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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Celeste
Are 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 I
ndies—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.
Before each meal was served in the inn, the staff gathered in the kitchen to eat. Mr. Edwards always said a blessing and then the others ate while Sary and Celeste dished up for the patrons waiting in the inn for their food. Little by little, Celeste was learning about the other staff. Benjamin’s father, Joe, doted on his son. Aline had worked in the kitchen sometimes before Celeste arrived, but she preferred her other duties. She would often try to chat with Celeste, but there was no time in the kitchen. One morning, however, as Celeste hurried to the drying hut with orders from Sary to collect sprigs of rosemary, Aline stepped out of the laundry. She asked how Celeste was getting on with the cook.
“Very well.”
“She despised me when she first arrived,” Aline said. “I couldn’t do anything right.”
“Really?” Celeste couldn’t imagine Sary treating anyone badly. With silence maybe, but not with hate.
“I may not have been very welcoming, though. We were all in mourning.”
“Oh?”
“Cook had just died.”
Celeste nodded. She knew about that.
“And Miss Annabelle.”
“Miss Annabelle?”
“Surely you’ve heard of her.”
Celeste shook her head.
“Mr. Edwards’s daughter. She was the reason he came to Virginia. She was married to a major here, but he died up north. She opened the inn, and Mr. Edwards came with financing and to help her.”
“Oh,” Celeste managed to say again. She’d had no idea.
“Mr. Edwards is a widower. Miss Annabelle was his whole world. So, you can see, we were all out of sorts when Sary arrived. And with her not speaking English or anything, and she’d been injured too—which Mr. Edwards didn’t realize at first—it was all very difficult.”
“No doubt,” Celeste said, wondering what had happened to Sary. She held up her empty basket. “I need to get to the drying hut.”
“Wait,” Aline said. “That’s not the only tragedy we’ve had. The kitchen maid right before you—”
“Good morning.” Mr. Edwards stood on the back stoop, a mug in his hand.
Both girls returned the greeting, and then Aline stepped into the laundry while Celeste bobbed a curtsy and headed on to the hut.
The next morning, Mr. Horn came to the inn dripping wet from a summer downpour soaking the village. Steam rose off him as he took a seat. Celeste overheard him say he’d come from Norfolk again and had then been at the Vines’s plantation, delivering several new field hands. She wondered how far it was to the plantation, how far Jonathan traveled to see his betrothed.
“How is your kitchen maid working out?” Mr. Horn asked over the din of the conversations and the clanking of metal spoons against pewter plates.
Mr. Edwards simply answered, “Very well.” The communication with Sary had gotten better with Celeste translating, and that meant that the meals were coming out of the kitchen faster and with portions more to Mr. Edward’s liking. Everyone seemed happier.
“And the cook? She still acting uppity, or did you take care of that?”
Celeste wondered what it was about Sary that irritated Mr. Horn. He’d leased Sary to Mr. Edwards. What did he care how she acted now? That was between her and Mr. Edwards—and he didn’t seem to have problems with Sary’s work performance or her attitude, not anymore.
“Everything’s fine,” Mr. Edwards said, busying himself with setting the table.
“These indentured girls are getting harder to find,” Mr. Horn told him over the clanging of the crowd. “The constable in Norfolk is looking for a maid again.”
Celeste gasped.
Mr. Edwards gave her a harsh look, probably for eavesdropping. She continued on with her work, but when Mr. Edwards stepped into the other room, she approached Mr. Horn. “Why is the constable looking for another maid?”
“The last one died.”
“No!” Celeste placed her hand on the table to steady herself. “That’s where my sister went, remember? Surely it wasn’t her.”
The man looked up, an expression of annoyance on his face. “She was ill, right?”
Celeste nodded.
Mr. Horn sighed. “I hope he doesn’t expect a refund. Or a discount on the next girl I find. But he probably will.”
Celeste struggled to breathe. Mr. Horn didn’t seem to notice.
She stumbled away from the table, broken by the news and the man’s callous disregard for her sister’s life. She never should have left Berta in Norfolk. Obviously, she was much worse than Celeste had realized. It hadn’t been just seasickness.
Where had Berta been buried? Who had cared for her in the end? Had she suffered terribly?
Mr. Horn must have told Mr. Edwards about Berta’s death, because later, when all of the patrons had left, he approached Celeste and said, “I’m sorry for your troubles.”
“Thank you.”
“It really is a shame…” Mr. Edwards ran his hand through his thick white hair. The wrinkles around his eyes seemed extra deep.
Celeste nodded. He knew grief too. “I’d like to go talk to Constable Wharton,” Celeste said. “To find out how my sister died and where she’s buried. I promise I’ll come back.” She had nowhere else to go.
Mr. Edwards shook his head. “I can’t allow that. Besides, you can’t travel by yourself.”
“I know someone who might be able to go with me.”
“Not Jonathan.”
She shook her head. “Spenser Rawling. He works for the carpenter, just outside of the village. He has proven to be a good friend.”
“How would you pay for the boat ride?”
“I have a small amount of money. Enough to get us there,” Celeste answered, looking him in the eye. “But I was hoping I could borrow some from you for the return trip.” She had no idea how she would reimburse him except to sell the ring.
“That’s what I was afraid of.” He pursed his lips together.
“You can add what I owe to my contract. I’ll work longer to pay it off if I can’t come up with another means.”
When he didn’t respond, Celeste continued stacking dirty plates into a basket. When it was full, she headed toward the passageway.
Mr. Edwards cleared his throat from the desk in the foyer. Without looking up, he said, “I know what it’s like to lose someone I loved. Ask this young man, Mr. Rawling, if he can go with you. If he can, head straight to the landing. The boat Horn came on is scheduled to leave this afternoon. Just make sure to give Sary her instructions before you leave.” He went on to tell her what he wanted done for the next few meals. “Aline can help serve while you’re gone. Oh, and pick up your boots at the cobblers.” He glanced down at her pathetic slippers. “You’ll need them in this mud.” Then he said, “Wait here just a moment.” He retreated to the small room he used as an office and then returned, holding out his hand. “Here’s the money for the passage. Pay me back when you can, even if it’s in four or five years.”
“Thank you,” Celeste said, curtsying slightly as she balanced the tray, her heart filled with gratitude. Once again, Mr. Edwards had shown he was a kind man at heart.
Celeste went straight to the cobbler’s. The boots fit perfectly, and gratitude toward Mr. Edwards swept through her. When she got back to the kitchen, Benjami
n and Sary were washing dishes, so she quickly carried her tattered shoes up to the loft and then came back down.
She spoke to Sary first, in French, explaining Mr. Edwards’s instructions and about her plans to be gone for a couple of days. She repeated what she said to Benjamin, in English, adding that he would need to deliver the meals to the jail while she was gone. Then she asked, “Can you tell me how to get to the carpenter’s shop?”
He offered to show her, but she refused, saying he needed to stay and help Sary instead. He seemed disappointed but explained where the shop was, outside of the village, down a trail just wide enough for a wagon.
Celeste followed Benjamin’s directions, heading to Botetourt Street and toward the beat of the snare drums. It seemed the soldiers were constantly drilling. As she passed by, she scanned the group marching toward their tents, but didn’t see Jonathan. When she reached the creek, she followed along the bank to the east. The road was narrow, and branches from the catalpa trees hung low, ready to tug at her straw hat. Cattails grew in the marshy area on either side of the creek, and every once in a while a fish jumped. Celeste slapped at the mosquitoes that buzzed around her as she walked, holding her skirt above the mud. Finally, alone, she let her tears come. Their mother had told Celeste and Berta, from the time they were little girls, how blessed they were to have each other. Maman hadn’t had a sister, but she’d had a cousin—Amelie—who had been as close as any sister ever could be. But then Amelie had died, leaving behind a baby girl, right before Maman and Papa had fled to England from their beloved France.
Even with Maman’s urging, Celeste hadn’t always appreciated her sister or their friendship. Berta claimed Celeste was bossy and unfair. Celeste felt Berta was impulsive and unwise, not to mention lazy. True, there had been times of affection and camaraderie between them, but not nearly enough. Why hadn’t Celeste valued her sister more?
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