate casket might not be loosened without considerable effort. Its contents were well protected against whatever eyes might pry. As Pitney worked, a strange smile flitted across his face, coming and going like the fleeting flight of a miller moth around a candle.

Taking the casket to a secluded churchyard, Pitney laid it beside an open grave and informed the rector of his delivery and of the burial on the morrow. Then he proceeded in all haste to bear the news to his mistress.

Ralston was at the townhouse, and Shanna seemed impatient. Pitney felt himself growing awkward, not knowing how to tell her without Ralston overhearing.

Finally Pitney stumbled out, “Yer husband—” he twisted his uicorn in his hands as Shanna gasped and stared at him with new attention—“yer husband—Mister Beauchamp—”

Ralston’s brows lifted with interest.

“ ‘Tis been taken care of, and the prior has set the time for two hours after midday on the morrow.”

What began as a sigh of relief ended in tearful sobs as Shanna hid her face and fled. Mounting the stairs, she darted into her bedchamber and slammed the door behind her, closing out the world as she leaned against the portal. A dull ache knotted within her chest, and as she stared at her bed she almost wished it could have been different. Now her widow’s role was true. Sadly she regarded herself in the tall looking glass, waiting for a feeling of triumph, but strangely it never came.



The Marguerite, like the daisy for which she was named, was small and somewhat plainly crafted. She was a Boston-built, two-masted brig, longer, lower, and slimmer than the English ships that shared the slip with her. The cargo that overflowed her hold was lashed down in every available spot. The weight of the cargo lowered the hull in the water until the brig’s main deck was only a pike’s length above the cobbled surface of the pier. Her captain, Jean Duprey, a short, stocky Frenchman, was as sudden of smile as of frown and flourished a quicksilver wit that made him likable to his crew. His years in service to Trahern numbered six, and if he had a fault it was that he had a great weakness for women. He knew every plank of the ship, every nook and cranny beneath the deck, and he saw every space fully laden with cargo. The Marguerite was small; but there was a well-scrubbed and newly painted look about her that spoke of loving care, and her canvas, though mended, was sound.

This was the end of the trading season in the northern climes. Goods for Los Camellos left in the Trahern warehouse were to be divided between the Marguerite and a much larger, grander ship, the Hampstead, which would set sail in December. Odds and ends of cordage, pitch, and tar went to the smaller vessel, along with other much-needed everyday items. Of special interest were four long, slim barrels carefully crated and treated with much respect by the handlers. Captain Duprey himself made sure they were securely stowed in the main hold. Trahern had ordered cannons from a German gunsmith, and it was rumored they could shoot twice as far as any gun yet cast. The squire would be put out if harm came to them.