My Sister's Prayer

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “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 b
it 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.

  “No, it’s complicated,” Celeste said. “I’m still…bound to my contract. I’ll explain it all later.”

  Berta nodded and closed her eyes, obviously too ill to press for details.

  A few minutes later, the captain appeared on the deck of the boat that would be taking them up the river. Soon a few more passengers arrived. Several loads of goods were wheeled by in carts. Mr. Horn appeared, leading two African women. Both were younger than Celeste and dressed in tattered clothes.

  The man nodded as he passed by. “Looks like I was wrong about which girl died,” he said to Celeste.

  “Thankfully so,” she answered through gritted teeth. Did he not care at all about the pain he’d put her through? She grieved for the girl who had died and wondered if her family would ever know.

  He led the two slaves onto the vessel, a cargo boat known as the York, which was piloted by a Captain Doane. The first mate motioned for the other passengers to board, and Spenser scooped Berta up again. Once they were on deck, they huddled near the bow of the boat, Berta between Spenser and Celeste. The fresh air would be much better for her than going below. For now, the sun warmed them.

  As Celeste soaked in the moment, gratitude flowed through her. Berta was alive, her contract bought. Now they just needed to get back to Williamsburg and safety before Constable Wharton realized what his wife had done.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Celeste

  After the York arrived at the landing, Berta was allowed to ride in one of the wagons on the road to Williamsburg while Spenser and Celeste walked alongside it. It hadn’t rained that day, so there was less mud than before.

  Smoke rose from an unseen cabin to the left, out of the trees. Celeste wasn’t sure how anyone besides those who grew tobacco made a living in Virginia. The red soil didn’t grow much. Watching Benjamin and Joe work in the garden showed her the effort it took to produce vegetables, let alone a crop. The chicken manure helped. That worked for a garden but would be hard to support an entire field.

  The land didn’t seem to have as many opportunities as Jonathan had implied. Then again, he could have misled her. Celeste shivered. No, she would try to continue to think positively. Yes, she was disappointed in him, but she had no reason to believe he’d deceived her. He’d truly believed she wasn’t coming. That and the false promise of the land grant had unsettled him.

  Spenser, as he walked along, stepped closer to the wagon and asked Berta if she was all right.

  She nodded. She had her eyes open now, taking in the scenery. Spenser had tucked his coat around her even though the day was now hot and humid.

  Celeste mulled over whom she could ask to care for Berta. Even if Mr. Edwards would allow her to stay above the kitchen with Celeste and Sary, she wouldn’t be able to check on her sister throughout the day. And it would be hard to get Berta up and down the loft ladder.

  Berta couldn’t go with Spenser to the carpenter shop either. There would still be no one to care for her, plus it would be scandalous for Berta to live with three men. Perhaps a woman in town would be able to help. Celeste would ask the Frenchmen first to see if they had any ideas.

  As the trees thinned and the village appeared, Berta raised her head a little more. “This is Williamsburg?”

  Celeste nodded.

  “I expected it to be bigger. It isn’t anything like what I imagined.”

  “Who described it to you?” Celeste asked, wondering if someone in the Wharton household had been up the James this far.

  “Oh, I had a few ideas just from what people mentioned, is all.”

  Celeste didn’t press for more of an answer than that. The rat-a-tat of the snare drums soon filled the air, reminding Celeste of Jonathan and his rejection of her once again. After they passed the green—which she searched for Jonathan out of habit, to no avail—they continued on down the street.

  She told the wagon’s driver to head to the Petits’ house, and then she explained to Spenser as they walked how she had met the French-speaking Monsieur Petit in the inn and had asked him and his companion if they knew of anyone who might be in a position to take Berta in.

  “And did he?” Spenser asked.

  Celeste hesitated. “Not exactly. But he did agree to ask around. Perhaps he’s found someone by now and can tell me where we should take her.” She didn’t add that her biggest hope was that if she showed up on his doorstep and pleaded her case, the man and his wife would agree to take in Berta themselves.

  Not wanting to delay the wagon’s driver for too long, she rushed to the door, gave it a knock, and asked the maid who answered if monsieur or madame were home.

  “Just a moment,” the girl replied. While she was gone, Celeste turned and gave the wagon’s driver a wave, hoping he had a few minutes to spare. He nodded in return.

  She was again facing the door, still waiting, when she heard someone behind her yell out, “Jonathan!”

  With a gasp, she twisted around to see Jonathan’s carriage approaching from the rear—and he wasn’t alone. A young woman perched beside him on the bench. His Miss Vine, no doubt.

  “Jonathan!” someone cried again, and Celeste realized that was Berta’s voice—though she had no idea how the girl had been able to call out so loudly, sick as she was.

  He’d obviously heard it too because he drew his carriage to a stop just behind the wagon and climbed down. And though Celeste desperately wanted to hear his exchange with her sister, she was interrupted by a crisp, “May I help you?”

  Celeste spun back around to see a woman standing in the doorway.

  She was tall and thin, with her silvery hair pulled back in a bun and partly covered with a frilly cap. “I am Madame Petit.”

  Forcing herself to ignore the scene in the street, Celeste introduced herself and explained that she was looking for someone to care for her sister, who was ill, just until she recovered. “I met your husband recently at the inn, where I work. He was quite kind and said he would try to help me figure something out.”

  The woman frowned.

  “I can pay,” she quickly added.

  “Why us?” the woman demanded.

  Celeste explained that her parents were French. “Huguenots. I was led to believe perhaps you were too.”

  She pursed her lips. “Stay here. I’ll speak with my husband.” The woman left, and Celeste returned her attention to the street.

  Jonathan’s companion was now sitting alone on the carriage bench, lips pursed and brow furrowed as she waited for him. He was standing near the back of the wagon talking with Berta, though it looked as if their conversation was wrapping up.

  He turned abruptly and climbed up into the carriage, took the reins, and gave them a snap, never once glancing toward Celeste as he rode off. She looked to Berta, who fell back along the wagon bench as if heartbroken—and Celeste was stabbed with yet another pang of guilt. She should have been the one to tell her sister what had happened. Instead, the poor girl had obviously learned it from Jonathan himself. Clearly Berta was devastated for Celeste—and for her own future as well.

  Without a man to pay for thei
r contracts or to look out for them, the sisters were vulnerable. Berta didn’t know how lucky she was to have Spenser’s care. True, he could only do so much, but he’d saved them from harm over and over already.

  A rustling sound drew Celeste’s attention back to the cottage doorway. “Is your sister in some sort of trouble?” It was Monsieur Petit, standing beside his wife.

  Celeste shook her head. “No, sir. She’s merely ill.” Celeste was the one in trouble, but she wouldn’t tell them that.

  “Why did you come to us?” he asked.

  “I thought you might be sympathique.” Celeste shrugged her shoulders and then turned away. No matter how desperate she was, she wasn’t going to beg—at least not anymore than she had already.

  “Wait,” the woman said. Then quietly, “Husband…”

  Celeste froze. She couldn’t hear the rest of the Petits’ conversation.

  Finally madame said, “We’ll care for her for a few days until you can figure something else out. It’s our Christian duty, I suppose.”

  Celeste turned toward them, choking back her tears. “Merci,” she whispered.

  The Petits’ home was well furnished, and they employed not just the maid but a cook as well. Spenser, carrying Berta, followed Madame Petit down a hallway to the back of the house to the sickroom. A cotlike bed with fresh linen nearly filled the room, along with a small table with a pitcher and basin. The accommodations were a castle compared to the horror of the shed she’d been holed up in. The maid stepped into the room with a clean petticoat and chemise.

  “Strip off her clothes,” Madame Petit said. Spenser followed the woman out, and as Celeste undressed her sister, the maid returned with water in the pitcher and a fresh cloth. Celeste bathed Berta, dressed her in the clean clothes, and then tucked her into the clean bed.

  “Cook is heating some broth,” the maid said. “I’m Judith, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The Petits are good folks,” Judith said. “I’ll be back with the broth in a few minutes.”

  Celeste had so much she wanted to say to Berta. She knelt beside the bed. “I’m sorry for all that’s happened.” Berta would be healthy and living in London if Celeste hadn’t snuck down to the ship, causing her sister to follow her. True, Berta had made the choice to follow, but Celeste’s sin of disobedience to their parents had led to unintended consequences for them both. “I’ll do all I can to make sure you have a chance to get well.”