My Name Is Resolute

  An hour later calls of “Away! Away!” came through the doors and windows, and the whole human population of the docks rushed to see the Aegean depart. Her sheets fluttered with the sound of a flock of thousands of birds. They caught the slightest breeze and filled, making a wake in the harbor. “No!” I called. “Oh, Wallace, where are you? Our ship is leaving without us!” None could hear my cries over the din of voices. My life was shattered. Where was my beloved? He must have been set upon by vagabonds or highwaymen, or perhaps his horse stumbled in the dark, leaving him dying in a field. I felt almost aswoon with panic. Where was he? I watched the Aegean until she vanished in the mist. Land across the harbor made all ships turn to meet the open sea and for a moment I saw sails reappear. When they faded from view, so did all my hopes. I sat upon the trunk and fought away tears.

  After a time, I straightened my shoulders and told the man in the office I would return for the trunk. I meant to go to Wallace’s home and make sure he had not perished. I stopped a coachman. “How much to get me to Boston?”

  “Where is your husband?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I haven’t one, yet.”

  He whipped his team and moved away with a clatter.

  I hugged my parcels and walked, getting away from the docks being my only thought. I walked past buildings which hours before seemed sweet with promise. Now they were filthy dungeons full of vile people. Not at all sure I was going the right direction, I made my way through the streets of Boston until I turned down a narrow lane and saw the familiar sign of Foulke and Harrison. As my hand touched the door, I knew that without Wallace, I would still find a way to get home. I opened the door sheepishly, to find the crippled young man there at his desk, writing something in a beautiful hand, copied from a terribly scratched note.

  He looked up and smiled, saying, “Good morning, Miss Talbot.”

  “Hello, sir. I am sorry; I know not your name.”

  “Daniel Charlesworth, Miss Talbot. At your service.”

  “Mr. Charlesworth, is Lawyer Foulke in?”

  “No, I’m sorry. At court, probably all day.”

  “Oh, that is unfortunate. For me.”

  “Is there something I might help with? I am reading law, and I understand confidentiality. Of course, I am but a clerk, and if you’d wish to—”

  “Oh, would you?” I pulled the letter addressed to Mr. Roberts, unfolded it, smoothed it. Wallace had left it crumpled on the floor when he left. “You see, I wanted to get home. Home to my father’s plantation, that is. Something has just occurred.” There, I paused, fighting tears. “Please tell me what this means, this word here.” I pointed to “escheat” and watched him move his lips as he read and reread the paragraph.

  “‘Escheat’ means it moves to a former claimant. Essentially, the king has withdrawn ownership of the plantation from your family and has taken it back in his possession, to do with as he wishes. Your father, being deceased, has no further claim.”

  “What about my mother? She is alive. What about me?”

  “It does not recognize heirs. If your mother was not in possession of it when the solicitor arrived, she has no claim, either.”

  “I have a brother.”

  “Where is he?” Mr. Charlesworth’s face brightened.

  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 follow
ed 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.

  “I hear,” I said. “I am not afraid.”

  The woman hissed at me and held a twig broken and bent into the shape of a cross before her, waving it about. At last they pulled up before a public inn. Light flowed from the windows carrying merry, drunken singing that seemed to chase away the worst of the storm. She slurred at me, “Get off. We’ve carried you longer than your shillings and a penny allowed.”

  “For the travel I thank you,” I said, “but for the insults I do not. Will you be purchasing a meal here in this inn?”

  “Will we not be shed of you if we do?” she asked.

  “I only want shelter from the rain, same as you. I will stay far from you both, and I will tell no one you are Catholic.” Fear passed between them with a shared movement of their eyes to each other and to me.

  I followed them inside though I could not imagine spending a night in such a place. Even Goody Carnegie had warned against it. It was vulgar and foul and I pushed to one side away from the oystermongers. The innkeeper would allow me a seat on a bench, and shoved a man, drunk and smelling of a latrine, onto the floor. “I shall be happy for that, sir,” I said.

  “What of your parents, there?”

  I looked where he pointed to the oyster man and woman. He had assumed we were a family. I was tired of being angry and sharp-tongued, tired and sore of heart in every fiber of my being and did not wish to correct him. I sighed and said, “Those two? They are angry with me. I left to marry a man and they brought me all the way from Boston in the storm before I did. I have learned my lesson. Please be kind to them though they shun me.”

  He nodded. “Aye. I’ve a daughter almost your age. I am glad they caught you before you made a crashing mess of your life. You must not be a bad sort to admit it.” He took them each a cup of ale and a small bun, with his compliments, he said. They looked upon the offering warily, then their eyes turned to me. I nodded, then leaned my head against the wall and in the revelry of the inn’s drunken din, I slept.

  I awoke and left the inn at dawn. Before I had walked half a mile, the toe gave out on one of my shoes and mud crept in between my toes. I reached the familiar—Lexington’s center cobbled street—then came to the avenues branching it where there were finer houses. Beyond that, a few more houses, two cross streets, and I turned down the lane where the Roberts had lived. Rather than soldiers at the gate, there were liveried footmen. Mr. Barrett had moved in. No such grandeur had been the Roberts legacy, even when they thought they were well off. I wondered if Serenity had taken that costly wedding gown with her as she fled.

  I gathered my courage and approached the door, ignoring the footmen as was proper. Not having a stick I rapped at the knocker. A butler came at once. “Miss Talbot of Two Crowns Plantation to see Mr. Barrett,” I said.

  The butler peered down his nose to right and left for sign that I was accompanied, as a lady should be, yet he continued, unperturbed. “This way, Miss Talbot.”

  Once he had closed the door, he said, “Is Mr. Barrett expecting you?”

  “No, I fear not,” I said. “I lived in this house, you see, as a ward of the Roberts family. Of course, I had no idea they were in such peril. I came to inquire if he would assume my wardship. I have clothing. I have means. I have only the need of a roof until I get home, for which I shall be waiting only until sailing weather. May I speak with him?”

  “I shall see if he is at home.”

  The man left. Of course, he meant “at home” to me. If Barrett had no intent of seeing me, he would not be home. And he was not. I looked into the butler’s eyes for a sign of understanding. They were cold as a January morning as he closed the door to me.

  On the road, every man or woman I encountered was too occupied to bid me the day. I remembered when I had first come, how although Goody Carnegie might have been considered a madwoman to be feared, she was able by request to cause a meeting of a council, and to find me a place to stay. If she were not tired from her night of howling, she might at least tell me where to go next. If Wallace loved me, surely he would be searching for me. How was I to save myself now? Would he not think kindly of me as I thought of this poor woman? I only need awaken in him a bit of pity for my circumstances.

  It took me another hour to find her house. The storm had torn a large tree loose from the roots, smashing it across the Concord road that ran to the northeast. At last, I found her, sitting before her fire weeping as if her heart had been broken, her door ajar, leaves, dirt, whole branches, even a dead bird blown in by the winds. The gale had tattered her table and filled every cup with sand and grime. I knew not whether she were really mad. I knew not how to speak to a person who was so. I put my bundles on the floor, sat upon one, and waited.

  The old woman rocked on her stool, moaning, crooning, “Fawn-de-la, nah greit. Muirneach my babe, bye-baby-bye. Cush-nah, babe.”

  “I am so sorry, dear Goody,” I said in a low whisper.

  She looked startled. “She was so bonny, my babe. So winsome and merry.”

  “How lovely she was,” I said, nodding as if I knew. “Just a small child?”

  “Yes. Small as a puppy. Tiny like her great-grandmother. A wee bairny.”

  I stiffened. I had not heard that word in so long. “Are you better now?”

  “I am, dearie. Usually after such a storm I have to weep until I can weep no more. You have broken that part of the curse.”

  “I have done almost nothing, Goody Carnegie, except believe you. Is it your child, the one whom you mourn?”

  “My only child. My wee one. My very heart I would give for her.”

  “And you did.”

  She looked upon me, startled, and a glimmer of a smile appeared at her lips. “Aye. I did that. Heart and mind, of mine, both went into the grave with her. Would you have some tea? It is a mess in here.” She arose and started dumping sand and leaves from the teacups. “I haven’t put the kettle on this morn.”

  “I will help you, if you like.” I meant to be reserved, to keep everything hidden and held, both my shame at being treated so by Wallace, and my guilt in taking his love, if the fault were partly mine, from Serenity. By the time we had breakfasted on tea and bread—I did not tell her my cup had sand in it—I had explained what happened in more detail than I intended. In all of it, Goody Carnegie remained quiet and thoughtful. I wondered if perhaps she could not comprehend my words. Finally, I said, “I need an honest way to earn thirty pounds or more. I want to go home to Jamaica.”

  “She is not there.”

  “Madam?”

  Goody shook her head. “Nothing. I get things mixed sometimes, now and long ago. I see it as if it is happening right before my eyes again and again. Sometimes when I awaken I am in a different place than when I lay down.”

  I nodded as if this made perfect sense though I did not understand at all. I supposed she had not heard me. I said, “At your word, men in this town gathered and listened to me. You must have some influence. I have no right to ask your help but I fear I have made enemies and there is no one else I know. Some might help out of Christian charity; some would not for the same reason. There are people here very devout and others up the road who thought I was a fairy.”

  “They only listen because they are afraid. That’s the Boyne family. The old man and woman. Their son went down a well and they believe it was fairies did it. Or I.”

  “I am afraid my reputation is a rat’s nest already. I know no one who would trust me save yourself. I have some skills, though. I sew, embroider. I can spin and weave, too. If you know someone who would take me in as a servant, paid, so that I could save fifteen pounds—”

  “You can? Here I thought you were a lady.”

  “I am.”

  “I meant not that way.” She scratched her head ferociously. Her hair was matted and snarled, look
ing like a giant gray animal perched atop her head. “Well, you could live here with me but you wouldn’t want to and I would not want it, either. I get too sad, and I fret, and talk to myself and to people who are not here, but I think of them then I talk to ’em. I could not pay you but I could give you the other house to live in. Come here.” With that, she was off, marching up the road, her hair flying in the damp morning. I grabbed my parcels and dashed to catch up with her as she prattled on and on. “At least you’d have a roof. I don’t live there, o’ course. Haven’t since the time of my sorrows, and won’t ever again. It is haunted, you see, and sometimes the spirits in there chase me, when it is raining heavy. They won’t bother you; it’s me they come for. If I could move away to another country I would, to be free of them.”

  “But how would I earn money?”

  “I’ll show it to you.”

  The day went sultry before we had gone a quarter mile. I pictured that perhaps she was taking me to one of the ramshackle hovels I had passed before I got to the Boynes’ house. Goody Carnegie turned up a lane which climbed a small hill and circled it. I was hard put to keep up with her, for her nightly jaunts must have put strength in her legs, or else it was true what I had heard that sometimes the mad are unearthly strong.

  “Much farther?” I asked, when she came to an abrupt halt.

  “Here it is,” she exclaimed. I saw nothing but a pile of old leaves on a heap of ivy. At one length, an embankment of stone came from the earth, and next to that some stones had been laid so that I saw there was once a wall. She smiled, her grin higgledy-piggledy with missing teeth. “Help me push away some of this frittery.” As we worked, uncovering I knew not what, she gained strength, and happiness began to color her countenance. “Oh, it was where I dreamed of being, always. A bonny house.”

  Sure enough, after some tugging and disturbing a large wood rat, a stone wall came out of the leaves, here a corner, there a window grown about with ivy, and at last a wooden door, shorter than my chin.