A Death at Fountains Abbey

Epilogue

June, 1728

Charles Towne, in the Province of Carolina

Charlotte d’Arfay walks down the cobbled path to the harbour, holding her son James by the hand. They have come to see the great ship arrived from England. She walks slowly in the heat, sweat glistening on her brow, skirts clinging to her long legs. There will be a thunderstorm later, she can feel it in the air. She puts a hand to her stomach and wonders about her baby. She would like a daughter this time, after two boys, but will not tempt fate with wishes.

If she could wish for anything, she would ask for her mother to return home safely from England. She knows in her heart this won’t happen. She has received no word in over six months. The trip remains a mystery. Charlotte’s mother has always been a private woman, not given to dramatic gestures or impulsive acts. What could be so important that she must leave her home and head for England, abandoning her family and her friends? Why would she travel so far, in such poor health?

Charlotte suspects she will never see her mother again, not in this life. But still she comes down to the harbour whenever a ship arrives, and watches the passengers as they clamber on to dry land.

It is too hot for holding hands. James runs ahead along the path, so like his father it makes her smile. She’s glad Christopher has decided to sell his commission and leave the army. Now the family can settle permanently in Charles Towne. She has designs upon a plot of land on Chalmers Street. Christopher will need persuading: he lost the d’Arfay fortune to the South Sea Scheme, and it has made him cautious with money. Charlotte teases her husband, but in truth she loves his steadiness and his good sense. Better a careful man than some feckless gambler, over fond of liquor and low company. Thank God she did not marry one of those devils.

The passengers are being rowed to shore in small boats. She is close enough now to see the relief on their faces. Dry land at last. James waves to them as they stagger up the harbour steps, bodies used to the sway of the sea. Her heart lifts when she spies a woman of middling age wearing a green hood. But it’s not her mother.

‘Can we go there, Mama?’ James is pointing at the ship – an English galley with a red ensign drooping in the humid air.

She smiles, indulging him. ‘You wish to go aboard?’

‘Aye, and sail to England!’

She laughs, and ruffles his hair. They have no reason to go to England. Christopher’s family disowned him when he lost his estate. And she has no relations there.

Charlotte’s gaze skims over the ship. For a moment she feels the world tilt about her, as if she were on the ocean. She is very small, younger even than James. A white sail soars like a cliff above her head. The boards creak beneath her feet, and the wind tugs at her hair. Her clothes are damp and smell of salt water. She sees her own tiny fist stretched out in front of her, clutching on to a rope. Her mother is there, guiding her steps.

She shakes her head, and the vision is gone. Charlotte has never sailed on a galley. She has never crossed the ocean. She was born here in Carolina.

But sometimes she dreams of water, and sometimes she dreams of fire.

The baby stirs and kicks. She draws James’s head to her belly so he can feel it. He giggles, then pulls away and races back up the path, away from the harbour. Charlotte follows him, fanning herself in the heat.