My Sister's Prayer (48 page)

Celeste shook her head, more in disbelief than disagreement. She'd been a fool to think a plantation in Carolina wouldn't need slaves to make a profit. It seemed most business ventures in the southern colonies did. Why hadn't she broached the subject with Jonathan? She felt as if she might be sick. She tried one more time to convince herself she'd made the right decision. “But Jonathan is kind and—”

Sary's eyes watered. “Charming?”

“Yes.”

“Those are the ones you need to watch out for,” Sary countered. “It
seems he used that charm as bait, luring innocent young women from all over to come to the New World. No doubt he receives a cut of the profits for every one of them. Even your sister.”

Celeste's eyes narrowed. She'd never told Sary about Berta's claims. “Who else?”

Sary hesitated only a moment before speaking. “The maid before you, who died. The one Aline was trying to tell you about. She came over on the same ship as Jonathan this last time. My heart broke for her. She stayed up in the loft with me, and she didn't know I could understand her words as she prayed aloud, night after night, whispering, ‘Please, God, forgive me for the sins I committed on that ship. Show me what to do before I can no longer hide my condition. Please soften Jonathan's heart toward me and our child.'”

Celeste's knees nearly buckled, and she gripped the rail harder, fearing she might collapse. “What happened to her?” she whispered.

“She died a few weeks before you got here. Something went wrong with the baby. It was tiny, not ready for this world at all. She bled to death.”

“Did anyone try to help her?”

“I tried.” Sary's eyes filled with tears. “I lost a baby, a girl, in such a way. She was bigger than the maid's, though, just a couple of months from being ready. And mine was healthy—until I was beaten.”

Celeste gasped. “Mr. Horn did that to you?”

Sary nodded.

“And he's the one that beat your sister too?”

She nodded again. “He beat Orrinda the day we left the West Indies, causing her to hit her head. She died on the ship. Mr. Horn was so furious with my wailing that he turned on me.”

Celeste remembered the fear in Sary's eyes in the kitchen that day. Now she knew what the slave trader was capable of. “I'm so sorry.” Celeste put her hand on Sary's arm.

The woman nodded, her chin down. “There was nothing I could do for my baby or for that poor girl's baby either.”

“Did the physician come?”

“Eventually.” Sary raised her head a little. “But there was nothing
anyone could do. She was dead by morning. She's buried in the churchyard.”

Celeste nodded. Aline had shown her the grave. “You don't think Jonathan had anything to do with her death, do you?” Celeste felt ill.

Sary considered the question for a moment. “No. Except for breaking her heart. And filling her with shame.”

“And you think he talked her into coming? Into indenturing herself?”

“She never said, but I wouldn't be surprised. She was smart, like you. Except for believing in a man like him.” Sary sighed. “I'm sorry.”

“No.” Celeste clasped Sary's forearm. “Thank you for telling me. You are a true friend.”

Sary placed her good hand over Celeste's and squeezed. “As you are.”

Their eyes met, and in that moment they seemed to share the knowledge of how truly dire their situation was.

“You're not married yet,” Sary whispered. “We can still get away.”

Celeste shook her head. “I can't. He owns my contract. But you can go with Emmanuel and Berta. You're free.”

Sary frowned. “No. Where you go, I go.”

“Sary, please—”

“No,” the woman replied firmly. “I'm not leaving you alone with that man.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

Maddee

M
y conversation with Greg the night of the party stayed with me all the next morning. I just kept trying to figure out what I'd said that had upset him. I was sitting in my office, trying to put him out of my mind and focus on the file in front of me, when I received a call from Miss Vida.

“Taavi Koenig!” she cried as soon as I answered.

“Excuse me?”

“That's his name. Taavi Koenig, from Cleveland, Ohio.”

I gasped. “The man in the cabin? How do you know?”

“Well, I don't for sure. But nineteen years ago last July, a Jewish man with brown hair and green eyes named Taavi Koenig came to Virginia for a visit—and he was never heard from again.”

The next hour was insane as I connected Miss Vida with Detective Ortiz and then waited nervously to hear back from one of them. In the meantime, I gave Nicole the news, and then together she and I
conference-called our cousins Renee and Danielle. All four of us were so excited that to an outsider we might have seemed disrespectful, but we weren't celebrating a man's demise; we were celebrating the fact that we had our first real lead since the case was reopened in July.

We were still on the phone when I heard back from Ortiz, so I conferenced her in as well and we all listened as she gave us an update. Apparently, the man's son was ready to hop on the next plane and fly here from Cleveland, desperate to know, at long last, what had happened to his missing father all those years ago. Ortiz had told him to wait for now, but when he mentioned he'd once had his own DNA tested as a part of an ancestry project, she had him scan and send that report, and then she ran a comparison.

“And sure enough,” she told us now, “Koenig's our guy. The case is back on.”

She warned us that we were probably still a long way from finding the whole truth, but at least this was a big step in that direction.

When two o'clock rolled around and the office closed for the rest of the day, Nicole and I took off for Williamsburg as planned. It felt odd to leave town in the wake of such exciting developments, but there was no reason to stick around and nothing we could do to further the case—Ortiz had been firm about that.

“You did well, Maddee,” she'd said at the end of our call, “but your time for playing detective is over. Don't poke around any further, or you might actually mess things up. Understand?”

“Understand,” I said, happy to relinquish that role. I had enough going on in my life as it was.

We reached Williamsburg at four, paid at the visitor center, and headed toward the village. A canopy of yellow and orange blazed above us as we walked, our feet crunching through dried leaves along the path.
I'd been here several times before, but never in the fall. I couldn't help but think of Celeste trudging through town in a storm, braving both the wind and the mud. Thankfully, we had a paved path to walk on, and the day was clear and bright.

I was also grateful for all of the walking Nicole and I had been doing lately. Although she seemed quiet and lost in her thoughts, she was moving pretty well. We brought along the wheelchair for when she'd had enough and would need to switch, but at the moment she was fine just rolling it in front of her, using it like a walker.

When we reached the village, we both stood in awe for a long moment at the top of the green. The fall colors were absolutely spectacular, framing the entire place in reds and oranges. It struck me that this was where Celeste first stopped when she arrived in Williamsburg to search the crowd of soldiers for Jonathan. As if right on cue, the rat-a-tat of a snare drum started, and a group of soldiers began to gather.

“Let's keep going,” Nicole said.

At her leading, we wandered east toward the jail. It was larger than it had been in Celeste's time, but we could easily imagine her up in the loft, longing for Jonathan to arrive—only to have Spenser appear instead. Nicole shivered as we stood there, but she didn't say anything. In fact, she'd been oddly quiet almost since the moment we arrived.

Before moving on from there, I told her it was time to shift to the chair, and she did so without protest.

“Mr. Edwards's inn was this way,” I said, turning right at the next street. Nana had told us the original inn was torn down nearly two hundred years ago and replaced with several smaller buildings, but we found the property and even the spot where the bench would have been. I imagined Sary standing in her drying shed on the other side of the fence, listening in on all the gossip and deals being made within her hearing. I squinted, picturing the garden and orchards, the kitchen and laundry. If only we could step back in time.

We continued on, passing several “villagers,” all dressed as if they belonged in 1775. And though the styles would have changed from Celeste's era, the layers of clothing—shift, chemise, petticoat, skirt, apron, cloak, and cap—were probably quite similar.

We came upon the blacksmith shop, which made me think of poor Celeste and the heavy pot. Next was a row of houses, one of which was white with green trim, not unlike the Petits'. Up ahead, I spied the sight I'd wanted to see most, the pillory.

When we reached it, we stood silently for a long while, staring at the brutal contraption of wood and metal, thinking about that horrid night of Celeste's.

People were allowed to try out the pillory and take photos, so I asked Nicole if she wanted a turn. “We ought to take at least one picture for Nana.”

Nicole shook her head, and when I really looked at her, I realized she was visibly upset. Her face was pale, her shoulders slumped, her hands trembling.

“Hey, what's wrong?” I asked, startled. “Are you in pain? Why didn't you say something?”

She shook her head even as her eyes filled with tears. By the anguish on her face, I just knew this had to do with Nana and whatever big secret it was they shared.

“Let's go,” she said suddenly.

When I hesitated, she rose, grabbed the handles of her wheelchair, and took off on foot toward the green.

I stared after her for a moment. “Wait. Nicole! What's wrong?” I strode forward to catch up.

“I need a meeting,” she said, and then she gestured in the direction of the parking lot. Apparently, we were going back home.

I hesitated a moment, glad at least that she had recognized her need and made the healthy choice. “Okay. But let me push you. You're going to hurt yourself.”