The Lost Duchess (25 page)

‘We’ll drag him ashore and bury him in the sand. We can dig a grave with branches.’

‘It’ll be dark before we’re finished.’

‘Even so, we must do it. We can come back tomorrow and bring weights to put over.’

‘I’ll dig,’ Harvie said simply, and waded towards the shore.

Kit looked at Manteo. ‘Can you pull up the body?’

‘I’ll do that, and I’ll help Master Harvie.’

‘When I come back with the boy …’

Manteo clapped his arm. ‘Master Howe will be buried. Do not worry.’

Kit began the long wade back to Emme and Georgie. When he saw them cuddled together he was glad that Emme was there to soften the blow he was about to deliver because, sure as he stood, he did not know how he could have broken the news to the boy if he’d had to do it by himself.

Georgie ran to him first. He made the boy settle then took Emme aside and told her softly away from Georgie’s hearing. He spared her the worst, and, when it was done, he watched Emme go to the boy. Then, while she spoke to him, he sat and clasped his hands around his knees, waiting for the child’s cries that came and rose and tore him inside out. Afterwards Kit led them to the place where Howe lay in his grave, not far from the reeds where he had breathed his last.

He took off his hat and held it in both hands.

‘Earth to earth,’ said Dyonis Harvie. ‘Rest in peace, George Howe. Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord. So saith the Spirit; they rest from their labours.’

‘Amen,’ Kit murmured, and opened his eyes to see Emme saying the same, her cheeks streaked with tears, the boy pressing against her, sobbing and shaking. Her skirts were wet through, and darkness covered her like a cloak.

Somehow he had to tell her that she could not stay on the island. It was not safe.

He put his arms round them both.

As Emme swept she heard a man whistling outside, and she began to hum softly to herself, picking up the tune of ‘Greensleeves’ that was so much part of her growing up it sent a tingle down her spine. She was in a cottage that could have been in England, for it looked much the same as many she’d seen on her father’s estate, and little around her was any different to anything she could have witnessed there: the sunshine slanting between the wooden bars of the open window, the smell of wood smoke and baking from the bread oven, the sound of someone chopping logs and a cockerel crowing, the rustle of rushes under her feet as she moved over the packed earth floor. Their City of Raleigh was a piece of England entire. She almost sang out loud:

Greensleeves was all my joy,

Greensleeves was my delight;

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my Lady Greensleeves.

Then she realised she might disturb Governor White and she carried on working as quietly as she could, sweeping carefully around the knick-knacks stored under the trestle table at which he was bent over another painting. There were gourds and pieces of coral strewn haphazardly around the struts, along with twigs, bones and feathers, a sloughed snakeskin and large pink-and-white scallop shells, the stump of a beeswax candle and bits of material crumbling to what might have been charcoal and chalk. She bent down and
attempted to push together the collection into a neater pile against the wall, then stood up quickly when a large yellow and black spider crawled from the heap. The creature scurried over a stick that had a tooth fixed to one end, polished and bound with waxed thread. She retrieved this and placed it with the brushes and quills on the table.

The Governor did not look up. His hand moved over the paper, to his water-shell and oyster palette and back to the page on which he was working. She carried on brushing around his feet with the broom, and wondered whether pretty yellow-flowered broom would one day grow in Virginia. She could imagine it blooming on the sandy soil round about. Would the people who came after her ever miss things that could never be brought over? Deep snow, perhaps, and stone churches. There was no stone on the island; their church would have to be built from timber and daub. There would be no headstone for George Howe.

‘Greensleeves’ faded from her mind.

Governor White stretched out his hand to his palette again and a pencil of black lead fell from the boards, breaking into pieces as it hit the floor.

‘God’s blood!’ he muttered.

She stooped to pick up the fragments then saw him looking at her.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ He sighed and gestured to the clutter around him. ‘Forgive me. This table isn’t big enough.’

‘If you will allow me,’ she said, and stacked up all the loose brushes, quills and pencils into a large leather jug that she placed on the clearer surface, giving it a brisk wipe beforehand. By the jug was a small bunch of freshly picked blue flowers just beginning to show signs of wilt.

‘And shall I put these in water?’ she asked. When he nodded she placed them in a pottle which she half filled with water from the ewer.

His attention moved from the flowers back to the jug.

‘There’s my burnisher,’ he observed with obvious satisfaction, picking up the stick with the tooth that she had found. ‘I was wondering where that had got to.’

She smiled back. ‘If you would lift your feet, please, sir.’

He raised his legs, stiff as pokers, and she swept underneath.

‘I am glad you are here,’ he said, lowering his feet by degrees once she had finished. ‘I have received a note from our Pilot requesting that you return to the
Lion
.’ He tapped a letter with a broken seal that was also in danger of sliding to the floor.

She resisted the urge to take hold of it, and supposed he was talking about a message from Master Ferdinando, since ‘our Pilot’ was how John White now referred to him; he was no longer ‘our Simon’.

‘I find this perplexing,’ said Governor White, ruffling his hand through his hair, ‘not least since our Pilot has refused to allow any other Planters back aboard.’ He picked up the sprig of leaves he was painting, turned it about and examined it closely. ‘Apart from myself, of course. He would not dare deny me access to the ship. But you …?’ He looked at her askance, one brow raised.

She lowered her eyes and carried on sweeping. How much did he know about who she was? She was not sure, and she had no wish to tell him any more than she needed to.

He coughed, probably to attract her attention since she was no longer looking at him. ‘Our Pilot says that Sir Walter Raleigh wishes you to return to England.’

Did John White remember her from Richmond Palace? Could he recall her being introduced to him as one of the Queen’s ladies? He’d never mentioned that he recognised her, and he gave no sign of doing so now. Though it seemed strange that someone so observant about leaves and flowers could be so inattentive about the features of a face, yet that appeared to be the case. Perhaps she had been of no interest to him at court. She glanced up and saw that he was staring at her and frowning.

‘I realise you are known to Sir Walter. It was his request that secured your position in this household and my agreement not to raise any enquiry. But I wonder …’

She kept her gaze fixed on the floor.

‘Have I seen you somewhere else? … I mean before you joined us?’

‘I have worked for Sir Walter at Durham Place; that may be the explanation.’

She teased her broom around the heap under the table.

‘Ah, yes,’ she heard him say. ‘Well, I’ve not mentioned this to Ananias or anyone else because I would not wish your special … dispensation to create any resentment amongst the rest of our company.’

‘There will be no resentment,’ she said brightly. Then she stood and placed a shell lined with dry blue pigment on his table, another casualty of his untidiness. ‘I will stay.’

‘Stay? No, no, you don’t understand. You cannot stay, not if Sir Walter wants you back.’ He pushed his forelock from his brow, and scratched his scalp at the same time, an action that left his hair looking even more unkempt than usual. ‘I would have thought that you would be only too pleased to return after what has happened …’

‘You mean the death of poor Master Howe?’

‘Most unfortunate. It leaves us with an unwonted dilemma …’

She turned to the fireplace and began to sweep out the hearth, answering him while her back was turned.

‘It is because of Master Howe’s death that I am determined not to leave. His son, Georgie, needs looking after. I mean to do that as well as tend to your daughter. She will soon want a maid’s help more than ever to care for her through her birth, and afterwards once she has a baby to nurse.’

She was also determined not to leave Master Kit, but the Governor didn’t need to know that.

She rattled about with the irons and wondered whether John White had even noticed that little Georgie Howe had taken refuge in his house and slept last night on a pile of rushes, wrapped in a blanket close to the place she now cleaned.

Governor White shuffled on his stool. ‘Indeed, that is all true.’ Then he tapped the letter again. ‘But this cannot be denied.’

She regarded him directly for the first time.

‘Did Sir Walter ask you to ensure I returned?’

The Governor’s face clouded. ‘No, no, he did not. I wonder …’ He looked away and towards the open window. ‘I never have trusted that Portuguese swine. Tell no one I said that,’ he added quickly. ‘So …’ He picked up the letter and waved it about then tossed it next to the jug and pottle. ‘I have notified you of his request and that must suffice for now. No one here is going to return to England until we have determined our position in relation to the savages. Sir Walter will want news about that, and about what has happened to Sir Richard Grenville’s men; we should try to find out more about both matters. Sir Walter should at least have a written report … Our Pilot must wait.’

He rubbed his hands together and added a note to his drawing, speaking as he scratched with his pen.

‘Manteo tells me that the sap of this herb can cure poison arrow wounds.
Wisakon
, that’s what he calls it: a most useful physic. There is much to be learnt from the savages, and much of value in what grows here naturally, not to speak of what
could
grow here with transplanting and nurture.’

She looked hard at him, since his attention was on his writing, and noticed that his hair was beginning to thin over the top of his head, though the rest was surprisingly thick for someone who must have been well over two score years and had endured the hardship of the last Roanoke voyage. He spoke calmly despite the recent tragedy of George Howe’s death. Was John White extraordinarily resilient, or so locked in his own world of discovery that he did not appreciate the threats around him and the fears of everyone else? Did he still think that the Indians could be trusted?

‘If the Indians attack us,’ she began, ‘I am sure that such a cure would be a help. And, in view of Master Howe’s fate, perhaps we should expect—’

He interrupted her. ‘The savages also use the silk of the seeds to make soft covers for the privy parts of their virgin maidens.’

‘Really?’

He teased out some of the downy seed tails from a pod at the end of the sprig and studied them carefully as if envisaging the effect.

‘Mmm …’

‘If we are attacked,’ she persisted, ‘then …’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s likely in our City of Raleigh.’ He made an airy sweeping motion with his quill. ‘We are too great a number for the Secotans to dare confront us. But we must not be complacent,
or careless like George Howe, and wander off into the wilderness for miles unaccompanied.’

Her jaw dropped. ‘You surely don’t mean to suggest that Master Howe was at fault in making his murder possible?’

‘Perhaps not “at fault”, but he should have been more cautious. Some savages will take advantage if they perceive weakness, just as small children will when left unattended.’

‘You said they were naturally gentle when you spoke about them in England; I heard you …’

‘Indeed they are, but who knows what may have occurred in their encounter with Master Howe, what grievance, old or new, might have provoked them to unnatural violence.’

‘
Grievance
?’ She turned from him to hide her shock. A maid’s place was not to take issue with her master. She must not argue or appear judgemental, but she could hardly credit what she had just heard him say. She tried to keep the indignation from her voice. ‘What grievance could have justified such brutality against an innocent man?’

‘I do not say justified. But Governor Lane’s relations with the savages here were … not as comfortable as they might have been towards the end of his stewardship. Incidents may have occurred of which I was not fully aware …’ He wiped his hands on a rag and peered at his palette, holding a tiny brush close to a bright green colour. ‘Is this the correct green, do you think? I have used tender buckthorn berries for the hue.’

She gave a little shudder of exasperation and moved closer to see what he was doing. ‘The limning looks perfect.’ She meant it. The picture was exquisite. But what of the Indians? Should they be feared now? She certainly feared them even if he did not. She tried another tack.

‘You said Sir Walter would want to know the disposition of the savages towards us. What will you tell him?’

He tipped his head on one side, but still considered his oyster palette, as if he was more concerned about his colours than anything else.

‘We need to know more, don’t we?’ His gaze flicked up to her. ‘Perhaps we should ask for a parley, approach in peace without seeking redress. But if we are to be avenged for Howe’s death, then surprise is the better tactic: a sudden attack and show of strong force … But these deliberations are hardly a fit subject for your hearing.’

‘On the contrary, I thank you for sharing your thoughts. It is a comfort to me to be kept informed.’

‘Good.’ He reached over and patted her hand. ‘In our new city I hope we may share more. For leaders to share is also to unburden. So, think on this question: love or discipline – which is the best way to correct a child? With the Indians who are our neighbours, do we embrace or chastise them? My Assistants are divided over the issue. Master Harvie urges that we answer their crime with punishment – forestall any further outrage with a decisive raid.’