“Something to drink and a dish of your lovely eggs and cream, please.”
Cook curtsied. “One dish or two?”
Any hunger had fled the moment she saw the girl with child. “Only one. We’ll be at the table.”
She sat down across from Nell. “Tell me how you met my son.”
Nell smiled, brightening her whole visage. Sara could not help but respond. Her heart lifted. Mayhap, the girl’s needs weren’t for selfish gain. Mayhap, she truly loved Georgie.
“George and I met when he came to Renews, collecting rent and taxes.” Her brow wrinkled. “Four pounds, six shillings and eight pence is quite a lot for a house and a spot of land, milady. ‘Tis hard to come by during a bad fishing season.”
Sara pressed her lips together. “Taxes brought my son to you?”
Her face softened. “Aye, such a kind lad he is, too. Very gentle.”
Sara found it difficult to believe this pretty girl had been alone all this time on an island overrun by men. “How did you get on without protection?”
“One-eyed Jack protects me. He’s a fisherman who can no longer fish.”
“What happened to him? Was it an accident?”
“He fell overboard and almost drowned. Now, he cannot get into a boat. He’ll never leave Newfoundland.” She crossed her arms in front of her as if she expected Sara to challenge her. “He’s like me father and makes our cod-oil and dry-salt fish.”
Sara wondered how he allowed George enough time with the girl to beget a child; then shrugged. Men and women could be inventive when it came to certain needs. “So you’ve run the fishery since Socrates Stamp? Do you have any fishing boats?”
Nell’s chin came up. “We’ve one boat with five fishermen.”
Sara considered Stamp’s house must have been a mean cottage and she was about to ask of improvements there when men’s laughter and song drifted into the kitchen. David appeared, his arm around George who hugged a claret barrel. He plunked the barrel onto the table.
David laughed. “We’ve come to celebrate the union of these children.” He waved a hand. “We need cups.”
George took Nell’s hand, his face in a wide grin.
Sara rose but Cook already had cups. She placed them on the table where David poured claret into four dishes.
He raised his cup. “To George and Nell, and their union.” He drank and poured another. “Who will hide,” he raised a finger in the air, “from Parliament men his inheritance and a large portion of our wealth at Renews.”
“How will he do this?” Sara inquired, not sure it was a good idea. The Commission sent to audit their work would not be stupid men.
“Nell has one fishing boat and we have twenty. George shall have ten and the men that go with it. We will dismantle most of the flakes and send them to Renews. All monies gained will be held in trust, erm, the moneybox, until such time as we are released from suspicion.”
He turned to Nell, his lips thin with resolve. “If you want to marry me son and legitimise your child, you will do this. You will never betray us. Is this clear?”
Chapter Forty
Ferryland, June 1651
On a misty day, a commissioner from the new government’s revolutionary Council of State barged into Sara’s parlour. David stood to greet him. He was tall and wore a dull green suit. His hat was of green felt, his eyes the same colour. He reminded Sara of a mossy pond.
This last month, the commission from the Commonwealth had ranged up and down the Newfoundland coastline asking questions of her inhabitants; Did Sir David provide licenses for taverns, which were not allowed under the Western Charter? Was Sir David the only source of alcohol on the island? Did he provide salt at a high cost for the processing of fish? Did he allow debauchery and prostitution? Was he a man of his word or a filthy coxcomb?
The commissioner glared at David. “You will be returned to London for thy crimes.”
David belligerently raised his chin. “Crimes of what?”
“Thou art a known malignant and a diseased enemy to our present state and government.”
“Diseased?” Sara murmured as fear spiked within her breast. She recalled the day David told Georgie he must learn the business in preparation for when he went to the Heavens. Had David known something dire was on the horizon? She shook her head and dismissed the thought.
“A malignant?” David’s hands curled into fists. “What the bloody hell is that?”
“Thou art a follower of the antichrist. A papist!” The green fellow spat.
“You will not malign me good name. I am a man of the Church of England, sirrah.”
Sara hoped the men would not come to blows.
“You are still an enemy of the state.” The man would not desist.
Sara sought a weapon to stay any violence. Her eyes found the poker leaning against the hearth.
“I am the owner of a fishery. We send fish to thy dinner table.”
“From this moment forward, the Commonwealth confiscates your Ferryland estate.”
“You will not. It was given to me by the late, martyred king.” David rolled his hands into fists and glared.
The man’s face flamed and his eyes bulged “What are you saying?”
“That you are a bloody regicide!”
“He was tried fairly for his crimes,” the man yelled.
The men grabbed the hilts of their swords but Sara forestalled bloodletting. She stepped between them, daring them to wound her. “You will stop this instant. The civil wars are at an end. Let us work through this misunderstanding like gentlemen.”
But before the week was out, David had been hauled aboard a ship of sail to England. Sara refused to be left behind. In haste, she packed her portmanteau and had it carried to her husband’s cabin. Together, they would work through this calamity.
Whilst they waited onshore for the rowing boat to fetch her, Frances took Sara’s hands. “I’ll watch over your children. With Phillip’s help, we’ll run the plantation.”
Sara leaned forward. “Try not to involve Georgie too much,” she whispered, “I don’t want these people to know about,” she shrugged, “you know.”
The year before, they had dismantled fishing rooms and transferred ten fishing boats to Renews. Georgie handled the bulk of their plantation business from there and had done very well, indeed.
Hawkins had gone to Renews to assist, leaving David without a manservant, or a business clerk. Sadly, Cook followed Hawkins after he declared his intention to wed her. Their meals had not been the same since.
“We shall be most discreet,” Frances assured her.
“I don’t know how long we’ll be gone.” Sara fretted she would never see her beloved Newfoundland again.
For a moment, Frances’ face showed her deep concern; then she took a breath and visibly brightened. “You’ll be back by winter.”
A terrible fear seized Sara. With the world turned so topsy-turvy, she did not know which way to turn, from whom she could seek guidance. She tried to hide her despair but too often, when she met David’s gaze, his eyes showed he knew.
Sara hugged her sister. “I love thee and will write every week.”
“Please visit our parents’ gravesites. I wish we could have been there when they died.”
“I will.” Sara hoped their mother was happier, now.
The rowing boat’s keel skidded onto the rocks. Sara heaved a breath and looked one last time at her home, the mansion and the little hamlet they’d built. When her gaze fell to the struggling tree near the rocky shore, she noted there were no leaves this year. The branches had shrivelled.
* * *
London, November 1653
A gale rattled the parlour windows. David stood over Sara as she embroidered, the silk floss making pretty stem stitches and French knots.
He sent the tip of his finger onto an embroidered leaf. “’Tis nice work.”
Sara smiled. “You are too kind. In Newfoundland, I didn’t have much time to do this sort
of artistry.” Now, she had too much time on her hands. Time to fret and fear.
After England tended her wounds from the Civil Wars, she brazenly jumped into war with the Dutch. So far, the battles had been at sea, and out of the routes of merchantmen, but skirmishes could still find their way into the Channel or the Thames Estuary.
“Winter has closed in,” David softly said. “We’ve lost another chance to return, this year.” He frowned.
“Aye, this winter looks like it will be harsh.” Sara plied her needle through a length of plain-weave linen. She wanted a pretty covering for their dining table at Ferryland, decorated with local flowers and fauna.
She refused to believe they would never return. She would see this embroidered piece on her table.
“I do not like this new London,” David complained as he wandered to the casement window.
Under the Commonwealth, London city had turned doleful. People viewed each other with suspicion. No one wore lace or bright colours. Theatres had closed; Christmas and May Day were no longer celebrated.
David ran his finger over droplets of water that had condensed on the leaded lights. He took a deep breath and stared without seeing a wet world beyond the glass. Sara returned to her embroidery, her heart bleeding for their future, for David.
His enthusiasm for life seemed to have waned these past months. An active man, David was now confined to this house and little chambers in Westminster where he was often called to answer questions of his Newfoundland governorship. His shoulders were in a constant slump.
Frances had written all was well with them and their sack business, which gladdened Sara, but she felt cheated she could not be the one running her own household, or the fishery, or negotiate with ship masters on the cost of items being traded. Here, in London, they resided in the Kirke house, the vintner and ship refitting business now handled by John, David’s younger brother, and his wife, Elizabeth. Their only son was away at Cambridge.
The air in the Kirke household was strained. Sara did not know if it was because of their situation, or that John and his wife resented their long stay.
“What if we go and stay with Lewis and his wife?” She knotted thread for a budding flower and sent her needle through the linen to secure it.
David intently watched a droplet of water fall from his fingertip. “Why? We’re settled nicely, here.”
“I don’t want to outstay our welcome.”
“I am the family patriarch, and a knight. Not one of the Kirkes will shirk their duty to protect us. If I wanted the main bedchamber, they would gladly give it to us.”
Sara doubted that.
They had been in England quite a long time, yet nothing had been resolved. The Commonwealth wheels of justice turned very slowly. Sara had no idea how long it would take for David to be exonerated.
He snorted.
She looked up. “What?”
“I am to go before the Council of State tomorrow and answer for me crimes.” He fell to pacing before the hearth fire.
“Again? How often must you answer the same questions?”
“They want me to fall to me knees in supplication; then dismiss me out of hand to return again, in another month, or two, or three. They want me to throw everything up but I won’t. Instead, it makes me deadly mad. I will not confess to something I have not done.”
“At least you are not in gaol.”
“Due to a bond costing forty-thousand pounds!” he hollered then took a deep breath. “This new government has put our family through a great deal.”
“Don’t forget the compound of twenty-five percent to buy back our Ferryland plantation.” The very idea of repurchasing their confiscated property for a percentage of the value vexed Sara to the bones.
They had put in several thousand pounds to improve Ferryland after Baltimore had abandoned it, along with the hamlet and fishing rooms, the maintenance of the salt works, the fishing boats. The list was endless, yet there they were, extorted of money by the Commonwealth on a near daily basis. She threw her embroidery hoop across the chamber. It sailed past David’s cheek, the wispy floss and needle flying wildly.
David turned to her, his eyes wide, his lips quivering into a broad grin. “What’s this? Art thou in a pet over something?”
“I dislike being the monetary source of the new government. They are as greedy as our poor, dead king.” In truth, the injustice was maddening and made her want to scream.
His face creased into laughter. Despite her anger, her shoulders softened. Her own laughter bubbled.
David picked up her embroidery hoop from the floor and handed it to her. “Be of comfort, again, Dear One.” He turned away as if to shore up strength. “All will be well.”
She gave him a hollow smile. She could not tell him she was consumed with fear she would lose him in this madness.
Chapter Forty-one
David took the wherry to Westminster Palace where he met his lawyer and man of business, Mister Booker of the Inner Temple. A desperate man, David took Booker’s hand in a firm grip and shook it. “Let us finish these constant bouts of accusations and dishonour. They must either drop the charges or send me to gaol.”
Booker adjusted a leather case he carried under his arm. “This should be the last of it.”
Together, they walked into the palace and toward the Council of State, now lodged in the old Star Chamber. The familiar, long corridors echoed with their footfalls, the hems of their woollen cloaks floating against the wainscot.
David dreaded another grilling by men who always removed the pipes from their mouths and stared at him with contempt. The Council was more a tribunal than a seat of discussion and judgement. If their goal was to intimidate, they had succeeded. As he and Booker neared the chambers, he broke into a sweat.
“I hope this is the last of our journeys,” he confided, his mouth dry. But each time he traversed these halls, his soul wilted a little more. It reminded him of the struggling tree near the Ferryland shore. When he had last seen it, it looked dead. David shuddered.
“Do not fear,” Booker seemed to prop him up. “Soon, you’ll be back in Newfoundland.”
They came upon a door guarded by soldiers, their halberds and helmets buffed to a dull sheen. As they neared, halberds clashed together. “Who goes here?”
Booker faced them with confidence. “Sir David Kirke and Booker, lawyer. We’ve been called afore the Council of State.”
The halberds separated. “This way.”
Doors opened with guards leading the way. More guards surrounded them. They walked through a chamber filled with men. Low murmurs quieted. Sharp eyes followed their progress. David’s pride sagged.
At the Star Chamber’s double doors, a man holding a black rod watched them approach, his face impassive. A guard slammed the iron tip of his halberd onto the flags. “Sir David Kirke and lawyer Booker.”
The man nodded. He turned to open the doors, then led the way into the chamber that smelled of wet wool and fresh ink. Someone had recently eaten onions. Rain pelted the small mullioned window.
More men than the last time crowded about the table and on benches against the walls. Indeed, the room appeared full as an egg. David started to count heads when the man with the rod doffed his bonnet and bowed, showing a leg.
“Sir David Kirke and his man of business, milords.”
Booker removed his hat, stepped forward and bowed. “Gentlemen.”
“Who art thou?” a stern fellow in a black hat demanded. His hair had been cut short, near the ears. Men in plain suits, dark hats without adornment and short hair dominated the streets of London and Westminster. Fashion these days mimicked the way of the Dutch—with whom England was at war!
The world had become oppressive with the Presbyter way of things, going to church twice on Sundays with tedious sermons that lasted upward to three hours. David was half-starved by the end of the first service, and would not return for the second one, no matter how Sara cajoled and threatened they must do it or
be castigated further by the parishioners.
He longed for the fresh air of Ferryland. If he stayed much longer, only calamity would attend him.
Booker cleared his throat. “Lawyer for Sir David, sir.”
“Lawyers and your ilk are not welcome in this chamber, sirrah,” a pale fellow said. “We are the law of the land for which this man will suffer truth and justice.” He waved his gloved hand. “Get thee gone.”
Booker stood firm. The chamber suddenly quieted as the men stared at him. Rain drops plopped down the chimney.
David suppressed a sigh. Deadly tired of this business, someone always cried against his man being present, but this was not a Crown court where barristers and solicitors were not admitted. This was a council of supposed justice, where a suit had been brought to the table against him for his business practices under the reign of the late martyred king.
“Let him stay.” A sad looking fellow with droopy eyes regarded David. “I am Sir Henry Vane.” He pointed to two others at the table, one squat, the other of florid face. “Mister Street, Mister Masham and I will speak with thee on this matter.”
Vane opened a ledger filled with closely written pages. David’s eyes widened, hoping all the papers before Vane were not about him, his family or his actions over the years.
“We received letters from our representatives in Ferryland. We’ve taken possession of your ordnance, ammunition, houses, boats, stages and other appurtenances belonging to thy fishing trade. They’ve been cast into a warehouse where we’ll collect impositions until Parliament declares their further pleasure.”
David inwardly groaned. Frances and his sons’ letters never mentioned this. He was undone, his wealth in Newfoundland lost.
“Your personal effects are secured,” Mister Masham reassured him.
David added defeat to calamity. He wanted to sag against the table, then anger stiffened his spine, raised his chin. The men afore him were rascals.
He leaned his knuckles on the table. In warning, Booker cleared his throat but David did not heed him. “You’ve seized our plantation, our goods after we’ve already repaid the compound of our property to the amount of twenty-five percent.” His neck prickled with heat. “How often must you seize me goods? How many times must I repay your impounds?”
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