31
Wherever you travel . . . your ears are constantly astonished at the number of colonels, majors, and captains that you hear mentioned. . . . The whole country seems a retreat of heroes.
Edward Kimber, English traveler to America, 1745
“Williamsburg has less than two thousand residents, but the crowds swell during Publick Times when the courts are in session,” Mistress Flowerdew said as their handsome carriage glided over leaf-littered dust that was ankle-deep, already earning them curious glances. “’Tis lively as ever today.”
Truly, the streets teemed with people. A fair unfolded on several acres with puppet shows, fiddling contests, foot races, and pig chases playing out before their eyes. Here there were more blacks than whites, of all castes, and a great many men in uniform. Lark stared, transfixed by a copper-skinned people resplendent in furs and feathers beneath a sprawling oak tree.
“Indians. Cherokee, perhaps,” Mistress Flowerdew explained. “Governor Dinwiddie tries to maintain friendly relations. They’re feted at the Governor’s Palace and entertained at the theatre. Soon it will be his majesty’s birthday with fireworks on Palace Street and a ball.”
Never before had Lark seen fireworks. Would they flare like muskets? Like the blue lights the smugglers used in free trading?
Their carriage slowed before what looked to be a tavern, where a line of slaves stood on the steps, heads bowed. A group of well-dressed men gathered, some clutching handbills and newspapers. The auctioneer’s voice overrode the crowd’s raucousness.
Lark tore her gaze away and fixed it on the far more comfortable millinery sign just ahead. Out of the open shop door spilled several young women in head-turning dresses and hats, ribbons aflutter in the Williamsburg wind.
“Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these,” Mistress Flowerdew murmured. “Virginians do love their finery.”
“So I see,” Lark replied, smoothing her striped skirt. She had on her own beribboned straw hat, a posy of tiny violets at the crown to match the purple sash about her waist. Not the first fashion but as pretty and turned out as she could be.
Into the shop next door—labeled “Trevor Greenhow, Merchant”—they went. Its shelves abounded with earthenware, iron skillets, soap, chocolate, coffee, saddletrees, and far more.
“What do you buy?” came the customary merchant’s greeting.
“Seed for spring planting,” Mistress Flowerdew returned. “Royal Hundred’s gardens must look their best, keeping in mind the Osbournes’ arrival and a great many guests to follow.”
They spent a pleasant hour choosing seed. French artichokes. White wonder cucumbers. Lettuces and broad beans. Melons. Around the vegetables would go China pinks, foxgloves, and peonies. The formal garden was another matter entirely. Another gardener had been hired at last and was on his way to Royal Hundred.
They went to the millinery shop next, this one advertising a variety of toys.
“I wonder if Larkin would like a puppet or Bartholomew doll?” Mistress Flowerdew mused. “Or something more befitting a lad?”
Here were rocking horses and rattles, whistles and tin drums, stilts and wooden hoops. Maple fifes. A bowling set. Marbles. They settled on a toy ship complete with miniature captain in blue and a lead anchor. Lark staunched the memory of the Merry Lass.
She smiled as the toy was purchased and packaged, anticipating Larkin’s delight. A visit to the printing office secured sealing wax and paper. She’d pen another letter to Magnus this very night. And one to Granny.
“Now to pay a call to the widow Ramsay, a longtime friend.”
Across Market Square sat a large house the color of a deep red oak leaf. Lark hadn’t seen its equal in all of Williamsburg other than the Governor’s Palace. A liveried servant let them in and led them through a foyer with a sweeping staircase to a rear garden where several ladies gathered.
“Frances, is that you?” A bewigged woman came forward, hands outstretched. “What perfect timing!”
All eyes were on them as introductions were made. Names pelted Lark like raindrops. Only one found purchase, that of Theodosia Ramsay, their hostess’s dark-haired daughter-in-law who looked to be the same age as Lark.
“You must be prepared to hear the name of Ramsay frequently,” Mistress Flowerdew said to feminine laughter. She gestured to Lark with a gloved hand. “And this is Miss MacDougall of the western Scottish isles, born of an ancient, powerful clan.”
Lark stood a bit straighter but was hard-pressed to suppress a smile. Though of little consequence now, her family history did ring true. Had all that been in Richard Osbourne’s letter about her? These Virginians did like their titles.
“Royal Hundred is all the better for her presence,” Mistress Flowerdew finished with a gracious smile.
“You’ll be quite at home when you come to town, then. Our royal governor is a Scot, as are many of Williamsburg’s townspeople,” Theodosia said. “Please join us for refreshments in the garden. Some lemon syllabub, perhaps? Cook has also baked some delicious apple custard tarts.”
They slowly moved toward a linen-clad table, late-season chrysanthemums and bittersweet making a center bouquet. Chairs were scattered about, and Theodosia gestured for Lark to take a seat beside her.
“I’ve seen you before,” the young woman said, studying Lark over the ethereal froth of her syllabub glass. “’Twas at the Mount Brilliant ball. You were with a very handsome Scotsman I assumed to be your husband.”
“The laird Magnus MacLeish.” Another pang. Without thinking, Lark touched the locket now secreted in her pocket and drew Theodosia’s eye. “An islander like myself. And a longtime friend.”
“I think you are too modest. That very night I said to my husband ’twas clear the laird adores you. Surely there is more to your story. Is he not here?”
“In the West Indies. He is factor for Richard Osbourne at present. He’s also in mourning for his late wife.”
“Oh? My deepest sympathies. Though I must mention that mourning never lasts long, at least here in the colonies.” Her features clouded. “My brother is in the Caribbean—Barbados—in hopes of curing a lung condition.”
“I pray he fares well,” Lark said, surprised consumption was as much a scourge here as in Britain.
“Amen. Let that be our prayer. Do you ride?” Theodosia asked with an arch of dark brows.
“Seldom,” Lark confessed. “Is it true ye Virginians are as fond of horses as dancing?”
Theodosia laughed. “Indeed. When we are not dancing we are on horseback. My husband keeps a fine stable here. Perhaps I shall ride out to Royal Hundred.”
“Then ye shall see the bee garden and orangery.”
“And take tea. Mistress Flowerdew sets a lovely table.”
Lark took a drink of the foamy syllabub. Sweet yet lemony tart. Since the ball she’d wished for more.
“And who have we here?” A masculine voice cut through the feminine chatter. “A fair Virginian I don’t know?”
Smiling, Theodosia set down her syllabub and motioned the gentleman nearer. “You admired Miss MacDougall at the Mount Brilliant ball, along with the laird.”
Lark turned and stood. Could this ponderous, impeccably dressed man be Theodosia’s husband? Lark had no memory of him in the sea of strangers who had swelled the ballroom that night.
“Ah yes.” He kissed her hand. “I am Prentice Ramsay, cousin to Richard Osbourne. And a great-nephew to Mistress Flowerdew.” He gave a wink. “Tarry in Virginia long enough and you’ll soon be related to everyone too.”
His easy manner won her over. She smiled as he spoke with each lady present and then turned back to the house, syllabub in hand.
“My husband wears many hats,” Theodosia said, “but his role as the colony’s attorney general is foremost. He learned the law in London.”
“The laird is also a lawyer,” Lark said, never missing a chance to speak well of him. “Formerly in the Court of Session in Edinburgh.” Not even banishment could change that, could it?
“Oh? Perhaps he might be of service here rather than the West Indies. Virginia has need of a great many qualified men.”
“I shall write to the laird and tell him.” A spark of hope kindled. “Thank ye.”
“Then I shall tell my husband,” Theodosia said. “And please, call me Thea.”