The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor Page 5

  “There’ll be no talk of yellow fever,” Lutz growls. “Nor any manner of invitation to bring the man back here.”

  One of the younger men flips his hand in a nervous gesture.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Lutz, but I for one am happy to go. No need for you to trouble yourself, sir.”

  Lutz makes an expression of mock horror.

  “You’ll go, will you, Peterson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll go in my stead, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. If I can be of help, sir.”

  Lutz lowers his voice. “Who asked you to do anything but what you’re told?”

  Peterson shrinks back and Charlotte puts down her quill.

  “The Commodore George Walker is as gallant a sea captain and as notorious an English privateer as this ocean has seen in many a lifetime. He’s fought the Greek and fought the Turk and fought the Spanish dog—fought pirates off every coast between here and the Mediterranean, which, Peterson, is a sea far away.” Lutz’s face is reddened with the passion of his admiration. “Commodore Walker sends his ships here for their cargos—molasses and rum—because he himself has much important business elsewhere. But this time, Commodore Walker—the Commodore Walker—is making the voyage himself. Why is he doing so? On account of my crop—that’s his reason. And I can tell you gentlemen in strictest confidence that Commodore Walker means to take on a portion of the cane and try his hand at the sugar-refining business. And I doubt not but that he will do very well!”

  He pauses to allow the enormity of his words to sink into his subordinates’ minds. Charlotte, on the other hand, wonders why a man who could be represented in such a light might make business with Lutz. Walker, a captain of merchant vessels out of London, might be a man not unlike her own father: stern, shrewd, unforgiving.

  In fact, she wonders if he could possibly be acquainted with her father. Lutz says Walker operates a trading post in a place called Nepisiguit in British North America. The outpost was financed first by one Hugh Baillie and now by a John Schollbred, both from London. Charlotte is certain she’s heard both those names before and wonders if they are financiers who visited her father at their home. Lutz explains, “The trading post is in the middle of nowhere, the vast northeast where winter consumes much of the year—but people say it is well-finished and flourishing on a trade of fur and timber.”

  The middle of nowhere, Charlotte imagines, an undiscovered place where a woman can shed the past and seek obscurity—perhaps. But what of the cold and wild beasts Captain Skinner had described.

  “Tell me more about this Nepisiguit,” she asks Lutz, who is willing to oblige.

  “It’s a tough-minded breed of men who settle in those parts. They fight the climate all the year—to prevent freezing to death in the winter and starving to death when the food runs out. It’s not a place I would frequent. But there are opportunities in that northern land. There’s money to be made and land to be had. I reckon there are shiploads of dissidents and eccentrics who seek their fortune in that desolate wilderness.”

  “I want to go with you to the docks to meet your Commodore Walker,” Charlotte announces. The scheming Lutz conjures up the scene—an attractive, young British widow by his side like his own bit of bounty when he offers his salutation to the commodore. “You will be welcome,” he tells her.

  The rest of the day is filled with hurried preparations. The sugar cane is loaded on the wagons, along with the molasses and rum barrels. She understands from the women in the house that it is unusual to ship raw cane. But the details interest her not in the least. The warehouses are readied for the fine lumber Walker promised Lutz he would bring; beauteous pieces of wood Lutz can sell in town for a fine price. “This will be a grand trade,” Lutz tells Charlotte.

  The trade will be more than lumber and cane, she thinks. Although another voyage by sea is a loathsome concept, the greater concern is making sure she sails away with the commodore.

  Back in the cottage at nightfall, Charlotte considers her plan. Should she tell the commodore the truth? That she ran away from her father’s home, that she was not married, that she’s pregnant? No, that would be folly. He’d leave her behind to wallow in the pitiful condition she’d found herself in. The widow Willisams, bereft after leaving the hearth of her kin to come to the colony with her new husband to serve the King—that would be better. She could tell him the northern clime he comes from is more to her liking, or is there more she can offer? Reading and writing are skills that won the favour of Lutz. Could that be employed again? And her father, how will he factor into this bargain? If he is known to Walker, her plan could be foiled. Charlotte lies down on the bed covered with musty straw and considers her next step. The combination of grief, fatigue and the need for secrecy and cleverness overcome her and the next thing she knows, it’s dawn. She decides the course she will take. The trunk that was hardly unpacked is secured for moving when the time is right. The incoming tide will bring her salvation.

  SHE SETTLES on the carriage bench beside the repulsive Lutz for the ride to the dock. The distance is shorter than what she recalls from her journey just eleven days ago. The horses move unwillingly in the morning heat. Charlotte wishes she had a parasol to shield her face and shade her body. She lifts her shawl over her head, trying not to disturb the pins and combs she’s arranged in her hair. The dock comes into sight, the vagabonds are there as before, masters shouting orders. And out in the channel she sees a ship anchored in the turquoise waters beyond the dock where the wagons wait.

  There is a flurry of activity. A small craft has been lowered to the water from the schooner. It rows slowly to the pier, and when it is secured a man dressed in the plumes of a naval officer steps out in the company of other, clearly subordinate men. Even as Lutz’s face is contorted with warring expressions of greed and awe, Charlotte’s face remains a mask. Behind it, her heart sinks. Commodore George Walker is an old man. What else had she imagined? She’d imagined, as she now realizes, that she might cast a spell and make a young heart beat fast enough to spirit her away from this sweltering stew. The commodore and his party advance toward them, and even at ten yards Charlotte sees the sort of seasoned features that suggest their owner’s ample powers of insight into her own shallow scheming.

  The introductions are formal. Lutz dances from foot to foot in ill-disguised eagerness. Charlotte is introduced as his assistant. A mercy, she thinks, and better than whore, which I shall probably be if I don’t get away from here.

  Walker is styled by his aide as Commodore George Walker, Esquire, Late Commander of the Royal Family Privateers, Justice of the Peace for the County of Halifax in the Province of Nova Scotia and proprietor of Nepisiguit. He is a man of moderate height with fine, ruddy features, blue eyes and thick white hair. Charlotte drops a half-curtsy and nods her head. As though she is suddenly transported into the presence of her own family, her shame is intense. Walker shows little concern for her and she tries to melt into invisibility. As the party walks the length of the docks, pausing here and there to make observations and comments on the facilities, the main topic is the cargo and the need to offload and reload without delay.

  Charlotte is absorbed in her own lament about the opportunity she sees slipping away. She hadn’t been listening to the discourse between the two men so when she hears her name she’s jolted back to attention.

  “Mrs. Willisams?” It is the aide. “Might the commodore then have the pleasure of your company at dinner?”

  She looks at the man with astonishment and sees that Walker and Lutz have walked on ahead.

  “Dinner?”

  “This evening. At Harper House.”

  “Of course,” she replies. “Please inform the commodore that nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

  The young man returns to the main party, and Charlotte hurries to join them. They then walk to the carriage that would carry the commodore and Lutz to the commodore’s lodgings. The wagon that is to take Charlotte back t
o the plantation draws up. At this moment, Commodore Walker breaks off and approaches her.

  “Mrs. Willisams,” he says, “I wish to express my deepest condolences.” His voice is surprisingly light and pleasantly tinted with his Scots brogue.

  “Thank you, commodore.”

  “And thank you for consenting to join us this evening. I regret that Mr. Lutz will not be able to be there.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  Her heart is racing, her mind spinning. The wagon bounces along the rain-rutted path. What was at work in Lutz’s porcine brain? Did he imagine she would give herself to him in return for passage? Curious, because he might easily—however regrettably—have anticipated obtaining such favours if she was trapped here.

  SHORTLY AFTER DARK, she is summoned to the house. She finds Lutz pacing in the main hall, his face transfigured by satisfaction.

  “A great business, woman. A great business.”

  “Why do you not join us, Mr. Lutz?”

  “Me? What could I do but interfere? We have done good business here and much more to come. And you, Mrs. Willisams, life will go better for you, I can tell you that.”

  “In what way, Mr. Lutz?”

  “I’ll see to it that you have a better house here. Tomorrow, you’ll take the Roberts house. That drunk and his whore have no place on this plantation. You’ll have his place, you will. And money.”

  “May I ask what is required of me?”

  “Required?” Lutz pulls his head back in exaggerated puzzlement. “Required? Nothing but that you continually assure the commodore of the wisdom of this business and my very great regard for him.”

  “I see.”

  “There is the wagon now. Go.”

  Charlotte stops at the door, her thoughts unformed.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lutz,” she says.

  Lutz comes to the door, holds it open, standing near her.

  “Do not, Mrs. Willisams,”—he splashes a liberal dose of acid on these words—“do not let me hear”—his foul breath washes over her face—“that you have denied the commodore any of the favours a man might ask a woman. That would be a most dreadful mistake.”

  He shuts the door.

  That’s it then, Charlotte realizes. I am to service a very old master rather than a merely ugly one.

  HARPER HOUSE is the Jamaican country home of the sixth Earl of Ruffield, who now hardly visits the islands and is an old friend and associate of Walker. The pomp and ceremony of the place remind Charlotte of Lord Lafford’s house in Sussex, where she had been presented on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday. She stops short when the brown-skinned servants wave her toward the double doors and suppresses the ill thoughts of the truth she conceals and the mixed-race child she carries. Then assuming the grandest pose she can muster, she sweeps into the room where the commodore waits.

  For a time after the commodore greets her, they stand together in the drawing room and sip Madeira wine. She had had the wagon ride to determine the tale she should tell, but who knew what the wheedling Lutz had said to Walker. Whatever he saw to be to his advantage, certainly. Better sail as close to the truth as possible, while steering off its sharpest rocks. She could say she now found herself to be wasting dreadfully in these tropical climes and would prefer to … ah, the rub. Prefer to what? She could hardly return to England. Indeed, there is real danger Walker might actually be acquainted with her father.

  Dinner is announced. They have hardly settled into their chairs when Walker leans across to her.

  “Dear Mrs. Willisams, the very kind Mr. Lutz has told me of your loss and I offer again my deepest condolences to you. Now please, you must tell me your circumstances, for I assure you I am your most attentive listener.”

  She had not expected so vigorous a probe. Before she can conjure up a reply, he continues.

  “Mrs. Willisams, this is no place for an Englishwoman on her own. What shall you do?”

  And at that moment, and wholly to her own astonishment, Charlotte Taylor begins to weep. From weeping she falls to explaining, and from explaining to telling the truth, or as much of it as she dares. He shows no special response and raises no query. As she speaks, she regains her composure and is able to insert an innocent fiction about letters of introduction stolen at sea. When she is finished, ending with her beloved husband’s burial—he who sought to serve his King in the heavy clay of a land he never knew—there is silence.

  Finally, Walker speaks.

  “I don’t know of a ship returning to England this week,” he says. “But you may sail with me and then leave for England from my trading post in Nepisiguit.”

  “Nepisiguit? Where is that?”

  “It’s in British North America near the Gulf of the St. Lawrence, my dear. It is my small part of His Majesty’s colony of Nova Scotia. I have certain knowledge of a ship that will sail from there in early September and I will arrange that it take you home.”

  She looks at the weathered face that regards her steadily and sees no trace of baseness or deceit. The commodore lifts his claret glass to his lips, sips, then sets it down.

  “I confess that I can propose only this circuitous route. But you cannot stay here. It is intolerable that you should do so. You are not bred for such a place, as is clear to see, and there are those here who would willingly take advantage of your innocence. I intend to raise anchor as soon as the cargo is stored and the tide is high. That will be early tomorrow morning. If this is agreeable to you, Mrs. Willisams, please do leave all arrangements to me.”

  And that is the end of the discussion about her departure. Throughout the rest of the meal, the commodore entertains his guest with stories of his first voyages to the West Indies. He tells her how he had sometimes thrived and sometimes not as he traded in those changeable waters. Indeed, the islands had new owners so often, he had felt compelled to inspect the flag in every harbour to know whether he would enjoy the welcome of Britain, France or Spain—countries not always in perfect agreement. At some point, as he pours her port, she is cognizant of the fact that, save the stories of events long past, he had spoken not a word on his own personal account.

  “You have not mentioned your family, commodore. How you must miss them, at sea so often.”

  He looks at her a long moment, but his expression is opaque.

  “I am a widower, madam,” he says. “And childless.”

  She is without a reply. How could she express condolence for his loss without appearing condescending in respect to his childless state? He might, perhaps, have preferred to remain childless. As indeed, at this moment, did Charlotte.

  At the door he kisses her hand and again Charlotte feels a surge of emotion. Her suspicion and plotting had been undone by a gracious man’s simple kindness. Then a servant leads her not to Lutz’s plain wagon, which had been dismissed, but to the commodore’s own carriage.

  As she draws into the village, Lutz is leaning in a chair against the front of his house, a mug in one hand, his pipe in the other and a bottle at his side. A single lantern burns overhead.

  “Was the dinner to your liking?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly he’s upon her. Grabbing her arm in a viselike grip, steering her into his office, slamming the door behind them. He pushes her into a chair and stands before her as though she’s on trial.

  Lutz snorts. “And what of our good commodore? Did he meet with success?”

  “I understand you have made good business together.”

  “Hmm. But did he meet with success here, in the petticoats?”

  “Mr. Lutz?”

  He steps toward her.

  “I think he did,” he slurs. “Or God help you.”

  “I’ve done nothing to displease the commodore. I ask you to leave me alone.”

  “We have made a bargain,” says Lutz, “and now I’ll have you!”

  “You will not!”

  He stands a moment, breathing heavily.

  “If you will not give over, I’ll be
at you—and you should know—I’ve beat many before you.”

  Charlotte sees the lust and anger and drink combined in the man’s already cankered countenance.

  “Mr. Lutz,” she says, grasping at a tone and subject that might reach him. “If you were to beat me or take me against my will tonight, word must reach Commodore Walker. It would spell the destruction of the trade you do now with the commodore and all you hope to do. Do not let the drink destroy all you’ve done.”

  He stares at her in the carefully balancing manner of a drunk. Finally he says, “You will lay with me when he’s gone, woman.”

  Buying herself what time she can she replies, “I owe much to you, Mr. Lutz.”

  “Damn you do too! You owe me a great deal!”

  Muttering threats about what he’ll do if she dares to leave this room, he crosses to the anteroom at the back of the office. Charlotte hears the scraping of the chamber pot on the floor as he draws it forth with his foot.

  “I shall piss myself if I have no relief,” Lutz says. He chuckles and sets the candle down while fumbling with his breeches.

  “Let me help you,” she says and without stopping for even a fraction of a moment she crosses the floor, grabs the candle and is out the door in a single movement. It is black as pitch inside. Lutz roars and as she bolts down the stairs she hears the chamber pot rumble across the boards and Lutz fall heavily, cursing her.

  She extinguishes the candles and runs across the field to Mattie Higgs’ hut.

  “Mattie! Mattie!” she calls outside the woman’s door. “It’s Charlotte.”

  She appears, sleepy-eyed.

  “Mattie. Let me share your straw tonight. I fear mine may be infested.”

  She rises at dawn, finds Mattie is already gone and returns cautiously to her hut and seeing it undisturbed, she makes the final preparation to leave. She selects apparel suitable for travelling and this time, being knowledgeable about sea-faring, carefully packs the items she would need for the voyage in a parcel and ties it with twine. She also gathers a few of Pad’s personal effects—a square of cotton he often wound around his neck, the three silver strands he’d bent into a bracelet and the packet of seeds from the garden that he’d tucked in with his belongings, promising that one day he’d plant a garden for her like the one she left behind. There isn’t another thing she wants to bring as a reminder of this place. The trunk is ready, so is the parcel. She scribbles the day’s thoughts into her diary.