Black Gold (18 page)

“Hmm,” Georges murmured. Critchley now held a valuable secret. Had he shared it with Roach?

Georges heard the sound of approaching steps. The Irishman entered the hall with his valet, whom he left at the door with instructions to watch his room. Georges remained behind the screen until the valet withdrew, then followed Fitzroy down the road to the River Avon and into the city. In the market place, the captain bought an inside seat on the post coach to Bristol that was about to depart. Georges hastened to a nearby stable and rented a decent horse for the day.

The weather was misty, but Georges managed to keep the coach in view. Shortly before noon, Fitzroy alighted at the Bush Tavern and went inside, presumably to reserve a seat for the return trip to Bath in the afternoon. Georges left his horse in the care of a groom and followed the Irishman on foot through narrow, crowded city streets to the harbor.

Fitzroy walked up and down the quay, speaking to ships' officers standing by their vessels until he found one who nodded and smiled. After an amiable exchange of words, the officer beckoned him on board.

Georges retired to a tavern on the quay, ordered an ale, and sat by a window with a clear view of the ship. It was the
Hampton
, a large brig, sails furled, with ports for eight guns. An American flag hung limp and sodden on its pole. Dockers were carrying casks up the gangplank and piling them on deck. Fitzroy and the officer had disappeared into a cabin in the ship's stern.

An hour later, Fitzroy reappeared, weaving his way among the casks to the gangplank. With a smile on his face, he waved to the officer and descended to the quay.

Rather than follow him again, Georges decided to find out what had happened on board. He approached the officer, who had resumed his post on the quay, and asked to which port the ship was destined. To New York was the reply. “Then I may be in luck,” Georges remarked. “Are you taking on passengers?”

The officer gaped at him. “Why yes, another gentleman reserved passage just a few minutes ago, but there's room for a few more.”

“Any ladies among the passengers?” Georges asked, thinking of Lady Margaret. Would she bolt from Combe Park and abandon her son? Before the officer could respond, Georges quickly added, lest he be misunderstood, “Ladies add a touch of refinement to a long voyage.”

“None so far, unfortunately,” replied the officer, smiling. With a gesture toward the casks, he explained that the ship should be ready to sail in a week or two.

Georges thanked him and said he'd think it over. He walked back toward the Bush Tavern, taking care to avoid Fitzroy. Hedging his bets, the captain was prepared to abandon Combe Park and Lady Margaret, if need be. And soon!

Chapter 15

Secrets

Tuesday, April 3

Charlie bent over the page of Latin grammar Mr. Critchley had assigned and began conjugating the verb “to love,”
amare
. He wrote down the inflected forms, carefully shaping each of them with his lips:
amo, amas, amat, amamus….
The memory of his visit to his old nurse Betty slowly crept into the forefront of his mind. Her hand on his shoulder, her caring smile. It made him feel warm to think of her.

It was midmorning. Charlie was at his writing table in the schoolroom. He looked up from his book, peered at the map of Italy on the wall in front of him. Rome, Venice, Florence, Naples. Places Mr. Critchley loved to talk about. The boy squinted to see more details, but the room's two large windows cast a thin northerly light on the wall, dulling the colors of the map and blurring its features. Charlie glanced to his left. William Rogers, his cousin, stared vacantly into space, elbows on the table, hands cradling his jaw. His book lay closed before him. Charlie turned back to his Latin grammar.

Absorbed in his work, he didn't notice Mr. Critchley enter until he stood right in front of him. Charlie flashed a smile. He was enjoying school today. Mr. Critchley cast a sour glance in the boy's direction and walked over to William, who only now noticed his teacher.

Something about Mr. Critchley was different, Charlie thought. A heightened color on his pale face, a bounce in his step. The deaf boy watched guardedly, as Critchley beckoned William with a jerk of the head to follow him to the window.

Intrigued, Charlie spied on the two men as much as he dared. Miss Cartier would want to know what he saw. Unfortunately, William's back was to him. But Mr. Critchley stood almost opposite. Charlie could see his lips and his gestures and grasp the gist of what he was saying. He seemed to be commanding William to do something. William shook his head, then shrugged his shoulders. Charlie wrote down all the words he could grasp. Miss Cartier could put them together.

***

Anne sat at the table in her room, Charlie by her side. She laid down her pen and patted the boy's notes together. He had caught much of what Critchley had said and had sketched with a child's simplicity the man's facial expressions and gestures. She faced the boy, then spoke clearly. “Well done, Charlie. I've puzzled out what you saw in the classroom.” It seemed the cook was sending the black footman on an errand to the city markets that afternoon. Critchley had ordered William to follow him, apparently suspecting Jeffery would use this opportunity to do something contrary to his master's wishes.

Stroking the boy's head, Anne told him not to let on to Mr. Critchley that he had been watching him.

“I shall not tell him,” he said, carefully enunciating each word, obviously pleased at what he had accomplished. Anne gave him a writing exercise, and he returned to his own room.

Leaning against the door, Anne asked herself if she should tell Jeffery he was being followed. He surely knew that already and might resent her prying into his affairs. From servants the night before, Georges had learned that the black man was often seen on Avon Street. Too big to miss, they had agreed. Critchley might have found out what he wanted to know concerning Jeffery and had given William the task merely to keep him busy.

That line of thinking didn't satisfy Anne. Since her visit to
The African Rose
, and the episode in the attic, she had grown concerned for the slave, a huge, powerful man, yet so vulnerable to abuse. Perhaps Critchley wanted to confirm his suspicions before denouncing Jeffery to his master.

She reached into the cabinet for her street clothes. He might not realize the danger to him was serious. Brushing aside her own arguments to the contrary, she decided to follow him and discover what was going on. If he were in trouble, he should be warned before it was too late.

***

Anne fingered a large worn shawl she had found in a storeroom and pulled it snug over her shoulders. Underneath she was wearing a plain brown woolen dress and on her head a matching bonnet. With a small basket in her hand, she hoped to be taken for a domestic servant. As she crossed the bridge over the River Avon, she saw Jeffery turning left onto the quay. For the direct route to the markets, he should have chosen Horse Street. William Rogers furtively followed him.

The footman carried a large empty basket. A long coat covered his livery. He didn't take any other precautions. He turned right onto Avon Street and made his way through a dense crowd of peddlers, urchins, fish mongers, and other dregs of Bath. He stopped at a seamstress shop next door to The Little Drummer. A half-hour later, still in livery, the basket under his arm, he emerged and continued on Avon Street toward the markets.

Anne debated, should she follow him? She noticed William had ignored the footman's departure and continued to loiter in a doorway opposite the shop. He knows something I don't, Anne thought. She waited, her curiosity aroused.

A few minutes later, a tall, handsome light-skinned black woman about Jeffery's own age left the shop. William fell in behind her. Anne followed them up Avon Street, into Cock Lane, and on to the Quaker Meeting House, where the young woman knocked on a side door. William slipped into an alleyway and watched. The woman knocked again and a small wiry middle-aged man with thick gray hair and high cheek bones greeted her and showed her in. At that point, William shuffled off in the direction of Combe Park. Anne sensed that William had done this before. He seemed bored.

While the woman was inside, Anne made inquiries in the neighborhood and learned that the Quaker, Mr. David Woodhouse, was a leader of the society's anti-slavery movement. He owned a printing shop on St. James's Parade. Several men called him a troublemaker who encouraged slaves to run away from their masters. Local sentiment was generally unfavorable to blacks, accusing them of begging and pilfering. Anne lacked experience with black people, but she doubted the accusations she heard. Though Jeffery was poor, he didn't beg or pilfer. And it seemed shameful for the people of Bath who benefitted in so many ways from slavery to despise its victims.

An hour passed before the woman emerged and returned to her shop. Anne followed. Shortly thereafter, Jeffery reappeared, his basket filled with bread, cheese, and sausages. He entered the seamstress shop and remained for perhaps a half hour, then left with his basket still full. Anne followed him back as far as the bridge, when it became clear he would return to Combe Park.

A plan formed in her mind. She turned around and walked to Milsom Street and Madame Gagnon's shop. As she entered, a frisson of anxiety gripped her stomach. She had met the Frenchwoman only yesterday to borrow a gown, and hesitated to impose on her so soon for a second favor. Paul and Georges had warned she was touchy, but would be helpful if approached with tact.

The milliner greeted Anne politely, eyes wondering. “How may I serve you, Mademoiselle Cartier?”

“I wish to speak to you privately.”

The Frenchwoman hesitated a fraction of a second, gave Anne a searching glance, then led her into the back room. When they were alone, Anne explained how the Rogers' black slave's effort to free himself might distract Sir Harry and complicate the pursuit of Fitzroy.

“I need to investigate what he does on Avon Street. The Little Drummer is a good place to start.”

Madame Gagnon stepped back, quickly studied Anne's domestic servant's gown. “You can't go like that. The only women there are barmaids and prostitutes. Let's see what I have here.” She opened the thespian closet.

A few minutes later, Anne was dressed as a valet in a worn gray suit with black embroidered designs, her facial color dulled with powder. Madame Gagnon gave her an approving pat on the shoulder and opened the rear door. Anne hurried back to Avon Street.

It was nearly three o'clock when she entered The Little Drummer. A half-dozen patrons occupied the public room. She sat alone at a table to the right of the door, her back to the wall. In front of her was the stairway to the first floor rooms. Nearby, three young women were chatting over large mugs of ale while they waited for customers. At a table in the middle of the room a pair of rough seamen slouched in their chairs, talking loudly, their voices slurred with drink. Anne guessed they had come from Bristol for some evil purpose. No one seemed inclined to talk to her.

A barmaid approached. Anne thought she might glean information from her, but, as it turned out, she was new to The Little Drummer and couldn't help. A few minutes later, the seamstress' daughter entered the inn and, to Anne's surprise, took the fourth chair at the nymphs' table. For the young woman didn't carry herself like a prostitute. The young women smiled and called her Sarah. She signaled the publican behind the bar. Nodding, he reached for a mug.

At that moment, the two surly seamen noticed Sarah and exchanged lewd comments loud enough for all to hear. One of them hitched up his breeches and swaggered over to the nymphs' table. “How much?” he asked the young black woman.

“I'm not for sale,” she replied curtly and turned her back to him.

The man pulled out a long thin knife, grabbed the woman from behind by the jaw, and set the blade at her throat. “I want some dark meat, understand?” He lifted her to her feet and pushed her toward the stairs.

Anne signaled the publican, a small, older man, who lowered his eyes. The other patrons turned away. The young women sat wide-eyed, paralyzed with fear. Anne waited quietly until the bully passed, then slipped behind him. To negotiate the first step of the stairs, he put the knife between his teeth and reached for the rail. Anne seized his arm and twisted it brutally behind his back. Screaming with pain, he dropped the knife from his mouth and released the woman.

The other seaman leaped from his table, knife drawn, and rushed toward his struggling companion. Half-way across the floor, a pewter mug hit him full in the face. Gathering courage, the young women pelted him with bottles and more mugs. The publican, wielding a thick iron rod, led a few brawny patrons into the fray. Anne pushed her man into their hands and turned to Sarah, who sat dazed on the steps.

“Are you all right?” Anne asked, kneeling in front of her. Blood trickled from a slight cut on her neck. Anne stanched the flow with a clean cloth.

The young woman's eyes blinked, trying to focus. She nodded and breathed, “Thank you.”

Anne helped Sarah to her feet. “May I escort you home?” Anne glanced over her shoulder at a commotion behind her. The seamen were being thrown out of the inn, badly beaten and bloody. “I don't think they'll bother you, but let's be careful.”

“Yes, I'd be grateful,” she replied with the hint of a smile. “I live just next door.”

A tiny bell tinkled as the young woman opened the door to the shop. Anne followed her in. A woman at a table looked up from the garment she was sewing. A smile flashed across her broad brown face, then yielded almost instantly to a frown of concern. “What's the matter, Sarah?”

“Nothing serious, Mother.” The young woman turned to Anne. “My mother is called Hester, Hester Smith. But I don't know your name, sir.”

Anne introduced herself as “Cartier. Monsieur Cartier,” a visiting French nobleman's valet. She told Hester what had happened at the inn. The mother's lips parted, her brow furrowed in consternation. She stared at the wound on Sarah's neck. “I'll close the shop and put some ointment and a bandage on that cut. Then we'll have tea.”

When Hester had disappeared into the back room, Sarah gazed inquisitively at Anne. “Even visiting valets aren't likely to stop for a pot of ale in The Little Drummer. And they wouldn't bother to save a black woman from a seaman's claws.”

She's perceptive, Anne thought, scrutinizing her for a long moment. Her color was much lighter than her mother's; her eyes, a luminous golden brown; her hair, black and curly. She met Anne's gaze frankly. Sensing she could be trusted with the truth, Anne removed her cap, shook out her blond hair, and spoke in her natural voice. “I'm Miss Anne Cartier of Combe Park on a special mission in Bath. It involves you accidentally.”

The young woman's eyes grew large, taking in Anne's altered appearance. “I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Cartier. Jeffery has spoken about how you found him in the attic. You were kind to him.” Sarah began to clear a small table and beckoned Anne to a chair. “Your disguise is really very good. You must be an actress.” She smiled half-apologetically.

“That I am, thank you, though not quite as clever as I had hoped.” Anne added, “I followed you and Jeffery today.”

Sarah gasped with surprise. “Why?”

“I'm concerned that Jeffery is getting into serious trouble.”

“Yes, he's being followed by Mr. Critchley's spies. Jeffery shrugs, takes what precautions he can. I'm helping him. Bath is too small a city for him to escape notice, so eventually Critchley is sure to discover what he's trying to do.”

“Why did you go to the Quaker Meeting House?” Anne asked, though she could guess the answer.

“Jeffery wants his freedom. Mr. Woodhouse is making arrangements. Sir Harry doesn't seem to know it yet. In any case, he won't do anything until after the boxing match tomorrow. And then…I think I shouldn't say more.”

The mother returned from the back room, stopped in midstep to take in Anne's transformation, then smiled like a person who could not be easily shocked. After applying ointment and a bandage to her daughter's wound, she served tea.

Their conversation shifted to the family. Anne learned that Sarah Smith was twenty-one years old. Her father, a Bristol sea captain, had died a few years ago. Hester, a West Indian mulatto, had been his mistress. Shortly before his death, he had freed her and set her up in this shop. She would have a better life in Bath than in a seaport such as Bristol. He also had seen to his daughter's education. She could read and write and was attempting to teach Jeffery, thus far with modest success.