money.”
“May I ask what is required of me?”
“Required?” Lutz pulls his head back in exaggerated puzzlement. “Required? Nothing but that you continually assure the commodore of the wisdom of this business and my very great regard for him.”
“I see.”
“There is the wagon now. Go.”
Charlotte stops at the door, her thoughts unformed.
“Thank you, Mr. Lutz,” she says.
Lutz comes to the door, holds it open, standing near her.
“Do not,
Mrs. Willisams,”
—he splashes a liberal dose of acid on these words—“do
not
let me hear”—his foul breath washes over her face—“that you have denied the commodore any of the favours a man might ask a woman. That would be a most dreadful mistake.”
He shuts the door.
That’s it then, Charlotte realizes. I am to service a very old master rather than a merely ugly one.
H ARPER H OUSE is the Jamaican country home of the sixth Earl of Ruffield, who now hardly visits the islands and is an old friend and associate of Walker. The pomp and ceremony of the place remind Charlotte of Lord Lafford’s house in Sussex, where she had been presented on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday. She stops short when the brown-skinned servants wave her toward the double doors and suppresses the ill thoughts of the truth she conceals and the mixed-race child she carries. Then assuming the grandest pose she can muster, she sweeps into the room where the commodore waits.
For a time after the commodore greets her, they stand together in the drawing room and sip Madeira wine. She had had the wagon ride to determine the tale she should tell, but who knew what the wheedling Lutz had said to Walker. Whatever he saw to be to his advantage, certainly. Better sail as close to the truth as possible, while steering off its sharpest rocks. She could say she now found herself to be wasting dreadfully in these tropical climes and would prefer to … ah, the rub. Prefer to what? She could hardly return to England. Indeed, there is real danger Walker might actually be acquainted with her father.
Dinner is announced. They have hardly settled into their chairs when Walker leans across to her.
“Dear Mrs. Willisams, the very kind Mr. Lutz has told me of your loss and I offer again my deepest condolences to you. Now please, you must tell me your circumstances, for I assure you I am your most attentive listener.”
She had not expected so vigorous a probe. Before she can conjure up a reply, he continues.
“Mrs. Willisams, this is no place for an Englishwoman on her own. What shall you do?”
And at that moment, and wholly to her own astonishment, Charlotte Taylor begins to weep. From weeping she falls to explaining, and from explaining to telling the truth, or as much of it as she dares. He shows no special response and raises no query. As she speaks, she regains her composure and is able to insert an innocent fiction about letters of introduction stolen at sea. When she is finished, ending with her beloved husband’s burial—he who sought to serve his King in the heavy clay of a land he never knew—there is silence.
Finally, Walker speaks.
“I don’t know of a ship returning to England this week,” he says. “But you may sail with me and then leave for England from my trading post in Nepisiguit.”
“Nepisiguit? Where is that?”
“It’s in British North America near the Gulf of the St. Lawrence, my dear. It is my small part of His Majesty’s colony of Nova Scotia. I have certain knowledge of a ship that will sail from there in early September and I will arrange that it take you home.”
She looks at the weathered face that regards her steadily and sees no trace of baseness or deceit. The commodore lifts his claret glass to his lips, sips, then sets it down.
“I confess that I can propose only this circuitous route. But you
cannot
stay here. It is intolerable that you should do so. You are not bred for such a place, as is clear to see, and there are those here who
“May I ask what is required of me?”
“Required?” Lutz pulls his head back in exaggerated puzzlement. “Required? Nothing but that you continually assure the commodore of the wisdom of this business and my very great regard for him.”
“I see.”
“There is the wagon now. Go.”
Charlotte stops at the door, her thoughts unformed.
“Thank you, Mr. Lutz,” she says.
Lutz comes to the door, holds it open, standing near her.
“Do not,
Mrs. Willisams,”
—he splashes a liberal dose of acid on these words—“do
not
let me hear”—his foul breath washes over her face—“that you have denied the commodore any of the favours a man might ask a woman. That would be a most dreadful mistake.”
He shuts the door.
That’s it then, Charlotte realizes. I am to service a very old master rather than a merely ugly one.
H ARPER H OUSE is the Jamaican country home of the sixth Earl of Ruffield, who now hardly visits the islands and is an old friend and associate of Walker. The pomp and ceremony of the place remind Charlotte of Lord Lafford’s house in Sussex, where she had been presented on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday. She stops short when the brown-skinned servants wave her toward the double doors and suppresses the ill thoughts of the truth she conceals and the mixed-race child she carries. Then assuming the grandest pose she can muster, she sweeps into the room where the commodore waits.
For a time after the commodore greets her, they stand together in the drawing room and sip Madeira wine. She had had the wagon ride to determine the tale she should tell, but who knew what the wheedling Lutz had said to Walker. Whatever he saw to be to his advantage, certainly. Better sail as close to the truth as possible, while steering off its sharpest rocks. She could say she now found herself to be wasting dreadfully in these tropical climes and would prefer to … ah, the rub. Prefer to what? She could hardly return to England. Indeed, there is real danger Walker might actually be acquainted with her father.
Dinner is announced. They have hardly settled into their chairs when Walker leans across to her.
“Dear Mrs. Willisams, the very kind Mr. Lutz has told me of your loss and I offer again my deepest condolences to you. Now please, you must tell me your circumstances, for I assure you I am your most attentive listener.”
She had not expected so vigorous a probe. Before she can conjure up a reply, he continues.
“Mrs. Willisams, this is no place for an Englishwoman on her own. What shall you do?”
And at that moment, and wholly to her own astonishment, Charlotte Taylor begins to weep. From weeping she falls to explaining, and from explaining to telling the truth, or as much of it as she dares. He shows no special response and raises no query. As she speaks, she regains her composure and is able to insert an innocent fiction about letters of introduction stolen at sea. When she is finished, ending with her beloved husband’s burial—he who sought to serve his King in the heavy clay of a land he never knew—there is silence.
Finally, Walker speaks.
“I don’t know of a ship returning to England this week,” he says. “But you may sail with me and then leave for England from my trading post in Nepisiguit.”
“Nepisiguit? Where is that?”
“It’s in British North America near the Gulf of the St. Lawrence, my dear. It is my small part of His Majesty’s colony of Nova Scotia. I have certain knowledge of a ship that will sail from there in early September and I will arrange that it take you home.”
She looks at the weathered face that regards her steadily and sees no trace of baseness or deceit. The commodore lifts his claret glass to his lips, sips, then sets it down.
“I confess that I can propose only this circuitous route. But you
cannot
stay here. It is intolerable that you should do so. You are not bred for such a place, as is clear to see, and there are those here who