While Captain Braemar and the carter lifted the trunk from the cart, Charlotte gazed in awe at the magnificent dwelling in front of her. Would she really be living here? What a contrast to the army tent that had been her family’s first home in the refugee camp on Carleton Island, and to the little log cabin that she and her father had built last summer! What would Papa say if he could see this mansion?
“Will you open the gate for us? Our hands are full.” Captain Braemar’s voice broke into her thoughts. He sounded amused, and she realized that she had been acting like a country bumpkin, staring at the house.
“Oh, sorry.”
She unlatched the gate so that they could carry her trunk through, and then walked ahead of them to open the front door.
When the trunk had been set down in the entrance hall, Captain Braemar handed the carter a coin. Touching his fingers to his forehead, the black man said, “Thank you, sir.” To Charlotte, the way he pronounced it sounded like “Suh.”
The room that lay before her was large. Silk curtains hung at the windows. Enormous mirrors in gilded frames adorned the panelled walls. On the marble mantelpiece gleamed silver candlesticks, the candles unlit since ample light streamed through the tall windows. There were wingback chairs by the fireplace, as well as an upholstered settee. Four officers sat at a table, playing cards.
“I’ll present you to Colonel Knightly,” the captain said, “and then take my leave. I wish I could stay to see you settled, but I’m due at Headquarters and must not tarry.”
“Thank you for escorting me here.” Charlotte straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, trying not to appear overawed by her surroundings. “I’m sure I’ll settle in with no problem.”
One of the officers rose from his chair. He wore a red coat of fine wool, with buff collar, cuffs and lapel. Around his ample waist was a crimson sash, and on his head a white periwig. He was a portly gentleman, about fifty years of age.
“May I present Mrs. Charlotte Schyler,” said Captain Braemar.
The colonel bowed politely, but he looked at Charlotte as if he had never heard of her, as if he did not expect her at all.
As soon as the introduction was completed, the captain departed. The three officers at the card table looked up. Their faces showed signs of impatience.
“Excuse me for interrupting your pastime,” Charlotte said with as much dignity as she could muster. “I’m newly arrived from Canada. My husband has a room here in the officers’ quarters. If someone will kindly show me to it—”
“My dear Mrs. Schyler, this is most awkward.” She heard the embarrassment in the colonel’s voice. “Recently we received a large number of reinforcements, with the result that every available room was needed.”
“You mean, I can’t stay here?”
“Uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “When your husband left for the backcountry, we put his possessions into storage. Captain Antrim now has the room that was assigned to him.”
“Oh . . . where am I to stay?”
“That is the question. Since we have no accommodation for you here, some other arrangement will be necessary.”
“I don’t know anybody in Charleston. I have no friends to take me in.” She felt stunned and helpless. Everything was going wrong. No Nick. No place to live.
She had travelled for two weeks in an open bateau from Carleton Island down the St. Lawrence River to Quebec City, and then been tossed about at sea for three more weeks. Charlotte was exhausted. A roaring filled her ears, and she felt the floor tilting. Darkness came over her in a rush.
Chapter 3
SHE WOKE CHOKING, and jerked her head back and forth to escape the pungent fumes that seared her nostrils. When she opened her eyes, she saw a slender white hand holding a glass vial under her nose. Smelling salts, of course. The next moment, she realized that she was lying on the settee in front of the fire and that someone was perched beside her on the edge of the seat.
Lifting her eyes higher, she saw that the person beside her was an elegantly dressed woman.
“Awake, my dear? You gave my husband a terrible fright. He was too blunt with you, I fear. That’s his way. Well, I declare, he shall do his penance now.”
Charlotte gave her head a shake. A moment passed before she understood. “Is your husband the colonel?”
“Yes, he is. I am Clara Knightly. And I am so sorry for the rude welcome you received.” She closed the vial and placed it in the dainty reticule that hung from her wrist. “Poor young creature! As if we would thrust you out of doors like a beggar!”
Charlotte struggled to sit up. She didn’t like being called a poor young creature. “I’ve never fainted before,” she spluttered, trying to cover her embarrassment.
“Do not fret. Every young lady is entitled to have the vapours now and then. Don’t you worry about anything. The colonel has sent a man to make enquiries of a Quaker woman who may be able to give you lodging. Nick has mentioned to us that he has friends among the Quakers. As for tonight, I have told Colonel Knightly that he must sleep here in the common room, because you are going to share my bed.”
“Oh, no! I would not presume.”
“I insist. We shall be like sisters. Now, if you are sufficiently recovered, I’ll take you upstairs. Your trunk is already there.” Mrs. Knightly stood up. “My slave Posy is heating water for your bath. After bathing, you may either dine with my husband and me or sup from a tray in private. The choice is yours.”
“Thank you. Then I choose the tray, for I am exceedingly tired.”
This lady seemed to assume that she could take over Charlotte’s life. But for one night, why not let her? After three weeks on board the Blossom, the idea of a bath was irresistible. She did have to sleep somewhere. And so she decided to make no further objection.
Outside, the daylight was fading. A small black boy in blue livery moved about the room, lighting candle after candle. Soon dozens of lights were reflected in the tiny panes of window glass.
“Come along, then.” Mrs. Knightly held out her hand. Her fingers were white and smooth, and on one she wore a sapphire ring. Her gown was as blue as the sapphire. It had deep flounces at the sides, each flounce trimmed with a ruffle. Her figure was graceful, her complexion perfect, and she looked twenty years younger than her husband.
Charlotte took the offered hand and stood up carefully, not sure how steady on her feet she would be, and followed her from the room.
They walked side by side up a curving staircase and along a hall, stopping in front of a gleaming mahogany door. Mrs. Knightly drew a key from her reticule, and turned it in the lock.
The door opened, revealing a high bed with red velvet hangings, a satin coverlet, and snowy white pillows piled at the head.
Charlotte gasped. Such luxury!
At the sight of those spotless pillows, she reckoned she knew the real reason why Mrs. Knightly was so keen on her taking a bath. Who would want to share a bed with a person who reeked of bilge water?
A copper hipbath stood near the hearth, where a small fire burned. Steam rose from the bath.
“Posy is likely fetching more water. She will see to your needs.”
“I don’t need help to take a bath.”
“My slave is well trained. You won’t find her attentions offensive.” Mrs. Knightly took a step toward the door. “I’ll give the cook directions for your supper tray. After you’ve eaten, no one will disturb you. If you’re asleep when I return, I’ll be very quiet and try not to waken you.”
When Mrs. Knightly had left the room, Charlotte opened her trunk and took out the nightgown she had purchased in Quebec before embarking. It was made of fine white cotton, with lace at the bodice. She had bought this nightgown with Nick in mind, dreaming of the honeymoon that they had never had. Even though Nick was not here, she was glad she had bought it. A bed with velvet hangings and satin pillows called for something better than a worn linsey-woolsey shift.
As Charlotte was unfolding her nightgown, a black woma
n entered carrying a ewer from which steam rose. She was tall and graceful, with skin as black as ebony. Around her slender neck was a brass collar. It was hinged, with a lock at the back. Instinctively, Charlotte raised her fingers to her own throat, imagining how it must feel.
Silently the slave woman emptied the water into the tub. Instead of then leaving the room, she stood by, apparently expecting to help Charlotte take her bath.
Well, I don’t need help taking off my clothes, she thought, so I might as well get started.
As Charlotte undressed, Posy took each garment from her. First her gown, then the belt under her gown from which her pocket hung, and then her petticoat. At first she felt awkward to be taking off her clothes in front of this woman. But Posy seemed so completely indifferent to her state of undress that Charlotte’s embarrassment soon passed.
When she was seated in the tub, Posy advanced on her with a cake of soap. Mercy! Does she plan to scrub me? Charlotte thought. But Posy’s ministrations were limited to washing her hair.
After that was done and Posy had carried away every stitch of the clothes she had been wearing, Charlotte finished washing herself and then remained soaking, enjoying the warmth of the water. It had been a long time since her last real bath. Back in the Mohawk Valley, a copper tub like this one had been set up in front of the kitchen fire every Saturday night. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” Mama used to say.
When the bath water had cooled, Charlotte climbed out of the tub, dried herself with the towel that Posy had left for her, and combed her hair.
She was wearing her nightgown and robe when Posy brought in the supper tray.
“Thank you,” said Charlotte.
Posy nodded her head but uttered not a word. Can’t she talk? Charlotte wondered. Or has she been trained not to?
On the tray lay a dish of scalloped oysters, a plate of biscuits, and an orange. There was also tea in a silver pot. To Charlotte, who had never before eaten oysters or an orange, this meal was delightfully exotic.
After she had eaten and finished getting ready for bed, she mounted a little step to climb into the deep feather bed. The combined effect of a warm bath and a good meal left Charlotte feeling much better about her plight. Even though she was not with Nick, she was ten times nearer to him than if she had stayed on Carleton Island. Very soon, she was fast asleep.
In the morning she woke to see Mrs. Knightly’s head, its tresses covered by a ruffled nightcap, resting on the pillow next to hers.
When Charlotte rose, being careful not to waken Mrs. Knightly, she found her gown and cloak, well brushed, on a clothes rack. Her undergarments, washed and ironed, lay folded on a chair.
“Did Posy take good care of you?” Mrs. Knightly asked while they breakfasted in the dining room. For breakfast they ate ham served with biscuits and a strange sort of porridge that Mrs. Knightly called grits.
“Excellent care. I’m not used to such attention.”
“Colonel Knightly bought Posy for me five years ago. She was newly arrived from West Africa. He paid fifteen pounds. I thought it was too much. But Posy has proved to be worth every penny. I have trained her to arrange my hair.” She touched her fingers to the artfully twined tresses. “And to look after my clothes. To my astonishment, I discovered that she was already a skilled seamstress.”
“Doesn’t it trouble you to keep a slave? In Africa, I suppose she was free.”
Mrs. Knightly shook her head. “In Africa she was a slave to idolatry. But now she is a Christian. And so, in the life to come, she will be free.”
“I was thinking of this present life.”
“Servitude in this present life is a small price to pay for eternal happiness.”
Charlotte gulped. It was hard to swallow the idea that Africans should be grateful to those who carried them off to a life of slavery. Even though Mrs. Knightly was more than ten years her elder and also her superior in social rank, Charlotte spoke up.
“It seems to me that you’re working mighty hard to persuade yourself that something wrong is really right.”
Mrs. Knightly flushed. There was a flash of anger in her eyes.
I shouldn’t have said that, Charlotte thought. I’m her guest, and she’s being very kind to me. But is it wrong to speak the truth, even when it’s a truth she doesn’t want to face?
After a silence, Mrs. Knightly said, “I forgive your impertinence. It’s understandable that you share your husband’s views. That being the case, you will be comfortable living in a Quaker household. And I’m happy to tell you that arrangements have been made.”
“Has Colonel Knightly found a place for me to stay?”
“Yes. You will lodge with the Quaker woman I spoke of. Mrs. Doughty is a young widow with three small children to support. She is willing to take in a lodger for the few shillings a week it will bring.”
Charlotte hoped that Mrs. Knightly would say that the colonel had arranged for the payment of those shillings. When she did not, Charlotte tried to think of a tactful way to raise the subject, but saw no way to do so without seeming to insult her hostess. Besides, she did not want Mrs. Knightly to think her a pauper. After all, she still had three pounds left in her purse. By being frugal, she hoped she could make them last until Nick’s return.
“Who will take me to this woman’s house?”
“Posy knows the way. She can take your trunk in a handcart.” Mrs. Knightly pushed her chair back from the table. “I’ll summon her directly.”
Charlotte was waiting in the entrance hall for slaves to bring down her trunk when the front door opened and Captain Braemar stepped inside. She smiled, glad to see a familiar face.
“Good morning,” he said with a bow. “I’m surprised to see you ready to go out so early. It’s fortunate I haven’t missed you.” He reached into the black leather pouch that was attached to one of his white cross-belts. “I have a letter that Nick asked me to give you if I succeeded in meeting your ship. Rather than carry it around with me, I decided to keep it safe in my closet until you arrived.”
He handed her a folded sheet of paper, closed with a red seal.
“Oh, thank you.” She clutched the letter.
“I don’t wish to detain you,” he said, “and so I take my leave.”
Charlotte cracked the letter’s wax seal as soon as the door shut. She began to read:
December 6, 1780
My dearest Dear,
If you have this letter in your hands, it means that you have reached Charleston and that my friend Ralph Braemar met you. If such be the case, he will have told you the reason for my absence. Your distress at not finding me waiting can be no greater than my distress at failing you.
By now you must have learned the news that the Loyalist army raised and trained by Major Patrick Ferguson was destroyed in a battle atop a place called Kings Mountain on the 7th of October. Since then there has been great persecution of Loyalists, and it is feared that many have given up. I am being sent to the backcountry to assess morale and gauge what support for England remains.
Despite continuing strife in the rest of South Carolina, you are safe in Charleston. With eight thousand British and Loyalist troops to defend it, the rebels will not dare to attack. I trust that you will be comfortable in the officers’ quarters and I hope that the pleasant society of others will divert you until my return.
She paused for a moment. If only he knew!
Before the end of February my assignment will be finished and I shall join you in Charleston—if you are in Charleston. Pardon me if I sound a little confused. The fact is, the letter I sent to stop you from setting out may have reached you in time. In that case, you aren’t in Charleston anyway, and it is I who will be disappointed not to find you waiting for me.
You see by my words the state of my uncertainty. But one thing of which I am sure is my love for you. This separation is painful, but I console myself with the thought that our reunion will double and augment our joys.
A thousand kisses from y
our ever-loving
Nick
Before the end of February. Only a few more weeks. That wasn’t so long!
Charlotte kissed the letter, refolded it, and then, reaching through the slit in the side of her gown, thrust it into her pocket. When she reached her new lodgings, she thought happily, there would be time to reread Nick’s words, to ponder and to dream.
Chapter 4
THE STREETS WERE EVEN more crowded than they had been the previous afternoon. Posy led the way, pushing the two-wheel cart ahead of her through the mire. Since the trunk was longer than the cart bed, it stuck out in front like a prow.
Another ship must have recently docked, for a surge of sailors, shouting and singing, was making its way from the direction of the wharf, no doubt to the nearest tavern. Charlotte had formed a low opinion of sailors. Their daily grog rations—four ounces of rum in the morning and four in the afternoon—seemed to keep most of them in a perpetually befuddled state.
Posy ploughed right through the crowd, as if determination could compel the sailors to fall away on either side. But they crowded even closer. Several ogled Charlotte in a most alarming manner. They were so near she could smell their sweat mingled with the rum on their breath. While she was avoiding a tattooed arm that reached out to grab her, a ragged boy bumped into her, and she staggered a little. The boy ran away without saying anything.
Once clear of the sailors, Posy and Charlotte soon reached a side street lined by small houses. Posy stopped at a plain front door. There was a window on either side of the door. The window frames, like the door, were painted grey.
“This street’s called Stoll’s Alley. The Quaker lady lives here.”
These were the first words that Charlotte had heard Posy utter.
Charlotte rapped on the door.
After a few seconds, it opened. In the doorway stood a woman dressed in a plain black gown, without a frill or ruffle or any touch of lace. Her apron, too, was black. On her head was a black bonnet shaped like a coal scuttle, its brim so deep at both sides that it blinkered her eyes. Within the shadow of the brim, Charlotte saw determined blue eyes, clean-cut features and ivory skin. The woman’s hair was so well hidden that Charlotte could not tell what the colour was. Her face, though worn, was not old. She looked about thirty years of age.
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