Wild Yearning Read online

  Hanging on a peg above Jake’s head was a gamecock trussed in a leather satchel. The bird was making a low churring sound, perhaps in pleasant anticipation of the coming fight. There was a cock platform in back of the Frisky Lyon, and all the waterfront knew a high-stakes match had been set up for later that evening between Jake’s champion bird and one of Sally Jedrup’s.

  As Delia bent over to set the noggins on the ring-marked trestle table, the blacksmith laid his soot-stained hand on her backside. He rubbed his palm in circles on her rough petticoat made of old mattress ticking. “Will ye wager a three-pence on my fighting cock tonight, Delia girl?”

  Delia grabbed his thick wrist and removed the straying hand. “Ye won’t find me tossin’ tuppence at a lost cause,” she answered tartly. In a way she was giving him fair warning for Sally Jedrup was known to coat the beaks of her birds with garlic to repulse an opponent and to shoot brandy down a cock’s throat to enhance its fighting spirit.

  Wrapping his arm around Delia’s waist, Jake yanked her against him. “Aw, Delia, have a heart. What d’ ye say we have ourselves a li’l fun afterwards?” He fished into the pocket of his leather apron. “Look here, I’ll give ye a pair of silver shillings. Two silver shillings for just a few minutes of yer time—”

  Delia pushed against his chest. “Let go of me, Jake.”

  But Jake’s arm tightened, pulling her down to plant a wet, sloppy kiss on the swell of her breast where it rose from beneath the confines of her tightly laced bodice. For Delia this last assault was one too many. Reaching behind his back, she snatched up one of the noggins of rum and poured it over Jake Steerborn’s head.

  Jake’s arm fell from around her waist. He sat in stunned silence while the burning, sticky liquid oozed in rivulets down his beefy face. Then he jumped from the bench, roaring curses.

  Delia was ready for him. Swinging the wooden tray in a wide arc, she slammed it hard against the side of the blacksmith’s large, shovel-shaped nose. The men around them all burst into loud laughter. Tears of pain flooded the blacksmith’s eyes and he brought his hand up to his face.

  “Jesus, Delia,” he sputtered from behind the big palm that covered his throbbing nose. He wiggled the monstrous appendage back and forth to ensure it wasn’t broken. “What did you want to go an’ do a thing like that for?”

  Unabashed by what she had done, Delia nevertheless started backing up, putting a healthy distance between herself and the giant blacksmith. “Ye’ll learn in future to be keepin’ yer filthy lips and hands to yersel’, Jake Steerborn.”

  “I meant no harm.”

  “Hunh!” She turned around to find her path blocked by the broad figure of Sally Jedrup.

  “What the hell do ye think yer doin’, ye strumpet?” the woman leaned over to hiss in Delia’s face. “D’ ye want t’ bring the coppers down on us for causin’ a riot?”

  Delia lifted the tray above her head. “Out of my way, yc filthy old bawd, or I’ll brain ye as well, see if I bloody don’t.”

  “Well, I never!” Sally exclaimed, though she did step back out of striking distance of Delia’s menacing weapon. “Aye, girl, well ye can just keep on goin’ then ’cause yer not workin’ for me no more, ye’re not. No, nor in any other grog shop on the front either, not if I have aught t’ say about it.” And, as Delia did keep going, out the open door of the Frisky Lyon and into the late afternoon sunlight, Sally Jedrup screamed after her, “I hope ye and yer old tosspot of a father starve, I do!”

  Delia had almost reached Clark’s Wharf before she realized she still held the wooden tray in her hand. She walked all the way to the end of the pier and sent the tray spinning into the bay, then started to laugh. But her throat seized up and the laughter caught in her chest.

  Oh, she had made a right mess of things this day, she had. Bloodying her father’s head—it would be days before she dared go home, and even then she’d better hope he was either so falling-down drunk he’d be incapable of taking his rage out on her, or too sober to want to.

  And there was Tom. Like a fool she’d actually harbored dreams they might marry someday when his service was up. She’d pictured having a home of their own above a blacksmith’s shop, with a row of children all sitting like building blocks around the kitchen table, her stirring something spicy and bubbling on the fire, him having a pipe and his tot and watching her with contented, sleepy eyes. Delia’s throat closed as she swallowed a sob. Aye, a fool she was, taken in by Tom’s handsome face and honeyed words. She didn’t know which had shattered the illusion so hurtfully, his easy assumption that she could sink to whoring or the look of hate and fury in his eyes when she thought he was going to hit her.

  Now this latest—losing her job at the Frisky Lyon, and all over foolish, besotted old Jake, who was only after a little fun and hadn’t meant any real harm. “An’ what d’ ye think ye’re goin’ t’ live on now, ye wooden-headed fool?” she berated herself aloud. “D’ ye think ye can eat pride?”

  Delia stood at the end of the pier as the sun began to set behind the shrouds and ratlines of the ships in the harbor. In the mouth of the estuary a fisherman sculled his dory homeward and the tide brought in strings of rockweed to wrap around the barnacle-encrusted pilings. A gull swooped down low over her head, squawking shrilly. For some reason the familiar sound brought fresh tears to her eyes. It was the loneliness of it, she supposed.

  A movement at the corner of her eye caused Delia to turn back toward the row of shops jammed close together along the wharf. She watched a couple of officers from the frigate Moravia stroll up to the bulletin board that told which ships were in port. The few local men who had been perusing the notices of available berths quickly took themselves off. Everyone always gave the English sailors a wide berth, for the Royal Navy, with its gangs of pressmen, was not popular with the people of Boston.

  Battening down a sigh, Delia retraced her steps along the pier. A brisk evening breeze had come up, stirring the piles of refuse that littered the wharf and sending a page of the Boston News-Letter to wrap around her legs, breaking her stride. Delia bent over to free herself from the newspaper’s clutches. She was about to toss it away when a word in tall black print caught her eye.

  Delia folded the newspaper into a more manageable square, but she was not adept at reading, for she’d had little schooling. Sounding out the letters by moving her lips, she was able to make out two of the larger, darker words—woman and then wife. The rest was beyond her.

  She was about to give up when a shadow fell across the newspaper. Delia looked up into the face of one of the English officers she had spotted earlier. The insignia on the epaulets of his fancy blue coat proclaimed him to be a lieutenant. He was tall and quill-thin, and his hair was pulled back into a tight queue and clubbed with eelskin. But his smile was friendly.

  “Good afternoon to you, mistress,” he said in an educated voice. “I was noticing you before, standing at the end of the pier, and I thought you looked a little lonely. I was wondering…” He smiled, and a light flush suffused his pale, hollowed cheeks.

  Lonely indeed! At any other time Delia would have scoffed at the lieutenant’s shopworn flirtation, but instead she decided to take advantage of his forwardness.

  She gave him her most brilliant smile. “Can ye read, sir?”

  The lieutenant thrust out his thin chest like a turkey cock. “Aye. Of course.”

  “Could ye read this for me, then? Out loud?”

  Smiling, the young man took the newspaper from her. He cleared his throat, holding the paper several inches from his eyes and squinting. “Ahem,” he said, and began to read:

  WOMAN SOUGHT FOR WIFE. This freehold Yeoman of the Merrymeeting Settlement, Sagadahoc Territory, The Maine, finding himself in dire Circumstances upon the Death of his Wife and left with the care of two young Daughters, agrees to provide a Home for a good Woman willing in turn to assume the Responsibility of Wife to said Yeoman and Mother to his two young Daughters. Said Woman shall be of strong Mind and Body and
of exemplary Christian and moral Character. Interested Parties may apply to Tyler W. Savitch, M.D., in temporary Residence at the Red Dragon Inn, King Street, Boston.

  The lieutenant’s voice trailed off and he stared at Delia, a pleased grin on his face. She looked back, smiling as well, but she wasn’t really seeing the man. She was thinking: a farmer would have built himself a house. And there would always be plenty to eat on the table. A man left with two motherless daughters might be good to a woman who would be agreeable to caring for his children and looking after his home…

  “The Red Dragon … Tyler W. Savitch, M.D.,” she repeated aloud. “What does that mean—M.D.?”

  “Medicinae doctor. It means the fellow went to university. Surely you aren’t considering applying for the position.” The young lieutenant laughed and stroked Delia’s cheek. “You’re too lovely to waste on some dirt-grubbing farmer in the wilderness—”

  Delia plucked the newspaper from his hands. “I thank ye for yer trouble, kind sir.”

  “Wait!” he called out. “What about letting me buy you supper?” But Delia was already walking briskly toward King Street and the Red Dragon.

  Delia stood within the large shadow cast by the town house and looked across King Street at the tightly packed row houses and shops. In the middle, standing out by virture of its grandeur—and the giant, colorfully painted signboard swinging above its doors—was the Red Dragon Inn.

  No leather aprons would dare patronize the taproom of this establishment, Delia thought. No, only those of the “better sort” frequented this gentlemen’s pub. She imagined how it would be inside, although she’d never before dared to set foot in any place so grand. The gentry would sip their drinks from pewter tankards while smoking on their clay pipes. They would play cards or read newspapers, but there would be no unseemly noise or behavior to disturb the genteel atmosphere.

  An ostler and the porter, both done up in red and gold livery and wearing curled periwigs, stood before the entrance having a bit of a gossip. Delia had hoped to approach Tyler W. Savitch unobserved, but after waiting impatiently for several long minutes, she realized she would have to brazen her way past the stuffy inn’s hallowed, and guarded, portals.

  Gathering up her skirts and lifting her chin high in the air, the way she imagined a real lady would do, she approached the entrance, dodging around a broom seller, water carrier, and knife grinder as she crossed the crowded street.

  “Excuse me, good sirs …”

  The men in red and gold livery stopped talking and turned of one accord. They looked Delia over, from the mud-stained hem of her ragged, striped petticoat to the top of her head, bare of any modest kerchief or clout. The ostler was a man her father’s age, short and compact with smooth skin pulled tautly over his padded features. He gave Delia another look, and his nose, pink and round like a bunny’s, began to twitch.

  The porter, who was taller and much younger, gave her a leering smile that revealed brown, jagged teeth. “The kitchens are round back, m’dear. Though we’ve no openings for a scullery maid, I fear.”

  Delia smiled back at him. “I’ve not come for work, thank ye. Do ye know where I might find a Mr. Tyler W. Savitch”— she searched her memory for the correct appellation—“M.D.? I’ve an appointment,” she added. It wasn’t a lie; well, not much of a one. After all, the advertisement had read “interested parties may apply …”

  “Oh, so you’ve an appointment, do you? And I’m the King of England!” the ostler exclaimed, chuckling so hard at his own joke that his periwig tilted askew. Then the amusement abruptly left his face. “Be off with you, wench, afore I call the constables.”

  “Hold a moment,” the porter said, pausing to open the door for a stout gentleman wearing a high-crowned beaver hat nearly as tall as he was. “There’ve been all sorts of females in and out to see the doctor this past week and more. Aye, and most no better than the likes of this one—begging your pardon, mistress.”

  The ostler cast another disparaging eye at Delia, then “tsked” and shook his head. “Strange doings, aye, strange doings … He’s aiming to set up a bawdy house to my way of thinking.”

  Delia was beginning to have the same suspicion. Deciding she didn’t want to see Tyler W. Savitch, M.D., after all, she started to turn away.

  “Here now, mistress, the doctor’s out just now,” the porter called after her in a friendly way, only to spoil it by giving her a lewd wink. “But he’s taken himself a suite, and you can wait for him in his sitting room.”

  The ostler raised questioning brows but held his silence.

  For a moment longer Delia hesitated. But, she reasoned, if she didn’t like the looks of the doctor, she would simply leave and that would be that. After all, nothing too horrible was likely to happen to her in such a grand place as the Red Dragon.

  As Delia followed the porter inside and past the taproom, she saw that it was almost empty, except for a pair of old gentlemen wearing wigs and suits of fine black cloth, sitting before the fire and engaging in a game of backgammon. One of the old gentlemen mumbled something, and his opponent picked up an ear trumpet, shouting, “Eh, what did ye say? Speak up, Feathergrew, demme ye!” Delia bit back a laugh.

  The porter did not take her up the main staircase, but instead led her through the kitchen and up a narrow flight of servants’ stairs at the rear of the inn. She got a brief glimpse of a paneled carpeted hall before he pushed open a door and ushered her inside with a quick flap of his hand.

  “I’m taking a risk, I am, letting you in here without permission. So mind you don’t steal anything.” He leaned close and smiled suggestively, bathing her face with breath that reeked of rum and stale tobacco. “I’ll be downstairs, minding the entrance. Whatever the gentleman gives you after you’ve finished your, uh, business, I’m to get half. You understand?”

  Delia understood, but she didn’t answer him. She stood just inside the threshold, her eyes wide in awe, for it was the most beautiful room she had ever seen.

  Carpets covered the polished parquet floor, and damask curtains framed a pair of tall, sashed windows that opened onto a tree-shaded courtyard out back. Although it had been a warm spring day, it was now starting to cool, and a fire burned invitingly in the grate. A betty lamp was already lit against the coming darkness. It bathed the furnishings—all English-made and highly polished—with a warm glow, bringing out their sheen and the grain of the wood.

  Delia heard the door click shut behind her and realized with a start that she had been left alone. Smiling, humming to herself, she wandered around the beautiful room. She ran her hand over the smooth back of a wainscot chair that sat catty-cornered to the fire. She touched the things, his things, left out on the bureau and desk: a razor and hone, an ivory-toothed comb, a set of steel-nibbed pens with their quills kept in an elaborate brass box. Also those things which attested to his profession: a set of bone-handled lancet blades, a physician’s leather bag, and a pharmacopeia in glazed apothecary pots. Incongruously, leaning in a corner against the wall by the fireplace, was a Pennsylvania rifle. Its oiled wooden stock and gray metal barrel gleamed warmly, reflecting the flames.

  Delia wondered about the man who owned these things. She thought she could detect his presence in the room, a faint odor of tobacco and rich leather that seemed to hover in the air. He was a man of some wealth, she thought, for what he owned was finely crafted and of the best materials. She wondered how big his farm was, and how old his two motherless daughters were.

  But what sort of man was he that he would need to advertise for a wife? Perhaps he had been left badly scarred by the pox. Or perhaps he was old. Perhaps he was simply too shy to approach a woman on romantic terms.

  “Tyler W. Savitch,” she whispered aloud. “What kind of man are ye?”

  Although she knew she shouldn’t, Delia wandered into the bedroom. There was a looking glass above the mantel, and as Delia caught sight of her own reflection she almost screamed, thinking for one brief moment that there was someon
e else in the room with her. This foolishness brought on a fit of nervous giggles and she covered her mouth with her hand. She looked at herself in the mirror, her eyes above her grimy hand opened wide and brimming with golden lights of amusement.

  Then she noticed to her disgust that her cheeks were streaked with dried mud and her hair was matted with tiny twigs and dried leaves that she had picked up while hiding from her da beneath the stoop. What’s more, her bodice, not too clean to begin with, was now stained with the rum that had splashed her when she’d doused the head of Jake Steerborn. What a sight I am, she thought, laughing aloud. No wonder the ostler had threatened to summon the constables.

  She wet the hem of her petticoat with saliva and scrubbed the grime off her face as best she could, then shook out her tangled mane of black hair. She turned around, taking in the room, and her gaze fell with delight on the wide tester bed with its swelling feather mattress. The bed looked so soft she couldn’t resist trying it.

  Delia settled back against the down-filled pillows with a soft sigh. It was so quiet in here, back off the street and away from the rumbling carts and wagons and the shouts of the hawkers. How wonderful, she thought, her eyes drifting closed. How wonderful to be a real lady and sleep in a fine goose-feather bed like this one.

  Mrs. Tyler W. Savitch, she said to herself. Mrs. Tyler W. Savitch, M.D ….

  Delia rubbed her hands across smooth linen, sighing and stretching luxuriously. She snuggled her face deeper into the soft downiness of the pillow—

  Her eyelids flew open, and she pushed herself upright. Lord above us, she had fallen asleep on the man’s bed!

  She flopped onto her back. It was dark now, and long shadows shrouded the bed where it stood in the corner against the wall. But the moon was up and full, casting harsh silvery beams through the window and mixing with the pool of soft, golden lamplight that came from the sitting room.

  She uncoiled into another long stretch, curling her toes and thrusting her fisted hands above her head until she felt a twinge of pain in her sore ribs. She wondered what time it was; it seemed very late. She supposed the night watch must have wakened her by calling out the hour, and thank the good Lord for that. Imagine if the man had come back to find her lying on his bed asleep! Why, if he really were using the ploy of looking for a wife to solicit harlots for a bawdy house, he would think her a prime candidate indeed, and her cheeks flushed hot at the very idea.