Page 40 of King's Man

The girl — Sarah — bobbed a quick curtsy and hurried to do as she was bid.

“We had a little American girl here once,” Mrs. Sturge said. “His Lordship brought her over as a… companion, of sorts, for her ladyship. From his South Carolina plantation.”

An unpleasant and not uncommon story. “I see. Is the child no longer here? I’d have liked to meet her.”

“No, she’s gone.” Mrs. Sturge looked away, getting back to her work.

“Gone back?”

“Nobody knows. One morning, she’d simply disappeared.”

He didn’t like the sound of that one bit. “What do you mean, disappeared?”

“Quite the mystery. His lordship was furious. Taylor took a beat —” She corrected herself, but when she looked up the sparkle was brighter in her eyes. “Taylor admitted he may have left the kitchen door unlocked that night and was punished for it. But perhaps the fairies took her.”

“The fairies?”

One eyebrow arched. “We don’t approve of enslaving people here.”

“Ah,” he said. “Well, plenty of Americans would agree with you.”

While he ate his meal, set before him by the blushing Sarah, Nate pondered the fate of the child who Marlborough had brought over. By the sounds of it, his rebellious servants had conspired to free her and, while their actions were laudable, there was a hint of moralizing in Mrs. Sturge’s expression that grated.

True enough, the British held few slaves in their own country, but they had plenty laboring on their West Indian plantations. And surely Mrs. Sturge knew how her master made his money? The money that paid her wages every week, the money that built Britain’s fine ports and cities, the money that financed her empire.

Sugar money. Slave money. Blood money.

But perhaps out of sight really was out of mind.

“Ah, here’s Taylor,” Mrs. Sturge said. “He knew Milly best; she took a liking to him.”

Taylor turned out to be one of the liveried footmen, sober beneath a gray, powdered wig that made him look older than his face suggested. In fact, Nate thought, he was about Nate’s own age and appeared from a set of stairs Nate hadn’t noticed. He carried a tray laden with used glasses and plates and set them down near the scullery with a blustery sigh.

“They’re still bloody going,” he complained, snatching off his wig to scratch his head, making his short hair stand up in spikes. “It’s like Bedlam up there.”

Mrs. Sturge cleared her throat pointedly and nodded towards Nate. When she told Taylor that he was an American, the footman looked over with interest.

“Oh, aye?” He set his wig on the table. “I took your side in the recent business, Mr. Reed. Followed it in the papers.”

“Taylor,” Mrs. Sturge scolded. “No politics.”

“Why not? You know plenty of people felt the same.”

Nate swallowed his mouthful, wiping away crumbs with the pad of his thumb. “You don’t know which side I was on.”

Taylor looked confused. “The American side, I assume.”

And that was how it must appear to outside eyes. To some American eyes as well, no doubt. But Nate knew better than most that theirs had been a civil war, too, with all the pain and grief that entailed. “Of course. I supported the cause of liberty.”

“Could do with some of that around here,” Taylor said, and set about unloading the tray. “Fat chance with the likes of his lordship in charge.” A stifled hush settled over the servants, a sense of all ears pricked and listening, of silences held. “What?” Taylor looked around. “I’m not saying anything you don’t think.”

“Perhaps the rest of us value our positions,” said Mrs. Sturge, with a wary glance at Nate.

He spread his hands. “Don’t mind me, I’ve gone deaf all of a sudden.” He offered Taylor a smile. “And I understand you keep all the doors locked at night, these days. Just in case of fairies.”

“Fairies? Oh, aye.” He grinned. “More than my life’s worth to forget. I don’t regret what happened with little Milly, mind. She’s far better off where she is.” Mrs. Sturge tutted, but Taylor just winked. “Wherever that may be.”

A clatter of feet on the servants’ stairs interrupted them and a maid rushed into the kitchen, looking rather wild. “It’s Lord Rowsley,” she gasped, catching her breath. “He’s singing in the long chamber and…and…” Her face flushed scarlet. “Relieving himself in the fireplace.”

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