My Sister's Prayer (10 page)

The sun disappeared, leaving nothing but a glow at the horizon. Spenser often snuck up on the deck at night to watch the stars, and then he'd come back down and describe the constellations to Celeste. One night he said her parents must have loved the heavens to have named her after them. “More than that,” she had replied. “They called me Celeste as a reminder that they'll spend eternity with the loved ones they left behind in France.”

Despite having a name that derived from “celestial,” she'd never had much interest in the stars—except to hear Spenser describe them. But if she stayed on the deck a bit longer now she might see the stars herself for the first time in ten weeks. She couldn't allow herself to linger, though. She needed to get back down to steerage and to her sister.

A sense of hope settled over Celeste for just a moment. But as dusk fell, she once again felt unsure about what tomorrow might bring. Making her way toward the hatch, she tried to pray everything would be made right, but she couldn't form the words.

Surely all of it would work out just fine as soon as they reached Jonathan.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Celeste

E
arly the next morning, the
Royal Mary
crossed into the Chesapeake Bay and then eased up the James River, finally docking at Norfolk. Now Celeste stood on the wharf, her bundle at her feet and both arms around her sister, waiting for Captain Bancroft to show them the contract. She'd had to remind him twice.

Berta leaned heavily against her. Celeste's own legs were so unsteady she nearly buckled under the extra weight. It didn't help that the summer morning was already hot and painfully humid. Sweat beaded along her hairline. Nearby seagulls fought over scraps of food. Sailors unloaded cargo from the ship, lugging it past them on the wooden walkway.

Behind the wharf was the town, so small she could practically see the whole thing from where she stood. First was a tavern, then a few warehouses, and beyond those were several streets lined with shops and homes. Wagons and carriages rolled along the cobblestones. At the far end was a fortified building flying the flag of England. Norfolk was barely a village.

A group of men were gathering on the wharf, talking and laughing
among themselves. Celeste returned her attention to her sister. “How are you faring?”

“All right.” Berta was still pale and weak, but at least she wasn't out of her head as she had been for much of the voyage. Her fever had broken shortly before dawn, and she'd been coherent ever since, a good sign that perhaps she was past the worst of it.

“We're on land now, right?” she asked weakly, lifting her head to look around.

“Close to land but still on the wharf,” Celeste replied, surprise sounding in her voice. Did Berta not remember making her way down the gangplank, supported by both Spenser and Celeste, just a short while before?

“I know we're off the ship, but this must be some sort of floating dock. Can't you feel it rocking and moving?”

Celeste smiled, relieved. “That, dear sister, is what's known as ‘sea legs.' I've got them too. The wharf isn't moving; it just seems that way. According to what one of the deckhands told Spenser, this happens a lot—and it can take a while for the feeling to go away.”

“Really?” Berta returned her head to her sister's shoulder. “How very strange.”

Celeste hoped the fresh air and solid ground would help Berta to feel better soon. Perhaps the surgeon was right. Perhaps Berta had simply had a horrible case of seasickness, and now that they were in the New World and off the ship for good, she would keep getting better. Perhaps the fever was simply the way her body had responded to the shock she was enduring.

Spenser waved from the end of the dock and held up a loaf of bread and three apples. The sight of fresh food made Celeste's mouth water. He also seemed cleaner, as if he'd found a place to wash up. Perhaps he'd jumped into the harbor and rinsed himself off in there.

She waved him over. He had just reached her when a thud of boots on the dock behind Celeste caused her to turn.

“Just as I suspected.” Captain Bancroft held a document in his hand. “‘Berta Talbot,'” he read aloud. “That's your sister's name, correct?”

“Yes.”

He
held the contract so she could see it. It was Berta's name all right, but the signature wasn't hers. It couldn't be. Celeste had to admit that it wasn't too far off, but it wasn't exact. The perpetrator must have made a point of observing and copying her actual signature as best he could.

“It's a forgery,” she announced to the captain, sounding more certain than she felt.

He grunted, looking back at the page. “Perhaps she could show me hers then?” He nodded down the dock toward several stacked crates that an older man was using as a table. “That's where I'll be attending to my paperwork. Take her over and we'll have a look.” He marched off, contract in hand.

Celeste scooped up their belongings and then looked to Spenser, who helped support Berta as they made their way to the crates.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“Just as I thought, someone forged Berta's signature.” Celeste nodded toward the captain. “But he wants to see what her signature looks like.”

Captain Bancroft gestured toward a piece of paper and a quill on the crate. “Please,” he said to Berta. “I'd like to sort this out once and for all.”

She nodded and extended a shaky hand, doing her best to pick up the quill. Finally, Celeste grabbed it, dipped it in the ink, and then positioned it in Berta's hand. “Go ahead,” she said.

Berta leaned over with Celeste still supporting her, but her hands were shaking so badly that when she pressed the quill to the paper, she splotched the ink all over it. Trying again, she started to make a “B,” but then she pressed too hard and tore the paper.

“Can she even write?” the captain asked.

“Of course. Since she was a little girl.”

Their parents believed strongly in education and had brought in tutors for all of their children. Berta hadn't been as studious as Celeste, but she'd certainly learned the basics of reading and writing, in both English and French.

“Perhaps she hired someone to write her name for her,” the older man said. “That happens sometimes.”

“No,” Celeste replied. “There's no
reason she would have done that. She's quite capable. She's just very weak right now. Not six hours ago she was nearly incoherent with fever.”

Berta tried again, and this time she managed to write out her name. Sort of. The signature looked familiar, but the letters were wobbly and uneven as if written by an old lady rather than a young woman.

The captain picked up the paper and studied it closely then held it next to the contract, his eyes going from one to the other. “Taking her current condition into account,” he pronounced, “I'd say these are a match.”

“What?” Celeste cried. Berta didn't even bother to protest. She had collapsed with exhaustion against her sister. Celeste struggled to stay on her feet. “How can you say that?”

He held the pages in her direction. “How can you not?”

She couldn't deny there was a resemblance. However, Celeste knew Berta wouldn't have signed it, and yet she couldn't prove her sister hadn't.

The older man nodded, seconding Captain Bancroft's opinion.

“I'm sorry, Miss Talbot,” the captain added, “but it's time to start the bidding.” He gestured toward a group of men who had lined up along the wharf and seemed to be waiting.

Celeste's free hand flew to her throat. “We're to be traded like cattle?”

He frowned. “No. Your indentured servant contracts will be sold in a respectable fashion. Surely
you
signed your own contract? Or were you kidnapped too?” This time, there was sarcasm in his voice. Celeste swallowed hard, nearly overcome. “No, my contract is legitimate,” she managed to utter. She turned away, her mind in a whirl.

All along she'd pictured the ship landing at Williamsburg and Jonathan being there, searching the dock for her and then sweeping her up in his arms when she disembarked. He would buy her contract himself, fulfilling her financial obligation just as he'd promised he would, and then they would tear it up together.

Now there was no way for him to even know that she had made it to the New World. Somehow, she would have to get word to him, after which he would need to come all the way to Norfolk to buy not just her contract but Berta's too.

She looked at Spenser. “Stay close to us, would you? You'll have to be the one who tells Jonathan. Can you do that for me?” He nodded solemnly. “Good. Once our contracts are sold, make sure you get all the information you can about the person who is buying us.”

“No one's buying you, Celeste. They're buying your contracts,” he reminded her sympathetically. “You won't be enslaved. It's your labor that's for sale, and only for a specified amount of time.”

She nodded. That was exactly what she had told herself over and over back in England when she'd made the arrangements for herself in the first place. Her hands had been shaking nearly as bad as Berta's when it had come time to sign her name, but somehow she'd managed to calm down and complete the transaction, driven as she was by the thought of Jonathan waiting for her across the sea.

Spenser led her and Berta away from the old man and the captain, and as they walked he offered them both a piece of bread and an apple. Celeste ate hers as quickly as she could without being unladylike, and Berta managed to take a few bites. They were both filthy, but at least Celeste had been able to comb out her sister's matted hair, braid it, twist it up on her head, and cover it with her cap.

Soon the men were allowed to come closer, where they began to examine the indentured servants, male and female alike. A middle-aged fellow with a long stride and an air of authority stopped at Celeste and asked if she'd had experience as a maid. “I can fulfill those duties,” she answered. She had never had to clean much herself, but she had instructed the maids in the inn for years.

“These two beauties are sisters,” Captain Bancroft said as he approached the man.

Celeste's face grew warm. Both she and Berta had their mother's dark eyes and hair, but Berta was by far the more beautiful of the two.

Then the captain said, “They must stay together.”

Celeste's heart was warmed at his order. He was watching out for them.

The man crossed his arms. “The smaller one appears ill.”

“She's just seasick, sir,” Celeste piped up. “Once my sister gets her land legs again, she'll be all right.” It would be a tragedy if they were separated, and Celeste couldn't
help but be grateful for the captain's kindness in the matter.

The man nodded and continued on down the dock, inspecting the other young women. But after a short time he returned to talk to the older man who kept the books, nodding toward Celeste and Berta as he did.

Spenser stepped toward the crate. He seemed to have adapted to land right away, no sea legs at all for him. A few minutes later he returned. “His name is Constable Wharton. He has a house up on the last street of the village.”

“You'll tell Jonathan?”

“Yes, I promise. I'm sure he'll come to get you—both of you. You'll be in Williamsburg before you know it.”

Celeste wanted to hug him, but instead she simply looked into his eyes and murmured a soft, “Thank you.”

He smiled down at her and then at Berta. “God willing, I'll see you ladies again soon.”

Berta managed a smile, and she whispered her own words of gratitude. The two shared a tender look until Constable Wharton directed Celeste and Berta to follow him. They shuffled along behind, trying to keep up. Both wore their cloaks, even though the day was growing hotter by the minute. Celeste hefted up her blanket and the meager belongings it held, missing the small chest she'd started out with, the one that had been stolen. Nervous, she released her sister for a moment and verified with a pat of her hand that the ring, brooch, and money were all secure in the pouch tucked between her petticoat and shift.

The walk along the wharf was a struggle, and they had to stop every few steps. Finally, they made it to the loading area, where the constable directed them toward a wagon.

Celeste had expected a carriage, considering the man's position. He certainly seemed wealthy. Perhaps he did have a carriage but just didn't want to use it for transporting servants.

Celeste was helping Berta up onto the bench when someone yelled, “Wait!”

She turned and squinted toward the wharf. Spenser waved. Another man, who looked as if he'd just rolled out of bed, was swaggering alongside. The constable also turned and looked, shading his eyes from the morning sun.

Celeste couldn't imagine what Spenser wanted. She hadn't forgotten anything. “Is there a problem, Mr. Horn?” Constable Wharton asked as the men drew near.

“No,” the older man replied. He had a tattered felt hat pulled over greasy dark hair, and he wore a wrinkled vest and an old pair of breeches, a small whip hanging from his belt. “But I'd like to talk with you about the young woman who speaks French.”