My Sister's Prayer (13 page)

The French were known for their good food, good wine, and hospitality. When it became clear the family wouldn't be able to open a printing press or paper mill in London as they had back in France, they decided that owning an inn would be the next best option. Maman had grown up in a stately manse in Lyon, where her grandmother had taught her how to manage a household. She applied all she knew to running the inn and learned more along the way. Because of the family's economic means and French nobility, they were considered gentry even though they were immigrants.

Mr. Edwards returned to the counter. “Are you educated, Miss Talbot?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” he
said, even though he looked as if he didn't. A puzzled expression stayed on his face as he told her, “There should be a basket of food on the table in the kitchen. Please take it to the jail. We supply all of the meals there.”

She stood. “Where is the jail, sir?”

“Northeast of here.” He gestured to one side, saying, “Head in that direction. You'll find it.”

Celeste felt unsettled about delivering anything to a jail. “To whom do I give the basket?”

“Constable Jones. Knock on the door to the house. He'll be waiting.”

The last rays of light were disappearing behind her as Celeste hurried up the street, trying to keep the large basket steady. At the intersection, she crossed another street and spotted a small brick building with a courtyard beyond, surrounded by iron bars. Surely this was the jail. She hurried up the front steps, ready to knock, but the door swung open before she had a chance.

“You're late.” A portly man with dark hair and sallow skin stood in front of her. He licked his lips as he took the basket. “Smells good. What is it?”

“Stew.”

“Is that all?”

Celeste shrugged. “Bread too, perhaps.”

He took the basket from her, pulled off the cloth to look inside, and frowned. “No bread, just stew,” he huffed, tossing the cloth back over the top. “I sure hope Edwards gets that cook back in line. She's the best around when she wants to be.”

Celeste didn't respond.

The man stepped back and closed the door.

As Celeste headed down the steps, a voice called out from the area of the courtyard, “Jones! Leave some supper for us. It's your duty to make sure we're fed.”

She stopped by the gate and looked through the bars into the courtyard, where she saw the doors to two holding cells. She darted away quickly, shivering even though it was still muggy and hot, guessing that
delivering meals to Constable Jones and the inmates at the jail would be part of her regular routine.

The sailors and soldiers became unruly as the hours wore on, and finally the innkeeper told Celeste to help Sary finish cleaning the kitchen.

“Then go to bed, up in the loft,” he said. “I hope you don't mind sharing sleeping quarters with Sary.”

“Of course not. My parents taught me that we are all one in Christ Jesus, as it says in Galatians.”

With a look of relief, Mr. Edwards replied, “Good. I'm hoping Sary will warm up to you. The last maid didn't speak French, but they roomed together and seemed to get along, at least until…”

Celeste cocked her head, but the innkeeper didn't finish his thought. She changed the subject. “Could I write a letter to my parents tonight for Captain Bancroft to deliver?”

“Paper is expensive,” the innkeeper said. “Perhaps the captain would deliver a verbal message.”

She approached the captain in the dim light, but she could easily see that he was drunk. Changing her mind, she quickly retreated to the kitchen. An hour later, Celeste followed Sary up the stairs, carrying her bundle that she'd stashed next to some shelves in the kitchen. A breeze blew between two open windows, and the loft wasn't as hot as she'd feared. Sary immediately collapsed on her pallet. Celeste was too tired to talk anyway, but she was interested in Sary's story. Perhaps another night when they had energy enough to speak.

Celeste took off her skirt, stockings, chemise, and stays, then she pulled her pouch out from under her petticoat and tucked it below her pallet. She didn't think anyone would steal it, but she couldn't take a chance. It held everything she had of any value—the ring and brooch and a little money. She would tie it back around her waist in the morning.

She slipped out of her petticoat and collapsed onto the cot wearing only her shift. She'd never worked so hard in her life. Jonathan had to return soon.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

Celeste

T
he swish of a skirt near her head woke Celeste. Sary headed for the ladder. A bird sang outside, and the first rays of light streamed through the open window. Surely they weren't required to rise at dawn after going to bed past midnight.

“Now?” Celeste asked in English and then quickly translated.
“Maintenant?”

“Oui,”
Sary answered as her head disappeared.

Celeste stood slowly, thankful for the cool breeze. In the corner, on a crate, stood a pitcher and basin on a small table. Sary must have fetched the water already, or else someone else brought it up. Celeste washed her hands and face and dressed quickly. Then she wrapped the strings of the pouch around her waist, tying them tightly before tucking the pouch between her petticoat and shift. As she slipped her feet into her shoes, she realized they were falling apart after yesterday's walk. She had no money to replace them. Slowly she descended the ladder.

The fire had already been built up, and an African boy of about twelve poured water from a bucket into a pot, the one Celeste had cleaned stew from the night before. She introduced herself to the boy in
English. He kept his head bowed but said his name was Benjamin. Sary picked up a bag filled with some sort of grain—it was yellow like the kernels from the night before.

In French, Celeste asked Sary if she had a piece of paper and a quill she could use. The woman shook her head. “What do you need?” the boy asked in English.

Celeste explained that she wanted to write home and then said, “I can pay a small amount if you can find me paper and ink.” She fished a coin from her pouch and handed it to him.

“I'll be back.” He took the bucket with him.

Sary stirred the grain into the water, and Celeste began placing bowls on the table to be filled. She couldn't imagine the sailors up so early. She hoped she would have time to write the letter and get it to Captain Bancroft before he left for his ship.

Sary took two teapots from the shelves. A few minutes later a bleary-eyed and unshaven Mr. Edwards entered the kitchen with two pitchers from the night before in his hands. “Good day to you,” he said to both women. “The sailors are clamoring for food.” He put the pitchers on the table and then looked directly at Celeste and then the porridge.

His face fell. “Why isn't Sary cooking eggs?”

Celeste asked the woman.

She shrugged and in French answered that there weren't enough, according to Benjamin. “The hens must be upset,” she added as she started ladling porridge into bowls. Mr. Edwards appeared frustrated but didn't challenge the explanation.

He shuffled over to the spice cupboard by the shelves. He took out a key, unlocked the door, and removed a white canister, which Celeste guessed was tea. There were other canisters in the cupboard, probably for sugar and salt and other spices. There was also a medium-sized crock, which Celeste guessed was full of honey. Her parents kept tea, spices, and sweeteners in a locked cupboard too.

Mr. Edwards measured tea into each pot on the table, and then Sary dipped boiling water out of the cauldron and poured it into the pots. Once she was finished, she pushed them to the middle of the table to let them steep while Mr. Edwards returned the tea and relocked the
cupboard. Then he wrapped a rag around the handles of each teapot, lifted them off the table, and left the kitchen. It seemed to be a ritual that was probably repeated every morning. Back home, they made the tea in the dining room.

Benjamin returned a few minutes later with the supplies she needed. The paper was crude and the ink was thick, but Celeste did her best to scratch out a letter. She simply wrote that she and Berta were both safe and she was sorry for acting out of character, but she loved Jonathan and planned to make a life with him. She didn't have time to explain about Berta, how she'd been abducted and forced aboard against her will, so for now she would just have to let her parents assume that the two girls had fled together. She would add more details in the next letter.

At the bottom, she signed her name. To add “Your loving daughter” above that seemed incongruous. She put aside her quill and spread sand over the paper, let it rest, then dumped it into the fireplace. Next, she folded the paper, wrote her father's full name followed by the words
London Gazette
on the front and repeated the process with a little more sand. After the ink had dried, she lit a candle and sealed the paper as best she could by pressing a spoon into the dripping wax.

Celeste tucked the letter into the waistband of her skirt, grabbed a tray, loaded the bowls, and headed out the door. She struggled to balance the tray as she climbed the stairs to the inn and then tilted it slightly to get through the door. Once inside, she looked for Captain Bancroft but couldn't find him. She passed out the bowls to the men around the table, many of whom already had a small cup of tea.

The second time Celeste entered with another tray of the porridge, Captain Bancroft was seated at the table with his first mate. Thankfully, Mr. Edwards was back in the kitchen. Celeste pulled out the letter. His eyes grew large. “My, you are resourceful, aren't you?”

“I try to be,” she answered. “Remember, this is for Mr. Talbot at the
London Gazette
.”

First Mate Hayes reached for the letter. “I can deliver it when I place the advertisement for our next voyage.”

Celeste glanced at the captain. He shrugged. “Very well.”

She surrendered the letter. The captain had so much to attend to. Hayes probably would have more time to make such a delivery. After offering her thanks and a curtsy, Celeste hurried back to the kitchen to retrieve yet another tray of food.

She had returned to the inn and was just about to go through the door when she heard a familiar voice.

She froze.
Jonathan?

Juggling the tray awkwardly, she twisted to one side and peeked through the door, her heart filling with joy and relief as she spotted her beloved in his uniform. He looked as tall, handsome, and impressive as ever as he moved toward Captain Bancroft.

“I was afraid I'd miss you.” The captain rose to shake Jonathan's hand. Lowering their voices, the two men began to converse, though Celeste could no longer hear their words.

As excited as she was to see Jonathan at last, she found herself faltering, stunned at how casually the two men were interacting.

They know each other?

She hesitated, confused, her mind racing. Why hadn't the captain said as much during one of their conversations? All those times she'd gone on about her betrothed, Lieutenant Jonathan Gray, never once had the captain said, “Oh, yes. I'm acquainted with the man. In fact, we're friends.” Then again, knowing now what a small place Williamsburg was, it didn't surprise her that the two were acquainted.

Heart pounding, she moved through the doorway, the tray still in hand. But in her eagerness she stepped too quickly and tilted the tray too far to one side. Immediately, the bowls began sliding away from her. Coming fully into the room, she managed to right the tray—only to have the bowls slide in the other direction, toward her. Before she could do a thing, one slid right off and landed on her shoulder, splattering porridge all over her and the floor. Another bowl followed and another until the tray was empty.

Mortified, she didn't even glance Jonathan's way. Instead, she just fell to her knees and began gathering the bowls. By the time she stood, every eye in the room was on her.

“Foolish girl.” Mr. Edwards's face
had turned red, but his voice was surprisingly calm.