39

Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most delicate and frail.

Ben Jonson

Was anything as lovely as a river ride in spring?

Lark sat in the shallop with Theodosia, two oarsmen in livery propelling them through the James current, which was smooth as blue glass in spring. She’d longed to bring Larkin out, but fear of a spill kept her from it. He remained on the bank with Mistress Flowerdew, crawling on the quilt she’d spread out. The housekeeper had declared the lovely March afternoon a holiday, something sorely needed, busy as they’d been. With Granger buried, Royal Hundred seemed and felt different. Or was it mostly because of spring and its many changes?

“I suppose you went out on the ocean often, given you lived on an island,” Theodosia said, trailing her fingers through the cold water.

“Nay. When my father passed, I shunned the sea. Ever since I’ve been more content on shore. And far safer. The Atlantic is nothing like this river.”

“I understand. When my father and sisters were struck down, I feared storms and would go into my bedchamber, shut the door, and hide till they boomed and tore at the skies no longer.” Beneath Theodosia’s elaborate hat, her eyes glittered with emotion. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of the loss. But you must be the same.”

Lark nodded, moved by the sadness in her friend’s face. She missed them all unendingly. Granny. Her dear mother and father. Other kindred still living. And Magnus, always Magnus, whether living or dead. Would her every thought of him always be so tender? “’Tis only right we remember those beloved.”

She leaned over and peered at her own reflection in the water. A month had passed since Granger’s death. Her chin was slow to heal. The water’s dark surface reflected none of the redness nor what would soon be a scarlet scar. A lasting reminder of a disturbed man.

“Trevor was sorry he could not join us. The construction keeps him so preoccupied of late. I half expect to find him laying bricks himself in his zeal to finish. I suspect that is why he has been overtaken by a terrible, ongoing fever and cough since Christmas.”

“I pray he soon mends.” Lark had sent several remedies to Ramsay House to help in his recuperation but had not visited him. She wouldn’t play the doting miss, especially after stating her true feelings. “Since the incident, we’ve kept to Royal Hundred ourselves.”

“Yes, the incident.” Theodosia grimaced. “A new factor has already come in Mr. Granger’s stead, or so word is winging about Williamsburg.”

“Oh aye, Mr. Murray hails from the northeast of Scotland and speaks Doric. But we converse well enough.”

“Royal Hundred is becoming a Scots stronghold.” Her smile returning, Theodosia gave a playful splash to the water with a mitted hand. “I may have to learn Gaelic.”

“I’ll gladly teach ye. I long to hear it spoken.”

“Say a few memorable words.”

Lark pursed her lips in thought. “Triùir a thig gun iarraidh—gaol, eud, is eagal.”

Theodosia crossed her eyes comically. “I have absolutely no inkling what you just said.”

“Indeed.” Lark’s laugh rippled over the water. “Three things come unbidden—love, jealousy, and fear.”

Theodosia echoed it, mangling but a word or two.

“Well done,” Lark said with a smile.

They quieted, each lost in thought, till a commotion on shore gave them pause. Lark looked back over her shoulder toward the oak where Larkin and Mistress Flowerdew were. The housekeeper had gotten to her feet and was waving something almost frantically in hand while Larkin crawled away in the grass, momentarily forgotten.

Lark’s heart and stomach somersaulted. What was that she held? A paper? A post . . .

A letter.

The housekeeper’s genteel English voice carried a beat of elation as it wafted to the drifting shallop. Even the oarsmen stopped their rowing. Was she dreaming? Or did her shouting—so unlike Mistress Flowerdew—mean Lark’s long wait was over? She heard but a few words, yet they made her whole soul sing.

“Letter . . . Laird . . . Here.”

Joy poured through her, so overwhelming she shot up like a jack-in-the-box. The shallop rocked. Theodosia shrieked. The oarsmen snickered. In seconds, Lark lost her footing and went overboard with a resounding splash.

When she came up, Theodosia was laughing hysterically, motioning to Lark’s straw hat that floated atop the water. Sputtering, treading water, Lark grabbed for it but it sailed out of her reach, borne on a warm Virginia wind. No matter. She turned toward shore, hope and fear waging for top place inside her. All her hopes and dreams were wrapped up in that letter. To have word that Magnus was dead or alive. At long last.

She fought her way to the sandy shore, encumbered by her heavy dress. But she hardly felt the cold that sent shivers over her in all directions, even forgetting to make her way up the bank at a ladylike pace. She all but seized the letter from the housekeeper’s hands. As she looked down, dripping water onto the outer paper, Magnus’s writing hand seemed to reach out to her in reassurance. She broke the seal and devoured the letter.

Dearest Lark,

I fear you must think me dead and gone due to my lack of letters. In truth, the post has been waylaid by someone bent on mischief.

I am as alive and hearty as ever, God be praised. Night and day I have asked the Lord to intervene, to hedge you behind and before and place His hand of blessing on your head and Larkin’s.

I asked that He cast down any evil raised against you. I trust that He has done so, for He is a merciful, mighty Savior, our ever-present defense . . .

Suddenly weak-kneed, she sank down into the sand, all but kissing the paper she held. Tears streamed down her face alongside rivulets of river water. Bethankit. Overcome, she choked out a few words to Mistress Flowerdew, who hovered anxiously.

“The laird lives.” Her heart was beating so loudly it caused a rush in her ears. A breathlessness. “His letters have simply miscarried.”

Mistress Flowerdew closed her eyes in quiet thanks. Lark read on silently, hearing the slap of the paddles as the shallop neared the dock behind them.

I am pleased to tell you I will soon be on my way to Virginia. I am counting the hours till I behold your lovely face again. I long to take Larkin in my arms too. I will do all within my power to stay near you. Never again, Lord willing, shall we be parted.

Yours entire,
Magnus

“Why, Lark!” Behind her, on solid ground now, Theodosia observed her with a shrewd eye. “You have given away the state of your heart.”

Slowly Lark turned, the letter dangling from her fingertips. “Glad I am to find the laird alive—and on his way back to us.”

“Bethankit, indeed!” Mistress Flowerdew exclaimed. “When will he arrive?”

Lark looked back at the letter, missing that all-important detail. “He didna say.”

“We in Williamsburg shall welcome him warmly whenever he makes an appearance, then,” Theodosia said with a gracious smile. “’Twill be interesting indeed to see what comes of his visit here.”

“I pray ’twill be more than a visit,” the housekeeper said. Her voice held subtle dismay and disgust whenever she mentioned the West Indies. “Perhaps Mr. Osbourne will see fit to keep him on hand here and not return him to Jamaica.”

Lark folded the letter up. Heart overfull, she barely paid attention to the scene around her as one of the oarsmen handed over her limp hat. She took it, smiling wryly at its soaked state but hardly caring, equally unmindful of her thoroughly wet garments.

All that mattered was that Magnus was alive. His letter she would read and reread till it fell apart. As for his prayers for her, had they helped keep her safe that day in the woods when Granger had struck her and then fallen?

She and Theodosia began a slow walk to the house, Mistress Flowerdew and Larkin following. The skirt of her wet gown dragged across the grass and oyster-shell paths. She squinted at the sun, trying to remember the date when she’d last seen Magnus. Was he much changed?

“I wonder what the laird has to do here in Virginia,” Theodosia was saying. “Whatever brings him, he’s coming at a favorable time of year when all the gardens will be flowering and travel is most easy.”

“Usually a month or more to sail from Jamaica, given unpredictable weather and currents and such,” Mistress Flowerdew reminded them.

“If only ’twas as simple as crossing the James,” she lamented. The horror of the hurricane had never left her. The thought of having to board a ship even to return to Scotland dampened her desire to see her homeland again. All that aside, the whole cry of her heart was simply Magnus.

Theodosia locked arms with her despite her sodden state. “I’ve never been on a ship, though many people come and go between the colonies and England, even Paris and the continent. Trevor has twice now.”

“Trevor is brave,” Lark said. “I wasna sure I would live to see Virginia.”

“We aim to keep you here.” Theodosia squeezed her hand. “And might I ask that you consider your future carefully? I’d like nothing better than to have you as my sister-in-law, and Master Larkin as my nephew.”

“I should like a sister,” Lark replied truthfully. Such seemed a luxury as she was an only child. She did not wish that for Larkin. “Or a daughter.”

“You care for the laird very much.” Theodosia was more serious than Lark had ever seen her. “Yet I can’t help but wonder. Does he feel the same about you?”

“I believe he does,” Lark replied, her joy undimmed.

He had cast off all the trappings of mourning. Life was not meant to be lived in hindsight, mired in the regrets and laments of the past. On the eve of his departure to Virginia, as the mosquitos whined in the netting about his bed, Magnus lay on his back and wondered, Had Lark received his letter? Was one from her even now on its way back to him? He found her posts especially dear. He looked toward the nightstand where a stack of them lay tied up with a bit of faded ribbon. He’d nigh memorized them, reading as much between the lines as the penned words themselves, trying to sift both thoughts and emotions.

He had to talk to her. Share his heart. Take her hands in his again. God forbid she’d gone somewhere else or lost Larkin. He’d go to the ends of the earth to find them both.

But first there was a precarious ship’s journey from Montego Bay to Virginia to endure. His goal before he left Jamaica’s shores was to have all three overseers in place and working together to manage the plantation in his absence. An onerous goal. After he’d pummeled the letter thief and sent him packing, another overseer had vanished of his own accord, leaving the one remaining man contrite and seeking his favor. Magnus had told him he’d be on a short tether, his tenure determined by how well he got on with Kwasi and the newest overseer, a fellow Scot, in his absence.

Virginia beckoned, a sort of oasis, Lark aside. And then? Would he return here to this hellish place, hot as a bake oven and writhing with snakes? The merciless cycle of sugarcane and cash crops never ceased. Perhaps one day it would become more peaceful and settled. But first the slavery must end.

Lord, help me reach Virginia and remain there if it pleases Thee.