My Sister's Prayer (12 page)

Each time Celeste stopped to catch her breath, Spenser waited with her. One time she could see a shack through the woods and hear a pig grunting in a nearby pen. The property certainly wasn't a plantation.

The distance grew between Celeste and Spenser and the others, including Mr. Horn and Captain Bancroft. Celeste pushed herself to keep going, anxious to see Jonathan. Sweat dripped down the backs of her legs. She swatted at mosquitoes every few steps as she clutched her blanket bundle. After a while Spenser took her burden and carried it along with his own. She was grateful for that, and for her hat, which kept most of the sun from her face.

They had lost sight of the others when a wisp of smoke appeared above the trees. Celeste guessed it was from a home in the village. Soon the acrid scent of burning wood reached them. Then came the sight of more smoke, all rising above the trees. She guessed, by the lowering sun, that it would soon be time for supper.

Her stomach growled. They'd had no dinner to speak of on the ship, just hard biscuits and water.

Her thoughts drifted to Jonathan, who currently lived at the barracks. Their plan was for her to stay at the local inn until the wedding, after which they would rent a cottage.

The trail opened up to a wider street, but it was just as muddy. First there was a farm with a white house and several outbuildings on a hill. Then they passed the College of William and Mary, a large brick building, and soon after a church also made of brick. Next came what appeared to be a courthouse, with stocks and a pillory out front.

Most of the homes were small, but a few were stately. The village seemed to be well planned with wide streets and large lots, gardens,
and even orchards. The rat-a-tat of a snare drum caught her attention. As they kept walking it grew louder. Spenser pointed left, to a wide, open area.

A group of soldiers marched on the green toward Captain Bancroft, Mr. Horn, and some sailors. She gasped and quickened her steps. Her heart raced at the thought of seeing Jonathan.

For this moment she'd crossed the Atlantic, sacrificing everything she'd ever known. Her heart pounded as she clutched at her skirts and pressed on, determined to appear as cheery as possible. She'd endured so much—but it would soon be over. She scanned the soldiers, who had stopped marching and were now standing at attention in the village square. She searched the crowd but couldn't find him as the commander dismissed the unit.

She approached Captain Bancroft, who was talking with a soldier.

“When will Lieutenant Gray return?” the captain asked.

“Soon,” the officer answered. “He's on patrol to the south, toward the Carolinas.”

“Ah,” the captain said, glancing toward Celeste. “How unfortunate. There's a young lady here to see him.”

Celeste curtsied. “I'm Miss Talbot.”

“Major Cole,” the officer answered. “How are you acquainted with the lieutenant?”

Celeste's mouth grew dry. Jonathan must not have told his superior about her—but then again, perhaps that wasn't how things were done here.

“I know him from London,” she answered, aware that Spenser stood behind her. Her throat began to tighten, and she swallowed hard. She was exhausted, yes, but she would not shed any tears. Not now.

“I believe she's betrothed to the young lieutenant,” Captain Bancroft explained.

Celeste doubted her face could grow any warmer than it already was, but she felt herself blush anyway. “Yes,” she answered, “that's correct.”

“Is that right?” The major crossed his arms. “Well, then, several of us are anxious for the lieutenant to return.” He glanced at the soldiers who were near. A few chuckled. Celeste's face grew even warmer.

Major Cole nodded at Captain Bancroft in a knowing way, one Celeste guessed was probably a judgment of her. Jonathan would have to set everyone straight when he returned.

Mr. Horn took her elbow, more forcefully than he needed to. “Come along to the inn,” he said. “The sooner you take over your duties, the better.”

“Where will you be staying?” she asked Captain Bancroft. “I would like to send a letter back with you, to my—family.” She nearly choked on the word.

“At the inn, where you'll be working. Have it to me by morning.”

“Thank you.” She looked at Spenser.

“God be with you,” he said, his eyes concerned. He handed her the blanket bundle.

“And with you,” she replied. “Thank you for everything. I don't know what we would have done without you.”

He smiled. “I'll look for you when I come into town.”

“I'd like that,” she answered. He turned away and headed across the green, his small trunk balanced on his shoulder.

Mr. Horn nodded toward the street.

She followed him. Ahead, a sailor pushed a handcart filled with goods. They passed a smithy, where smoke—perhaps the same smoke she'd seen from the trail—rose into the sky. Next came several white houses trimmed with green paint, and then a cobbler shop and a dressmaker.

The village wasn't without amenities.

The street dipped down into a ravine and then back up to the inn, a long, two-story whitewashed building with gables and a sign hanging from the eaves.
The Publick House Inn.
Mr. Horn took her around to the back of the large lot, where she saw a garden, a small orchard, a few stables, some sheds, a privy, and a chicken coop. Two buildings stood about thirty paces from the back of the inn, and Celeste guessed they were the kitchen and the laundry, similar to her parents' property. Both needed to be far away enough that if they caught fire the inn itself wouldn't burn.

At the edge of the garden, grape vines spilled over a trellis. Raspberry
bushes grew alongside a white picket fence. In front of the fence was a small, partially open hut with bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling. On the other side of the fence was a bench. Several men were clustered there, smoking pipes and talking.

Mr. Horn nodded to the smallest shed that stood on a little knoll. “There's a spring here on the property. That's why the garden flourishes.”

Celeste nodded. Her parents had a well on their property, but the hauling of water still took one of the servants a big part of the day.

“The kitchen is there.” The man pointed to the building with the biggest chimney. “We'll find Mr. Edwards—the innkeeper—first.”

The broker climbed the back steps to the inn. As he opened the door, a loud cheer exploded. “Sounds like some of the sailors are already here,” he said.

Celeste followed him into a wide passageway, and then she peered through the doorway to the right into a dining room. Sailors, soldiers, and civilians crowded around rectangular tables. Celeste searched the crowd for Jonathan, hoping he'd returned sooner than expected, but she didn't see him. To the right was a long counter with a leather-bound ledger on it. Celeste knew such a book would be expensive in London, and she couldn't imagine how much it would cost in the New World.

Mr. Horn continued on to the next room, another dining room, where the tables were smaller and not as crowded. All the walls were whitewashed, as was the fireplace. It was a trick Celeste's parents had used too—the flames from the fire reflected off the white bricks, creating more light and cutting down on the need for candles. But on this hot night, the fire wasn't lit.

A man, perhaps a few years older than her father, served pewter plates of stew. He was short and plump and had a full head of white hair. The broker called out a hello. The man turned, frowned, and then put the last plate down. He ambled toward them, speaking to the broker. “Is Captain Bancroft on his way too?”

“Aye,” the broker said. “With more sailors, I'm afraid.”

“We'll do our best to feed them.”

“How's that wretched cook doing?” Mr. Horn asked, shoving a hunk of bread in his mouth.

“Just fine.”

Mr. Horn gestured toward Celeste. “Well, I got your translator like you wanted, but I'm telling you it won't solve your problems. That cook just needs to understand who the boss is.”

Ignoring his comment, the man turned to Celeste. “You speak French?”

She nodded.

He seemed relieved. Then he said, “Forgive me. I'm Mr. Edwards.”

Celeste bobbed a curtsy. “Miss Talbot. How do you do?”

He chuckled. “At the moment? Heartily glad to see you.” He swiped his hands together. “We'll talk later.” Quietly he added, “For now, go tell Cook to stop heaping so much food on each plate. I've tried to explain, but she can't seem to understand. As soon as she has more plates filled, bring them in.”

Celeste nodded, glancing down at her muddy skirt.

Mr. Edwards shrugged. “No one cares what state your clothes are in. We'll fix that soon enough.”

“The girl will need some supper first.” Mr. Horn's thoughtfulness surprised Celeste.

“Of course,” Mr. Edwards said. “How rude of me. Instruct Cook, eat, and then serve the food.”

She wanted to ask him if he had paper and a quill she could use but decided now wasn't the best time. She wished she'd asked Spenser for some of his before they had parted ways.

Celeste gave the two men a brisk nod and then headed to the back door and down the steps. She crossed the yard to the kitchen building, but when she stepped inside she was blasted with heat. The back wall was completely covered by a brick fireplace, inside of which a fire crackled, heating the contents of two enormous black pots that hung above the flames, steam rising from them both.

Standing in front of the fireplace, dwarfed by its enormous size, was a small African woman, her hair wrapped in a thin, blue scarf.

“Bonjour.”
Celeste placed her bundle on a chair and paused to look around. At least the room seemed functional and well stocked, with two separate worktables and plenty of baskets, plates, pots, and pans.
Sacks of food filled a row of side shelves. A steep staircase led to a loft, probably where the cook slept. Celeste couldn't imagine how hot it was up there.

She returned her attention to the woman, who wore an apron over a gray dress. Her brown eyes shone, but she didn't speak. Celeste introduced herself in French and proceeded to explain the innkeeper's directions.

The woman frowned but didn't reply.

“What is your name?” Celeste asked.

“Sary,” she muttered, turning back to the fireplace and dishing up a bowl of stew from one of the pots. Celeste stepped close to take the bowl, nearly overcome by the heat.

She was fully aware of all it took to run an inn—a cook, kitchen maids, a scullery maid, housemaids, a laundress, gardeners, and stable boys, but the only one present at the moment was this one tiny woman.

Sary handed over a spoon and motioned for Celeste to sit at the table, so she settled in one of two chairs across from a hunk of raw meat. Only the very wealthy in England ate venison, but perhaps it was more common here in the New World. At her parents' inn, they served cold meat and bread and pudding in the evening, while a hot stew would have been served much earlier in the day.

Digging into the stew now, Celeste couldn't place the seasoning or the other ingredients—large yellow kernels and some sort of chunks of orange tubers. She held up her spoon and asked in French, “What are these?”

Sary shrugged. “American vegetables.”

They were different than any vegetables Celeste had eaten before. There was one bite of meat in the mix—it was very good, and she longed for more. She quickly ate the rest of the stew as Sary took several loaves of bread from the brick oven at the end of the fireplace. Once Celeste finished her food, Sary started filling more plates with the stew. Celeste quickly told her not to dish up too much. Sary frowned and continued with her work, reducing the size of the servings somewhat. She nodded toward a tray and then the bread. Celeste placed the loaves on the tray. Sary added the plates of stew and nodded toward the inn.

“Go,” she
said, in English, placing Celeste's bowl in a wooden bucket on the other end of the table.

Passing through the back door with the tray took a moment of concentration, but Celeste managed it. She then delivered food and cleared tables. When she returned to the kitchen for more plates, she was glad to see that Sary did have help after all, including a servant girl who was now at the table washing the dishes, and an African man who was busily hauling water.

Later, back in the inn after everyone had been served, Mr. Edwards stopped Celeste in the passageway near the counter and asked her if she'd done this kind of work before.

“My parents own an inn near the Thames on the outskirts of London, toward Westminster.”

“How long have they been in business?”

“Nearly twenty years.”

Mr. Edwards raised his bushy eyebrows just as someone summoned him from the dining room. “I'll be right back. Rest a minute.”

Relieved, Celeste plopped onto the chair next to the counter and tried to ignore her aching feet as she thought of home. Her parents had used family money to purchase the inn, and her father's parents had helped operate it until their deaths, living in the family quarters at the far end of the large building. A substantial staff was also employed, many who were Huguenot too.