1 March 1691, Tuesday
Thomas Oliver stayed at Father’s last night. Father would not send Oliver to the tavern, insisting the privateer would be more comfortable in his home, which no doubt he was. I arrived at Father’s to be let in by the helping-girl. She led me to the table where Father and Oliver sat, huddled close in deep conversation. Not wishing to intrude, I stood back, admiring the ornate iron grate near the hearth whilst the sweet, warm scent of baking cornbread wafted through the hall. The helping-girl stood there, hands on her hips, the corners of her coif fallen forward so her face was hidden. Then she turned to me and smiled. Twas only a glance, after all, and she continued cooking as though she did not recall I was there.
“The ships are arriving from Africa at the beginning
