My Sister's Prayer (22 page)

Madame Wharton frowned. “My husband purchased her contract.”

Celeste started to speak again, but Spenser bumped his arm against her. “That's true,” he said. “We are very aware of the financial commitment that has been made.”

“We'll soon have to purchase another servant—or a slave.” Madame Wharton leaned forward. “My husband feels that he was misled. That she was already ill before—”

Celeste interrupted. “He knew she suffered from seasickness.”

“But this illness has been far worse than recovering from that. I, myself, was very ill on our trip over, but I recovered in a fair amount of time. Something else is wrong with her. Only once did she feel well enough to help me with my French, and then once she revealed she had a fever and a rash, we found other accommodations for her. She has measles.” The woman's face turned down into a pout.

Celeste started to argue but then realized it would be pointless. If the woman hadn't believed Berta, why would she listen to her? “Is that what the other maid had?” she asked instead, her voice low. “The one who died?”

“
Oui.
That's why this one is not in the house.”

Celeste bristled. “Yes, I am aware of the practice of quarantining. But
that doesn't give you the right to shove her out in some filthy shed and just abandon—”

“We'd like to take her away from here before she grows any worse,” Spenser interjected much more politely. “We'll make arrangements for her care in Williamsburg.”

The woman pursed her lips again. “You'll need to discuss it in the morning with my husband.”

Spenser's sweet talk had gotten them nowhere. Celeste wiggled her pouch from the waist of her skirt and opened it, first pulling out the brooch. She wished it had some sort of monetary value, but porcelain had no real worth beyond the sentimental. She dug in the pouch again, pulled out the ring, and stepped to Spenser's side. “My sister and I are from a good family in London. We have loving parents. By no fault of her own, she—”

Madame Wharton met Celeste's gaze with cold, heartless eyes. Celeste realized appealing to the woman's goodness wasn't going to work.

Celeste took a deep breath. “I'm willing to buy her contract,” she said, holding out her hand.

“I'm not interested in cheap jewels.”

Spenser shot Celeste a cautionary look. She ignored him. “Of course, it's worth far too much to simply trade it for my sister. I would need money back in return for her care.”

The woman laughed. “Surely you're toying with me.”

Celeste slipped the ring onto her own finger. “My great-grandmother was a baroness in France. Her husband gave her this ring in Paris eighty years ago.” She held the ring close to the lamp, and the light caught the stone, making it shimmer.

“Oh,” Madame Wharton said, easing forward, her hand going to her bosom. She stared at the ring and then said, “You must talk with my husband.”

“We need to return to Williamsburg first thing in the morning,” Spenser said. “We may not have time.”

The woman shrugged.
“C'est le vie.”
Again, and for such a simple phrase, her accent was atrocious.

“Thank you for your time,” Spenser said, turning toward the door. “We'll find our way out.”

Celeste followed him, the ring still on her finger.

“Wait.”

They turned toward her.

The woman stood. “It is beautiful,” she said. Celeste noticed that she wore no rings. Madame Wharton walked to the desk and opened the bottom door. She returned with a packet. “This is all I have.”

Celeste opened it up. She guessed the money was probably for household expenses and that it would last at least a few months to pay for Berta's care. She glanced at Spenser. He shrugged.

“Merci,”
Celeste said, taking off the ring. “But I need her contract. With your signature.” She knew that the woman's approval probably wouldn't stand up in a court of law—she had no rights to her husband's property, but she hoped Constable Wharton wouldn't pursue getting Berta back, not when he thought she'd soon be dead anyway.

“I'm not sure where the contract is.”

“Try the desk,” Celeste suggested, making a fist around the ring.

Madame Wharton rifled through three drawers. Eventually, she withdrew a document and held it up to her face, reading it slowly. “Berta Talbot,” she said.

“Yes, that's right,” Celeste answered. “Does your husband have a seal? Or a stamp? Some sort of symbol of his approval? Could you mark the contract with it?”

The woman nodded and opened the top drawer. Again, Celeste doubted that if the constable pressed the matter that the document would hold up in court, and she could only hope he wouldn't pursue them.

Spenser would have to be listed as the new owner of the contract. She asked quietly if he agreed to that as the woman dripped wax onto the page and then stamped it with some sort of a seal from the top of the desk. Spenser nodded, and they both stepped forward.

The woman pointed to the ink and quill on the desk. For a moment Celeste wondered if Spenser could sign his name, but then she remembered he'd studied Latin and French. He signed quickly,
Spenser Rawling.
His penmanship suggested that he was indeed educated. Once Celeste had the document and packet of money in her hand, the woman said, “Take your sister tonight. Don't stay here with her. I want you long gone by the time my husband wakes in the morning.”

“Of course,”
Spenser said.

Madame Wharton extended her hand. Celeste spread her palm out again and glanced down at the ring. It paled in worth compared to Berta. She gave it to the woman, clutching the document and packet tightly in her other hand.

A smile spread across Madame Wharton's face as she slipped the ring onto her finger. It was loose, but she didn't seem to notice. Then she looked up. “You need to go.”

They quickly exited into the long passageway. By the time they reached the dining room, footsteps fell behind them. “Wait!” a voice whispered.

They stopped, and the young maid appeared. “I overheard what you said about the girl out in the shed. That she was kidnapped.”

Celeste nodded.

“So was I! No one would believe me. Not even the constable. And especially not Madame Wharton.”

“What did they say?”

“That lots of indentured servants make that claim.”

“That's what we've been told too,” Celeste said. “Where were you taken from?”

“London. A year ago.”

Celeste reached for her hand. “Have you written to your family?”

The girl shook her head. “I have none, not really. I was caring for a distant cousin's children. She sent me down to the dock on an errand, and the next thing I knew I woke up on a ship far out at sea.”

Celeste's heart filled with concern for the young woman. “Do they treat you well enough here?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “They do. I get enough to eat—something I never had in England. Thankfully I've been healthy, unlike your poor sister. But it just isn't right…”

“Of course it isn't.” Celeste wished she could say more—that she would try to help or she would report the kidnapping or something. But what could she do? Especially when it was the constable's own household. “Thank you for telling us. If I can think of anything to do, I will.”

The girl shook her head. “I don't expect you to do anything. I just
wanted you to know. I'm sorry I couldn't care for your sister. They wouldn't let me.”

“Thank you for trying.” Celeste felt for the girl. “God bless you.” Celeste reached out and patted her arm.

As they hurried out the back door, she thought of all of the sad stories of women in the New World. This girl's. Sary's. Berta's. Her own. Women torn from home and all that was familiar against their will. Celeste couldn't help this girl, but she could be Sary's friend. And she could do everything in her power to see Berta back to health and be the sister she was meant to be, at least to one of her siblings.

They spent the night in the constable's field under an oak tree. Celeste wrapped Berta in her cloak, and then Celeste curled beside her sister, pulling hers over the two of them. Spenser kept watch out under the stars. Before Celeste fell asleep, he pointed out Aquila and then Hercules. Though she couldn't see them through the heavy canopy of leaves, she drifted off to him naming other stars, her arms around her sister, grateful that such a man cared for Berta.

They left at first light, Celeste leading the way while Spenser effortlessly carried Berta in his arms. The fields glistened in the dew that had fallen during the night. By the time they reached the road, the sun was rising over the bay. Celeste's boots were wet from the grass, and she shivered in the cool morning, but the pink and orange of the sunrise lifted her spirits. There was always hope—hope Berta would survive, hope they would find a way to return to England. Or perhaps hope that Jonathan would change his—She stopped herself. There was no use setting herself up for more disappointment.

Berta would marry Spenser and stay. That was as it should be. After completing her commitment of servitude to Mr. Edwards, perhaps Celeste could eventually find her way home.

She swallowed hard and turned her gaze to Spenser and Berta. He stepped carefully down the cobblestone street. Her sister kept her eyes closed, but Celeste doubted she was sleeping. She regretted thinking
before that Spenser wasn't good enough for Berta. She couldn't imagine a more caring man for her sister to marry.

Her heart began to beat faster, and she increased her pace, leading the way. She'd judged Spenser on a false scale. How foolish she'd been in so many ways. In this New World, he had a skill that was needed. He would be able to provide for a family. They might never be wealthy, but neither would they starve. Celeste shivered again. She hoped she wouldn't either.

When they reached the wharf, a woman selling loaves of bread appeared. Celeste didn't want to spend any of the money Madame Wharton had given her, but they had to eat. She pulled a coin from the packet and bought a crusty loaf.

“Where did you get money?” Berta managed to ask.

Celeste shushed her and led the way to the end of the wharf. Once they reached the boat, Spenser lowered Berta beside a barrel. Celeste tore off a chunk of the bread and held it up for her sister. She made a face and shook her head.

Celeste handed it to Spenser, and then she tore off some bread for herself.

“That was good of Madame Wharton to allow you to take me,” Berta said to Celeste.

Celeste nodded as she chewed.

“I would have thought her too greedy to do such a thing. In the little bit of time I spent with her, all she talked about were her possessions and the constable's businesses.”

Celeste tore off another piece of bread and then handed the rest of the loaf to Spenser.

“Aren't you going to tell her?” he whispered as he took it. Celeste shook her head. She couldn't bear to admit that she'd traded the ring. To do that, she would first have to confess that she had stolen it from their mother's bureau.

She bent down toward her sister. “The housemaid said she'd been kidnapped in London. Just like you.”

“Oh?” Berta said. “I hadn't heard that.”

Celeste handed the last bit of bread to Berta. “Try it,” she urged.

She took a bite, shook her head, and passed it back. “I won't be able to keep it down.”

If Berta were to recover, she would need sustenance. Celeste knelt beside her and took her hands in hers. “We'll find help for you. And good food. There are orchards in Williamsburg. And gardens. Eggs, milk, beef, chicken, and lamb. Fish from the river. You'll get your health back.” She paused, searching her sister's face. “I'm so sorry. None of this turned out the way I thought it would.”

“What are you saying?” Berta asked. “Jonathan wasn't willing to buy out my contract too?”

Celeste blinked back tears. She would have to tell Berta about Jonathan's rejection sooner or later—but not in front of Spenser. Surely he already knew the details of how everything turned out, but she didn't want his pity. It would be easier in private, with just Berta.