Bellewether Page 13

  Lydia

  “You keep scrubbing that bowl,” Violet warned, “you’ll be wearing a hole in it.” She’d just returned to the kitchen from gathering eggs and was looking at Lydia now with a mixture of mischief and sympathy. “All that poor bowl did was hold the man’s breakfast. That’s surely no reason to punish it.”

  Lydia straightened away from the basin and grimaced. “He vexes me.”

  Wiping the wooden bowl carefully dry, she set it with the others before glancing out the window at the place beside the shed where this past week, between the days of rain and wind, her father and Mr. de Sabran had been hard at work on the cider press. Today they were aiming to finish the caulking, her father had said, since the morning so far had been dry and what clouds they could see hung far off out to sea.

  He’d seemed pleased to have help. It had left them astonished when Mr. de Sabran had set down his sword belt and shrugged off his waistcoat and, rolling the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, had set about showing her father the way to position the crossbeam between the two sides of the cider press.

  That had been all he had done that first day. With a nod he’d retreated and put on his waistcoat and picked up his sword, and exchanged a few clipped words with Mr. de Brassart, who’d seemed to be voicing a protest.

  The next morning, though, when Mr. de Sabran had returned from his walk he had stopped to observe what her father was doing, and once again taken off both sword and waistcoat and lent his assistance.

  “He knows what he’s doing,” her father had said, when he’d come in to wash before dinner that day. “He’s no carpenter, but I’ll not turn down a strong pair of hands when they’re offered.”

  Her father had meant that short comment for Joseph, but Joseph had quietly let it slide by. Lydia, keenly aware of her father’s frustration, had found herself growing increasingly grateful to Mr. de Sabran for helping him; but anytime she’d tried to act on this gratitude it had appeared to do nothing but increase the Frenchman’s impatience.

  This morning, when she’d tried to clear his empty bowl and teacup from the table, he had put her off with a short phrase in his own language and had picked them up himself and, rising, taken them across into the kitchen, to the basin, before heading out the door.

  Which was why she had spent the past ten minutes scrubbing that same cup and bowl as though to clean off any clinging trace of him.

  “He vexes me,” she said again, to Violet. “He is always so ungracious.”

  “Well, Miss Lydia,” was Violet’s calm reply, “he’s lost his freedom. Did you think that he would thank you for it?”

  Lydia heard the rebuke in those words and accepted it, ashamed she’d needed the reminder that for people like herself, who’d had the fortune to be born and raised in liberty, its loss remained a hardship that they could not hope to know.

  For years she had been ignorant of Violet’s true condition, having grown up with the understanding Violet—like her mother, Phyllis—were free blacks. They’d been paid a servant’s wage and never made to work on Sundays, and she’d known no differently until the year she’d turned eight.

  That year, the funeral of her father’s elder sister had drawn all the family back to Newtown. Well, not all, exactly—Phyllis had been left behind with Violet, and when Lydia had asked her father, “Why can’t they come with us?” she’d received the curt reply, “Because they can’t.”

  She’d been reassured by Phyllis, who’d maintained there were few places on this earth she wanted less to go than Newtown, and that being left behind on this occasion was no hardship but a blessing.

  But that hadn’t made it feel less wrong. And she’d missed having Violet to play with.

  Lydia had met her father’s brother for the first time at the funeral. He’d been only rarely talked about at home, and then but briefly, in the same pinched tones one used for speaking of unpleasant things. She’d understood why after meeting him. Uncle Reuben had been so unlike her father she’d have never known the two men were related.

  His son, her cousin Silas, had been equally unpleasant. He’d been fourteen that summer, the same age as Joseph, though Joseph had already seemed a young man in his manners and physical build, whereas Silas had looked and behaved like a child who’d been over-indulged. He’d been rude. He’d mocked their younger cousin Oliver, who stammered. He had slipped a silver spoon into his pocket at the table and, when Lydia had told him he must put it back, he’d done so with a sly smile that implied such things as theft were mere amusements. So she’d thought it only justice when, just after dinner, Benjamin had finally lost his temper and knocked Silas to the ground.

  She hadn’t heard the conversation that provoked it. She’d only seen Silas spin sideways and drop like a stone.

  They’d left shortly afterwards. And on the journey home no one had spoken at all until Benjamin finally had broken the silence. “He said when they were his, he’d sell them.”

  Without looking back, their father had replied, “They are not his. And he can make no claim to them until your uncle dies.”

  “And when that day comes,” had been their mother’s promise, “we’ll do all we can to keep Phyllis and Violet safe.”

  Lydia, sitting in silence through all of this, had absorbed gradually what they were speaking of, and what it meant. And for days after that she had lived with a heavy place deep in her heart where a piece of her innocence had been torn out and replaced with the weightier truth of the world.

  On the fourth day, her mother had taken her hand and they’d gone for a walk, through the cool of the trees to the path that led down to the edge of the cove where the tide, being in, lapped the shore with a shining, smooth surface that covered the tangle of reeds and dark rocks underneath. But she knew they were there.

  She’d reminded her mother, “You said it was wrong to own people.”

  “It is. It is wrong. More than that, it’s impossible.” Squeezing her hand very slightly, her mother had explained, “One person cannot own another, darling, for our souls belong to us and God and no one else.”

  She’d been confused. “So Uncle Reuben doesn’t own Phyllis and Violet?”

  “He can only hold their bodies as a gaoler holds a prisoner.”

  She had only vaguely understood, but she had known one thing with total certainty. “It is unfair.”

  Again her mother’s hand had tightened briefly on her own. And then she’d bent and taken off her shoes and stockings, and had done the same to Lydia. “Come, let me show you something.”

  It had been a warm day but the water had been cold enough to numb her ankles as, beside her mother, she’d stepped into it. Beneath her feet the sand had shifted, changing to accommodate her, and when she had stopped to stand, it softly sank and swirled around her heels and toes and held her like an anchor.

  Her mother, who like Lydia was standing with her skirts and apron gathered in her free hand, looking at the slowly drifting clouds above the blue horizon, had said, “When I’m feeling troubled and the weight of all my worries is a heavy thing to bear, I come down here, and in my mind I set each trouble on a wave and let it pass me by.” She’d smiled down at Lydia. “You feel them passing?”

  Lydia had felt those waves against her legs, and nodded.

  Her mother had pointed. “Look there now, which trouble will you set on that?”

  The swelling wave that moved towards them had but scarcely raised the surface of the water, but it had held darkness underneath it. “Silas,” Lydia had said. “That wave is Silas.”

  “Then let’s stand and let him pass us by. Good riddance to him.”

  But the darkness had been in the water still when that cold wave had passed, and nothing in the years between had managed to erase the threat of Uncle Reuben and her cousin Silas from their lives.

  She knew it must be worse for Violet, but she’d never felt she had the right to ask how Violet felt.

  She did not ask her now.

  She only bent her he
ad and answered, “No. You’re right. Mr. de Sabran cannot enjoy being a prisoner. Perhaps I’m the one who is being ungracious.”

  “I didn’t mean you had to treat him better,” Violet told her. Moving up she dipped her own hands in the basin and began to wash them clean. “He’s still a Frenchman. After what they did to Mr. Joseph and to—” With a sideways look at Lydia she caught the words back. “You don’t owe them kindness. I just meant he had his reasons, too, for acting like he does.” She looked where Lydia had just been looking, through the kitchen window to the cider press now taking final shape beside the shed. “At least he isn’t idle, like His Majesty.”

  As if on cue, a series of by-now familiar noises from the little chamber at the far end of the kitchen let them know Mr. de Brassart was just now awakening.

  “His Majesty,” said Lydia, dry-voiced, “will want his toast and tea.” And crossing to the hearth she swung the kettle into place above the low fire and began the preparations. She knew better than to ask Violet to do it, for if Lydia found it a challenge to mind her own manners while dealing with Mr. de Sabran, for Violet it seemed to be nearly impossible to walk the same floor as Mr. de Brassart.

  He’d made a great show of accepting her father’s reminder that Violet was not to be treated with anything less than respect, but his glances at times were so insolent Violet had come close to speaking her mind, and however sympathetic Violet might be to a person’s loss of freedom, in his case she plainly thought it justice.

  He had done himself few favours when he’d spoken up at dinner yesterday, starting badly to begin with by unwittingly asking about the one item of furniture in the whole house guaranteed to make them all fall silent.

  “That’s an interesting chair,” he’d said. “Where was it made?”

  He’d meant the chair that sat across the room, close by the window. It was curious in its construction, built upon an X-shaped frame instead of four straight legs, and with a leather seat slung lengthwise from the high back so its occupant, while well supported, did not sit completely upright. Her mother had adored that chair, since sitting very straight had caused her back to ache unbearably, and daily after dinner she had sat there with her needlework, the chair positioned just so it would sit within the light.

  They had not moved it.

  Lydia, aware the silence might stretch on forever if she did not speak herself, had said, “It is a Spanish chair. My brother Daniel sent it as a gift, from the West Indies.”

  That had roused Mr. de Brassart’s interest. “Really? From where?”

  “From Kingston, in Jamaica.”

  “He lives there, your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a brother who lives in the West Indies also,” he’d told her. “At Saint-Domingue.”

  Not knowing much about the islands or their relative positions, she had nodded in acknowledgement, content the conversation was no longer focused on her mother’s chair. Until he’d added, “He has been there for many years, my brother. I have not seen his property, but he describes it in his letters very well. He has much land and many slaves. A great estate.”

  Violet had said nothing, though from the set of her jaw it had been plain she’d wanted to. Setting the platter of vegetables down with controlled force, she’d left the room. Joseph had frowned at his plate, and their father had frowned at the table.

  But Benjamin, who never shied from confrontation, had sat forward and replied, “I should not reckon it a great estate if it was built upon the backs of others.” His most charming smile had held a sharper edge of steel. “But what do I know? I am but a farmer’s son,” he’d said, “with one foot always in the fields.”

  Mr. de Brassart had smiled, too, very slightly, on hearing his words spoken back to him. Settling back in his chair he’d eyed Benjamin as any gamesman might eye a new challenger. “What is your own brother’s business,” he’d asked, “in Jamaica?”

  Lydia had answered him, her tone cool as water poured over two dogs who’d been circling to fight. “He’s the factor for our eldest brother’s firm.”

  When she’d spoken, Mr. de Sabran’s gaze had lifted with what might have been either interest or watchfulness, fixing on her face before moving on to de Brassart’s as that man’s attention swung back to her.

  Mr. de Brassart had said, “You have many brothers, mademoiselle.”

  “I have four.”

  “Ah. Two here, and one in Jamaica, and the other . . . ?”

  “Is a merchant in New York.”

  “I see. He gathers merchandise and sends it to Jamaica, yes? And brings back from Jamaica things to sell here in New York? I should image he brings sugar, does he not? And indigo? And are these not produced by slaves? So then he also builds his business on the backs of others.”

  His logic had left no room for an argument, but Lydia had been aware of Benjamin beside her drawing breath to argue anyway, and so she had once more diverted him by asking him to pass the plate of vegetables, and used that action to lead into a discussion of which foods Mr. de Brassart had found curious and new when he’d first come across from France, and which had been familiar. Through their talk of corn and cucumbers, she’d seen Mr. de Sabran looking on with an expression that could only be described as disapproving.

  And he’d worn that very same expression earlier this morning, when he’d spoken to her shortly and then stood himself to clear away his breakfast dishes.

  Lydia, remembering that now, was frowning as she stirred the fire on the hearth. “It’s been four weeks. Let’s hope they won’t be here with us much longer. With so many taken prisoner, the governor must surely be arranging an exchange.”

  Violet said, “I don’t know about that. Mr. Fisher was saying last Sunday that one of the officers billeted over at Newtown had been here five years.”

  That made Lydia turn in dismay. “Five years?”

  “That’s what he said. Since the start of the war.”

  “Oh, I pray that won’t happen to us.” She would never be able to have these men here for five years, as a constant reminder of—

  “God must be listening.” Violet’s words held a dry humour. Beckoning Lydia back to the window she pointed past Lydia’s father and Mr. de Sabran, at work on the cider press, to the bright flash of a scarlet coat showing against the deep green of the trees, at the height of a soldier approaching on horseback. “Best put more water to boil in that kettle,” she said. “We have company coming.”

  Jean-Philippe

  De Brassart was an idiot.

  If Jean-Philippe had not been well aware of that already, he’d have come to that conclusion from just sitting here the past half hour and watching how the Frenchman interacted with the English captain. Fair enough, the English captain had so far been friendly; but an enemy, no matter how he smiled, was still an enemy.

  The captain’s choice to meet them in the room the Wildes called the “parlour,” with its calm blue painted walls and silver sconces and the patient, homely ticking of the wood-cased clock, had plainly been designed to make them feel at ease and comfortable. More likely to converse.

  That Jean-Philippe felt neither comfortable nor at his ease was not for want of effort by the captain, who had taken care to sit, not stand above them, and addressed them in near-perfect French with scarcely any accent. He was older than the other two men by perhaps ten years, of middle height and with the kind of build that did not alter much with age but stayed forever lean and upright. His face was lean as well and there was nothing in his features that a man might find remarkable. His whole demeanour, like his voice, was even and straightforward.

  Yet Jean-Philippe did not relax his guard.

  In such a situation it was best to chart a neutral course and keep his face expressionless and not betray his comrades or their cause—a lesson that de Brassart had not learned, it seemed, in France.

  “No, there were only four,” de Brassart said now, listing off which regiments had been at Fort Niagara: “The La Sa
rre—that is my own, of course—the Bearne, the Royal Roussillon, and the Guyenne.”

  The captain, sitting at Monsieur Wilde’s desk, dipped his pen in ink again and made a note of this. He had a tidy, careful hand. A man not unaccustomed to the art of writing. Jean-Philippe could picture him more easily in some dim office than upon a battlefield; although there, too, he would be careful. Someone who obeyed whatever orders he’d been given.

  Such a man, when on your own side, was an asset. But he was not on their side.

  The captain asked de Brassart, “And the Troupes de la Marine? How many companies were there?”

  “That I would not know. You’d have to ask Lieutenant de Sabran.”

  The captain turned his head and looked at Jean-Philippe expectantly. Politely.

  Jean-Philippe said nothing.

  Privately, he felt glad he had chosen Monsieur Wilde’s tall chair to sit in, since the angle of its back and arms allowed him to sit very straight while masking any tension in his body. He held himself as stoically as if he had been on parade, conserving all his energy in silence.

  For an instant he saw something in the captain’s eyes that might have been respect.

  De Brassart said, “Oh, come now, answer the man’s question. He can hardly be expected to arrange for an exchange of prisoners if he doesn’t know our number.” He looked to the captain with confidence. “There will be an exchange soon, will there not?”

  “I believe General Amherst expects there to be one before he breaks camp for the winter.”

  As answers went, thought Jean-Philippe, that one took care to promise nothing. Which was fair. Negotiations between General Amherst and the Marquis de Montcalm—their own commander—would be slow. The couriers would have to take their letters across Lake Champlain and up along the forest trails and then by boat again down the St. Lawrence River to Quebec, and then return with the reply. It would take time. Meanwhile, the fighting season would be finished in a month or so, the soldiers on both sides retreating to their winter quarters. If there hadn’t been a prisoner exchange arranged by then, he might be stuck here till the armies reassembled in the spring. And that would be a problem—for himself, and for the Wildes.