“Enter.” His appearance had changed markedly. He slouched in his chair, his wig on the desk at his elbow, port stains on his vest and coat, ink stains on his hands, and a great many paper rolls tumbling before him.
I retrieved the letter from the floor. “Mr. Roberts? I have received a letter from Jamaica. I opened it in my haste, before I realized it was addressed to you. I apologize, sir. It seems the current proprietor of Two Crowns Plantation did little other than confirm his presence there, rather than search the unscathed plantations for my mother’s whereabouts—”
“Damn!”
I stiffened. “I am deeply sorry, sir. It was a lapse of my judgment.”
“I don’t want to hear about it. Close the door as you leave, Miss Talbot.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, as a servant would do.
“Wait! Hand me that! We are saved. That’s it. We are saved! Now close the door, there. Be off. Good evening, Miss Talbot.”
I placed the letter before him. My clumsy seal popped open. When I got through the door, Mistress Roberts was at my shoulder, dressed for bed and holding a candle. “What did he say?”
“Only to close the door.”
“But what had he heard? What letter had you? Is this good or bad?”
I had no answer for her. All I knew was that it contained bad news for me. I said, “I know not, madam.” She seemed so sad that I kissed her cheek as a daughter would, and bade her good night.
CHAPTER 16
May 2, 1736
The downstairs maid found Mr. Roberts first. It was noon when she braved entry into his study though he answered not at her knock upon his door. She was to be ever thankful, she told the constable and other men who came at Betsy’s bidding, that as he swung from the beam, Providence had found it expedient that his distorted face turned toward the window rather than the door, or she might have lost her mind.
On the day Mr. Roberts was buried, spring gave way to light breezes and sunshine as golden and pleasing as a still-warm pie. There was discussion about his place of rest, but it was decided that his stature in the community deigned a consecrated plot near the church, for after all, they were not Catholics who purged those who for madness or sorrow ended their own lives. The entire town processed to the funeral.
Goody Carnegie, appearing as sound as any, greeted me with a wave and a smile of recognition.
“Good morning, Goodwife Carnegie,” I said.
“Dearie! What a fine lass you are to remember me, Miss Talbot. How nice to see you, but such a sorrowful occasion. I am grieved at your loss.”
“Thank you, Goody. How goes it with you?”
“Well enough. Well enough.” She rolled her eyes a little. “Quiet, lately.” An oriole chatter-sang overhead, perched on the edge of the church roof.
I smiled at her, seeing in myself a fondness for the poor dear, as I saw her tenderness, her brokenness. “Fair winds, then, and more quiet, for your future.”
“Why, I thank you, dearie. Now, we should get back to mourning our fellow here.”
As we stood alongside the grave and listened to prayers, robins chirruped heartily, larks and finches flittered with abandon, busy at nesting, and a black crow flew overhead, from north to south. I watched it go, rather than concentrating on the coffin below my feet. If I wast a blackbird, the song went, I would fly to the ship on which he sailed, find my love, and bow at his heel. If a blackbird could cross the sea, I prayed that one to Ma while they prayed Mr. Roberts to heaven.
*
Wallace returned and spring forced us to abandon our grief, for though we behaved with decorum, we could not deny the warmth or rousing thunderstorms or verdant fields and meadows alive with every form of life. Mistress Roberts sent for the dresser in Boston to come to their home and create a gown for Serenity. The cost would be paid on account, she said.
Serenity, Wallace, and I made it our business to go abroad in town twice a week or more, and to Boston for Serenity to have her gown fitted. That time we rode in the Spencers’ new coach. While she was thus engaged, he and I sat in the coach and he moved from his seat facing mine to the empty one next to me. Though it was the warmest day yet, he pulled down the window coverings. “We are quite alone here,” he said.
“Though much may be heard through those windows,” I ventured. “Have you proposed to Miss Roberts, yet?”
“Do not toy with me, Miss Talbot. You know my intentions.”
“I do. But does she? I trow that is her wedding gown she is fitting, and none other. She must be told. It is only right.”
He said, “Alas for her. She may not marry for at least a year, with her father so soon dead.” He smiled, took my hand and held it in his. When I made as if to take it away, he wrapped both his around mine so tenderly it made heat rise on my cheeks. “Ah. Perhaps you need some air.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Do you know my heart, Miss Talbot?”
“As it concerns Miss Roberts?”