Chapter 1
London, 1751
Shivering miserably, Silvia Bradstreet,
clutched her heavy woolen cloak against the wind, her gloomy
thoughts little better than the weather. Had she come to this? That
she would freeze to death on the London streets? Winter held a
formidable grip on the city, shutting out the sun with murky, grey
clouds and the bitter pelting of a late snow that fell to the
streets like a shower of brimstone to become dingy slush mottled by
tracks of those unfortunate enough to be about in the treacherous
weather. The fierce wind bore a chilling moisture from the sea as
it wailed between blackened buildings, sounding like the mournful
cry of despairing souls. How foolish she had been not to defy Uncle
Hollister. Lately he had grown impossible, his sober days largely
outnumbered by the drunken ones. But to send her on a fool’s errand
in such weather was demeaning and cruel.
Still, she had little choice.
At times her uncle flew into a scalding rage
over the simplest matter and she had begun to fear for her safety.
Today his attack of angry words had wounded her pride and brought a
flood of tears to her eyes. “Curse me, Missy. I’ll be master of
this house ‘til my dying day and I’ll not have you trying to run it
for me,” he had shouted and kicked a chair across the kitchen.
“Left to you we would eat nothing but soup and stew! Now get to the
butcher and buy the chops and have a dinner on the table this night
that’ll fill a man’s belly! And don’t be forgetting your place
again!” With that he had taken the stewpot from the stove and
tossed it into the street. She choked back a lump in her throat. No
danger she would forget her place again. She had no place. Her once
kindly uncle had turned caustic and she was little more than a maid
to him.
She sighed ruefully, then set her jaw and
trudged on. Lips, blue from the cold, curved into a deeper frown.
She had a more immediate concern than Uncle Hollister’s abominable
disposition—getting home before the cold claimed her. Because of
her uncle’s poor credit, she had been forced to walk blocks farther
to find a butcher they did not owe. Passing the docks, as she made
her way home with the bundle, the wind roared colder and stronger,
biting and stinging her face like a spray of icy needles.
Behind her a carriage rattled its way along
the cobbled street, spinning dirty snow behind its wheels. Before
she could jump aside, a splash of filthy wetness splattered her
cloak. The carriage swept past while Silvia shook the snow from her
garment. Almost instantly a stabbing cold pierced the damp fabric
to sap the little remaining warmth in her body.
She could fight the chill no longer and drew
into the narrow, secluded entry of a shipping company to escape the
angry wind. A lantern mounted beside the door flickered haltingly
in the dimness of the winter afternoon.
Silvia folded her arms across her chest.
Still she shivered with cold. She thought dejectedly of her
situation. There was no reasoning with Uncle Hollister. He would
have his way and damn those who tried to deter him. She sighed
dispiritedly, longing to reach the warmth of the kitchen. But the
numbness of her feet and the thought of the rude welcome she would
receive from Uncle Hollister kept her from hurrying back along the
street.
Slumping against the wall in despair, Silvia
brushed the snow from her lashes with the back of a dusky wool
mitten. Her gaze lingered on a notice posted beside a window frame
in the entryway. The lines blurred together until her eyes
cleared.
Able bodied men and women wanted
Passage paid
Sailing date: the twentieth of March, in the
year of our Lord, one thousand and fifty-one.
Indentured servants. She had read of them
and many she knew had left England for a new life in the colonies.
Perhaps she should inquire, since a dim future waited her in
London. No more than a few shillings lined her pockets, and that
not for long if Uncle Hollister found them.
London, 1751
Shivering miserably, Silvia Bradstreet,
clutched her heavy woolen cloak against the wind, her gloomy
thoughts little better than the weather. Had she come to this? That
she would freeze to death on the London streets? Winter held a
formidable grip on the city, shutting out the sun with murky, grey
clouds and the bitter pelting of a late snow that fell to the
streets like a shower of brimstone to become dingy slush mottled by
tracks of those unfortunate enough to be about in the treacherous
weather. The fierce wind bore a chilling moisture from the sea as
it wailed between blackened buildings, sounding like the mournful
cry of despairing souls. How foolish she had been not to defy Uncle
Hollister. Lately he had grown impossible, his sober days largely
outnumbered by the drunken ones. But to send her on a fool’s errand
in such weather was demeaning and cruel.
Still, she had little choice.
At times her uncle flew into a scalding rage
over the simplest matter and she had begun to fear for her safety.
Today his attack of angry words had wounded her pride and brought a
flood of tears to her eyes. “Curse me, Missy. I’ll be master of
this house ‘til my dying day and I’ll not have you trying to run it
for me,” he had shouted and kicked a chair across the kitchen.
“Left to you we would eat nothing but soup and stew! Now get to the
butcher and buy the chops and have a dinner on the table this night
that’ll fill a man’s belly! And don’t be forgetting your place
again!” With that he had taken the stewpot from the stove and
tossed it into the street. She choked back a lump in her throat. No
danger she would forget her place again. She had no place. Her once
kindly uncle had turned caustic and she was little more than a maid
to him.
She sighed ruefully, then set her jaw and
trudged on. Lips, blue from the cold, curved into a deeper frown.
She had a more immediate concern than Uncle Hollister’s abominable
disposition—getting home before the cold claimed her. Because of
her uncle’s poor credit, she had been forced to walk blocks farther
to find a butcher they did not owe. Passing the docks, as she made
her way home with the bundle, the wind roared colder and stronger,
biting and stinging her face like a spray of icy needles.
Behind her a carriage rattled its way along
the cobbled street, spinning dirty snow behind its wheels. Before
she could jump aside, a splash of filthy wetness splattered her
cloak. The carriage swept past while Silvia shook the snow from her
garment. Almost instantly a stabbing cold pierced the damp fabric
to sap the little remaining warmth in her body.
She could fight the chill no longer and drew
into the narrow, secluded entry of a shipping company to escape the
angry wind. A lantern mounted beside the door flickered haltingly
in the dimness of the winter afternoon.
Silvia folded her arms across her chest.
Still she shivered with cold. She thought dejectedly of her
situation. There was no reasoning with Uncle Hollister. He would
have his way and damn those who tried to deter him. She sighed
dispiritedly, longing to reach the warmth of the kitchen. But the
numbness of her feet and the thought of the rude welcome she would
receive from Uncle Hollister kept her from hurrying back along the
street.
Slumping against the wall in despair, Silvia
brushed the snow from her lashes with the back of a dusky wool
mitten. Her gaze lingered on a notice posted beside a window frame
in the entryway. The lines blurred together until her eyes
cleared.
Able bodied men and women wanted
Passage paid
Sailing date: the twentieth of March, in the
year of our Lord, one thousand and fifty-one.
Indentured servants. She had read of them
and many she knew had left England for a new life in the colonies.
Perhaps she should inquire, since a dim future waited her in
London. No more than a few shillings lined her pockets, and that
not for long if Uncle Hollister found them.
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