Read Online The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor by Sally Armstrong - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sally Armstrong
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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.
July 18—I will leave Jamaica today with Commodore Walker. I’m not sure about his intentions. He behaves so
graciously, almost as though I am his ward. I have a feeling he knows more than he lets on. It is not possible that he is acquainted with my father. Surely it is not possible. He thinks he’s assisting me in getting back to England, but I have no intention of doing that
.
I ought to go to the wretched plot where Pad is buried. But getting there will create too much attention. I feel ill at the prospect of going there anyway. Maybe that’s why Mama always fell ill when she was expected to do something to her disliking. Pad would not want me to be left here to become a concubine, to struggle without him. I can hardly wait to leave
.
Then Charlotte walks to the main house, helps herself to a cup of tea and a slice of the morning’s baked bread, takes her place at the table and begins the day’s entries as though nothing whatsoever has changed. Lutz finally appears at the door, looking the worse for his night. She resists the impulse to look up lest she betray her anxiety.
He prowls around the premises, bellowing orders, directing his prurient gaze at Charlotte. The wagons make the short trip to the dock a dozen times. Charlotte waits, barely able to concentrate on her chore, wondering if this nightmare is really coming to a close? Lutz has gone to the dock. By now Charlotte is pacing back and forth to the tea stand, trying to lessen the tension she is feeling. The tide will soon be high. She fears she’s been left behind.
A WAGON APPROACHES . Charlotte dashes to the door. It is Lutz, alone, and bearing an envelope. Her heart tumbles into a pit deep in her breast.
He enters the office silently and lays the letter on her desk. The seal had been broken.
“Now you are exposed,” he says.
So it was to be for her—unending punishment and salvation unendingly denied. For a moment she sits numbly. She looks down at the letter. She sees it is addressed to Lutz. She unfolds it and reads the opening lines.
“I know you will be pleased to learn that I am able to convey Mrs. Willisams to her home in England, though I can offer only an indirect route through my trading post in Nova Scotia. In token of my gratitude for your kindness to her, I am sending over a dozen bottles of my best port, originally a gift to me from—”
“You are a damned whore!” calls Lutz, but Charlotte is already out the door, her heart bursting with joy.
M ORNING IS ALWAYS the right time for a departure, when the ship and the day set out together and nothing but prospects lie ahead. The sky over Jamaica is clear that morning and a steady breeze blows in the channel that crochets the islands to the sea. The birds hover and call. The air is fresh and sweet with the
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.
July 18—I will leave Jamaica today with Commodore Walker. I’m not sure about his intentions. He behaves so
graciously, almost as though I am his ward. I have a feeling he knows more than he lets on. It is not possible that he is acquainted with my father. Surely it is not possible. He thinks he’s assisting me in getting back to England, but I have no intention of doing that
.
I ought to go to the wretched plot where Pad is buried. But getting there will create too much attention. I feel ill at the prospect of going there anyway. Maybe that’s why Mama always fell ill when she was expected to do something to her disliking. Pad would not want me to be left here to become a concubine, to struggle without him. I can hardly wait to leave
.
Then Charlotte walks to the main house, helps herself to a cup of tea and a slice of the morning’s baked bread, takes her place at the table and begins the day’s entries as though nothing whatsoever has changed. Lutz finally appears at the door, looking the worse for his night. She resists the impulse to look up lest she betray her anxiety.
He prowls around the premises, bellowing orders, directing his prurient gaze at Charlotte. The wagons make the short trip to the dock a dozen times. Charlotte waits, barely able to concentrate on her chore, wondering if this nightmare is really coming to a close? Lutz has gone to the dock. By now Charlotte is pacing back and forth to the tea stand, trying to lessen the tension she is feeling. The tide will soon be high. She fears she’s been left behind.
A WAGON APPROACHES . Charlotte dashes to the door. It is Lutz, alone, and bearing an envelope. Her heart tumbles into a pit deep in her breast.
He enters the office silently and lays the letter on her desk. The seal had been broken.
“Now you are exposed,” he says.
So it was to be for her—unending punishment and salvation unendingly denied. For a moment she sits numbly. She looks down at the letter. She sees it is addressed to Lutz. She unfolds it and reads the opening lines.
“I know you will be pleased to learn that I am able to convey Mrs. Willisams to her home in England, though I can offer only an indirect route through my trading post in Nova Scotia. In token of my gratitude for your kindness to her, I am sending over a dozen bottles of my best port, originally a gift to me from—”
“You are a damned whore!” calls Lutz, but Charlotte is already out the door, her heart bursting with joy.
M ORNING IS ALWAYS the right time for a departure, when the ship and the day set out together and nothing but prospects lie ahead. The sky over Jamaica is clear that morning and a steady breeze blows in the channel that crochets the islands to the sea. The birds hover and call. The air is fresh and sweet with the
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