My Sister's Prayer (11 page)

The constable glanced at Celeste. “We both do,” she said, although Berta, with her ear for sounds, spoke it best.

“Why wasn't I told?” Constable Wharton asked.

Celeste shrugged. “You didn't ask.”

“I'm looking for a girl to help at Edwards's inn,” Mr. Horn said. “His cook only speaks French, or so she pretends.” He scowled. “Edwards needs to take her down a notch or two. He thinks he needs a translator.”

“The ship's captain insisted that the girls stay together,” Constable Wharton said.

Celeste nodded her head.

Spenser made eye contact with Celeste and said, “The inn is in Williamsburg.”

“Who will get the money for the contract?” the constable asked. “Bancroft or me?”

“Why, you, sir,” Mr. Horn answered.

The constable turned toward Celeste. “I can get another maid in a few weeks. My wife wanted two, but she'll be happy that whichever one of you who comes with me speaks French. She's been wanting a tutor.”

“You should go,” Berta whispered. “I'll stay here.”

“No!” Celeste said. “I won't leave you.”

“It's the prudent thing to do,” Berta responded. “I can't bear the thought of getting back on the ship. Tell Jonathan to come get me as soon as he can.” She coughed after she spoke and dragged a sleeve over her mouth.

“
The innkeeper has allowed a fair sum of money. Most likely more than what you bought the contract for,” Mr. Horn said. This time he smiled widely, showing tobacco-stained teeth. He seemed to be some sort of broker.

“I'll allow it,” Constable Wharton said. “As long as the younger one really does speak French too.”

Berta nodded.
“Oui.”

“We're both fluent,” Celeste said. “Our parents are French. I'm sure my sister would be happy to give your wife lessons.”

Constable Wharton turned toward Mr. Horn. “You have a deal. Deliver the payment when you return.”

“Don't let Jonathan leave me here for long,” Berta said, a little louder this time.

“Shh.” Celeste hoped Constable Wharton hadn't heard. “We'll come back as soon as we can. I promise.”

Berta pursed her lips.

“Go on. Get moving,” Constable Wharton said to Celeste. “We don't want to waste the entire day.”

She quickly told her sister goodbye and then jumped down from the wagon. Constable Wharton immediately snapped the reins, and the horse took off. Celeste jumped back, a sense of dread sweeping over her. It had always been her responsibility to protect Berta no matter how foolish her sister's actions were, but this time Celeste had been the foolish one.

Berta glanced over her shoulder, a look of despair on her face, as the wagon bounced over the cobblestones. She gave Celeste a halfhearted wave and then turned back toward the road ahead.

Celeste swallowed hard. It wouldn't do to cry. Not in front of Mr. Horn and Spenser. Berta had been grateful for Celeste's care while on the ship, but perhaps now that she was feeling better she would come to blame her sister for her plight. And rightly so. Celeste had led her on a devastating journey whether she had realized it at the time or not.

Mr. Horn started back toward the wharf, but Spenser waited with Celeste, and together they watched the wagon roll down the cobblestone street. It wasn't until it turned away from the bay that they began walking back to the ship.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Celeste

C
eleste stood on the starboard side of the ship, staring at the thick trees that grew nearly down to the river's edge, shivering in her damp clothes even though the sun was high in the sky and the day was hot. She'd done her best to wash them once she reboarded, but she was still dirty—and now she was cold too.

The river was wide and muddy and slow. Thankfully, enough of a breeze blew that the sailors could catch the wind and propel the vessel upstream.

Creeks and marshes cut into the river, and occasionally a cleared field could be spotted, but mostly all Celeste could see were trees. She couldn't help but think of the Thames back home and the half a million people living along its banks. What a contrast that was to this wilderness.

Spenser stepped to her side. “Well? What do you think?”

“I grew up in London. I'm not used to living where there are so few people.”

Spenser grinned. “You'll have to get used to it. There are fewer villages here than in West Kirby, where I come from.”

“West Kirby?”

“On the River Dee, not far from Liverpool. My father moved there from Scotland before meeting and then marrying my mother.”

“You said he was a carpenter?”

“Yes. As are my brothers and I.” He paused a moment and then added, “My father was an educated man. He brought a small collection of books from Scotland and did his best to instruct us. About the Bible, of course, but also about plants and the stars and languages and such.” He grinned. “My French was never any good, although my Latin isn't too bad.”

Celeste laughed, thinking it had been the opposite for her. “Why didn't you stay in West Kirby?”

He shrugged. “My parents both died two years ago. When I heard a carpenter outside of Williamsburg was in need of an apprentice, I decided to take the position.”

“But why? I mean, why leave home at all?”

He shrugged. “I'm the youngest of five boys. There wasn't enough business to support all of us. And I'm the most adventuresome. I've wanted to see the New World since I first heard about it. With me gone, that left more work for the rest of them.”

So his choice to come to America had been based on logic and reason—a vast contrast to hers, which had been completely illogical and without reason, driven solely by love.

Spenser continued. “Matthew Carlisle, the man I'll be apprenticing under, runs a sawmill too. He also needs help with the machinery, and I've always wanted to learn more about that sort of operation.”

Celeste nodded. Virginia might not have enough rags to make paper, but it certainly had enough trees for lumber.

“Was there no young woman for you back home?”

Spenser smiled again, leaning against the railing. His hazel eyes sparkled as he looked up at her. “No girl in her right mind would be interested in marrying a fifth son.” He lowered his voice. “I'm hoping to keep that a secret now that I'm in Virginia.”

“Perhaps that sort of thing doesn't matter here,” Celeste whispered back.

Spenser laughed. “Maybe not. But I've
heard that there are far more men than women, so perhaps this place has a different kind of competition.”

Celeste agreed, relieved she wouldn't have to worry about such things.

“How long have you known your soldier?”

“Long enough,” she replied. Her face grew warm even though she was chilled.

“Forgive me. I didn't mean to offend.”

“You didn't. I'm tired, that's all. I met him last year.” It had been mid-November when Jonathan first came to the inn. She'd only known him a couple of months, but it seemed like much longer. She'd never felt so alive with anyone before—or so sure that running off to marry him was the right thing to do. Until she discovered Berta on the ship.

Spenser didn't press her for more details, and when the captain approached, he stepped away.

“I see you found a means to get to Williamsburg after all.” Captain Bancroft stopped with his hands behind his back.

She nodded.

“Good,” he said. “I've been feeling horrible about your sister.”

“We'll soon have it all sorted out.”

Captain Bancroft bowed and then, before continuing on toward Mr. Horn, he added, “We'll dock in half an hour.”

The two men spoke for a few minutes. Both seemed serious, but then the captain smiled and slapped the broker on the back. Mr. Horn simply nodded before returning his gaze to the forest as the captain left him.

Celeste also turned back toward the trees. A small stream bubbled into the river. A crane landed on the water. A fish jumped, even in the heat. She pondered what the forest might be hiding. Somewhere there were tobacco plantations. And native people.

Farther up the James there was a falls and then a Huguenot settlement, but they wouldn't go that far. She would become Anglican instead, like Jonathan, and leave her childhood faith behind. Difficult as that would be, it was part of embracing this New World.

Celeste was on the same ship that had carried her across the Atlantic, but this trip up the river with the freedom to remain on deck and so few aboard now seemed like a Sunday adventure compared to the crowded and stormy crossing of the ocean.

Except for the first few days on the ship, before she discovered Berta, this was the first time Celeste had been without family. Growing up, Berta had often embarrassed or frustrated Celeste with her antics. Spying a mouse during services and then climbing up on the bench while screaming. Flirting with George, as if he might be interested in her rather than her older sister. Faking illnesses so she could stay in bed daydreaming instead of doing her chores.

But there had also been times when Celeste lived vicariously through Berta. Except for Jonathan, Celeste had never had the audacity to speak with customers at the inn the way Berta did. Or ask questions of strangers. Or sing loudly during services. Celeste truly believed she should be seen but not heard, while Berta wanted to be seen
and
heard. Yet Celeste could be truly amused by her sister too, like the time they were at the market and Berta joined a visiting French singer in performing
airs de cour
.

Despite their differences, Celeste had always felt extremely loyal toward her sister, as if she should be able to guide her through an easier route in life—until Celeste decided to follow Jonathan. In so doing, she had unknowingly led Berta on a perilous journey that nearly killed her.

The
Royal Mary
rounded one last bend before anchoring in the river. The process of unloading the cargo from the ship to the small fleet of flat-bottomed boats took some time, and then the passengers transferred as well. Celeste settled down on a bench in the back of the last boat with Spenser and Mr. Horn. Soon they were being propelled by the incoming tide up a waterway called Archer's Hope Creek, according to Mr. Horn, while the pilot used a long pole to navigate. Once they reached the landing, Celeste could see a warehouse and then wagons hitched to oxen, waiting to be loaded. She assumed at least one was for carrying passengers, but maybe not because the others started walking. Clutching her bundle, she peered through the trees down the narrow road, looking for signs of the town.

“Get going,” Mr.
Horn said.

“We're walking?”

“Yep. It's not much more than a mile.”

“Along a road?”

He snorted. “Some might call it that. The way's passable—the wagons manage to make it.”

Obviously seeing her surprise and dismay, Spenser offered to carry her bundle. She declined. He had a small trunk and satchel of his own. She'd seen some of their contents on board, including paper and pens, a few books, and some herbs and salves.

She started walking, listening to Spenser ask Mr. Horn about himself as they went. He said he'd been born and raised in Jamestown but eventually moved to Norfolk, where more of the trading was done.

At first, by “trading” she thought he meant the term generally, as in goods and services. But as the conversation continued, she realized he was talking about the trading of
people
. Mr. Horn wasn't just a broker for indentured servants. He also brokered slaves. The realization turned her stomach. It was one thing for him to deal in indentured servants, who knew freedom was just a few years away, but an entirely different matter to buy and sell people's lives against their will, with no hope of freedom at all.

The road grew smaller until it wasn't much bigger than a trail. Broken shells covered parts of the soil, probably in an attempt to create a hard surface, but recent rain had turned the red soil into mud, and the shells had sunk into ruts dug by the wagon wheels. Celeste followed Spenser, regretting that she'd attempted to wash her clothes. The hem of her dress was soon caked with the claylike mud, while the heat was nearly unbearable. A hum of insects filled the forest around them, and mosquitoes stung at her neck and arms. The only blessing was that Berta hadn't come with them. The trek in the heat would have done her in.

Soon they reached a creek covered with two planks of lumber. Celeste tottered across one.

“Are there no decent roads in this wilderness?” she muttered when she reached the other side.

Laughter welled up behind her. Celeste didn't expend the energy to look back.

“There's a lot missing in this wilderness,” Captain Bancroft said. “You'll soon forget all about the comforts of London.” He laughed again. “Williamsburg is actually the hub of all the roads in Virginia, roads to nearby plantations and even across the peninsula to York. But you're right. What the colonists call roads we would call muddy trails back home.”