And now, just like Amelie, Berta had died. Celeste stopped a moment under a tree with star-shaped leaves and wiped her face on her apron. It wouldn’t do any good to be a babbling fool when she asked Spenser for his help. Once she reached the meadow, she followed Benjamin’s instruction to veer to the left, along the creek. Ahead was the sawmill. She quickened her steps, hoping Spenser wasn’t out making a delivery.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Celeste
Celeste pushed open the heavy door of the carpentry shop and stepped inside, breathing in the comforting scent of sawn wood that hung in the air. The workroom was full of unfinished furniture—tables, chairs, bureaus, washstands—pretty much everything imaginable. She recognized pieces made of oak and walnut, but some of the other woods she wasn’t familiar with.
“Yes?” a voice asked that wasn’t Spenser’s. It took her eyes a minute to adjust to the dim light and make out the man standing in the rear of the shop, a mallet in his hand, tall and middle aged, with red hair.
“I’m looking for Spenser Rawling.”
“He’s down at the mill. I’m Matthew Carlisle. I’ll walk with you.” He put the mallet down and made his way through the shop, weaving around pieces of furniture. She followed him to the door and down the path. The wheel turned as water from the creek flowed over it. The mill was open on both ends—really just a makeshift roof over a wooden structure. The thick scent of sawdust hung in the air.
Celeste stepped to where she could look inside. Spenser and another man directed a log through a saw, powered by the water wheel. She retreated back from flying bits of wood and the noise.
“Spenser!” Matthew called out. “You have a visitor.”
Spenser smiled at the sight of her, but then his smile faded, probably in response to her expression. Matthew stepped up to the log, taking Spenser’s place. In a moment Spenser was beside her.
“It’s Berta,” she said.
“Is she worse?”
Celeste couldn’t speak for a moment. She swallowed and tried again. “She’s passed.”
Spenser’s face grew pale.
Celeste managed to relay what Mr. Horn had said.
“Was he absolutely certain Berta was the one who died?”
Celeste nodded. “He seemed to be.”
“Did he see her? Confirm it?”
“I don’t think so,” Celeste said. “He said it was the new maid. And that the constable was looking for a replacement.”
Spenser frowned.
“What are you thinking?”
“That we should go to Norfolk and find out for sure.”
“Yes, that’s what I want to do. Go and talk to Constable Wharton. Find out how she died. Where’s she’s buried. I came to ask you to go with me.”
“Mr. Edwards will allow it?”
Celeste nodded. “He even loaned me money for our return trip.”
“I have enough to cover my own passage. I don’t want you paying for mine and adding more to your debt. That won’t do.”
Celeste put her hand to her throat. “Thank you,” she said. He truly cared about Berta. Her heart felt sick for the loss he must be feeling too.
“I’ll ask Matthew if I can go.”
“See if you can leave now. Mr. Edwards said we should try to get on the boat that’s leaving this afternoon. The one Mr. Horn is taking.”
It was past noon when Celeste and Spenser reached the boat, and by the time they arrived at Norfolk, the sun was setting and the day had grown cold.
“We should go straight to the constable’s house,” Celeste said. Maybe he would let them spend the night in his stable. It would be scandalous, but they didn’t have the money to stay anywhere else. She trusted Spenser, no matter how things might look.
They followed Mr. Horn off the boat. Celeste knew which direction the Wharton home was, but that was all. When they reached the end of the dock, Celeste asked Mr. Horn how to find it.
“Go to the last street and then turn left,” he said. “It’s the biggest house that way.”
Celeste and Spenser headed toward the loading area, turning left at the exact same spot she’d last seen Berta. If she hadn’t gone on to Williamsburg, would her sister be alive? As Spenser quickly linked her arm in his, she realized just how unsteady she was.
They continued on, looking at each house they passed, trying to decide which was the biggest. Celeste pulled her cloak tighter even though it was still warm, grateful Spenser had come with her.
The very last house had to be it. It was brick, three stories high, with both a barn and stable. Celeste and Spenser walked up to the door. Before they could knock, the door swung open, revealing an older woman.
“Oh, my,” she said, slamming it shut.
Celeste stepped back, alarmed. Perhaps they looked like beggars. Spenser knocked. There was a commotion on the other side of the door, and then it opened again. This time Constable Wharton stood in front of them, minus wig or hat. His hair was short, gray, and thin, and he didn’t look nearly as authoritarian as he had before.
He glanced from Spenser to Celeste as if he’d never seen them.
“I’m Berta Talbot’s sister,” Celeste said. “We met before.”
“Ah, that’s right. I can’t see you well in the dim light. What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Horn told me what happened. About Berta.” Celeste couldn’t say anything more. Death occurred all the time, but she still couldn’t believe Berta had been taken.
Spenser stepped forward, a serious expression on his face. “We’re hoping for some information—”
Celeste blurted out, “Where is she buried?”
The constable pursed his lips and held up his hand. “Wait here,” he said. He disappeared behind the half open door. “Where’s the housekeeper?” he called out. And then, “Did the maid that spoke French die?”
Celeste grabbed Spenser’s arm.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” The constable’s voice was loud and annoyed.
Celeste couldn’t make out the response of whomever he was conversing with.
“That’s what I thought,” he answered. He came back to the door. “Mr. Horn gave you false information. A different maid died. Your sister is alive—but barely, and most likely not for long.”
Celeste’s knees grew weak, and she leaned against the open door, nearly falling into the house. Spenser steadied her. “I need to see her,” Celeste managed to say.
“Go around to the kitchen. The housekeeper will meet you.”
Spenser started down the steps. “We have to take her with us,” Celeste said, following him.
“Let’s see how she’s doing first. She may not be up to traveling.”
The housekeeper, the same woman who’d slammed the door in their faces, met them by the kitchen and led the way to a shed on the far side of the barn. She opened the door and motioned for Celeste to go inside. Spenser followed—but the housekeeper didn’t.
“Berta,” Celeste said.
The waning light didn’t reach the far corner of the shed, but the sound of a groan led Celeste to her sister. She knelt beside her. “Can you hear me?” she asked. Berta didn’t respond. Celeste’s eyes began to adjust as she placed her hand on her sister’s hot face.
Berta made another sound and then managed to say, “Water?”
“I’ll get some.” Spenser slipped back out of the shed.
“Are you in pain?” Celeste asked.
“No.” Berta stirred, shifting toward the wall. “Not anymore.”
“Has a physician seen you?”
“Yes. He said there was nothing he could do.”
“Have you been eating?”
“Cook brings broth now and then.”
“Why are you out here instead of in the house?”
“They were afraid I had measles because I have a rash.”
“Measles?” Celeste cried. “But that’s impossible. You can only get it once, and you already had measles a few years ago.”
; “I know. I told them as much, but they didn’t believe me.”
Celeste sighed in frustration. “Well, you and I both know it can’t be that.”
“True,” Berta replied. “Though I do think it’s the same illness I had on the ship—not the seasickness but the fever. It seems to come and go.”
“Maybe it’s typhoid,” Celeste said, turning toward Spenser as he ducked back into the shed with a cup. “Can’t typhoid fever cause a rash?”
He nodded. “And sometimes the fever goes away but then comes back with a vengeance. All in all, it can last for months.”
It didn’t appear as if anyone had been caring for her. Celeste had to get Berta out of the shed and away from the constable’s house. He’d proven unfit to protect those he was responsible for. And because it couldn’t be measles—and it obviously wasn’t smallpox—there was no need for quarantine.
“Do you think you could travel?” Celeste asked her sister.
Berta groaned.
“The ship ride up the river is nothing like across the ocean.”
Berta pulled her arm over her head and didn’t answer.
“I’ll be right back,” Celeste said. She grabbed Spenser’s hand as she passed by him and pulled him out the door. “I’m going to go talk to the constable and ask him if I can buy Berta’s contract.”
“With what?”
She pulled her pouch out from under her petticoat and retrieved the ring, holding it up.
“Oh, Celeste. But it’s all you have left, right?”
She nodded.
He didn’t hesitate. “Of course you should use it to buy Berta’s freedom.”
“It means we won’t have any means to get back to England.”
“She would never survive a trip back anyway.”
She knew he was right.
“Tell the constable you’ll give him the ring for Berta’s contract as long as he also provides you with an extra amount of money to care for her until she regains her strength,” Spenser said. “You won’t be able to do your work and nurse her. You’ll have to hire someone to do it.”
Celeste nodded. That was a good plan.
“Do you want me to go with you?”
Celeste considered it. The constable might be more willing to negotiate with a man instead of her. And she was afraid in her anger over Berta’s lack of care that perhaps she would alienate him. She’d never seen Spenser lose his temper. Regardless of how fond he was of Berta, she doubted he would now either. “Yes,” she said. “Please.”
“Tell me about the ring,” Spenser said as they started toward the house.
“It belonged to my great-grandmother, a baroness in France. Her husband gave it to her while they were still in Paris. She gave it to my mother.”
“A Parisian heirloom,” Spenser said. “Any idea how much it’s worth?”
Celeste shook her head. She imagined it was quite valuable, although her mother certainly never bragged about it being so. She shook her head. “I have no idea.”
Instead of heading to the house, Spenser stopped at the kitchen. The door was open, and the cook was scrubbing the last of the pots in the dim light. “Excuse me,” Spenser said. “Do you have a minute?”
“No.”
“We won’t interrupt your work. I just have a few questions.”
The woman scowled, but Spenser stepped into the building. “Are there other maids here besides the ill one?”
“Yes. A kitchen maid, who has conveniently disappeared at the moment, and a housemaid.”
“Do you know what the constable plans to do with the ill one in the shed out back?”
“That one’s been nothing but trouble. He’ll sell her contract if she doesn’t die first.”
Celeste shivered but managed to hold her tongue.
“Is there a lady of the house?”
“Madame Wharton.”
“Madame? Is she French?”
The cook made a disgusted face. “She fancies she is and wants me to fix French dishes.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “But it’s all a show.”
Celeste felt a measure of hope, remembering what Constable Wharton had said about his wife wanting to study French.
“Interesting,” Spenser said. “Thank you.” He nodded toward the house. “If we knock on the back door, will the constable speak with us?”
“You can try, but he retires early. He may already be in his bedchamber.”
Spenser kindly thanked her and led the way to the back door of the house. He knocked soundly, and a waiflike maid appeared. At their request, she went to find the housekeeper, who said the constable would talk with them in the morning.
“S’il vous plaît,” Celeste said. “Could we speak with Madame then, instead?”
“Wait here,” the housekeeper said. A few minutes later she returned. “She’ll see you in the salon.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Celeste
Celeste and Spenser followed the housekeeper through a formal dining room with a cherrywood table and matching chairs, down a passageway, and then to an elegant room on the right. The last rays of sunlight came through a bank of windows, which the housemaid was in the process of opening to let in the evening breeze. A woman, probably in her midtwenties, rested on a settee. A lamp was lit on a mahogany table beside her. The walls were covered with textured paper, and the ceiling was painted a light blue. Clearly, Constable Wharton was a wealthy man.
The woman wore a gown made of fabric printed with bluebirds, probably from London, and her blond hair was piled on her head in a stylish fashion. Her lips were as thin as she was, her cheekbones sharp, and her gray eyes deeply set.
“Bonsoir,” the woman said. In just the single word, Celeste could detect her thick English accent.
Celeste curtsied and then said in English, “We’ve come to check on my sister. The maid out back, in the shed.” She couldn’t hide the hint of anger in her own voice.
The woman pursed her lips.
Spenser stepped forward, a concerned expression on his face, and partially blocked Celeste. “We’re very grateful that you’ve cared for Berta, even though she hasn’t been able to serve you.”
The woman smiled a little.
Spenser looked around. “You have a fine home here. The finest of any I’ve seen since arriving in the colony.”
She nodded in agreement. “My husband has many profitable business interests besides being the constable.”
Celeste stepped forward. “My sister was kidnapped and forced into servitude. She’s too ill—”
Spenser interrupted her. “As I was saying, we appreciate your care for Berta, but thankfully we’re now in a position to take her off your hands.” He shot Celeste a warning look. “It’s too much to expect your busy household to care for her.”
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.
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