Constance held her valise out the window of the bedroom Mother shared with Felicity. She dared not drop it from her own bedchamber above the parlor. Letting go, she held her breath and uttered a quick prayer as it landed with a thump upon the back lawn. She tiptoed to the top of the stairs and bent down to see if anyone had noticed the disturbance, but Mother and Felicity still sat stitching. Grammy snored nearby in her rocker.
Returning to her bedroom, Constance took one last glimpse in the mirror and caught sight of her plain brown eyes gazing back. For years she had longed for Felicity’s cornflower blue, or even Patience’s amber hue. Growing up on a plantation surrounded by nearly a hundred dark-eyed servants, hers had always seemed so…common. Once upon a time she masked them beneath her long, fluttering lashes. But she had since come to grips with them, and they fit her new image—as did her hair pulled into its tight chignon with not a wisp out of place. One might almost miss its fiery glow.
She ran a hand over the skirt of her sage green dress. The garment was outdated and a bit worn at the edges, as was all their Cavendish clothing, but still pretty and respectable. The sturdy cotton walking dress would have to do, for she could not risk a traveling costume. In her contraband valise she had packed three muslin day dresses and a butter-yellow evening gown with matching shoes. She couldn’t bear to bring the rose silk she had worn the night her life changed forever, although it remained in the best repair. Those dresses and a few necessities were all she dared sneak from the house.
Hopefully, Mother would not notice the riding boots worn in place of her usual soft leather slippers. Boots, however, were worth the risk, for she would not under any circumstances lug a pair of ugly iron pattens along. How fashionable society could condone such horrid contrivances, she would never understand.
She arranged her hat, donned her gloves, and wrapped a creamy cashmere shawl about her shoulders, although wild Gingersnap would have shunned them all once upon a time. Shoes would be abandoned as well, if the weather permitted. Peering closer into the mirror, Constance inspected her face to make sure it showed no hint of her nervous excitement. Color normal. Brow relaxed. Eyes blank. Lips bland.
Perfect.
Approaching the stairs at a normal gait this time, she descended. “Mother, is the letter ready? I shall deliver it to Trader Jack as Patience suggested.”
“On the stand by the door, darling. And drop the other at the postal office. But are you sure we shouldn’t wait for your Aunt Serena to add another letter?”
“We can’t afford the delay. You know how busy she is.”
“True.”
Constance gathered the envelopes into her reticule, reached for the front door, and then paused. “You didn’t mention Mrs. Beaumont’s son in the letter, did you? I’m not certain he’d even remember me.” She clenched her teeth as she listened for the reply.
“No. I didn’t want her to wait for a recommendation if he is abroad as we suspect he may be.”
“Good.” She’d never admit how good it was. Realizing she might not see her family for months, Constance dashed to the parlor and dropped a quick kiss on each of their cheeks. She hurried out the door before they could pause to question why or take note of her footwear.
At the end of the block, Constance turned and scurried around the house to collect her valise and then go out the back gate to take a circular route. Once safely away, she released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Patience would explain everything later, and when she did, Constance had no doubt they’d be relieved to have the decision taken from their hands.
The mercantile was only a few blocks away through the row of elegant, narrow townhouses made of brick. She might have bothered to worry about the neighbors gossiping to Mother concerning her traveling bag, except no one spoke to the Cavendishes. Indeed, no one she passed offered more than a civil nod, and others looked away as though she didn’t exist. By the time someone would talk to Aunt Serena and Aunt Serena would deign to visit Mother, Constance would be long gone.
Down the lane, Constance spied Mrs. Jane Wellington, premier matron of Richmond society and a close friend to her aunt. The ample lady with her voluptuous figure and soaring gray hair waddled toward Constance with a retinue of servants in tow. If anyone might be kind to her, if anyone might offer her one last chance to remain in town, it could only be Mrs. Jane Wellington.
Constance truly had no desire to run off alone and face Robert Montgomery days from civilization. In that moment, she decided that if Mrs. Wellington would be kind to her in any small way, give her even the briefest acknowledgement, she would stay.
As they strode toward one another, Constance could not bear the suspense. She began counting steps. One, two, three…her palms began to sweat…five, six…her face went cold…seven, eight…she’d reach her by twelve…nine, ten…
At last Mrs. Wellington seemed to notice her presence. The two women were almost shoulder to shoulder now. For a fraction of a second Mrs. Wellington caught Constance’s eye, then swung her head away and turned up her nose, cutting Constance deliberately and entirely.
Mrs. Wellington began to chat in a loud voice about the weather with her maid. So the matter was final. Constance would indeed leave today.
Setting aside thoughts of rude neighbors, she drew in the fresh spring air. She should be accustomed to such treatment by now. The sweet scent of early blossoms offered hope of new life, precisely what she needed on this fine day. She had once lived for springtime on the plantation—the beginning of picnics and parties, running through the woods, and splashing in the creek with Sissy.
The memory made her smile for a moment, until all the others came crashing upon her. She focused again on the relaxing scent of daffodils, pulling the air deep into her lungs. Today she would not look back. She would look ahead and hope.
* * *
Constance clutched tight to the side of Trader Jack’s wagon as they jostled their way along Three Notch’d Road. They’d left Richmond behind hours ago and now traveled through the rolling countryside past plantations and farmsteads. So different from the flat landscape she’d grown up with in Prince George. A cow mooed from a field to her left and continued chomping a mouthful of grass as they bumped past. She attempted yet again to find a more comfortable position perched atop the sacks of flour and sugar.
Perhaps her strategy was mistaken and she should settle down in the cracks instead. Pondering her dilemma, she listened to Jack’s stirring rendition of the popular new “Star Spangled Banner.” She’d already sat through a rousing version of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” That song had been more fun, especially when his wife pounded the seat with her bronze hand in a driving Indian rhythm. His current tune struck her as far too poignant.
As they topped the hill, the pungent scent of fresh earth filled her nose, and another tall, white plantation home came into view, pretty as a painting. This one could almost be mistaken for a large farm house with its simple construction, but the long line of windows and third story gave it away. Not to mention the Negro slaves scattered throughout the newly turned field.
Trader Jack hit the crescendo of his song with great enthusiasm. “O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
The irony of the lyrics against the backdrop did not escape Constance.
For years she labored under confusion but had at long last come to a few sound conclusions. One, slavery was a wretched institution. And two, it was destined to fail. She no longer blamed her slaves for running away. Yet how Sissy could have betrayed her, deceived her, and deserted her after all they shared together, Constance still could not fathom.
The familiar slice of pain to her chest shook her from her stupor. The question had proven futile time and again. Perhaps the questions she should be asking pertained to her reception at White Willow Hall. For example, what if they turned her out? What if they’d found someone else? Or what if word of Papa’s treachery had reached that far?
No, she was not prepared to face those questions either. She bounced her way to the back of the seat and leaned between Trader Jack and his elegant wife. She appeared years younger than Jack, with his unruly white hair and beard—although upon closer inspection, the wisdom in her black eyes suggested perhaps she had aged gracefully.
“Need stop?” the woman asked in her broken speech.
“No, I simply wondered why my beautiful concert ended so abruptly.”
Trader Jack tossed back his head and laughed. “Well, I’ll say you are right easy to please, Miss Cavendish.”
His wife laughed with him, a sound as melodious as Jack’s singing.
“I’m sorry. I should have asked earlier, but what is your name, ma’am?”
“I am Dancing Waters.” She spoke the words slowly and carefully.
“You don’t say. I’m a dance instructor.”
“No disrespect intended, Miss Cavendish, but no one dances like my wife here.”
“I don’t doubt you. I noticed how lightly she moved on her feet as we loaded the wagon. Made me wish for a pair of moccasins.”
“She’s a sight to behold.”
“I dare say she’s elegant enough for the drawing rooms of London.”
Dancing Waters spoke to Trader Jack in a rush of French too quick for Constance to catch the full meaning. But her use of the cultured language reinforced the image of a woman serving tea.
People were people. Constance had learned as much in her childhood despite Papa’s best attempts to teach her otherwise.
Jack and Dancing Waters exchanged a few more comments in a mix of languages she could not follow. Finally Jack translated, “She wants me to sing another song. A new one I just learnt.”
“Perfect.”
Constance settled herself into a crack between the scratchy sacks this time. They surrounded her like a hug. She reclined against the side of the wagon, hands behind her head, staring up at the blue sky and puffy white clouds as he sang.
I am going to leave you tomorrow,
To sail on the ocean so blue;
To leave all my friends and relations,
I have come now to bid you adieu.
Tears filled Constance’s eyes, and the clouds blurred. The song struck too close to her current situation, but she couldn’t bear for him to stop. Moisture rolled down her cheeks and back toward her hair. She’d hardly given Mother, Felicity, and Grammy a kiss good-bye. At least she’d bid Patience a proper farewell at the mercantile.
Then meet me by the moonlight, love, meet me,
I want to see you alone;
To tell of the heart that is breaking,
To leave my love and my home.
As if the song were not troublesome enough, images of Robbie in the moonlit library filtered through her mind. She pictured herself swirling in his arms once again. Felt his lips warm and tingling against hers. Oh her heart was breaking. He’d rejected her coldly, dashing her last hope, causing her to lose both love and home in one swift stroke.
How could she bear to see him again?