“Of course,” I said. The letters in my hands charged the air as if lightning had struck nearby. “Would you pardon my haste in reading them immediately, sir?”
He smiled at the use of “sir” and nodded, pointing with his good right arm to a small chair. I had barely sat when I tore loose the wax seal. The salutation concerned all the typical “most gracious majesty’s servant,” and I brushed through that with my eyes, looking for word of my mother. Then I had to go back and read it again, for nothing in the heart of the letter was from her or about her at all. This was from the king’s solicitor, now master of Two Crowns Plantation among six others in the West Indies, and concerned fighting off French and Dutch usurpers who would steal the land, and in the last phrase of the last sentence, “due to the inconvenient loss of His Majesty Charles the II’s previous conservator, the Right Honorable Allan Talbot.” Inconvenient? How the loss of my pa was inconvenient to the king troubled me not at all. Where was my mother? What of her escape? Had she found help among other plantation owners? Had he not looked or inquired of all the great houses in the parish? I slipped the seal of the other letter, and holding them side by side, at first they appeared identical, naught but the address was different. The one addressed to Mr. Roberts explained more than mine did, but it was significant, in that “with all souls lost” and “the difficulty in defending the separate plantations from villainy, the plantation would escheat to the Crown. No compensation would be made to any claim on behalf of heirs.”
The coachman rapped at the doorjamb. “Miss Talbot? Mr. Roberts insists you make haste.”
“Oh, indeed,” I said, and followed him, having to bow under his upheld cloak. I climbed in, the close dampness adding to the crushed feeling in my heart. Mr. Roberts’s face was so deep scarlet he seemed to be emanating steam from the damp curls of his wig. Mistress Roberts appeared concerned but confused. I bowed my head to be within my own thoughts, hiding my eyes behind the rim of my bonnet as the coach moved.
Mistress Roberts, after a great deal of throat clearing and fluttering behind a handkerchief, said, “May we continue to the dresser’s, then?”
His answer was as much in sputter as it was in words. “What—of course—it cannot be—we are finished—this day—oh rue it. No.”
Her face wore her disappointment as would a child’s. In silence we rode for near an hour. I was not sure when I began to weep, but tears coursed my face freely, thinking of Jamaica. Of Ma. Of Pa and August. Patey. I raised my head to catch my breath and upon seeing me so encumbered with grief, Mr. Roberts himself burst into tears, sobbing and sighing. Perhaps he thought my grief was for his misfortune, though I knew it not fully, only that something had gone wrong with his shipping plans. Mistress Roberts wept also. When we arrived at their home, Mr. Roberts spoke to his wife as if she were a servant, saying, “Bring me port. Plenty of it. I must think.” Then he closed himself in his study room, and while the rest of us supped, he called for another bottle of port.
Serenity and Portia chattered about Wallace, upset that their mother had not returned with samples of silks for a gown. I decided I must write another letter. I must inquire, perhaps through that solicitor, to the other great houses, and find to which my mother had retreated. I read the letters again at my dressing table. I should deliver the letter to Mr. Roberts, as that had been my intention before curiosity overtook me. “I opened it!” I said, startled at myself. The sealing wax was broken, half of it gone. Not enough remained to reseal it. There was no way to conceal that I had read it. The wax was still present on my letter, having been applied so that the bulk of it remained when I pulled the sheet open. I pried it loose with my fingernail, and holding it between two fingers over the candle flame, softened the back of it. Soon my fingers blistered, and I dropped the dab of wax. “Oh, la!” Now it was deformed and stuck to the table.
With a metal fingernail tool, I lifted it again and passed it over the flame, setting it on the ruddy place where the previous seal had been. It looked preposterous but it was sealed, drips marring the outer appearance so the whole thing seemed splattered by someone too unfamiliar with the task to be allowed in the king’s service. Mr. Roberts, in his current state, might not notice. I would explain that in my excitement I had opened the wrong letter first. As I slipped the letter under the closed door of his study, I felt a great tug. I had betrayed my promise to myself not to be false. I tapped on the door.