The Taker

business associates of the St. Andrews made the arduous trip to attend.

“So sad, the captain didn’t live to see it,” my mother said.

And the baby! The way my mother and sisters spoke of it, you’d think the baby was a joint product of the town. Everyone, except for Nevin, seemed to have a parochial interest in the infant.

“What did Jonathan name her?” I asked, dipping a last crust into a smear of beef fat.

“Ruth, just like his mother,” Glynnis said, eyebrows raised.

“It’s a good Christian name,” my mother chided. “I’m sure they wanted a name from the Bible.”

I waggled a finger around the table. “Not Jonathan, nor Evangeline, I’ll wager-it was all his mother’s doing. You can quote me.”

“Maybe the idea of having a child as soon as possible, maybe that was Mrs. St. Andrew’s idea, too.” Maeve held her breath momentarily, looking at her sister for encouragement, before she continued. “It was a terribly difficult birth, Lanore. They almost lost Evangeline. She’s so wee-”

“And young-”

Nods all around. “So young,” Maeve sighed. “I heard the midwife told her not to have any more babies for a while.”

“It’s true,” Glynnis added.

“Enough!” Nevin hammered the end of his knife into the table, making the women jump. “Can’t a man eat his evening meal in peace without having to listen to gossip about the town dandy?”

“Nevin-,” my mother began, but he cut her off.

“I’ll hear no more about this. It’s his own fault for marrying the girl. It is scandalous, but I expected no better from him,” Nevin grumbled. For a scant moment, I could almost believe that he’d scolded my sisters and mother in order to spare me further talk of babies. He pushed away from the table and headed for the chair by the fire, the place where our father used to sit after dinner. The sight of him in that chair, with Father’s pipe, was strange to my eye.

Judging from the position of the moon in the sky, it was near midnight when I climbed down from the loft, unable to sleep. The remains of the fire decorated the walls with a dancing, lambent glow. Restless, I couldn’t remain boxed up in the cottage. I needed company. Usually at this time of night, I would be preparing for a night in Adair’s bed, and I found, sitting on the settle, that I was hungry-no, ravenous-for physical comfort. I dressed and slipped out as quietly as I could. My driver was sleeping in the barn, kept warm by a mountain of blankets and the heat of a dozen cattle packed with him under the roof. I wasn’t about to saddle the family’s chestnut gelding, rouse the poor old thing from its deserved rest, so I went off on foot in the only direction that came to mind: to town. For anyone else, even a trip this short on foot would be suicidal. The temperature was below freezing and the wind brisk, but I was impervious to the weather and could walk at a smart clip without fatiguing. I reached the houses on the edge of town in no time.

Where was there to go? St. Andrew was hardly the big city. Few lights were visible through cabin windows. The town was asleep but Daniel Daughtery’s public house was still open, light shining through its single window. I hesitated by the door, wondering if it would be wise to be seen about at this hour. Few women went into Daughtery’s, and none would go in by herself. Word could easily get back to Nevin and fuel his conviction that I was a common whore. The lure of those warm bodies inside, the low rumble of talk, the occasional bright spark of laughter was strong, however. I knocked the mud from my shoes and went in.

There were only a couple of customers in the small space: a pair of axmen in Jonathan’s employ and Tobey Ostergaard, poor Sophia’s brutish father, looking like a corpse himself, his skin gone gray and his dead eyes staring at the back wall. Every head turned in my direction as I entered, Daughtery giving me an especially ugly leer.

“A draft,” I called out, though it was unnecessary, as there was only one beverage on the bill of fare.

The public room had once been part of Daughtery’s home, partitioned off (over the objection of his wife) to accommodate a bar keep, one small table, and assorted stools slapped together from odd pieces of wood, one leg shorter than the other two on each and every one of them. In the warmer months, there were games of chance and sometimes cockfighting in the barn, which was separated by a muddy path from the main house. Most patrons didn’t stay but picked up a hogshead of brew to consume at home with meals, as brewing beer was a messy business and Daughtery, it was generally agreed, was the best of anyone in town.

“I heard you was back,” Daughtery said as he collected my coin. “From the look of it, Boston has treated you well.” He made a naked appraisal of my clothing. “What did a country lass such as yourself do to buy such fine apparel as that?”

Like my brother, Daughtery must have guessed-they must all have guessed-what had happened to make a wealthy woman of me. Daughtery was the first to accuse me outright, showing off for his customers. Still, what could I do under the circumstances? I gave him an unreadable smile over the rim of the mug. “I have done what countless others have done to better their lot in life: I have associated myself with people of means, Mr. Daughtery.”

One of the axmen left shortly after my arrival but the other came over to ask me to share his table. He’d overheard Daughtery’s mention of Boston and was anxious to speak to someone who’d been there recently. He was young, perhaps twenty, sweet-tempered and clean looking, unlike most of the St. Andrew hired hands. He told me he came from a humble family who lived outside of Boston proper. He’d come to Maine for work. He made good pay but the isolation was killing him; he missed the city, he said, and the options for entertainment. His eyes teared as I described the public garden on a sunny Sabbath and the shiny black surface of the Charles River under a full moon.

“I’d hoped to leave here before the snows,” he said, gazing into his mug. “But I heard St. Andrew needs hands to stay on through the winter and will pay well. Them that have stayed for the winter shift say it’s terrible lonely, though.”

“I suppose it’s a matter of perspective.”

Daughtery banged a mug against the maple counter of the keep, startling us both. “Finish up. Time to go to your respective beds.”

We stood outside Daughtery’s bolted door, huddled together to cut down the wind. The stranger brought his mouth close to my ear so the heat of his words made the tiny hairs on my cheek stand at attention, like flowers stretching toward the sun. He confided in me that he’d not had the companionship of a woman in a long time. He confessed to having little money, but asked if I might be willing nonetheless. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous about your profession,” he said with a nervous smile. “But when you came into Daughtery’s by yourself…” I couldn’t protest: he had me dead to rights.

We stole into Daughtery’s barn, the animals so used to nighttime visitors from the bar that they made no fuss. The young axman adjusted his clothing, unbuttoning the fall of his breeches and placing his cock in my hand. He melted at my ministrations, soon lost in his own thick cloud of unbearable pleasure. It must have been the return to St. Andrew and seeing Jonathan again that made my blood rich with passion. The axman’s hand might have been on my flesh but it was Jonathan who was on my mind. I was reckless, letting myself think of Jonathan, but that night, the combination of flesh and memory gave me a taste of what it could be like and made me hungry for more. So I pulled the young man to me and settled one foot on a bale of hay, the better to give him access under my petticoats.

The young man rocked into me, sweet firm flesh and gentle hands, and I tried to pretend he was Jonathan, but I could not make the illusion stick. Maybe Adair was right, maybe there was something to be gained in making Jonathan one of us. A terrible hunger told me I had to try or be dissatisfied for the rest of my life-that is to say, eternity.

The axman stuttered a sigh as he came, then drew out a handkerchief and offered it to me. “Pardon my bluntness, miss,” he whispered hotly in my ear, “but that was the most amazing fuck I have ever had. You must be the most talented whore in Boston!”

“Courtesan,” I corrected him gently.

“And I don’t pretend to be able to compensate you in the manner to which you are undoubtedly accustomed…,” he said, rooting in a pocket for his money, but I placed a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Never mind. Keep your money. Just promise me you’ll not say a word of this to anyone,” I said.

“Oh no, ma’am, I won’t-though I will remember it for the rest of my life!”

“As shall I,” I said, though this sweet-faced boy would be only one of a succession of many-or perhaps the last