“Oh. Sure. Another time, then.” He removed his hand and stepped back. “Mind if I call you?”
“Call me what?” I retorted, trying to be funny but once again just sounding like an idiot.
At least he had the decency to smile. “On the phone. For a date.”
“Ah,” I replied, feeling the heat burning at my cheeks. “Sure. That would be great.”
“Super.” With that, he turned to go.
So did I. Grinning broadly, I headed in the opposite direction. My heart pounded all the way home—but not from the exertion of walking.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Celeste
Celeste worked with Sary in an exhausted fog for the next couple of days, trying to distract herself from thinking about Jonathan. He hadn’t come back into the inn, although other soldiers had. Spenser hadn’t returned either.
Besides giving her orders and telling her to translate instructions to Sary, Mr. Edwards didn’t talk much with her. A couple of times he opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he would just shake his head and walk away.
Sary didn’t talk much either, certainly not in English but also barely in French. When she did speak, Celeste had to concentrate on understanding her accent, which was so different from Maman’s. But Sary didn’t seem to have any trouble understanding Celeste.
Several times a day, Sary checked her herbs in the drying hut. Celeste was sure they didn’t need that much attention and soon discerned that it was a place of comfort for the woman. Probably a chance to collect her thoughts, be alone, and escape the chaos and heat of the kitchen. Mr. Edwards had mentioned that Sary had been very particular about where the shed was placed. Clearly it was important to her.
All of their interactions had to do with cooking until Celeste’s third night above the kitchen, curled up on the pallet on the floor. Grief overcame her as she thought about Berta. Her entire life she’d cared for her younger sister and brothers. True, Berta had been the most challenging sibling, questioning everything over and over, but Celeste had always looked out for her sister. Until now.
Celeste bowed her head, intending to beg for God’s protection over her sister, but no prayer came. Instead, she turned toward the wall and choked down her sobs as best she could. Exhausted, alone, and desperate to know why Jonathan hadn’t kept his promise, she gave in to her tears. A couple of times Sary flopped over on her pallet and cleared her throat. Celeste tucked her head under her blanket to hide her crying.
The next morning, Sary motioned toward the pitcher and basin.
“Merci,” Celeste answered.
As she washed, Sary stood near the ladder but didn’t descend the stairs. She asked in French if Celeste missed home.
“Oui.”
Sary nodded and climbed down the ladder. When Celeste joined her a few minutes later, the woman pointed to a piece of bread and jam. “For you,” she said in English. “Then see to the chickens.”
Celeste nodded. She’d fed the chickens the last few days and gathered the eggs. She enjoyed leaving the kitchen and going to the coop.
When she returned with the eggs, encouraged by Sary’s kindness, she asked in French how long she’d been a cook.
“My entire life,” she said, explaining that her mother was a cook on a large plantation in the West Indies. “I wasn’t fit for the big house, so my mother kept me by her side. I grew up in that kitchen. My sister served in the house, though.”
“How old are you now?” Celeste asked.
Sary shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe twenty-five.”
“Do you have children?”
Sary’s face grew slack and she turned away.
“I’m sorry…”
Sary waved her hand as if it didn’t matter, but Celeste could tell it did. The woman began cracking eggs into a pan. Sometimes she hummed while she worked, but not today.
After they finished cleaning up the dinner things, the gardener brought in a large basket of small cucumbers. Sary sighed. Celeste guessed they needed to make pickles.
“Go get the master,” Sary said in French, probably needing him to unlock the spice cupboard for the salt.
Later, Celeste went out to the garden to see if there were more cucumbers to fill the small barrel Sary was using to make the pickles. The midsummer garden was far ahead of where the garden back home would be. Bush beans grew up a trellis. Cabbage and broccoli flourished, along with squash, parsnips, and greens. Tall stalks of what she’d been told was corn grew along the far end. She filled the basket with cucumbers and then stood, straightened her back, and wiped her brow with her apron as Mr. Edwards marched past to the chicken coop and then stopped. He turned back, saying he needed her to go down to the blacksmith to pick up an order.
Celeste put her hand on the small of her back, not used to the labor she’d been doing. “All right.”
“Take the handcart. It’s behind the chicken coop.”
Celeste followed him, put the basket in the cart, and then pushed it around the coop. As she did, she heard Mr. Edwards talking to the gardener about manure. The garden was one of the best in the village that she’d seen, and Celeste could tell a lot of work went in to it. Every morning Benjamin and his father hauled water from the well to the orchard and garden for several hours. Their hard work paid off. Farmers brought meat, milk and cream, and some produce to the inn, but Mr. Edwards did well with what he grew on his own property.
Celeste left the cucumbers in the kitchen with Sary and told her she would return soon. By the time she reached the blacksmith shop, sweat dripped from her face. July had to be the worst of the hot weather, surely. She maneuvered the cart down the narrow pathway to the back of the smithy. Open shutters let in the air, but the heat was even worse than in the kitchen at the inn. An open brick furnace stood in the middle of the building, and a young boy operated billows, blowing air onto the fire. Two blacksmiths were working. The younger one, most likely an apprentice, asked what she needed.
“Mr. Edwards’s order,” she said.
As the younger man left the fire and turned toward a workbench, Celeste heard the older one ask if he’d finished the piece for Lieutenant Gray. Her head snapped up.
“Yes,” he answered. “He said he’d pick it up this afternoon.”
“Did he say when?” Celeste asked the young man as he approached her with a large iron pot.
He squinted at her. “What are you asking?”
“Did Lieutenant Gray say when he would stop by? I’ve been hoping to speak with him.”
He handed over the pot, which was heavy. “Who are you?”
“Miss Talbot. I know the lieutenant from back in England.”
“Aren’t you Mr. Edwards’s new kitchen maid?”
“For the time being.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “I heard he bought your contract.”
Celeste’s face grew warm. Williamsburg was a small place. It wasn’t surprising everyone knew her business.
“For the time being,” she answered again, barely adding a mumbled “Thank you” as she wheeled the cart away. Humiliation warmed every inch of her skin.
She had a difficult time pushing it down the narrow pathway toward the street and put all of her weight into it, only to topple it over, the pot clattering onto the hard earth. She quickly righted the cart and wrestled the pot back in, dropping it the last few inches. Thankfully, Mr. Edwards wasn’t nearby to see how she treated his property. Tears stung her eyes. Essentially, she was his property too, at least for the time being.
Once she reached the street, the cart moved more smoothly, and she forced her sad thoughts away. Ahead, a group of soldiers stood in the middle of the street. One, with his back to her, had blond hair. Celeste pushed the cart faster.
As she approached, another soldier elbowed the blond. He turned.
It was Jonathan.
He quickly stepped away toward the cobbler’s shop.
“Jonathan! Wait!” Celeste called out.
The soldiers
began to laugh. “You’re a rascal!” one of them yelled.
Celeste was beginning to agree.
“Please stop,” she begged, overcome with embarrassment at airing her problems in public.
He turned slowly. “I only have a minute.”
She pushed the cart to his side. Out of breath, she said, “I’ve heard rumors…that you’ve bought a carriage and…you’ve been courting someone else.”
“I’d given up on your coming, Celeste. You said you’d be on the next ship—I thought you’d changed your mind.”
“The next ship was full. I took passage on the one after that, but we hit rough weather and were delayed.” He’d begged her to come. Couldn’t he have waited a few more months? “So it’s…true…” she stammered.
He shrugged.
“Courting another?” the soldier said. “I thought you were to marry Miss Mary Vines soon, Gray.”
Jonathan frowned and stepped closer to Celeste. “I need to explain things to you. Her father owns a plantation between here and York. He’s giving me land.”
“What about your land grant?”
He sighed. “That was part of the problem. There’s been a delay, and it could be a few years. If I’m ever going to acquire land in my family’s name, I’ll have to marry for it.”
“What am I to do?” Celeste asked, despair coursing through her. “And now I have my sister to care for too. I only left Berta because I was sure that if I could only get to you, you would help us.”
He kept his eyes on her. “I feel horrible about all of this, Celeste, but please understand how difficult this is for me too. I did wait, but after some time it seemed your promise to come hadn’t meant anything. That was when I began seeing Miss Vine…” His voice trailed off.
“I came as soon as I could!” Yes, it was some months after they’d planned, but it wasn’t that long. “Jonathan, how…how could you do this to me?”
“Believe me, I wouldn’t have if I’d had any idea you were on your way.”
He reached for her hand. She let him take it. His skin was warm against hers, reassuring for just a moment, but then it only reminded her of everything she’d lost. His love, most of all.
She pulled her hand away, afraid she might collapse in the middle of the street. “What now?”
“I’ll try to sell the carriage to pay for your contract.”
That was honorable, at least.
“And then?”
His eyes fell beyond her. “That’s it. I don’t have anything to offer you. No land. No future.”
“All of that doesn’t matter.” Celeste felt a measure of hope. “I came to be with you. To be your wife. We could survive in a cottage if we needed to—”
He shook his head. “It’s not that simple. I can’t support a family on my soldier’s pay. You deserve more.”
Her heart fell again, and her knees nearly buckled.
“Celeste, I never intended for this to happen. You have to understand—”
She let go of the cart again, and the pot clattered to the ground, landing on a rock. As she struggled to get it back in, Jonathan bent down to help her. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his watery blue eyes meeting hers. “Can you ever forgive me?”
She let go of her side of the pot and stood quickly, ashamed that she still had feelings for him. She grabbed the handle of the cart as he settled the pot inside it.
He met her gaze. “Please, Celeste. I care too much about you to think you’ll be angry with me the rest of your life. Doesn’t your faith require forgiveness of you?”
She frowned. It wasn’t as if she’d been practicing her faith much since she’d met him. But he was right. She’d been taught to forgive as God had forgiven her.
She swallowed hard and then said, “Yes, I forgive you.” But the words brought her no comfort. Just saying them started a flood of tears she couldn’t stop.
Not wanting to make a fool of herself, she pushed forward with the cart, causing the other soldiers to scatter. She continued down the street, weaving from side to side, her sight bleary behind her tears. Jonathan didn’t follow.
She stopped a moment and wiped her eyes before continuing on. She hoped he’d keep his word and buy her contract, and then she would do her best to buy Berta’s with the ruby ring. But she had no idea what they would do next. They had no money to get back home—and no guarantee Berta would survive the trip even if they did.
“There’s not much of a market for carriages around here, I’m afraid,” one of the soldiers said loudly. “He won’t get what he paid for it.”
Celeste didn’t look back or respond in any way. The less she said, the better.
She’d been jilted. It was as simple as that. And it hadn’t ruined just her life but Berta’s too.
Before Jonathan, she would have prayed for guidance. But now she couldn’t. Had she prayed at all since she met him that day in her parents’ garden? She couldn’t recall doing so. She’d been so set on pleasing him, on attaining what she wanted. She’d recited prayers she knew, but she hadn’t prayed directly to the Lord, hadn’t asked for His help.
And now she didn’t feel as if she could, not after what she’d done. The thought of her sister, all alone in Norfolk, made her sick. So did the thought of both of them in Norfolk, with no means of support. But at least they would have each other. No matter what had happened with Jonathan, she had to get back to Berta.
As Celeste served ham slices and corn bread to a room full of soldiers that evening, she couldn’t help but notice that Jonathan wasn’t among them. Was he off courting the plantation owner’s daughter? Miss Mary Vines. Celeste felt a wave of anger toward the woman. But then she sighed. None of this was her fault. She wouldn’t hold a grudge against her. Perhaps Celeste wasn’t able to pray, but she needed to do all she could not to make her situation even worse.
Her thoughts returned to Jonathan. It was raining. Had his precious carriage become stuck in the mud?
She chided herself again. Bitterness toward Jonathan wouldn’t help either.
She concentrated on her work as best she could. In the first dining room, several important-looking men sat around one of three tables. Celeste recognized Constable Jones from the jail, shoveling bluefish in a cream sauce into his mouth. He didn’t acknowledge her. Then again, she’d seen him an hour earlier when she delivered the evening meal. She imagined he’d shoveled that into his mouth too.
Everyone, including Mr. Edwards, seemed to think that Sary’s cooking was better since Celeste arrived. A variety of meals were coming out of the kitchen, all delicious. Business had picked up because of it. Celeste wasn’t sure Sary would consider Celeste a friend, but it seemed she was trusting her more and more. For her part, Celeste was grateful for Sary’s presence in her life. She’d gained some measure of comfort in spending so much time with the woman.
The diners were discussing a new slave code and how it would impact the need for indentured servants. They all seemed to defer to the man at the head of the table, who wore a long, dark wig and appeared to be not much older than her father.
“We’ll definitely see a decrease in the number of indentured servants,” the man said. Celeste wanted to listen to the rest of the answer, but just then Mr. Edwards motioned to her from the door.
Once she was in the passageway, he whispered, “Tell Sary to finish up the bread pudding. The governor is looking forward to it.”
“The governor?” Celeste glanced back into the room. “The one with the black wig?”
Mr. Edwards nodded. “Who else would it be?”
Celeste shrugged. She’d guessed he was a businessman but hadn’t suspected the governor. Papa, with all of his curiosity in the way the world worked, would be interested to know she’d served the man.
When she reached the kitchen, the Irish housemaid, Aline, sat at the table sipping cider. After relaying the instructions to Sary, Celeste asked Aline about the governor.
“Francis Nicholson is his name. I hear he has a temper.”
She lowered her voice. “And he’s had his struggles with some. The old families and that sort of thing, so they say.” Aline took another sip and changed the subject, saying how busy she’d been that afternoon. “But it’s been a good day. Every day here is the best of my life.”
“How is that?” Celeste asked.
She held up her empty mug. “I’m not starving. Or dying of thirst. Believe me, a full stomach makes for a happy girl.” Aline was thin, but she did look healthy. “Having Mr. Edwards buy my contract was the best thing that ever happened to me. He’s like the father I never had.”
Celeste pondered that. Obviously, she could have done so much worse too when it came to a master.
A half hour later, while she served the pudding, the governor commented that she must be new to the inn.
“Yes, sir.” She slid a pewter plate onto the table in front of him.
“And how are you liking Williamsburg?”
“Very well, thank you.” She knew to keep her answers short.
He looked up, meeting her eyes. “Where do you hail from?”
“London, sir.”
He cocked his head. “And what brought you to serving in this inn?”
“My parents own an inn, sir. I know the business.” That was the shortest answer she could come up with, considering her circumstances.
“Are you not an indentured servant?”
She served the man next to him as she spoke. “Yes, I am.” The governor seemed kind, but she didn’t want to share anymore of her humiliating story.
After they finished their bread pudding, Celeste wished Governor Nicholson a good evening, and then he and his guests left the inn. Unfortunately, the soldiers stayed, growing rowdier as the evening wore on. Finally, Mr. Edwards sent Celeste to the safety of the kitchen. She admired that about the man—he seemed to take her well-being into account.
As she washed the plates and Sary scrubbed the pots, the thought of Jonathan’s betrayal ate away at Celeste. By the time she reached her bed, sadness overwhelmed her again. She still loved him. If he came to the inn tomorrow and said he had made a big mistake, that he loved her and wanted to marry her, she would forgive him everything. Out of habit she knelt beside her pallet as if to pray, but again no words came. Instead, tears flooded her eyes. She tried to stop them for Sary’s sake, but the sobs kept coming. In the darkness, Sary sighed and asked her what was wrong.
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