My Sister's Prayer (33 page)

Jones didn't take her to the jail this time—he took her straight to the stocks and pillory, located in front of the courthouse. He forced her head and burned hands into the half holes of the pillory and then secured the upper piece over the back of her neck, pushing down until he could lock it. She wiggled as best she could to release the pressure
on the back of her neck, but it was pointless. She could neither stand nor kneel. She had to bend forward awkwardly, and she had to keep her head pointed down. She couldn't see her feet, but she could feel her boots settling into the mud. She hoped she wouldn't sink too far.

She'd never felt so humiliated in her entire life, not even when Jonathan had rejected her. This was public. The entire village could see her.

“I'll be back.” Jones stomped off, probably angry that his meals would be further interrupted.

Strands of hair fell from her bun and tickled her face, but she was helpless to move them. A couple of soldiers walked by—Celeste could only see their legs. A woman with two small girls passed next. One of the children pointed at Celeste and asked, “What did that lady do?”

Her mother hushed her and hurried along.

Celeste's hands burned and her back and neck began to ache. She hoped the physician had arrived to attend to Sary. He hadn't by the time Constable Jones had dragged Celeste away.

Other villagers passed by, but Celeste tried to ignore them as best she could. By midafternoon, someone stopped in front of her.

She knew it was Spenser by his boots.

He dropped to his knees and looked up at her. “Oh, Celeste.” His voice was tender. “How much more can they expect you to take?”

She couldn't answer—tears clogged the back of her throat, preventing her from speaking.

“Benjamin came and told me.”

She managed to ask, “How's Sary?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. I'll go by the inn next.” He pulled a small jar from his leather satchel. “I brought salve for your hands. Benjamin said you were burned too. It's from back home and has seaberry oil in it.”

Tears began flowing down Celeste's face and dripping off her chin as he carefully applied the salve to the back of her hands.

For a moment he didn't seem to know what to do, but then he dabbed at her tears with the sleeve of his shirt. “There, there. We'll get through this.” Next, he tucked her hair behind her ears and then pointed to where the whip had cut under her eye. “Does it hurt?”

“Some.”

“I'll come back with a cloth and water and try to clean it.”

“Thank you. And check on Sary, please.”

“Of course.”

But as he started to go, she called him back, asking if his writing supplies were in his satchel.

“Yes.”

“If I dictate a letter, would you write it down? To my parents? I don't want to wait any longer.”

“Right now?”

“Please.”

He seemed to hesitate, but then he sat in front of her and took out a piece of paper, a bottle of ink, a rag, and a quill. He had a small piece of wood that he put the paper on.

“Put, ‘Dear Maman and Papa, I'm writing to ask your forgiveness for being deceptive about Jonathan, for stealing the…'” her voice faltered. “‘The ring.'” She wondered what Spenser truly thought of her. “‘And for leading Berta astray. I'm sorry for the despair I know I've caused you. I don't know my future or Berta's. I will write more when I can. In the meantime, please know that I miss you and you've done nothing to deserve the way I've treated you.'”

Tears began flowing down her face again. “Your…your loving daughter, Celeste.”

When Spenser had finished, he held the paper up to dry for want of sand. “I'm sorry for all you've gone through, Celeste.”

She couldn't answer for a moment, but then she whispered, “You must think me a horrible person.”

“No. I don't. Not at all.” He met her eyes. “But I do wonder, have you asked the Lord to forgive you? And take your shame? His forgiveness is immediate. And it will give you the strength to go on.”

“Yes. I did that last night.”

“Then gather that strength. Without knowing your parents, my guess is they'll forgive you too.”

She smiled just a little, not sure they would.

“I'll
deliver this to the inn.” He folded the paper. “Mr. Edwards will make certain a trustworthy sailor takes it to London for you.”

As Celeste waited, the day grew colder and darker. She imagined the clouds gathering overhead, and a desperate loneliness swept through her. She'd felt so optimistic when she'd left the jail, so sure God would take care of her. But in one moment all was lost. Berta had been nothing but a foolish girl. She, on the other hand, had known full well that what she was doing was wrong. She'd known it when she stole the ring. She'd known it when she took off in secret.

She would ask Spenser to go check on Berta as soon as he could manage to get down to Norfolk. Thank goodness, despite the fact that Spenser was an apprentice, his kindhearted master allowed him a great deal of freedom with his time and to make up his lost hours.

As for Berta, in a sense she was in a pillory of a different sort, taken back to a household that didn't care for her with a cruel man as her master.

As good as his word, Spenser returned, carrying a small pan and a cloth.

“How is Sary?” Celeste asked as he approached.

“All right,” he answered. “Her hand is badly burned, but the physician hasn't arrived yet. Mr. Edwards is doing the cooking.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes. He tried to recruit me to help serve the meal—just a vegetable soup he managed to put together.”

Celeste wasn't surprised Mr. Edwards hadn't attempted to roast the ducks. That would have been too much of a challenge. “What's Sary doing?”

“Sitting at the table.”

“Is she speaking French to him?”

Spenser shook his head. “She's not saying a thing. In fact she's just staring into the fire.”

That didn't sound good.

“How long do I have to stay in the pillory?”

“Jones didn't say. He indicated he'd return sometime…”

She'd expected he'd be back by now.

“I'll go back and take him some soup. And perhaps there are a few leftover biscuits from this morning I can heat. Maybe that will warm him up…”

“Try to get him fed before it starts pouring. That will only make things worse.” The air smelled like rain now. It wouldn't be long.

“I will.”

“Is Matthew all right with your missing so much work?”

“I'll make it up. Don't worry about that. Right now I'll see if the physician has checked on Sary and come let you know. About Jones too.”

“Thank you, Spenser.”

The rain started soon after he left. Celeste's hair fell back against her face. The water rolled off her treated hands but soon the rest of her was soaked. She began to shiver, and as her body shook, her neck pulled against the wood, scraping against her skin. She tried to stay still, but over and over a violent shiver would overtake her. All of her muscles grew stiff and sore.

A few wagons went by. Then a trickle of people on foot, most likely passengers from the ship that had docked. Then a few handcarts pushed by sailors.

Spenser returned at last, out of breath. He knelt down in the mud in front of her again, and she raised her head as best she could to look at him. “The physician treated Sary's hand. He said you did a good job with it, but he's not sure she'll have use of it again, not enough to cook with, anyway.”

Celeste felt ill. Sary wouldn't be worth anything to Mr. Edwards, nor to Mr. Horn, without her cooking skills.

“Jones was happy for the food and said he would head this way as soon as he was finished eating.”

Celeste thanked him and then said, “You should get on home and get dry.” She hoped he would be able to work in front of a fire this evening.

“I will. But I'll wait with you until Jones returns.”

“Do you think he'll put me back in the jail?”

“He didn't say.”

Celeste sighed. “Even if he does, it will still be better than this.”

Spenser shifted closer and looked up at her with his deep brown eyes. “You'll be all right, Celeste,” he assured her. “You're stronger than you think.”

Before she could reply, two sets of legs came to a stop behind him.

“Celeste?” a man said, sounding incredulous.

Her head jerked up, only to bang against the wood. She lowered it back down, confused and disoriented. Something about that voice…

“Can I help you?” Spenser asked, standing up and brushing at his knees.

“Who are you?” the man replied.

Celeste couldn't see more than his shoes, but suddenly she knew. Without a doubt, she knew.

The voice belonged to her brother. To Emmanuel.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
WO

Maddee

N
icole's first Narcotics Anonymous meeting ended up going well. Though I could tell she was exhausted by the time we got home, she seemed in an upbeat mood. Later, once she was in bed, she asked for a piece of tape, which she used to mount her new key tag on the headboard. White with black print, the triangular plastic tag featured the word “Welcome” on the front and “Just for today” on the back. I knew the group gave out key tags for various milestones, but I'd always thought they were color coded.

“Why is it white?” I asked as I straightened her covers and helped her get comfortable. “Shouldn't it be red or purple or something?”

“The first one is always white. The international color of surrender.”

The week flew by as my sister, her caregivers, and I fell into a rhythm. Inez arrived each morning just as I was leaving for work. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she would stay until I got home in the evenings, after which I'd take Nicole to a meeting and then back home for dinner
afterward. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Inez would take Nicole to daytime meetings instead, feed her an early supper, and then stick around until Greg arrived for his evening therapy sessions. It worked out great from the start, though that first week poor Nicole ended each day so exhausted that she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

The exhaustion I could understand, but what bothered me was the pain she had to endure, especially during physical therapy. Because of the ribs, it hurt her to breathe deeply, yet that's exactly what Greg kept making her do, over and over. He even had a mean little device that required her to blow into a tube hard enough to shoot a Ping-Pong ball up a cylinder.

Wednesday, it was so difficult to watch the two of them work that I had to go outside. I spent the time sweeping the patio and wiping down my bike till it looked shiny and new, all the while distracting myself by trying to come up with a ringtone for Greg's phone number. He was an interesting guy but a little hard to peg, and the best I could think of was the line “thick brown hair and a friendly smile,” from a song by the Carolettes. I didn't love it, though, so I decided to wait. Something better would come to me as I got to know him.