Read Online A Wild Yearning by Penelope Williamson - Free Book Online
Authors: Penelope Williamson
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made of red silk and the grist sack was a leather satchel. "A fine mornin', isn't it? You be findin' Suh Patrick in his bedchamber, Massah Tyler."
Sir Patrick. Heaven preserve us, Delia thought, was Ty's grandfather a bloody lord or something? Suddenly she wished she'd waited outside.
"Thank you, Frailty," Ty said, and started for the stairs. But Delia held him back by his coat sleeve.
"Yer grandfather's a lordship?"
Ty's glance automatically went to an oil portrait hanging above a delicate walnut sideboard that stood along one wall of the hall. Delia realized this must be the old noble gentleman himself. She had never seen a grander-looking personage—nor a meaner-looking one.
"Sir Patrick Graham... but he's not a lord," Ty was saying. "In fact, he was born a Scottish crofter's son. He was knighted by Queen Anne many years ago, after he discovered a sunken Spanish galleon full of treasure off the coast of the Bahamas." He gave her such a knowing grin that Delia flushed. "He's a bit of a pompous ass and I'm counting on you to bring him down a peg or two."
Frailty clucked her tongue and wagged her finger beneath Ty's nose. "Massah Tyler, you oughta be 'shamed o' yourself, usin' this po' gal t' get one back at your grandfather. Don't you let him do it, honey," she said to Delia.
Delia took another careful look at the portrait of the hook-beaked, stern-lipped old man. He didn't appear the sort who would take kindly to having a tavern wench come sashaying through the front door of his Beacon Street manor house with a notion to put him in his place.
She swallowed nervously and tugged again at Ty's sleeve. "What's your grandfather do now? I mean besides bein' a knight."
"He's a slave trader."
As Delia followed Ty up the stairs, she glanced back over her shoulder at Frailty, who still stood in the hall. Frailty smiled encouragingly at Delia and made a shooing motion with her hands. Delia smiled back. A slave trader. Ty's grandfather was a slave trader.
Growing up as she had in the Boston waterfront slums, Delia was aware of the infamous triangular shipping trade on which so many New England fortunes were built—rum to Africa for slaves; slaves to the West Indies for molasses and sugar; molasses and sugar back to Boston to be distilled into rum. But not all the slaves went to the West Indies. Some were brought here, to New England, and many of the better sort had at least one or two dark-skinned servants to give prestige to their households.
Delia followed Ty up the stairs and down a long, broad hall lined with row upon row of portraits, some blackened with age. "Lord above us, I suppose these are all yer illustrious ancestors," she whispered, awed.
Ty emitted a short bark of laughter but said nothing.
He rapped once on a door at the end of the hall and opened it immediately. Delia followed after Ty, using his broad shoulders as a shield, but peering around them with unabashed curiosity.
Delia had thought Ty's rooms at the Red Dragon were the most magnificent she had ever seen, but they couldn't touch this room for pure luxury. With silk paper on the walls, a marble fireplace, and thick carpets scattered on the inlaid floor, it was almost too much to take in at once. Dominating the room was an enormous four-poster with carved and fluted pillars and cornices, and adorned with green damask hangings. It was even draped with a fine gauze curtain to keep the mosquitoes at bay.
And there, at the foot of the bed, wearing a flowing red silk banyan and matching felt slippers with curled-up toes, must be, Delia thought, Sir Patrick himself.
He was bent at the waist with a sheet draped over his shoulders and his face thrust into a paper cone, while a manservant shook white powder from a ball onto his bewigged head.
"Ty, is that you, boy?" came an old man's querulous voice, echoing within the paper cone. "You were going to try to sneak off without me knowing of it, weren't you?" He pulled the cone off his face and flapped it
Sir Patrick. Heaven preserve us, Delia thought, was Ty's grandfather a bloody lord or something? Suddenly she wished she'd waited outside.
"Thank you, Frailty," Ty said, and started for the stairs. But Delia held him back by his coat sleeve.
"Yer grandfather's a lordship?"
Ty's glance automatically went to an oil portrait hanging above a delicate walnut sideboard that stood along one wall of the hall. Delia realized this must be the old noble gentleman himself. She had never seen a grander-looking personage—nor a meaner-looking one.
"Sir Patrick Graham... but he's not a lord," Ty was saying. "In fact, he was born a Scottish crofter's son. He was knighted by Queen Anne many years ago, after he discovered a sunken Spanish galleon full of treasure off the coast of the Bahamas." He gave her such a knowing grin that Delia flushed. "He's a bit of a pompous ass and I'm counting on you to bring him down a peg or two."
Frailty clucked her tongue and wagged her finger beneath Ty's nose. "Massah Tyler, you oughta be 'shamed o' yourself, usin' this po' gal t' get one back at your grandfather. Don't you let him do it, honey," she said to Delia.
Delia took another careful look at the portrait of the hook-beaked, stern-lipped old man. He didn't appear the sort who would take kindly to having a tavern wench come sashaying through the front door of his Beacon Street manor house with a notion to put him in his place.
She swallowed nervously and tugged again at Ty's sleeve. "What's your grandfather do now? I mean besides bein' a knight."
"He's a slave trader."
As Delia followed Ty up the stairs, she glanced back over her shoulder at Frailty, who still stood in the hall. Frailty smiled encouragingly at Delia and made a shooing motion with her hands. Delia smiled back. A slave trader. Ty's grandfather was a slave trader.
Growing up as she had in the Boston waterfront slums, Delia was aware of the infamous triangular shipping trade on which so many New England fortunes were built—rum to Africa for slaves; slaves to the West Indies for molasses and sugar; molasses and sugar back to Boston to be distilled into rum. But not all the slaves went to the West Indies. Some were brought here, to New England, and many of the better sort had at least one or two dark-skinned servants to give prestige to their households.
Delia followed Ty up the stairs and down a long, broad hall lined with row upon row of portraits, some blackened with age. "Lord above us, I suppose these are all yer illustrious ancestors," she whispered, awed.
Ty emitted a short bark of laughter but said nothing.
He rapped once on a door at the end of the hall and opened it immediately. Delia followed after Ty, using his broad shoulders as a shield, but peering around them with unabashed curiosity.
Delia had thought Ty's rooms at the Red Dragon were the most magnificent she had ever seen, but they couldn't touch this room for pure luxury. With silk paper on the walls, a marble fireplace, and thick carpets scattered on the inlaid floor, it was almost too much to take in at once. Dominating the room was an enormous four-poster with carved and fluted pillars and cornices, and adorned with green damask hangings. It was even draped with a fine gauze curtain to keep the mosquitoes at bay.
And there, at the foot of the bed, wearing a flowing red silk banyan and matching felt slippers with curled-up toes, must be, Delia thought, Sir Patrick himself.
He was bent at the waist with a sheet draped over his shoulders and his face thrust into a paper cone, while a manservant shook white powder from a ball onto his bewigged head.
"Ty, is that you, boy?" came an old man's querulous voice, echoing within the paper cone. "You were going to try to sneak off without me knowing of it, weren't you?" He pulled the cone off his face and flapped it
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