My Sister's Prayer (19 page)

Mr. Edwards nodded. “Who else would it be?”

Celeste shrugged. She'd guessed he was a businessman but hadn't suspected the governor. Papa, with all of his curiosity in the way the world worked, would be interested to know she'd served the man.

When she reached the kitchen, the Irish housemaid, Aline, sat at the table sipping cider. After relaying the instructions to Sary, Celeste asked Aline about the governor.

“Francis Nicholson is his name. I hear he has a temper.” She lowered her voice. “And he's had his struggles with some. The old families and that sort of thing, so they say.” Aline took another sip and changed the subject, saying how busy she'd been that afternoon. “But it's been a good day. Every day here is the best of my life.”

“How is that?” Celeste asked.

She held up her empty mug. “I'm not starving. Or dying of thirst. Believe me, a full stomach makes for a happy girl.” Aline was thin, but she did look healthy. “Having Mr. Edwards buy my contract was the best thing that ever happened to me. He's like the father I never had.”

Celeste pondered that. Obviously, she could have done so much worse too when it came to a master.

A half hour later, while she served the pudding, the governor commented that she must be new to the inn.

“Yes, sir.” She slid a pewter plate onto the table in front of him.

“And how are you liking Williamsburg?”

“Very well, thank you.” She knew to keep her answers short.

He looked up, meeting her eyes. “Where do you hail from?”

“London, sir.”

He cocked his head. “And what brought you to serving in this inn?”

“My parents own an inn, sir. I know the business.” That was the shortest answer she could come up with, considering her circumstances.

“Are you not an indentured servant?”

She served the man next to him as she spoke. “Yes, I am.” The governor seemed kind, but she didn't want to share anymore of her humiliating story.

After they finished their bread pudding, Celeste wished Governor Nicholson a good evening, and then he and his guests left the inn. Unfortunately, the soldiers stayed, growing rowdier as the evening wore on. Finally, Mr. Edwards sent Celeste to the safety of the kitchen. She admired that about the man—he seemed to take her well-being into account.

As she washed the plates and Sary scrubbed the pots, the thought of Jonathan's betrayal ate away at Celeste. By the time she reached her bed, sadness overwhelmed her again. She still loved him. If he came to the inn tomorrow and said he had made a big mistake, that he loved her and wanted to marry her, she would forgive him everything. Out of habit she knelt beside her pallet as if to pray, but again no words came. Instead, tears flooded her eyes. She tried to stop them for Sary's sake, but the sobs kept coming. In the darkness, Sary sighed and asked her what was wrong.

Celeste explained briefly about Jonathan, finishing with his promise to sell the carriage.

“Don't believe that he'll help you. He needs the carriage to look wealthy enough for the landowner's daughter.”

“He said he would—”

Sary sighed again. “And what else has he promised?”

Celeste began crying again.

“At least you came here by choice,” Sary muttered before flopping over onto her other side. Soon her breathing changed.

Celeste stayed awake, knowing she'd offended Sary, who had probably been forced away from her entire family with no choice. Celeste had stepped onto the ship under her own free will.

Her situation wasn't nearly as helpless as Sary's, regardless of whether Jonathan sold the carriage or not. Of course it wasn't. Her indenture was only for four years—and at least she had some rights within that arrangement. Enslaved people, on the other hand, had no rights at all and were condemned to their fate forever.

Nevertheless, in this moment, four years felt nearly the same as forever. She simply had to get some help. She knew there were Huguenots north of Williamsburg. Perhaps some lived in the village too.

She would think about Sary's predicament later. Right now she needed to focus on finding help to free Berta.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Celeste

A
re there others in Williamsburg who speak French?” Celeste asked Mr. Edwards the next morning as she cleared the last table. Except for two old men in the corner, the breakfast crowd had left.

“A few. Why? Are you wondering why I didn't just hire one of them to be my translator?”

“No,” she answered, but his question did make her curious. “Why didn't you?”

“I needed a new kitchen maid for one thing. So I thought I might as well get someone who spoke French to make things easier with Sary. She's the best cook I've ever had.” He paused for a moment.

“What's wrong?”

“I don't mean to speak ill of the dead,” he said in a softer voice. “Benjamin's mother was the cook before Sary.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died of a fever just before Christmas last year.” Somber, he paused for a moment and then added, “Mr. Horn leased Sary to me
after that. I didn't want to have to give her up just because she doesn't speak English.”

“What? You lease her?”

He nodded. “Mr. Horn owns her. But I needed a cook.”

Celeste wasn't sure how to respond, realizing the assumption that she'd made. But it was no wonder she'd thought that, considering the others he owned. As she finished loading her tray, she said, “I was asking about anyone who might speak French because I'm in a bit of a predicament. As you know, I followed Lieutenant Gray here from my home in London.”

Mr. Edwards nodded.

“But things haven't…”

“Turned out the way you expected?”

“Yes.” She went on to tell him about leaving Berta in Norfolk to come to Williamsburg, thinking that Jonathan would buy her contract and then help her rescue Berta.

Mr. Edwards ran his hand through his white hair. “And now he won't help?”

“He said he'd try to sell his carriage to buy my freedom.”

“Did he, now?”

“He did, but I'm not sure he'll be able to. That's why I asked about any French-speaking people in the area. My family is Huguenot—French Protestant.”

Mr. Edwards nodded. “There's a group up the river past the falls. At a place called Manakin Towne. It's on the edge of the frontier. Quite a primitive area.”

Celeste nodded. “I've heard about that group. I'm wondering if any of them could help us.”

Mr. Edwards shook his head. “I doubt it. Some lost all they had when one of their ships sank on the river a few years ago. Many haven't figured out a livelihood yet, although I heard some have started growing tobacco. Most are living in huts.” He began to wipe down a table. “Many have left for Carolina, although not all.” He moved to the next table. “As far as the French around here, they worship as Anglicans with the rest of us.”

“Of course. I'm
guessing all of them would.”

“Yes. But the ones at Manakin Towne are allowed to speak French in their services, even though the church is Anglican.”

Celeste's heart skipped a beat. The congregation her family worshipped with back in England had been allowed to speak French—and stay Calvinists.

He picked up the rag and leaned against the table. “Now, down in Carolina, in Charles Town, the Huguenots are still allowed to have their own church.”

Celeste found that appealing, but it was much too far away to do her any good. “Perhaps you could tell me who speaks French in the village. They might be of some help to me.”

Mr. Edwards stood up straight, and he seemed to be putting some thought into his answer. After a long pause he said, “Those two men in the corner do.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Take a moment and talk with them, but then get back to work.”

“Thank you!” Celeste said to Mr. Edwards with a smile, and then
“Bonjour,”
as she approached the men. Each was reading an old copy of the
London Gazette
. It seemed the paper was shipped over for the colonists to read. She swallowed hard as she thought of her father. He'd most likely helped print that very copy.

She cleared her throat and said,
“Je m'appelle Mademoiselle Talbot.”

The first man, who was nearly bald, introduced himself as Monsieur Martin. The other, with thick gray hair and lively brown eyes, introduced himself as Monsieur Petit.

Celeste switched to English, not wanting Mr. Edwards to become suspicious of what she might be saying, and explained what had happened to her and Berta, leaving out the part about Jonathan jilting her. They would probably hear about that soon enough if they hadn't already.

“I'm hoping there might be someone who would be kind enough to help me figure out a way to relocate my sister to Williamsburg, or at least closer. Perhaps you or someone you know could buy her contract so she could relocate. Do you know of anyone? Around here? Or up at Manakin Towne?” At least there Berta would be with other Huguenots.

The two men glanced at each other. Then Monsieur Petit said, “I think the Frenchmen there are struggling to get by and probably not in a position to help.”

“How about around here?” Celeste's face grew warm with the humiliation of having to beg.

The two men looked at each other again. Monsieur Martin turned to her and said, “We'll ask around. Perhaps our wives might have an idea or two.”

Celeste thanked them and then hurried out the back door to the kitchen, avoiding eye contact with Mr. Edwards, feeling shamed that she'd had to ask for help at all. A wave of grief washed over her. She'd been such a fool to leave the safety of her family for the New World.

Neither of the Frenchmen came back into the inn over the next few days. “They usually come in regularly,” Mr. Edwards said the fourth day. “What did you say to scare them away?”

Celeste insisted that she hadn't said anything to offend them, but maybe she had. Perhaps they felt obligated to help when they couldn't—or didn't want to. Perhaps they were avoiding her. Or perhaps there was simply nothing they could do.

Day by day, Celeste and Sary established a working rhythm. Sary rose first, then Celeste. By the time they descended the stairs, Benjamin had the fire stoked. Sary started the food and Celeste took over making the tea. Most days they worked silently, but bit by bit Sary shared a little more of her story. She was born in the West Indies and raised on a plantation. Her master died two years before and left a lot of debts. To settle what he owed, the oldest son sold Sary along with several other slaves, and she ended up on a ship to Virginia. Celeste had heard that cooks were the most valued of those who were enslaved and demanded a high price.

Celeste appreciated hearing more about Sary's life in the West Indies—the spices they used for cooking, the beautiful turquoise sea ever-present in the distance, and more. One day Sary had a faraway
look in her eyes and said, “It was my life. My home. All that remained was taken from me in one horrible day.”

When she didn't elaborate, Celeste talked some about her own life in England and her family and then the voyage to America with Berta. Sary listened intently, nodding a few times as if she empathized. It wasn't until one evening when Celeste finished sharing a story about her youngest brother that she realized Sary, even though she teared up while listening to Celeste, had never mentioned any family other than the brief mention of her mother and sister. She never spoke of a husband or children. Not a word.