Bellewether Page 14

  This family was already showing the strain of supporting them after no more than a month. If de Brassart and he had to stay through the winter, the Wildes could not manage it.

  She could not manage it.

  This morning when she’d served his breakfast she had been so tired there had been shadows underneath her eyes and when she’d sat a moment by the hearth those eyes had briefly closed—so briefly that he doubted she had even been aware of it. But he had seen.

  And when she’d moved to take his bowl he’d tried to let her know she did not need to waste her energy in serving him, he’d do it by himself.

  He’d done it badly. He had seen the crease between her eyebrows, seen her hurt confusion, and the stifled irritation that replaced it. Had he smiled, perhaps, and spoken kinder words, he might have smoothed the moment over; but the truth was, he’d been irritated, too.

  They were a burden on this family, and on her. They should not be here.

  “So you see,” de Brassart said, “this is why Captain Whitlock—”

  “Wheelock.” The captain’s correction was pleasant in tone.

  “I beg your pardon. It’s why Captain Wheelock needs this information from us. Being stubborn is a help to no one.”

  Jean-Philippe, unmoved, returned the captain’s gaze with a reflection of the same unyielding expectation, waiting.

  Captain Wheelock faintly smiled. And played a different card. From an inner pocket of his coat he drew a folded paper which he opened on its creases and consulted as though seeking to refresh his memory. “Lieutenant de Sabran is not required to tell me anything. But it would help if he would, at the very least, make me a list of the names of his men.”

  Jean-Philippe saw his own writing on the paper in the captain’s hand, and recognized the letter he had written to the governor of New York. Mr. Wilde had told the truth then, when he said that he had sent it. Leaning back, he kept his tone flat and his face impassive. “Was there not a list already made?”

  “Unfortunately not.” The corners of the captain’s mouth compressed the smallest fraction. Only briefly, but enough that Jean-Philippe knew his assessment of the captain had been accurate: a man with a decided sense of right and wrong, who disapproved when others broke the rules.

  Such men, in life and war, took one of two roads and became either intolerant or honourable.

  Jean-Philippe suspected Captain Wheelock was the latter. And seeing in the captain’s face a flicker of discomfort, he ventured to reverse their roles a moment, asking, “But you do know where they are?”

  “They will be either on Long Island, in Connecticut, or in New Jersey.” Pausing, he admitted, “They might be in all three places.”

  “But how is that possible? The terms of our capitulation at Niagara clearly said our men and officers were not to be divided.”

  “I regret to say that Governor DeLancey had not seen that paper,” said the captain, “or perhaps he would have made a different distribution. As it is, I cannot yet tell where your men have been disposed of. All the prisoners were sent away in sloops to different parts, but I shall know soon where they are by going round them.”

  Jean-Philippe did not relax his guard upon his features, but he knew his quiet anger must be showing in his eyes because the captain said, with understanding:

  “I assure you General Amherst wishes to comply with all the terms of the capitulation, and with the agreement that was signed this winter past between your king and mine, regarding treatment of all prisoners of war. The general sent me here believing I’d find you together with your men, so we could give you funds to give each man the daily fourpence he’s entitled to, with firewood and clothing. We did not expect—” He caught himself, and smoothing the frustration from his tone, said, “This is inconvenient for us both, Lieutenant. That is why I’m asking every officer I meet with here to list the soldiers under his command, so I can use these lists to bring things back into a proper order.” With the letter to the governor still held within his hand, he raised it slightly. A reminder. “I had hoped that, since you showed such a concern for your own men, you wouldn’t find this very difficult.”

  The anger simmered still, but what was done was done, and Jean-Philippe could understand that it was not the captain’s fault. He held his hand out silently and Captain Wheelock handed him the pen and moved to make space for him at the desk.

  “With their ranks as well,” the captain added, “if you can.”

  He could. He wrote the thirty-two names swiftly, firmly, signed his name below them and returned the page.

  De Brassart, when faced with the same request, wrote only two names on his list. “My second lieutenant and sergeant. Find either of them, and I warrant they’ll make you a full and complete list of all my men.”

  If any other officer had said that, Jean-Philippe might have assumed he was concealing what he knew, but with de Brassart it could only mean he did not know the names himself. “My men,” he called them, yet he did not know their names.

  He noticed Captain Wheelock made that small betraying facial movement, tightening the corners of his mouth as though he disapproved. On that at least, thought Jean-Philippe, they could agree.

  There was not much to settle after that. They had given their paroles already at New York when they had first arrived, and Captain Wheelock had the copies, so there was no further paperwork.

  De Brassart, when informed that they could go, excused himself and bowed and left the room, but Jean-Philippe stayed where he was. This was his ground, while he was on it. He would be the last to leave.

  As if he understood that, Captain Wheelock gathered up his things and rose and gave a short nod of acknowledgement. “Lieutenant.”

  Jean-Philippe stood too, aware that while this man was yet his enemy, his rank deserved respect. As did the fact they both appeared to share a common code of honour. “Captain Wheelock.”

  “Do you have sufficient money for your needs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I can advance you more.”

  “I’ve no expense but room and board, and I have funds to settle that until November.” He had done the calculations. “If we have not been exchanged by then, I will inform you what I need.”

  The captain smiled. “Perhaps your hosts will charge you less, since you seem to be paying them in labour, also.” Likely he had meant that in a friendly way, a lightly joking reference to the fact that when the captain had arrived that morning, Jean-Philippe had not been in his uniform but in his shirt-sleeves, working side by side with Monsieur Wilde. But the captain’s words, phrased like that, seemed to imply Monsieur Wilde had been taking advantage. And Jean-Philippe could not allow that.

  He said, in a tone that rejected the joke, “I am helping my host with his cider press.”

  Captain Wheelock, as though conscious of his misstep, said, “Of course.” And then, “Forgive me, I meant no offence.” He moved towards the doorway.

  Jean-Philippe frowned. “Captain.”

  “Yes?”

  Throughout their meeting, Jean-Philippe had taken care to keep his own gaze from too often drifting to the parlour window and the view it offered of the trees beside the barn, where for some time the younger brother had been climbing through the branches cutting clumps of berries to be tossed down to his sister. It was clearly an old game with them, and Jean-Philippe could not help but be jealous of the laughter she gave easily to someone else.

  He’d purposely not watched them long, in case his face betrayed his interest in her to the captain. It was never wise to let your captor see a weakness he could use against you.

  Even now he did not glance towards the parlour window, though he wanted to. “What you just said . . . ‘Forgive me, I meant no offence’ . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “How,” asked Jean-Philippe, “does one say that in English?”

  Charley

  My office was crowded this morning. Malaika had dropped by to give me some forms to fill out for the
budget, and Lara had brought me a fan—an electric one, still in its box. “It’s too hot in this room,” she’d explained. “You need air.”

  More air and light and colour was, in Lara’s world, the answer to all ailments. And in this case she was right: my office was warm.

  The sturdy window-mounted air conditioner that hummed out in the hallway did a decent job of cooling all the other upstairs rooms on our side of the house, but because my room still kept its older Colonial footprint the door was offset just enough that the air didn’t really flow through. So I’d welcomed the fan.

  I’d also suggested that, given the heat, we should probably think about moving a bookcase from my office down to the room at the end of the hall that eventually would be our archives. We didn’t have that many truly old books yet, but paper was better preserved in a cooler and drier space. And while Malaika and I had looked over the bookcases, choosing which one we should move, I had mentioned the papers that Frank had brought yesterday, and she had wanted to see them.

  And that had led sideways, as things did, to us trading theories on Lydia Wilde and her captured French officer.

  Lara said, “Parole of honour doesn’t seem like something that should even work. To have captured officers walking around and not locked up in jail is just asking for trouble.”

  I told her it was just the way they did things in those days. “Not only officers. A lot of common soldiers, too, were billeted in private homes here on Long Island. They didn’t have big prisons then, like we do now.”

  Lara still thought it sounded ridiculous.

  Lifting the fan from its box she went on, “If an officer just signs a paper that says, ‘No, I promise I’m not going to fight you until I’m exchanged,’ what’s to stop him from breaking his word?”

  “Well . . . his honour.”

  “So one day I’m killing your friends in the woods, and the next day, because I’ve just signed this thing promising not to fight, I get to live in your house, and you just let me walk around? Really?”

  “Pretty much. It worked both ways,” I said. “The British officers who ended up as prisoners in Quebec were given freedom of the city there, and got to walk around and go to dinners and to dances. It was just how they did things. It meant something then, when a man gave his word.”

  By my desk, her attention now fixed on Frank’s uncle’s collection of papers, Malaika chimed in with, “Some men. There were liars back then, same as now. Just ask my five-times-great-grandfather. He nearly died fighting Redcoats because he’d been promised that if he would fight in the place of the son of the family that held him, they’d give him his freedom. It didn’t work out that way. Speaking of which,” she said, still looking down at the papers, “didn’t Frank tell us Benjamin Wilde’s family didn’t hold slaves?”

  “That’s right.”

  Lara held up the fan. “Where do you want this?”

  “Back here in the corner, I think. You might have to unplug the lamp.”

  Taking a look she said, “No problem. It’s unplugged already.”

  Turning in my chair, I looked myself to where the lamp’s plug lay beside the baseboard, on the floor. I remembered it being there yesterday morning, too . . . but then I’d plugged it in.

  “Strange,” said Malaika. Lifting a paper from the file, she passed it to me. “Seems like someone didn’t get the memo.”

  What she’d handed me was strange, in light of what we knew—or thought we knew—about the family.

  Photocopied from a letter dated Newtown, 16th April 1754, it read in a slanting and spidery hand:

  Brother,

  I have learned of the loss of my property and will expect to receive payment from you of forty-two pounds New York money to clear this account as she was a skilled cook and not old. Violet now being twelve by my reckoning I will reclaim her but if you desire her to stay with you know that the price must be double what it was, to be paid as before 1st July each year, for she is no more a child and I would have her back or hire her to the best advantage.

  It was signed Reuben Wilde, who would have to be Zebulon Wilde’s brother. Lydia’s uncle.

  “You know what that is?” asked Malaika.

  I nodded. “It looks like a slave lease.”

  The fan clicked on, and Lara set it to oscillate. “I know I’m going to sound stupid for asking this,” she said, “but what is a slave lease?”

  Malaika explained. “Slaves were looked on as property, valued like livestock, so just like a person could rent someone’s horse if they didn’t own one of their own, they could rent someone’s slave, too. It wasn’t uncommon.”

  “It’s sad, though,” said Lara. She crossed to read over my shoulder. “Do you think Frank knows about this?”

  “I would think so,” was my guess. “Frank doesn’t miss much.”

  Malaika shrugged, elegant. “You’d be surprised what we choose not to see.”

  Lara told her, “That’s true. You know, back when I went to school we never learned about us having slaves in the north. It was all just the Underground Railroad and Lincoln, and how we were good and the south was so bad, and then I read this article on slavery in Brooklyn and it said at one time New York had more slaves than any city except Charleston. And it blew my mind. I mean,” she said, “it shouldn’t have. I should have known of course we had slaves, too. The history was all right there, if I’d just looked for it.”

  “You liked the ‘nice’ story better.” Malaika was matter-of-fact. “Most folks do. It makes them feel good.” Looking at me she said, “That’s why this might be a problem for you.”

  “Why?”

  “If you’re trying to broaden our mandate to take in the whole life of Benjamin Wilde, with his sister and all that, how much of his ‘whole life’ are you going to show?”

  I could see what she meant. If there had been slaves here in the Wilde House, there were people who wouldn’t want that to smudge their already bright image of Benjamin Wilde. But I looked at the lease in my hand and said, “All of it.”

  “Frank might not like that.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Gird your loins first,” was Malaika’s advice.

  Lara smiled. “Frank likes Charley.”

  Malaika said, “Honey, we all have our blind spots.”

  I looked up and laughed. “Thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean that.” She was laughing, too. “I just meant all of us have things we can’t or won’t see. Even Frank. He’s so proud of his family, he might not . . . well, don’t expect miracles.” Setting the open file back on my desk she rolled her shoulders, stretching them, and glanced at her cell phone. “I’ve got a showing in less than an hour. Are we moving this bookcase? No, you sit, we’ll do it,” she told me.

  I knew not to argue. I sat where I was while the two of them emptied the small metal bookcase, manoeuvred it into the hallway, and carried it down to the room we had chosen to use as our archives.

  Returning the slave lease to where it belonged, I was closing the file when the fan stopped.

  The air settled over me, heavy and thick and uncomfortably warm. Great, I thought. Brand-new fan, and it lasts for ten minutes before it breaks down.

  But that wasn’t the problem. The plug had dropped out of the outlet.

  The holes of that outlet, I reasoned, were probably too large, or too loose. But no, when I bent down to push the plug in again, the prongs fit firmly and tight. The fan started again, and I felt the quick rush of air on my face. But I felt something else, too—the cold sweep of something that lifted the hair at the back of my neck, like the brush of a hand.

  As I watched, the plug slowly, deliberately, worked its way out of the outlet again, and dropped to the floor, by the baseboard.

  • • •

  I took the stairs two at a time, going down.

  Why I went for the stairs in the first place and didn’t just go to the room where Malaika and Lara were moving the bookcase, I didn’t know. Nor did I tak
e time to analyze. Maybe it was because they were way down at the end of the hall and the stairway was closer. Or maybe it was because I knew I probably looked like I’d seen . . . well, a ghost. And until the more logical part of my brain kicked in with the reminder there were no such things as ghosts, I didn’t want to have anyone see me and ask what was wrong, because—

  “Hey.” Sam caught hold of my arms as I came barrelling around the corner at the bottom of the stairs and nearly ran him over. As he steadied me he saw my face. “What’s wrong?”

  Sam’s eyes were nice. Warm brown. Sincere. The kind you told your problems to. But not the kind you told that you’d been seeing things. I didn’t want him thinking I was crazy.

  So I forced a smile that might have fooled my mother. “Nothing’s wrong. I just came down for coffee.” Which, now that I was down here, sounded suddenly appealing.

  Sam let go of me and stepped aside as I moved to the counter, and I saw him slightly flex his shoulder.

  “Sorry for running you over,” I said.

  “That’s okay. Next time I’ll know not to come between you and coffee.”

  My smile, this time, was real. “It can be dangerous. You want some, too?”

  “Sure.”

  His boots, now entering my line of vision, were still relatively clean. He must have just arrived on site. He didn’t have the dog today.

  I asked, “Where’s Bandit?”

  “Daycare.” Then, in answer to my look, he said, “No, really. I can’t leave him on his own, he has anxiety. And there’s too much going on today to have him here.”

  There was something kind of sweet about a manly man who put his beagle into doggy daycare so it wouldn’t be alone. I told him, “You can leave him in my office anytime, you know. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

  An understatement at the moment, since I really didn’t want to be alone up in my office. The logical part of my brain was still taking its time kicking in, leaving plenty of room to imagine what might have been pushing or pulling that plug from the wall. So much so that the thump of steps coming downstairs made my shoulders tense up.