My Sister's Prayer (20 page)

Before each meal was served in the inn, the staff gathered in the kitchen to eat. Mr. Edwards always said a blessing and then the others ate while Sary and Celeste dished up for the patrons waiting in the inn for their food. Little by little, Celeste was learning about the other staff. Benjamin's father, Joe, doted on his son. Aline had worked in the kitchen sometimes before Celeste arrived, but she preferred her other duties. She would often try to chat with Celeste, but there was no time in the kitchen. One morning, however, as Celeste hurried to the drying hut with orders from Sary to collect sprigs of rosemary, Aline stepped out of the laundry. She asked how Celeste was getting on with the cook.

“Very well.”

“She despised me when she first arrived,” Aline said. “I couldn't do anything right.”

“Really?” Celeste couldn't imagine Sary treating anyone badly. With silence maybe, but not with hate.

“I may not have been very welcoming, though. We were all in mourning.”

“Oh?”

“Cook had just died.”

Celeste nodded. She knew about that.

“And Miss Annabelle.”

“Miss Annabelle?”

“Surely you've heard of her.”

Celeste shook her head.

“Mr. Edwards's daughter. She was the reason he came to Virginia. She was married to a major here, but he died up north. She opened the inn, and Mr. Edwards came with financing and to help her.”

“Oh,” Celeste managed to say again. She'd had no idea.

“Mr. Edwards is a widower. Miss Annabelle was his whole world. So, you can see, we were all out of sorts when Sary arrived. And with her not speaking English or anything, and she'd been injured too—which Mr. Edwards didn't realize at first—it was all very difficult.”

“No doubt,” Celeste said, wondering what had happened to Sary. She held up her empty basket. “I need to get to the drying hut.”

“Wait,” Aline said. “That's not the only tragedy we've had. The kitchen maid right before you—”

“Good morning.” Mr. Edwards stood on the back stoop, a mug in his hand.

Both girls returned the greeting, and then Aline stepped into the laundry while Celeste bobbed a curtsy and headed on to the hut.

The next morning, Mr. Horn came to the inn dripping wet from a summer downpour soaking the village. Steam rose off him as he took a seat. Celeste overheard him say he'd come from Norfolk again and had then been at the Vines's plantation, delivering several new field hands. She wondered how far it was to the plantation, how far Jonathan traveled to see his betrothed.

“How is your kitchen maid working out?” Mr. Horn asked over the din of the conversations and the clanking of metal spoons against pewter plates.

Mr. Edwards simply answered, “Very well.” The communication with Sary had gotten better with Celeste translating, and that meant that the meals were coming out of the kitchen faster and with portions more to Mr. Edward's liking. Everyone seemed happier.

“And the cook? She still acting uppity, or did you take care of that?”

Celeste wondered what it was about Sary that irritated Mr. Horn. He'd leased Sary to Mr. Edwards. What did he care how she acted now?
That was between her and Mr. Edwards—and he didn't seem to have problems with Sary's work performance or her attitude, not anymore.

“Everything's fine,” Mr. Edwards said, busying himself with setting the table.

“These indentured girls are getting harder to find,” Mr. Horn told him over the clanging of the crowd. “The constable in Norfolk is looking for a maid again.”

Celeste gasped.

Mr. Edwards gave her a harsh look, probably for eavesdropping. She continued on with her work, but when Mr. Edwards stepped into the other room, she approached Mr. Horn. “Why is the constable looking for another maid?”

“The last one died.”

“No!” Celeste placed her hand on the table to steady herself. “That's where my sister went, remember? Surely it wasn't her.”

The man looked up, an expression of annoyance on his face. “She was ill, right?”

Celeste nodded.

Mr. Horn sighed. “I hope he doesn't expect a refund. Or a discount on the next girl I find. But he probably will.”

Celeste struggled to breathe. Mr. Horn didn't seem to notice.

She stumbled away from the table, broken by the news and the man's callous disregard for her sister's life. She never should have left Berta in Norfolk. Obviously, she was much worse than Celeste had realized. It hadn't been just seasickness.

Where had Berta been buried? Who had cared for her in the end? Had she suffered terribly?

Mr. Horn must have told Mr. Edwards about Berta's death, because later, when all of the patrons had left, he approached Celeste and said, “I'm sorry for your troubles.”

“Thank you.”

“It really is a shame…” Mr. Edwards ran his hand through his thick white hair. The wrinkles around his eyes seemed extra deep.

Celeste nodded. He knew grief too. “I'd like to go talk to Constable
Wharton,” Celeste said. “To find out how my sister died and where she's buried. I promise I'll come back.” She had nowhere else to go.

Mr. Edwards shook his head. “I can't allow that. Besides, you can't travel by yourself.”

“I know someone who might be able to go with me.”

“Not Jonathan.”

She shook her head. “Spenser Rawling. He works for the carpenter, just outside of the village. He has proven to be a good friend.”

“How would you pay for the boat ride?”

“I have a small amount of money. Enough to get us there,” Celeste answered, looking him in the eye. “But I was hoping I could borrow some from you for the return trip.” She had no idea how she would reimburse him except to sell the ring.

“That's what I was afraid of.” He pursed his lips together.

“You can add what I owe to my contract. I'll work longer to pay it off if I can't come up with another means.”

When he didn't respond, Celeste continued stacking dirty plates into a basket. When it was full, she headed toward the passageway.

Mr. Edwards cleared his throat from the desk in the foyer. Without looking up, he said, “I know what it's like to lose someone I loved. Ask this young man, Mr. Rawling, if he can go with you. If he can, head straight to the landing. The boat Horn came on is scheduled to leave this afternoon. Just make sure to give Sary her instructions before you leave.” He went on to tell her what he wanted done for the next few meals. “Aline can help serve while you're gone. Oh, and pick up your boots at the cobblers.” He glanced down at her pathetic slippers. “You'll need them in this mud.” Then he said, “Wait here just a moment.” He retreated to the small room he used as an office and then returned, holding out his hand. “Here's the money for the passage. Pay me back when you can, even if it's in four or five years.”

“Thank you,” Celeste said, curtsying slightly as she balanced the tray, her heart filled with gratitude. Once again, Mr. Edwards had shown he was a kind man at heart.

Celeste went straight to the cobbler's. The boots fit perfectly, and gratitude toward Mr. Edwards swept through her. When she got back to the kitchen, Benjamin and Sary were washing dishes, so she quickly carried her tattered shoes up to the loft and then came back down.

She spoke to Sary first, in French, explaining Mr. Edwards's instructions and about her plans to be gone for a couple of days. She repeated what she said to Benjamin, in English, adding that he would need to deliver the meals to the jail while she was gone. Then she asked, “Can you tell me how to get to the carpenter's shop?”

He offered to show her, but she refused, saying he needed to stay and help Sary instead. He seemed disappointed but explained where the shop was, outside of the village, down a trail just wide enough for a wagon.

Celeste followed Benjamin's directions, heading to Botetourt Street and toward the beat of the snare drums. It seemed the soldiers were constantly drilling. As she passed by, she scanned the group marching toward their tents, but didn't see Jonathan. When she reached the creek, she followed along the bank to the east. The road was narrow, and branches from the catalpa trees hung low, ready to tug at her straw hat. Cattails grew in the marshy area on either side of the creek, and every once in a while a fish jumped. Celeste slapped at the mosquitoes that buzzed around her as she walked, holding her skirt above the mud. Finally, alone, she let her tears come. Their mother had told Celeste and Berta, from the time they were little girls, how blessed they were to have each other. Maman hadn't had a sister, but she'd had a cousin—Amelie—who had been as close as any sister ever could be. But then Amelie had died, leaving behind a baby girl, right before Maman and Papa had fled to England from their beloved France.

Even with Maman's urging, Celeste hadn't always appreciated her sister or their friendship. Berta claimed Celeste was bossy and unfair. Celeste felt Berta was impulsive and unwise, not to mention lazy. True, there had been times of affection and camaraderie between them, but not nearly enough. Why hadn't Celeste valued her sister more?

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.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Celeste

C
eleste 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?”