David took the letter, believing their papist religion caused them to cry out so. He could not abide such moaning and lamenting.
The Abigail struggled into the slip amidst the loud noise of rushing water. Waves splashed onto the quay. Cascades fell from the arches of London Bridge into the Pool. After several attempts, the gangplank was lowered and at the bottom David recognized Ned Dunne, the man he’d sent to his father. He looked troubled.
“What’s amiss?” he hollered over crashing water.
“Your father’s taken ill, sir. Mistress Andrews sent me to watch the wharf every day since coming to London. You must come quickly.”
“Nay,” he cried over the noise of wind and water. A sense of urgency filled his gut. “Have they summoned Madame Kirke from Dieppe?”
“Aye, she arrived but yesterday.” A gust of wind snapped at his bonnet. Dunne grabbed the brim just in time.
Thomas stepped out of a wherry, wind whipping his clothes. He held onto his hat. “The George is on Southwark side.” He regarded them. “What’s wrong?”
“Father’s ill. Sara sent Dunne, here, to fetch us upon our return.”
“And Maman?” Thomas cried.
“Already here.” David wanted to rush home to see Sara, his parents, before Father died.
A wherry dashed out of the arches of the Bridge, men hollering as it hung in the air for a moment over the Pool; then dropped like a rock onto the swirling water.
Thomas shouted, “I shall alert Captain Brewerton to take the prisoners to Sir William Alexander’s residence.”
“Aye, where we’ll await their ransom.” David agreed, even as his heart told him to speed home. “Let us walk.” He turned away from the quay and headed into town, Thomas sprinting alongside. “Whilst in Portsmouth, did you send the letter of ransom to France?”
“Yes. One of the Récollets took it with him.”
Wind buffeted them, whistled around the corners of houses. David held onto his beaver hat and scoffed. “And you believe he will deliver it?”
Thomas wrapped his cloak more closely about him and scowled. “I also sent a similar missive to the French Ambassador in London. I know he will receive it.”
Impressed, David tipped his bonnet. “Well done. Thou art the smart brother.”
“I shall go back and warn Brewerton. I’ll see you anon.” Thomas left him then and David hurried home.
* * *
Shocked to see his father reduced to a mere shell of a man, his skin pasty and damp, David feared if he imparted the truth of his expedition, he’d murder the dear old fellow. Not six months ago, Father was healthy, robust and constantly on the move. No dust gathered upon his person. Now, he lay mortally ill; the chamber smelled of death.
Maman spread her arms and David fell into her embrace. She wept quiet tears against his doublet.
“Well?” Father demanded, his voice shallow and rattling. “Tell me all of it.”
Maman released him. “I shall leave you for a moment.” She gave him a deep frown. “Do not upset him.”
David sighed and drew up a stool. He would confess the truth and hope to see his father alive on the morrow. “We did not do well, sir.”
“How badly?”
High winds rattled the shutters.
“Of the sixty-thousand pounds,” most of which came from your purse, “we gained seven thousand beaver skins, seventeen hundred of which came from Québec.
“Oh,” his father moaned. He rubbed his stubbled chin. “Me jaw hurts horrid.”
“I regret to say there were no goods of value in the settlement. When we arrived, they were barely subsisting on the flesh of snails. Like swine, they dug in the ground for roots. Savages taunted them.”
Father sank deeper into the featherbed, the lump that was his body barely visible under the counterpane.
David could not watch the withering of his father and looked away. He woefully shook his head. “Québec was easy to take, sir, and hardly worth our monetary while.”
Father stared at the canopy.
“But,” David smiled, “the fort’s position is defendable. Once fortified, it would take a bloody siege to conquer it. ‘Tis on a towering cliff where you can see much of the area. The harbour is a safe haven for several sails of ships. Champlain knew what he was doing when he established a settlement there.”
His father regarded him with hot, glassy eyes.
David frowned, blinked away a tear that had formed. He turned his gaze to the window. “His downfall was not being self-sufficient. He waited for his Merchant Company to supply him with goods, powder and shot. When we left Lewis behind to man the fort, we gave him the implements to make bullets, sow corn.”
“My arm hurts,” Father complained.
David leaned against the bed and held his father’s thin, cool hand. “Should I call for Maman?” His heart swelled and his throat closed, for Father seemed prepared to meet the angel of death.
Thomas came into the chamber and gasped. “Father, what has happened to you?”
“His lungs and heart are inflamed,” Sara said softly from behind them.
David twirled around, nearly falling off the stool, but mightily glad to hear that sweet voice. “Twig! How art thou?” He bowed, showing a leg, which told her none of how he truly felt. “Glad I am to see thee.” He wanted to give her a hug and kiss her sweet lips until she melted with desire.
Sara’s pretty face flushed. She curtsied then looked at him, her eyes bright. “I am well, sir, and good it is to see thee, too.”
David took her hand but lost his desire when Thomas snorted with derision. His brother’s rude behaviour made David deadly mad. If they were anywhere else, he’d give Thomas a blow to the head. He would force him to acknowledge Sara. He tamped down his anger, gritted his teeth and said nothing.
Sara handed David a sealed letter. “This came for you. I met the courier at the entry to Father Kirke’s office.” Her eyes were luminous and his anger melted.
She appeared pleased to see him after so long. His gut fluttered and his skin prickled. For a sweet moment, his thoughts filled with the sensation of sweet love.
Father groaned, bringing him back to reality. He stepped to the window and broke the seal. “Ah, ‘tis from Sir William. Champlain wrote a letter to the French Ambassador, outlining his experiences at Québec, our kind treatment of him and his men. Erm,” he scanned the page, “his sad state when we came upon him. He begs the French Ambassador to take this account to King Charles. Since we are not at war, he requests the return of his fort and seized goods, his release and return to France.”
“That will leave us with nothing,” Thomas stated, his face in a deep scowl.
“This could bankrupt us.” Father’s whisper was more a rattle.
David stared at the page, unwilling to accept what was written. “Sir William fears the king will do as Champlain requests.” His fingers gripped the paper until it crackled.
“What does that mean?” Sara asked.
“It means, dear lady,” Thomas ground out, his tone menacing, “that we will gain nothing from our recent expedition.”
“If His Majesty takes the stand our seizure of French lands and settlements were illegal, he could demand we pay restitution,” David murmured. A strong gust rattled the house eaves, adding to his bitter resentment. All that work and expense for nothing.
“Give everything back and pay for it, too?” Sara asked, her face incredulous.
David crumpled the paper into a tight ball and threw it into the hearth-fire. “I shall petition the king, mayhap file suit with the High Court of Admiralty. He sent us to the New World with a mission to accomplish.” His gut burned with anger. “Which we succeeded in doing. How could he have changed his mind so quickly?”
“Something caused it,” Father gasped then he coughed uncontrollably. David helped him into a sitting position.
Sara cupped her hand and gently thumped his back until the hacking lessened. “The physician says he has a rotten c
ough.”
“Aye,” David agreed, for a great hideousness was expelled from his father’s body. They helped him back onto his pillows.
“We will give him a bowl of tobacco,” Sara said. “The physicians say ‘tis good for him.”
Father panted. “You will find the reason.”
“I shall hate the king if he reneges on his promises,” David ground out.
Sara took his hand. “We are not yet sure what he will do. If His Majesty does go back on his word, find out why and use it to our benefit.”
David raised an eyebrow. A cunning wench his betrothed was and he knew she spoke the truth.
He must wait, though, and see if the king allowed him to claim the ransoms of Champlain and de Caen, if he could keep the beaver pelts. If not, there would be hell to pay.
Chapter Sixteen
London December 17, 1629
Madame Kirke, David and Thomas’ arrival had sent the household into a whirlwind. The moment Madame walked through the front door and thrust her cloak to a servant, she had taken Sara’s hand within hers.
“How is he?”
Sara could not answer Madame. Father Kirke was in constant pain. He complained of an aching jaw and arm. His breath rattled in his throat. She did not believe he would last much longer. “I am glad you are here.”
Madame Kirke looked much like David with a fair build and pale grey eyes. They pleaded with her now. “You will stay, won’t you?” Tears welled. “Master Kirke’s letters are filled with his praises of your talents, your business acumen. Please continue with this while I attend to my husband.”
Sara’s heart hitched in her throat. She could but nod.
Since then, Sara awoke betimes at four of the morning, walked with her faithful servant, John, through the bitterly cold lanes to the Kirke house, and took over every possible household duty. She assisted in the vintner business but only when asked, for Father Kirke’s clerks did their jobs very well.
She rarely saw David, who found his way to Whitehall most days, petitioning the king. He must recoup the Company’s and his father’s losses. When he saw Sara, he railed he could not fathom the drastic change in the king, his obstinacy. One moment, he had directed David to make war with the French, the next to return all their stolen goods.
“This shuffling about drives me mad,” he would roar.
Today was no different to yesterday. The early morning still dead dark, she and John struggled through a gale down Basing Lane to the Kirke residence. She knew David had spent the night at Whitehall and Madame attended Father Kirke, whose illness had not improved. He suffered from chronic pain. His face showed the agony in which he suffered and Sara could not endure it, glad she would be lodged in the kitchen, for it was laundry day.
Not a week seemed to pass without a terrible storm. Today, the wind was brutal as John held onto her arm and helped her into the house. Sleet slashed them, burning her skin with its force. When they entered Father Kirke’s private office which was just off the kitchen, they were thoroughly drenched. Water rained onto the flagstones from their dripping clothes. Outside, shutters snapped and doors thumped. Leaded windows rattled in their casements.
Shivering, Sara removed her cloak and stepped into the kitchen where it was steamy hot; the stink of the black lye soap burnt her nose and eyes. Boiling cauldrons filled the hearth. Bess, a servant, stood over a buck-tub where they pre-soaked the dirtiest of linen in urine.
The flagstone floor slippery wet, Sara carefully worked her way across the kitchen to Bess. “How goes it?”
Bess pushed back a tendril of damp hair. “This, here, is Master Kirke’s linen. His disease has greatly stained it. After two days of soaking, I cannot find a way to make it clean.” She frowned.
Sara patted Bess’ arm. “Soak it another day.”
Her cheeks dewy from the hot and humid air, Bess sighed. “Mayhap, ‘tis the master’s urine that makes it not go clean.”
Sara’s gut suddenly heaved. “Why do you say this?”
Bess looked at her. “His urine is very dark and part of this solution.”
Sara feared something was wrong. She would visit Father Kirke and see how he fared. “I shall be back anon.”
She sped through the house and up to the floor with bedchambers. Still very early, dim candlelight glowed from under a few doors. In the heavy shadows, Father Kirke’s manservant sat on a stool, dozing. She knocked on Father’s door.
“Oui?” a muffled voice answered.
Sara turned the latch and peeked in; the stench of sickness made her gasp.
Madame Kirke sat in a chair near the bed, bundled in blankets. She stretched. “Ah, ‘tis you. Come, come.”
Sara entered the chamber. “I’ve come to see how Father Kirke fares and offer you a dish of new beer.” She would open a casement window but the gale had strengthened and gusts of wind hurtled down the lane. Heavy objects crashed against houses. She would locate rosemary and lavender from the larder and hang bundles about the room.
Madame stood. She ran her fingers down Father’s face, his neck, placed a hand on his chest. “He is sleeping.” She tucked the rugs closer to his chin and tiptoed to Sara. “I worry about his breathing. Something rattles unkindly in his throat.”
“Would you like me to stay a moment whilst you refresh thyself?” Sara asked.
“Perhaps, in an hour or two. Until then, I shall remain here.”
“As you wish.” Sara backed out of the chamber, glad to smell something fresher. When she closed the door, she knew David’s siblings must have stirred from their beds. More candlelight from under the doors brightened the corridor. Coal burned in the small hearths. A servant walked toward Father Kirke’s chamber, an empty coal scuttle hanging from her arm.
Sara returned to the kitchen where she would assist with the laundry. By midmorning, everything was wet to the touch, the flagstone floor slick. Already, the scullery maid had slipped and fallen on her backside, landing so hard it was a wonder she could rise again.
Sara’s belly growled and she could do with something to drink. David’s sisters, ten-year-old Mary and twelve-year-old Elizabeth waved from the kitchen entry and Sara knew they were hungry, too. They attended a girl’s petty school on Mondays and Thursdays, then studied Latin, arithmetic and grammar in the parlour during the rest of the week. Their tutor’s hat was a dark blur behind them in the shadowed passageway. Mister Henry was a stout fellow who enjoyed his meals but was very good with numbers and spelling. Frances’ heart-love, Mister Hopkins, had given his approval on the man’s knowledge and character.
Sara’s hands were red from hot water and lye soap. She flexed her fingers and carefully made her way into Father Kirke’s private office, the soles of her leather shoes wet through. It was drier and much cooler here.
Robert, Father’s clerk, stood and removed his hat.
Sara smiled. “Methinks the household is hungry. Please go to Flower’s cookshop and fetch a meal.”
He bowed. “The same as before? Roasted pullets in the quantity of five and a leg of mutton?” His eyes brightened and Sara reckoned he was hungry too.
“Aye,” she slipped her hand into the slit of her skirts and gained her pin money purse. “If you find anything new from the market hard by, barley bread or fresh oysters, please add those to the basket.”
He nodded and held out his hand for the coin. A sharp wind whistled around the corner of the house. Shutters banged. Something big crashed nearby. Sara gave him two shillings.
“With this gale, there may not be anyone in the market,” Robert said.
“Do fetch what you can and,” she saw something fly by the window and winced for it looked heavy, “do be safe. Stay beneath the covered eaves and deep porches.”
Robert chuckled. “Aye, an alcove will keep me from being hit by a branch or another whatnot.”
She tucked her purse into her pocket that rested like an apron under her skirts. “Do not take this lightly, sirrah. Your safety is important to us.” She patt
ed his arm.
He looked chagrined and his neck reddened. “Aye, Mistress.” He threw his cloak about his shoulders. “Thanks to thee.” He trod to the door and opened it. Sleet and rain swept into the house. He hunched into the onslaught, closed the portal with a bang and was gone.
Sara slipped and slid her way back into the kitchen where Bess stirred a cauldron of water with a washing bat. Soon, she snagged a bedlinen and brought it out of the cauldron, the cloth steaming and dripping.
With a handkercher, Sara patted her damp face and neck. She must see if Madame required anything but first she would take a bowl of milk and bread up to Father Kirke. Since Madame had returned home he was eating better. This would sustain him until Robert brought the food.
At the kitchen’s entry, David’s youngest sister frowned. “I shall soon perish if I don’t eat something.”
“I’ve sent Robert to the cookshop for a meal. He’ll be here anon.”
“Pullets and mutton, I dare say,” Elizabeth quipped. “We have that every laundry day and it’s become quite tedious. If you are going to take maman’s place in the kitchen, you should plan more for these days.”
Of a mind to say a biting word or two, Sara pressed her lips together. She could only reckon Elizabeth was nearing womanhood. Her body reflected the passage of childhood with more rounded curves and budding breasts. She remembered her own transition with growing pains in her legs and physical changes but she did not think she had been so discontented. Much like Thomas, Elizabeth’s anger bubbled beneath the surface. She cried bitter tears one moment and laughed the next.
Sara huffed a breath. “Well then, sweetling, since you will one day run your own household, I tender the washday meals to you.” She smiled at Elizabeth’s frown and squeezed her shoulder. “Come now, you are a smart girl and will do wondrously.”
Elizabeth fell into a pet and regarded the steamy kitchen. “I shall do far better than you.”
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