More years passed and I picked up work in sculleries and markets. Along with the occasional trick in a dark alley, we had enough to get by. We made do. William continued to grow, his interest in our history and what the Weavers had done increasing as the years rolled on.
However, he took matters into his own hands when it came to meeting Sonya’s daughter. On his fourteenth birthday, I gave him a few coins and told him to head to the local market to pick up whatever he wanted for his birthday treat.
Only, he came back with the money and a story of meeting a Weaver girl who asked to be called Cotton, even though her name was Marion.
Time had sped up and soon both firstborn children would be of age to begin the Inheritance. However, I often caught William doing strange things. He was strong, oh yes. He was well-spoken, kind-hearted, and hard-working, but there was an oddity about him I couldn’t explain.
I would lay in bed at night pondering why he was so different. Why he was so aware of others’ plights, why he would often give our hard-earned money to those deserving, or soothe random acquaintances in the street.
As he grew older, he couldn’t handle crowds as well as other young men. He’d shake and sweat, striking fear into my heart that he would fall ill with the sweating-sickness like his father.
I did everything I could to shelter him. I saved every penny and prepared for a better life.
And finally, that better life arrived.
Our new existence began one evening at the local brothel, where a share of my nightly profits provided a mouldy bed. After work, I headed back to the temporary home I’d found thanks to a local baker’s kindness.
William looked up, covered in flour—as usual—working all hours of the day for the baker and his customers. He preferred this job—away from people, hidden in a kitchen with only his thoughts for company. He’d bloomed into a delightful, handsome man.
I couldn’t believe he would turn twenty-one next month.
I was proud of him. Proud of myself for never quitting, even when life became so hard.
Dropping my shawl on a flour-dusted chair, I said, “I heard something, Will. Something that will get us far away from here and somewhere better.”
My grandson, my darling grandson, looked up. His golden eyes, courtesy of his father glowed in his icing-smeared face. His hands kneaded the fresh dough, and his smile warmed my soul.
Every time I looked at him, my heart broke remembering my daughter and son. Despair and fury never left me alone—they fed me better than any other substance, and until I got back at those who’d wronged me, I would remain alive and deliver vengeance.
William wiped his hands on a tea towel, sitting on the roughly-sawn stool by the oven. Moving to the bucket of water, I rinsed my arms and neck wishing I could cleanse my body from the foul stench of men who’d used it.
I might have a grandson, but I maintained myself. I looked better than most of the whores downtown.
“What did you hear, Grandmamma?”
I smiled. “The street criers said the man from Genoa—the explorer, Christophorus Columbus—has set out on his second journey. They say not since the Vikings has anyone been so brave to risk the dangerous seas and commit a voyage to new worlds.” My voice rose with eagerness. “His successful first journey has inspired many ship merchants to follow in his stead. Exploration is the new wealth, William. Those who risk will come back with untold treasure and knowledge.”
My heart raced as I recounted what I’d heard on the streets this morning. News from Europe travelled fast, spreading like a disease to infect those who listened. “He took three ships last time. Seventeen this time. Can you imagine, William? Seventeen brave boats to find out what’s yonder over the horizon. He left this morning.” I wished I could’ve seen the departure of such a fleet. To have travelled to Spain and waved a white handkerchief in good luck.
William smiled indulgently, his cheekbones slicing through his short beard. “Grandmamma, you need to give up these fantasies of leaving. We live here.” He stood, using the tea towel to pull out handmade bread from the crackling fireplace. “I know you don’t like it here. I know you and your family didn’t find happiness. But it’s all I know.”
William took after his father. And just like Bennett, he was a quiet soul. He preferred to be gentle and kind, rather than battle and wage war on what was rightfully his.
“We might live here, but I refuse to die here.” I crossed my arms. “I’m leaving this country one way or another, and you’re coming with me.”
He shook his head, smiling softly. He was used to my rambling of finding a better life, a better world. I would give anything to move. To seek what we were owed after such tragedy.
“It’s a nice idea. But this is our life.” He winced as he sat back down—his body already overused even at such a tender age. I didn’t want him labouring to an early grave when I had the gumption to find a way to deliver a splendid upper-class life.
Standing, I fumbled in my skirts for my one saving grace. I’d worked for decades to acquire such a sum. I never went anywhere without it and hid it within my petticoats.
Money.
Enough for two passages on the next boat leaving port.
Moving around the table, I handed him the meagre purse that offered so much. “We’re leaving this place, William. There won’t be any arguments. We’re going to make our fortune and only then will we ever come back.”
Eight weeks and counting.
Almost half of those passengers who’d boarded and paid for a hammock in the rat-infested bowels of the ship, Courtesan Queen, had died. My gums bled. My stomach wouldn’t hold food. And my eyes only saw blurs and shadows rather than vibrant pictures.