“Of course. We shall make that our mission and purpose. First, Cole’s exchange for news of my trade investments, next the law office for some letters. Next, the harbormaster to see to Miss Talbot’s passage home, of course. Then, and most important, of course, the best dresser in Boston. None but the best for our daughter. Is that woman you went to before of good use? Does she make the best patterns? I insist you find out who among the trades creates the finest gowns, my dear.”
I knew something was afoot by all this foolish conversing over my head. They meant me to know that Wallace Spencer was taken. That they would stop at nothing for their daughter’s happiness and that the dresser they had taken me to was second-rate. One better must be found to supply Serenity’s gown. I stared out the window, and as I raised the curtain a bit more, the clouds overhead parted, sending a piercing ray of sunlight to my hand, reaching the depths of the ruby on my finger, giving me a warm rush with it. “I should think,” I began, “that your daughters are the luckiest young ladies in this colony or any other, with such tender parents as yourselves.” I turned to them and smiled, then returned to studying the landscape that traveled past us. Wallace had proclaimed his love for me. If he was true, if his heart was gold, their plans meant naught against his passion. My own love for him had blossomed these months of his absence—four now—into great longing that woke me at night with dreams of his visage before me.
The coach stopped before Peterson Cole’s storefront. His SEAMAN’S MERCANTILE shingle hung askew. A hasp and padlock closed the front doors, and the windows had been barred from the inside.
“What’s this?” Mr. Roberts exclaimed. He rattled at the door, shaking dust from its seams. “Open up, I say! Cole! Open these doors.”
Mr. Roberts paced for several minutes before the doors, but no soul approached from inside or out to do his bidding. He pounded the door with his fist, causing Mistress Roberts and I to turn surprised expressions to each other. That was the way a common man might expect entrance, not a gentleman. The commotion he had created drew attention. Two men approached wearing high beaver hats, both dressed in somber but fine apparel. “May we assist you, sir?” one of them asked.
“Mr. Cole. My shipping investor. Where is he? Why is his office closed?”
“You have not heard?”
They drew him closer to the coach, unaware that but a curtain separated their voices from Mistress Roberts and me. She grasped my hand. I tried not to breathe so as to hear it all. “Cole had pushed risky investments—”
Mr. Roberts interrupted. “All investments are at risk.”
“The ship Carapace went down in a hurricane, in sight of the Oswego Carrier. All hands lost, cargo sent to Davey Jones. The Oswego was lost coming into port. Fired upon by brigands in sight of the tower. Cole took his losses and absconded during the night last month. I’ve lost quite a sum, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Lost? All hands? And what, sir, do you know of the Moravia? She was armed as for war. Nothing or no one could take her.”
The two men kept quiet for a moment. Then one ventured, “I’m sorry, sir, but I have never heard of that vessel.”
Mr. Roberts’s voice grew tight and rose. “But you are shipping men. I can tell by the cut of your coats. You know her. The Moravia. Think, man. It’s most important.”
“Unhand me, sir. I came to offer you friendly information.”
“Yes, yes. Sorry. And Cole? You knew him?”
“Sorry to say we did. Both of us robbed by that gypsy fiend. If he is ever found he’ll swing from a gallows if he’s not tarred and feathered, first.”
The other man added, “He’s ruined four others in my acquaintance, sir.”
Mr. Roberts entered the coach, ashen-faced and trembling. His mouth dribbled as he called to the driver to make haste to the solicitor’s office. He rushed in, forgetting all propriety in seeing his wife and me through the doors. We made our own way indoors, to be seated in the anteroom for two hours while Mr. Roberts examined the lawyer and his assistants at length regarding his standings, his obligations, and his situation.
Mistress Roberts whispered to the air before her as she had done in the coach. “It seems no reason we shouldn’t go ahead to the dresser’s shop. Our appointment will be lost and I shall not be a welcome client then. He can take care of this business another day. He knew we had a most important errand today.”
I said nothing. I sensed she knew little of his business dealings, nor could she read the disharmony upon his face. When at last Mr. Roberts emerged, he looked as if he had been beaten or had consumed ale all afternoon. He swayed upon his feet, grasping desks and railings for support. He said only, “Let’s be going,” without salutation or waiting for us to proceed ahead of him.
As I reached the door, the clerk, a young man in the office with a deformed shoulder, raised a finger, blackened with ink, toward me. “Are you the Miss Talbot residing with the Roberts family? I have letters for you.” He leafed through a cubbyhole on his great desk. “Actually, one appears to be for you and one addressed through your concern to Mr. Roberts. Would you be so kind?”