waters beyond the dock where the wagons wait.
There is a flurry of activity. A small craft has been lowered to the water from the schooner. It rows slowly to the pier, and when it is secured a man dressed in the plumes of a naval officer steps out in the company of other, clearly subordinate men. Even as Lutz’s face is contorted with warring expressions of greed and awe, Charlotte’s face remains a mask. Behind it, her heart sinks. Commodore George Walker is an old man. What else had she imagined? She’d imagined, as she now realizes, that she might cast a spell and make a young heart beat fast enough to spirit her away from this sweltering stew. The commodore and his party advance toward them, and even at ten yards Charlotte sees the sort of seasoned features that suggest their owner’s ample powers of insight into her own shallow scheming.
The introductions are formal. Lutz dances from foot to foot in ill-disguised eagerness. Charlotte is introduced as his assistant. A mercy, she thinks, and better than whore, which I shall probably be if I don’t get away from here.
Walker is styled by his aide as Commodore George Walker, Esquire, Late Commander of the Royal Family Privateers, Justice of the Peace for the County of Halifax in the Province of Nova Scotia and proprietor of Nepisiguit. He is a man of moderate height with fine, ruddy features, blue eyes and thick white hair. Charlotte drops a half-curtsy and nods her head. As though she is suddenly transported into the presence of her own family, her shame is intense. Walker shows little concern for her and she tries to melt into invisibility. As the party walks the length of the docks, pausing here and there to make observations and comments on the facilities, the main topic is the cargo and the need to offload and reload without delay.
Charlotte is absorbed in her own lament about the opportunity she sees slipping away. She hadn’t been listening to the discourse between the two men so when she hears her name she’s jolted back to attention.
“Mrs. Willisams?” It is the aide. “Might the commodore then have the pleasure of your company at dinner?”
She looks at the man with astonishment and sees that Walker and Lutz have walked on ahead.
“Dinner?”
“This evening. At Harper House.”
“Of course,” she replies. “Please inform the commodore that nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
The young man returns to the main party, and Charlotte hurries to join them. They then walk to the carriage that would carry the commodore and Lutz to the commodore’s lodgings. The wagon that is to take Charlotte back to the plantation draws up. At this moment, Commodore Walker breaks off and approaches her.
“Mrs. Willisams,” he says, “I wish to express my deepest condolences.” His voice is surprisingly light and pleasantly tinted with his Scots brogue.
“Thank you, commodore.”
“And thank
you
for consenting to join us this evening. I regret that Mr. Lutz will not be able to be there.”
“How unfortunate.”
Her heart is racing, her mind spinning. The wagon bounces along the rain-rutted path. What was at work in Lutz’s porcine brain? Did he imagine she would give herself to him in return for passage? Curious, because he might easily—however regrettably—have anticipated obtaining such favours if she was trapped here.
S HORTLY AFTER DARK, she is summoned to the house. She finds Lutz pacing in the main hall, his face transfigured by satisfaction.
“A great business, woman. A great business.”
“Why do you not join us, Mr. Lutz?”
“Me? What could I do but interfere? We have done good business here and much more to come. And you, Mrs. Willisams, life will go better for you, I can tell you that.”
“In what way, Mr. Lutz?”
“I’ll see to it that you have a better house here. Tomorrow, you’ll take the Roberts house. That drunk and his whore have no place on this plantation. You’ll have his place, you will. And
There is a flurry of activity. A small craft has been lowered to the water from the schooner. It rows slowly to the pier, and when it is secured a man dressed in the plumes of a naval officer steps out in the company of other, clearly subordinate men. Even as Lutz’s face is contorted with warring expressions of greed and awe, Charlotte’s face remains a mask. Behind it, her heart sinks. Commodore George Walker is an old man. What else had she imagined? She’d imagined, as she now realizes, that she might cast a spell and make a young heart beat fast enough to spirit her away from this sweltering stew. The commodore and his party advance toward them, and even at ten yards Charlotte sees the sort of seasoned features that suggest their owner’s ample powers of insight into her own shallow scheming.
The introductions are formal. Lutz dances from foot to foot in ill-disguised eagerness. Charlotte is introduced as his assistant. A mercy, she thinks, and better than whore, which I shall probably be if I don’t get away from here.
Walker is styled by his aide as Commodore George Walker, Esquire, Late Commander of the Royal Family Privateers, Justice of the Peace for the County of Halifax in the Province of Nova Scotia and proprietor of Nepisiguit. He is a man of moderate height with fine, ruddy features, blue eyes and thick white hair. Charlotte drops a half-curtsy and nods her head. As though she is suddenly transported into the presence of her own family, her shame is intense. Walker shows little concern for her and she tries to melt into invisibility. As the party walks the length of the docks, pausing here and there to make observations and comments on the facilities, the main topic is the cargo and the need to offload and reload without delay.
Charlotte is absorbed in her own lament about the opportunity she sees slipping away. She hadn’t been listening to the discourse between the two men so when she hears her name she’s jolted back to attention.
“Mrs. Willisams?” It is the aide. “Might the commodore then have the pleasure of your company at dinner?”
She looks at the man with astonishment and sees that Walker and Lutz have walked on ahead.
“Dinner?”
“This evening. At Harper House.”
“Of course,” she replies. “Please inform the commodore that nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
The young man returns to the main party, and Charlotte hurries to join them. They then walk to the carriage that would carry the commodore and Lutz to the commodore’s lodgings. The wagon that is to take Charlotte back to the plantation draws up. At this moment, Commodore Walker breaks off and approaches her.
“Mrs. Willisams,” he says, “I wish to express my deepest condolences.” His voice is surprisingly light and pleasantly tinted with his Scots brogue.
“Thank you, commodore.”
“And thank
you
for consenting to join us this evening. I regret that Mr. Lutz will not be able to be there.”
“How unfortunate.”
Her heart is racing, her mind spinning. The wagon bounces along the rain-rutted path. What was at work in Lutz’s porcine brain? Did he imagine she would give herself to him in return for passage? Curious, because he might easily—however regrettably—have anticipated obtaining such favours if she was trapped here.
S HORTLY AFTER DARK, she is summoned to the house. She finds Lutz pacing in the main hall, his face transfigured by satisfaction.
“A great business, woman. A great business.”
“Why do you not join us, Mr. Lutz?”
“Me? What could I do but interfere? We have done good business here and much more to come. And you, Mrs. Willisams, life will go better for you, I can tell you that.”
“In what way, Mr. Lutz?”
“I’ll see to it that you have a better house here. Tomorrow, you’ll take the Roberts house. That drunk and his whore have no place on this plantation. You’ll have his place, you will. And
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