She didn’t think she had ever seen twenty pounds in English coin all together at the same time.
She let the bits and coppers slither through her fingers, touched the hem of the apron, clean and still stiff with starch. “That apron hasn’t been in there long. Nor has the silver tarnished.”
“And Papa isn’t missing any money,” added Lucy. “Believe me, the whole house would know it if even a penny went missing out of his desk. Sir Jonathan’s the only person—maybe even counting Governor Hutchinson—who would have that much English coin. But why would he give it to her? He could get fifty harlots for it—couldn’t he?”
“At least,” agreed Abigail absentmindedly, her thoughts on other things than her companion’s moral upbringing. “Depending on how fastidious he was. And what were you doing, young lady, searching your servant’s room?” She looked around her at the bare and icy little chamber. Besides the bed there was only a low bench that appeared to do service as both table and cupboard. There were two stools tucked beneath it, and along its back edge a neat line of folded petticoats, caps, and stockings, piles of clean baby-clouts and tiny garments. Both children must have shared their mother’s bed, a desperate necessity in the unheated room. Something in the stale air of the place made her think that the room had been closed up for the almost two weeks since Bathsheba’s disappearance, and Abigail breathed a prayer of relief. At least they weren’t making poor little Marcellina stay up here alone.
“I remembered what you said,” said Lucy slowly, “about Sheba maybe being dead. I hope she isn’t—Papa’s still offering a reward for her—but if she doesn’t come back soon, I know he’s going to sell the children, or even just give them away just to get them out of the house!” There was real distress in her voice. “I know it isn’t my business, but I thought . . . I know some of the servants keep their tips. When Sheba was my maid, men were always paying her off to carry love-notes to me. I don’t mean that to sound like it does,” she apologized. “But it’s true. For three years now, I’ve been . . . It makes me sick, Mrs. Adams. Sick and mad. That’s why Harry—”
She stopped herself, her jaw tightened at the thought of Harry Knox. Abigail laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder, and Lucy shook her head, pushing the thought aside.
“Anyway, I knew Bathsheba was saving her tips, to buy Marcie free, and then Stephen when he was born. And I thought, she might have saved enough that if I gave it to you, you could buy at least one of them. Mama’s already spoken to Mrs. Barnaby about the time she spends changing Stephen’s clouts and feeding him and Marcie. I honestly don’t know where they can go. I don’t even think the orphanage would take Negro children, and that only leaves the poorhouse . . .”
“I won’t let that happen,” said Abigail firmly, seeing the tears start in Lucy’s eyes. “And who told you it wasn’t your business, what becomes of the children of a woman whom you’ve known since you were Marcie’s age I daresay? This”—she scooped up a handful of the heavy silver coins—“will vastly help matters, if it comes to that. But as you say,” she added shrewdly, “’tis a great deal of money for a man to give a slave-woman when there are others who can be bought for less . . . If that’s what he was buying.”
Lucy frowned, puzzled. “What else would he have wanted to buy from a woman?”
“Silence.”
“About what?”
“About whatever was worth twenty-three pounds to him—maybe. And twenty-three pounds may not be the whole sum of what he gave her, if she took some with her when she left.”
Lucy knelt beside the bed and ran the coins through her fingers, listening to their heavy, musical clink. “Why would she leave any?”
“We can’t know that until we know why she left.”
“Could that be what she meant, when she said to Margaret, Something terrible has happened, and I don’t know what to do? Could she have been pregnant?”
“I’ve been told a woman can become pregnant while she’s still nursing,” said Abigail, “but I’ve never known it to happen. And I’ve never known a white man who considered impregnating some other man’s servant-girl—by seduction or by force—sufficiently shameful to pay twenty-three pence to the girl to keep quiet about it, much less twenty-three pounds. Something terrible has happened,” she repeated slowly, “and I don’t know what to do.” She replaced the lid on the teapot, folded the silver together in the apron again, and tied its bands into a loose bundle. “And this on the Friday, after Sir Jonathan had departed but nine days before his death. May I keep these?” she asked, rising to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she added, as Lucy preceded her out the door into the main attic. “I didn’t mean it to sound—”
“No, it’s all right.” The girl laughed. “I know what you mean, and yes. I mean, if I left them here, or even in my room . . . I know at least one of the footmen steals. Mama’s like Margaret and says all servants always steal, but your girl doesn’t, does she? Neither does Sheba, nor Philomela, nor Mr. Barnaby, though I actually wouldn’t put anything past Mr. Barnaby if he was protecting his wife. He dotes on her. I think it’s sweet, really,” she added, as they crossed through the upper hall toward the main stair. “Let me get you something to carry those in, so if Papa comes home for his dinner early, he won’t accuse you of stealing a teapot.” She dodged into her room, emerging a moment later with a hatbox, into which teapot, apron, and coins were tucked and tied. “Will you stay for some tea?” she asked, when they were in the downstairs drawing room again.
“Thank you,” said Abigail, “but I honestly can’t. With John away there’s always more to be done. Really, Miss Fluckner, if you don’t stop beating and starving this poor dog”—she stooped to scratch Hercules behind the ears as the obese pug waddled up to her, its curled tail wagging so that his whole backside threshed—“your reputation will never recover. I’m sorry, sirrah, my hands are empty. No food. See? There is nothing edible in that hatbox, either—” She turned her head at the sound of the outer door opening, and a moment later, Hannah Fluckner’s rich, slightly overloud tones.
“Good Heavens, Barnaby, company before noon? What on Earth was the girl thinking?”
“Just in time,” Lucy whispered.
“My dear Hannah,” laughed Mrs. Sandhayes, “they all go to bed at sundown here! Of course they’re all up and doing at the crack of dawn—”
“Should I tell Margaret about this?” Lucy nodded toward the hatbox. “She blithers like a perfect nincompoop, but she’s really very clever. You should see the list she’s putting together, of people who were in the ballroom that I didn’t even remember, and when people came and went out of the cardroom.”
“Caroline Hartnell?” Mrs. Sandhayes’s voice lifted in reply to some remark of her hostess. “Dear m’am, there’s no sense expecting her to contribute a penny. She lost five hundred guineas at silver-loo Wednesday night . . .”
“Great Heavens!”