I could not tell him August Talbot was gone to be a vagabond privateer and might be long dead, too. “He went to sea,” I said. “I know not.”
Mr. Charlesworth’s expression mimicked the sinking of my heart. I saw then that he was quite young, little older than I. “Oh,” he said. “If he could be found, there is a chance, with a suit against the king’s exchequer, not with a great possibility to win, mind you, but perhaps possession could be returned. I think Mr. Foulke would advise you to go on with your life and give that property up to the hands of Providence.”
“Going home to Two Crowns Plantation is all I have lived for, for six years. My mother is there.”
“The plantation is not, however, in her possession.”
“How much would a suit cost against the exchequer?”
“Several hundred pounds.”
My shoulders slumped and I turned away. I saw in my mind’s eye Wallace reading that letter again, my imagination renewing the memory as if it had occurred in broad daylight rather than a smoky seaside tavern. I had told him of my past and he had shuddered. I had shown him the letter about my future and he had left me. Had his love been for me or for an estate in the West Indies? I turned to Daniel Charlesworth’s open, kind face and knew. Wallace had desired my dower more than my lips. I tried to still them from trembling. “You are so kind to have helped me, Mr. Charlesworth.”
He smiled, and an endearing kindness glowed in his eyes. “Not at all. Please come back if you decide to pursue the suit.”
“I shall. Thank you.”
After another hour of walking, I was back at the reeking wharves, piers, and noise of the seaside. Was it my fate to be as wanton and depraved as Patey? As Christine? Wandering the wharves begging a coin? In that hour, I had laid out the events surrounding these letters again and again, and saw clearly that Mr. Roberts had expected I would have money, an estate, parents to whom he could apply for remuneration of my expenses at least, perhaps even a way out of his debt if my father were a peer of the realm. When I had approached him with the epistle, his hopes were dashed with that word “escheat,” as were mine. He took off his dressing gown sash and stepped off his desk into eternity.
I walked into one harbormaster’s billet after another, leaving note after note on paper torn from the letter and nailed to the wall, stating, “August Talbot. I am in Lexington. Resolute.”
CHAPTER 17
June 16, 1736
I inquired of every person with a chaise or wagon I could stop, whether they might be on their way to Lexington. A man driving a small cart with a woman on the seat beside him offered to carry me across the Neck to Mistick, sitting upon sacks of oysters. Three shillings.
“Two,” I said. “It is all I have left.” It was an easy lie. If they knew I had more it would cost more.
“If all you have is two shillings, why do you want to go to Mistick? Why don’t you just throw yourself into the sea?” the woman asked, and laughed.
The man said, “Oh, leave her alone, woman. We don’t want to go to Mistick, either. I have to take those oysters in the cart to sell. I hate the things, meself. You can ride for two shillings, then. We are going to Lexington, only my woman there meant to hold you up for another shilling, you being dressed so fine.”
“I would it were possible. I could give you another penny, if you would like.”
“We would like, your highness,” the woman said, and cackled. She had no teeth at all. “Pass it over.”
I climbed upon the sacks of shellfish and handed her a penny. A distant thunderstorm lit up the sky in random sheets of lightning accompanied by the sound of heaven itself tearing open. We reached the Lexington-to-Concord lane as it began to sprinkle. “It will be good for the oysters but not for the horse,” the man said. By the time we made the town limits, the rain was fast upon us. In its wailing winds, I heard Goody Carnegie howling. The man and the woman crossed themselves several times and began saying Our Father aloud. I thought, Catholics in this Protestant place. They would not show their real selves without a great deal of fear. When I tried to tell them not to be afraid of poor Goody, they looked on me as if I were mad, too.
“Why are you not afeard?” the man demanded. “Are you a witch?”
“I told you never to pick up a stranger!” the woman said, and beat him three good whacks about the head.
I was wet to the skin, exhausted, abandoned, and terrified. I held by my promise to myself to be honest and in control of my mouth but I had no reason to curb my bravery. I said, “What is there to be afraid of? It is a storm. More I should be afraid to be in the hands of strangers. You make the signs of papists and I know what dangers lurk there.” At that moment a woman’s moan split the air and was followed by a clap of thunder that made their horse bolt and fart and nearly jarred me from my seat.
“Do you not hear the cries of the madwoman?” the man asked, shaking his horsewhip at me.