mysterious circumstances on Cobb Island." She was unwilling to accuse Faylinn of his murder despite the fact that she believed that’s what happened. "Faylinn, who had recently lost their two-year-old son to a fever, disappeared after that. And was never heard from again." She wondered if her host knew about Cyril’s sister, Bridget, and the intimate, if not consummated, relationship she had with Faylinn. If he didn’t, she certainly wasn’t going to tell him.
Mr. Cobb began choking on his own smoke. "Never heard from again? Och! What crap. Maybe not for a while. But she certainly didn’t disappear for good."
"I assumed there was more to the story," Kayla informed him dryly. "Otherwise, you wouldn’t have anything to tell us, now would you?"
"No." A tiny smile twitched at his lips. Kayla reminded him of someone he loved very much. "I suppose I wouldn’t. All right then, sit back, lassies, and I’ll tell you all I know." His face grew serious. "But be warned, this yarn is not some glorified version of the truth, like Sylla spins. This was real . Sometimes it’s harsh in the tellin’." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "There are folks who might be more comfortable not knowing exactly what happened on Cobb Island and after..."
Kayla looked him dead in the eye. "But we wouldn’t be among them."
Liv nodded firmly. "What she said."
Mr. Cobb chuckled softly. "Why am I not surprised?"
* * *
Virginia (Mainland)
November, 1690
The crouched figure worked quietly as she tended the small, smoking fire. The heat wasn’t nearly enough and her fingers felt cold and clumsy. She used a stick to stoke the fragile flames and blew at the fire’s base, trying to feed the flames. After several moments of hissing and sputtering, the wet wood began to burn in earnest, filling the room with the sweet smell of hickory and casting it in jagged shadows.
A loud clap of thunder shook the rafters and rattled windows barely covered by slightly warped, wooden shutters. The endless, icy rain that had pelted the Virginia Coast all autumn continued to come down in sheets, making everything miserable.
The young, fair-haired woman tossed the stick into the fireplace and put her hand on her thighs to push herself up. Still wearing her damp cloak, she wrapped it tighter around her slender body in mute comfort. A mirthless laugh bubbled up from inside her and she was powerless to stop it.
She was, she knew, on the verge of sheer hysteria. In shock. How could she not be? She covered her face with shaking hands to avoid the sight of the bloodied rags that lay on the small table by the bed. Her impulse had been to throw them into the burgeoning flame, but she didn’t. The cloth might come in handy later. Still, her stomach roiled at the thought of washing it out.
A quiet knock on her door caused her head to snap up. Hesitating for only a moment, she padded slowly to the door, not bothering to lift the skirts dragging across the wooden slats that served as a floor. "Yes?" she called out warily.
"Mrs. Redding, it’s only me, Wilfred. I’ve some fresh linen from my wife." The door creaked open and a man of medium height, who smelled of wood-smoke and livestock, strode into the room. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with pock-marked skin and a large, slightly crooked nose.
"Can I see her—?"
He shook his head. "Not yet." Wilfred Beynon’s heavy brow furrowed. "Why are you sitting it the dark, Mrs—?"
"Faylinn," she interrupted softly. "My name is Faylinn." His manner was rough and impatient. She hoped she could trust him. I don’t have a choice.
He nodded once, a little surprised that a woman of her social standing would offer her first name to the likes of him, a pig farmer. The Reddings were a powerful family. Everyone knew that. And though he’d heard talk of Cyril’s marriage, and how Mr. Redding came to own Cobb Island, he’d never actually seen Cyril’s young wife before today. He studied
Mr. Cobb began choking on his own smoke. "Never heard from again? Och! What crap. Maybe not for a while. But she certainly didn’t disappear for good."
"I assumed there was more to the story," Kayla informed him dryly. "Otherwise, you wouldn’t have anything to tell us, now would you?"
"No." A tiny smile twitched at his lips. Kayla reminded him of someone he loved very much. "I suppose I wouldn’t. All right then, sit back, lassies, and I’ll tell you all I know." His face grew serious. "But be warned, this yarn is not some glorified version of the truth, like Sylla spins. This was real . Sometimes it’s harsh in the tellin’." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "There are folks who might be more comfortable not knowing exactly what happened on Cobb Island and after..."
Kayla looked him dead in the eye. "But we wouldn’t be among them."
Liv nodded firmly. "What she said."
Mr. Cobb chuckled softly. "Why am I not surprised?"
* * *
Virginia (Mainland)
November, 1690
The crouched figure worked quietly as she tended the small, smoking fire. The heat wasn’t nearly enough and her fingers felt cold and clumsy. She used a stick to stoke the fragile flames and blew at the fire’s base, trying to feed the flames. After several moments of hissing and sputtering, the wet wood began to burn in earnest, filling the room with the sweet smell of hickory and casting it in jagged shadows.
A loud clap of thunder shook the rafters and rattled windows barely covered by slightly warped, wooden shutters. The endless, icy rain that had pelted the Virginia Coast all autumn continued to come down in sheets, making everything miserable.
The young, fair-haired woman tossed the stick into the fireplace and put her hand on her thighs to push herself up. Still wearing her damp cloak, she wrapped it tighter around her slender body in mute comfort. A mirthless laugh bubbled up from inside her and she was powerless to stop it.
She was, she knew, on the verge of sheer hysteria. In shock. How could she not be? She covered her face with shaking hands to avoid the sight of the bloodied rags that lay on the small table by the bed. Her impulse had been to throw them into the burgeoning flame, but she didn’t. The cloth might come in handy later. Still, her stomach roiled at the thought of washing it out.
A quiet knock on her door caused her head to snap up. Hesitating for only a moment, she padded slowly to the door, not bothering to lift the skirts dragging across the wooden slats that served as a floor. "Yes?" she called out warily.
"Mrs. Redding, it’s only me, Wilfred. I’ve some fresh linen from my wife." The door creaked open and a man of medium height, who smelled of wood-smoke and livestock, strode into the room. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with pock-marked skin and a large, slightly crooked nose.
"Can I see her—?"
He shook his head. "Not yet." Wilfred Beynon’s heavy brow furrowed. "Why are you sitting it the dark, Mrs—?"
"Faylinn," she interrupted softly. "My name is Faylinn." His manner was rough and impatient. She hoped she could trust him. I don’t have a choice.
He nodded once, a little surprised that a woman of her social standing would offer her first name to the likes of him, a pig farmer. The Reddings were a powerful family. Everyone knew that. And though he’d heard talk of Cyril’s marriage, and how Mr. Redding came to own Cobb Island, he’d never actually seen Cyril’s young wife before today. He studied
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