She was shoved into a carriage and forced onto a hard bench. One of the men tied her feet together, making escape impossible. Tears pooled in her eyes, which was good because it triggered something inside her. Anger. She was angry. Whoever was doing this would not prevail. She would fight with everything she had to survive. And she didn’t need to think long and hard about who had done this to her. Her aunt and possiblyher uncle. If it were the last thing she did on this earth, she would see them pay.
The carriage ride was long, hours long, as her body bounced on the hard bench. She had no way to protect herself from being thrashed around by the bumps and ruts in the road. It was as though the driver were purposely hitting every bump. Her bladder was screaming for relief, and there was no way to get anyone’s attention. Fortunately, the carriage came to a hard stop not much later. The stop threw her forward, and she hit the front of the coach on the side of her head and shoulder, leaving her a jumbled mess on the floor and her entire body aching. Indeed, she would have bruises from her head to her toes.
The door opened, and she was scooped into the same man’s arms as before—she recognized him by his scent. Body sweat and garlic, odors so strong they penetrated the hood and almost made her gag, which didn’t bode well with a cloth stuffed in her mouth.
He marched on his feet for a long while—it had to have been miles—before climbing some stairs, and a door banged open when he kicked it with his booted foot. When the door closed behind them, she felt the warmth and heard the crackle of a fire. He dumped her into a hard chair and pulled off her hood.
Phoebe blinked several times before she could focus on the dimly lit room. It was a small cabin, perhaps used for hunting. There was a sturdy older woman, dressed in clean but well-worn clothes, standing at the hearth, stirring something in a pot that made Phoebe’s stomach growl.
“What have you got?”
“A young lady to do with what you will,” the large man, missing one of his front teeth, said.
She didn’t see the other man. No doubt he had stayed with the carriage and the horses.
“It’s been a while since I had a young one to handle the cleaning and heavy lifting of firewood.”
The man went to the door, and she said, “Will you not stay for some stew?”
“No,” he mumbled, then opened the door and left.
“Well, what has my niece brought me?” she asked as she walked around the chair, looking at her with oddly familiar eyes. She pulled the cloth from her mouth, and Phoebe sighed in relief as she ran her tongue across her dry lips.
Phoebe glanced at the woman, trying to determine if she was supposed to respond.
“Don’t be tongue-tied, tell me your name,” she said as she approached. She took her chin in her hand and tilted her head from side to side, inspecting her like a side of beef.
“Phoebe. My name is Phoebe Windham.”
“Ahh, the daughter of William and Mary.”
“You knew my parents?” Who was this woman?
“Why, yes, of course I did. Mary spent some time with me many years ago before she ran off with William.”
“Is there any way you can untie me? The ropes are cutting into me.”
“Not yet. I need your promise that you won’t try to run away. You see, there’s nothing for miles but hungry wolves hoping for the tender flesh of a young lady such as you.”
Phoebe frowned, unsure whether to trust her. For now, she would believe her until she knew better. “I won’t run. I need a chamber pot.”
The old woman went to a cabinet and pulled out a large knife. Phoebe’s eyes remained on the knife until the woman went behind her and sliced through the rope at her feet and hands. With the freedom of movement, she rubbed her blood-covered wrists. Her ankles had fared better than her hands. “The chamber pot?”
She pointed. “In that corner behind the screen.”
“Thank you,” she said as she stood, testing her legs and deciding they would work. She hurried behind the screen to tend to her personal needs. When she exited, the lady was placing two bowls of stew onto a rickety table.
“Pull over the chair you were sitting in,” she demanded as she poured wine into two glasses and broke apart one piece of crusty bread into two.
Phoebe did as she was told and sat at one of the place settings, waiting for the woman to start eating. She didn’t want to be rude. “Could you please tell me your name?”
“Hennie. Short for Henrietta.”
“Hennie. That is sweet.”
“I’m not sweet, girl, and don’t forget it.”
When Hennie started eating, Phoebe did the same, and to her surprise, the stew was delicious; she finished every drop. She drank all her wine and ate every crumb of bread. “Thank you. That was wonderful.”
