Ivy O’Neill’s new life in 1702 Maryland is threatened by pirate raids, religious persecution, and a sudden, devastating tragedy. She must make a pivotal choice that will irrevocably shape her future and the lives of those around her.

Chapter One

Convict’s Revenge Estate

Near the Patapsco River, Maryland May 4, 1702

The woman’s scream shattered the early morning stillness. Full-throated, the primal noise curled, wavered, and pirouetted through the air. Ivy looked down from her perch in the brick kitchen house’s rafters. She watched as the seated woman leaned forward over her bulging belly and grasped with rigid arms the carved wooden handles on each side of the chair’s seat. The scream pulsated. Her mouth formed a perfect oval. A clutch of women hovered about her like bees in a flower garden. In the open fireplace, flames licked a small log.

“Ivy, dear.”

Her eyes opened with Mistress Jane Grendon’s—the midwife’s—cool touch on her hand. As if rousing from a nightmare, she realized she was the woman seated on the carved chair.

“Ivy, your time is near. Let me check your baby’s progress.” At Jane’s side, spinster Sarah’s silver head nodded, her smile tentative. Behind Ivy, her friend Fiona, with light fingers, rubbed Ivy’s back.

Through the open window came a shout from her ten-year-old stepson, Sammy. “What was that noise? What was that noise?” A staccato of knocks on the wooden door erupted.

Fiona bustled over, her green skirt bobbing, and flung open the door. “Samuel, stay outside. This is no time for men or boys. Ivy’s fine. I’ll bring you cheese and bread, and you can take it to your father. He’s in the stable. Tell him everything is well and good. Bethany, come on in. Your brother needs to keep out.” She turned to Ivy and, in Gaelic, added, “It’ll be good for the girl to see what life is all about.”

A new wave of pain started. Through squinted eyes, Ivy saw Bethany’s startled face. One black tendril dribbled over the child’s forehead. Ivy bore down, her focus on the little girl’s blue eyes, willing herself to stay quiet with this pang. A small grunt escaped.

Jane gently lifted the hem of Ivy’s linen shift and reached into the gap between the stool’s bottom and the stone floor. Built to accommodate the needs of a laboring woman, the birthing chair’s seat had a large open middle. At birth, Ivy’s baby would drop through it and into Mistress Grendon’s waiting hands. The chair was very low, less than a foot off the ground, to make it easier for Ivy to brace her feet and push. The back of the chair was simply a narrow slat, something to lean against between pains yet give Ivy’s female companions space to massage her back and shoulders, to comfort her.

Ivy kept her eyes on the top of Jane’s auburn head. “Ivy, you’ll feel a bit of pressure from my fingers. I need to feel for the baby’s head. There … all done. Fiona, come over here and help me move Ivy to the bed. She needs to be in a better position. Right away. The babe’s shoulder is trapped.” She gave Ivy a steady look. “We need you on your hands and knees, girl. It’ll take the pressure off you and the baby. Quick now.”

Without giving Ivy time to think about how difficult moving sounded, Jane and Fiona took her to the narrow cot, slid her onto her side, grabbed her hips, and put her up on her knees and elbows. Another pain rose through her.

“Come on, Ivy. Almost done. One good push, and you’ll have your babe,” Jane encouraged her.

Sarah bent over her. Ivy smelled the scent of lavender. The elderly woman whispered, “You’re fine, dear.”

Ivy felt her baby leave her. Everyone became dead silent. Ivy said, “Is it …” Her question was answered by a lusty wail.

“Let me clean him up a bit, tie off his cord, and he’ll be all yours,” said Jane.

Ivy sighed with satisfaction. A boy—George would be pleased, though she knew he would be happy with any healthy child.

Ivy rolled over onto her back and reached out. Jane placed the babe in Ivy’s arms. Her child was the loveliest she had ever seen. A smooth round head covered with brown hair. Big and sturdy, like his father. A mouth like a rosebud. His eyes—Ivy peered closely to inspect them—yes, mismatched irises like hers, and those of her father, brothers, and sisters. They were a hazy gray now, but one was certainly darker than the other. He would have the one green eye and one blue eye of the O’Neills.

She began to shake uncontrollably. She felt cold, as if she’d been thrown into a bank of snow. “Jane, Jane, what’s happening? Am I having a fit?” Fiona turned from the fireplace to stare.

“No, it’s from having that warm little one leave you. Here.” Jane turned to a blanket folded near the fire. “This will help warm you. It’ll stop soon. Go on ahead and nurse your baby. I have to attend to a few final details down here.”

Ivy felt the afterbirth slip out. A few minutes later, Jane sat beside her and massaged her belly. “This’ll help things get back to normal, Ivy. Keeps you from hemorrhaging.”

Sarah and Fiona bustled about the kitchen, returning everything to order. Fiona helped Ivy clean herself with a cloth and change into a clean shift. Sarah held and cooed at the baby.

Bethany sat beside them and patted her half-brother’s head. “When can I hold him?”

Jane brewed a herbal tea that she claimed was good for new mothers. Warm afternoon light filled the stone kitchen and highlighted a pewter tankard filled with wildflowers on the table under the window. One of Bethany’s cats, a tabby, tiptoed under Ivy’s loom in the corner. Ivy sipped her tea. It was time for George Stokely to meet his new son.