27
No one is without difficulties, whether in high or low life, and every person knows best where their own shoe pinches.
Abigail Adams
The featherbed made a downy nest, soft and warm. A linen sheet was hardly needed. Sometime in the cicada-laden night a smirr of rain chased the heat away. Toward dawn a cock crowed. Lark lay staring at the cracked plaster ceiling, putting down the urge to kindle a fire and fill the teakettle. Ingrained in her since she was no bigger than a kelpie was this comforting ritual. ’Twas early morn when she most missed Granny and her old life, before the day’s business took hold. Betimes her head still spun with all the changes in her life since summer. It all harkened back to a betrothal announcement, then a bottle left on a shelf . . .
She pushed back the distant past to savor the memory of the night before. And the vision, as Magnus had called it, the secret revelation of her very soul. Not just a home but their home. She couldn’t say if it would be in Virginia or Scotland. But it was home, and it was so vivid and lovely it seemed she could reach out and touch it.
Her stomach gave a low rumble. She’d forgotten to ask the housekeeper about breakfast. She didn’t expect to partake of it in the mansion’s dining room. Her workday was about to begin. Next to her, Larkin made his usual morning noises in his box bed, merry sounds that chased away the worries of a new day. Rolling over, she peered down at him, his wide smile lighting up their odd world. She chattered to him as she dressed, exchanging a nightgown for a plain but bright blue-striped petticoat and jacket that Mistress Flowerdew had given her per the terms of her contract.
She gathered Larkin up in her arms and traced the shell path to the kitchen house in the service area behind the hedge.
“Mornin’, Mistress MacDougall,” a stout woman said, a bright red kerchief wrapped round her ebony head. “You and Master Larkin’s up with the cock’s crow.” She left the hearth where half a dozen items sizzled and simmered, wiping hardened hands on her grease-spackled apron. “I’m Sally, boss o’ the kitchen house. Flowerdew tol’ me ’bout you.”
Flowerdew? No “Mistress”? The omission made Lark smile. “Ye served us a fine supper.”
“That I did, with a little help from my man, Cleve. Now let me greet this here baby who looks like he might o’ rolled off that big ship.” Her brows shot up as she took him from Lark. “Mercy, is your back broke? You need fattenin’ up yo’self.” Patting a bench, she bade Lark sit at the table.
Steaming coffee that was half cream, eggs, grits pooling with butter, and salted ham crowded Lark’s end of the table, which seemed to groan at the addition of biscuits. Sally sat opposite her, Larkin on her lap, and began feeding him a bit of this and a bit of that, chuckling at the faces he made. Lark wanted to make a face or two herself. Whatever these Virginians boasted, grits was not porridge. Indian corn or maize, they called it. But the abundance continued to astound her, and afraid of seeming ungrateful, she ate heartily, as did Larkin, which seemed to please the cook.
“I expect you be back at the big house for supper tonight, least till the Scotsman leaves,” Sally said. She went to a churn and lifted the lid, Larkin balanced on one ample hip. “It’s good for us to be doin’ for folks. Osbourne stays gone so much this house is full o’ ghosts.”
“I ken little about him,” Lark said between bites. “Except that he seems kind.”
“Kind he is. And mournful sad, least when he comes here. Once upon a time he wed a Carter from downriver. The both of them turned Royal Hundred into a place fit for royalty, the rooms and table always full to burstin’. And then yella fever took the mistress in three days, their unborn babe with her. The master closed Royal Hundred down and sent us to the other farms for a year or better. House and gardens got overgrown. Things fell to pieces.”
Would the same happen to Kerrera Castle? “A woeful loss.”
“Happens,” Sally said with a resigned sigh. She poured Larkin’s milk into an earthenware cup. “And then the master up and took hisself another bride, this one from England. She wants to come here now, acrost the ocean.”
“I hope never to cross the ocean again,” Lark murmured, thinking of Blackburn. Yet she would see Kerrera again, wouldn’t she? Three years more. How could she ever call Virginia home when Scotland had her heart?
Sally set Larkin on her aproned lap with an ease that bespoke a familiarity with children as much as with the kitchen.
“I have me some grandbabies in the quarters. Try to see them when I can. They gonna be moon-eyed over this little rascal with hair red as a brick.”
Larkin drank the fresh milk, his chin glistening with cream. He clapped his hands when Sally went too slow to suit him, which elicited a throaty chuckle from her.
“He’s lively as can be,” Sally said approvingly. “Powerful smart. I’ll watch o’er him for a spell till you learn yer way around.”
Thanking her, Lark left the comfort of the kitchen house and stepped into the rising heat. Bent on the bee skeps, she crossed into the kitchen garden where the hives were kept. The two that had survived the ocean crossing were among the eight swarms Royal Hundred already had in place. All were different varieties of bees, each making a quantity of unique honey. Built into the bricked wall were the more protective bee boles to shelter the skeps, much like the ones in the stone wall at the castle.
’Twas almost time for the honey harvest. By a fortnight’s end she’d don the protective garments she’d seen in the stillroom—the long smock and veil made of willow—and begin. Each season here would bring different tasks, the same as in Scotland. The time would come when she must smoke the bees by burning sulphur beneath them, carefully cutting out the beeswax and gathering the honey. The hives would be bundled and kept under cover all winter till spring, when she’d line the inside of the skeps with lemon balm, planting thyme, and borage in abundance in the bee garden’s upturned soil.
Here was her life’s work for the next three years—the garden that was part apothecary, part culinary, part perfumery. She walked about, memorizing beds. One overflowed with tansy, parsley, madder, walnut, and woad, the best plants for dyes. The favored culinary herbs lived near the kitchen doorway—wild clary, sage, rosemary, mint, and thyme. The medicinal patch, crowned with feverfew, angelica, and valerian, was a stone’s throw from the orangery. Colorful butterflies hovered in the bee balm, a lovely, spirit-lifting sight.
“You look at home in the garden.” Mistress Flowerdew stood beneath an arbor overhung with a fragrant flowering vine.
“’Tis all I’ve ever known.” Lark smiled. “When is Mr. Osbourne expected?”
“Late spring or early summer in the new year. By then we shall all have Royal Hundred restored to its former glory.”
A formidable task. Lark’s gaze roamed the weedy paths, dependencies in need of painting, tumbled-down fences, and shutters askew.
“The laird is out riding with Mr. Granger. There are some farming matters to discuss that might stand his lairdship in good stead in the sugar islands.” She bent and picked several sprigs of mint. “You’ll join us for supper again, of course. I want to hear all about how you and the babe came to be here. The tale is exciting, no doubt.” She returned to the house, linen skirts swirling as she walked.
Kneeling, Lark began to weed a bed of lavender, her stomach knotted. How to explain Isla’s death? Tolbooth? A convict ship? Would it not be better left unsaid?
Lord, grant me the words.
Leaning in, palms biting into the oyster-shell walk, she let the lavender’s timeless sight and scent soothe her. She’d prepare a tincture of lavender. Sew it into the hem of Larkin’s garments. Make lavender soap. Gather bunches to hang upside down from the rafters.
The late summer season was waning. She must harvest carefully, not only the lavender but a hundred other things vying for her attention. And tend the bees. Always the bees.
And Larkin.
How was she to prepare for Richard Osbourne and his family, and manage the stillroom and Larkin too?
Och, to have a helpmate—a husband—and a home of her own. Then these precious hours would be hers alone to spend with Larkin and do as the day bade.
Heaven help thou me.
The clink of cutlery and rumble of thunder were the only sounds heard for several tense moments as Mistress Flowerdew digested their tale.
“You were arrested, then, for wearing a kilt? Pardon me, your lairdship, but are there not more serious crimes for the king to be concerned with?”
“Apparently not,” Magnus answered, forking a bite of fowl.
The factor, Mr. Granger, was absent. Indisposed. Relieved, Lark found dinner far more pleasant with just the four of them, including Larkin who sat upon the carpet playing with an empty snuff box. The tale of their coming to America unspooled with considerable finesse as Magnus skirted the sordid details sure to raise their housekeeper’s eyebrows.
Lark added truthful embellishments when she could. “I confess to the babe not being mine. Larkin’s kindred perished before we set sail, so I gladly took him, though I ken little about babies, having none of my own.”
“Not yet, you mean,” Mistress Flowerdew said. “No doubt you’ll have a long line of suitors once word spreads that Royal Hundred has a new stillroom mistress.”
“I shall be too busy for courting,” Lark said softly, not daring a look at Magnus. She took up a spoon to sample a fluted glass of quince compote. “And the terms of my contract say I canna wed.”
“Mr. Osbourne has allowed it before,” the housekeeper returned. “So long as you and your groom remain at Royal Hundred and fulfill the contract terms.”
Magnus regarded Lark through the haze of candlelight. She gave him a self-conscious smile. Was he thinking of their heartfelt talk since his confession aboard the Bonaventure? Her gaze fell to the dripping wax coating the silver candelabra like white icing. The perfume from the bayberry candles was heady, another Virginia oddity. Bayberry bushes grew by the sea and gave a smokeless light, unlike their beeswax candles on Kerrera.
“And you, your lairdship? Is there a Lady MacLeish?”
The amiable question hung in the air. No mention had yet been made of Isla.
“Once there was,” he said in that low tone laced with resignation and regret. “I’m recently bereaved.”
The housekeeper’s lined face clouded. “My sympathies, sir. I recall Mr. Osbourne saying what a support you were to him in the loss of his first wife, my dear niece. I never imagined you would share the same fate.”
So, Mistress Flowerdew had a personal connection to Royal Hundred, beyond her position as housekeeper? Another piece of their colonial puzzle fell into place.
As if sensing their surprise, she continued, “I am the spinster in the Flowerdew family whose position here as housekeeper keeps me from the poorhouse. Mr. Osbourne’s benevolent bent makes me quite devoted to his happiness and those in his employ.”
“He is a man who pays more than lip service to his faith,” Magnus said.
“Indeed, a rarity. I’m anxious to meet his new wife and son when they arrive.”
“How long will they stay?” Lark asked.
“A year, perhaps. His bride is very curious about British America and has family in Philadelphia. She’ll remain here at Royal Hundred while he conducts his colonial business. He may venture to Jamaica. There was a recent uprising among the slaves at Trelawny Hall. The overseers are too harsh, I fear.” Lifting a hand, she summoned a servant to serve coffee. “Mr. Osbourne is a man of integrity who struggles with the matter of slavery. I’m sure he’s made you aware of the difficulties you’ll soon encounter.”
“Aye, he has.”
Did Magnus feel the weight of his responsibilities? If so, he gave no sign of it. Lark stirred sugar and cream into her cup, trying to develop a taste for Caribbean coffee over tea. How on earth did Magnus drink his coffee black?
Her gaze left the table and landed on Larkin, who’d abandoned the empty snuff box. He lay on his side, determination sketched across his round face, and finally rolled over on the rug before their very eyes. Delighted, Lark set down her cup and clapped her hands. He gave her a damp, lopsided grin. Forsaking his coffee, Magnus rose and scooped him up, tossing him high into the air till he’d gained a belly laugh.
Any mournfulness was pushed back. Magnus settled Larkin against his chest, where the babe began picking at the imported buttons of his linen waistcoat. He claimed their attention as Magnus sat down and fed him the rest of his pudding.
“Ye’ve won him over, ye have,” Lark said, trying to paint an enduring picture of them in her head and heart—the babe appearing more interested in the man than the spoonful of dessert, and Magnus regarding him, a child not his own but who had a clear hold on his heart.
“Tomorrow I’ll show you the quarters and dependencies,” the housekeeper said as the last of the dishes were whisked away. “If you’re not acquainted with the more practical aspects of plantation life, you’d best prepare yourself.”
Prepare yourself.
The solemn words kept Lark awake as much as the tar-like coffee and the snippets of conversation that threaded through her dreams. Surely the plantation’s quarters wouldn’t be as humble and hunger-ridden as Kerrera in a lean year. Osbourne’s Christian principles extended to his slaves, surely. Except Osbourne was an ocean away.
The next morn, she and Larkin again breakfasted with Sally and Cleve in the kitchen. The stoop-shouldered Cleve was as quiet as his wife was talkative, but Lark found him amiable, his interest in Larkin unforced. He even sat the babe on his bony knee and amused him while she ate and Sally fried bacon.
“I’d leave the babe here iffen you visit the quarters. There’s a late summer fever goin’ round.”
A pinprick of alarm prodded Lark more fully awake.
“We be glad to keep him.” Sally pointed to a kitchen corner where she’d laid a quilt, with a wooden spoon and some kitchenware atop the diamond design. “Since he’s not crawlin’, he’ll be content right there away from the heat o’ the hearth.”
Already the kitchen held a humid sheen, the late summer morn stifling. Thanking her, Lark situated Larkin on the quilt and placed a wooden spoon in his hand, listening for a parting cry that never came as she moved toward the mansion.
The Virginia residence was built in 1702, so a stone marker said. She liked the mansion’s wide windows and the way the shell walk ran right up to the riverfront door, flowers and climbing vines on all sides.
Mistress Flowerdew greeted her, the aroma of coffee lingering. “The laird was just amusing me with talk of Scottish breakfasts. Strong tea, porridge with a splash of whisky, and oatcakes.”
Though full of biscuits, Lark hungered for the familiar. She followed the housekeeper into the foyer, where they perused family portraits on the paneled walls while waiting for the laird. Magnus didn’t keep them long, and soon they were out the door and down the path to the quarters she’d spied coming to Royal Hundred.
From a distance, it did seem a village with rows of identical houses and garden patches. Small as Scotland’s crofts, the log huts were daubed with mud, glazed windows keeping out insects in the summer and the wet in winter. But unlike Kerrera’s stone cottages, these dwellings seemed flimsy.
Children of every color darted about like butterflies. Free of all but the simplest shifts or shirts or breeches, they went barefoot and bareheaded. A few drew near shyly, clearly curious about their coming.
“Some seventy or so souls live here. Most are married and these are their children. The elderly watch over the smallest till they come of age to work.” The housekeeper gestured to a lane leading to yet another batch of log dwellings. “Down this row are the indentures, also field hands. Most labor long days in the tobacco and other crops no matter the season.”
“And the Sabbath?” Magnus asked.
“All rest on the Sabbath. Mr. Granger issues passes between the farms for courting and visiting of kin for those with good behavior.”
“Are these gardens theirs?” Lark lingered at a large patch fenced with split rails. She spied a few colorful squashes hiding among dwindling serpentine vines.
The housekeeper nodded. “These supplement the ration of meat and corn given them.” She pointed to a far more substantial house in a copse of trees on a near rise. “The factor lives there. The overseers of the lesser farms dwell farther down the river. As factor, Mr. Granger manages them all.”
They passed weavers, spinners, blacksmiths, tinsmiths, carpenters, and hostlers. Lark soon lost count. There was perpetual noise and activity in this part of the quarters as craftsmen and artisans toiled without even acknowledging them or looking up. Magnus was especially interested in the joiners and brick men. Lark found the spinning house intriguing, the telltale sheen of the Virginia heat on the dark skin of the spinners a constant reminder of just where they were.
Was it this warm in all the thirteen colonies? Or just here?
Magnus stepped to an open door of an end house while Mistress Flowerdew spoke with a white-haired woman at the next. Lark joined Magnus, a bit shy about intruding. But the place yawned empty, pallets on the dirt floor. A crude table and chairs sat before a fireless hearth.
Magnus leaned into the door frame. “I ne’er thought I’d see the day when a mere Scots croft seemed more castle.”
Her heart squeezed. There was a telling poverty here, and a wariness, a wall, as if someone had knelt down in the dirt and drawn a line. Though she was indentured, she wasn’t enslaved. All she’d ever known were the castle servants, who were able to come and go as they wished outside of work. But this . . .
The thought of a long winter spent in such spare surroundings bespoke a terrible kind of hardship. “Are Virginia winters cold, d’ye ken?” she murmured.
He looked at her, the depth of concern in his gaze making her own eyes smart. “I’ll pray ’twill be an easy winter for all.”
She forced a smile, though the coming season, brightened by her favorite holiday, would be nothing like in Scotland. ’Twas an occasion that she and Magnus had rarely spent apart. He’d always enjoyed New Year’s at Kerrera.
They returned to the mansion and formal gardens, silent and deep in thought.
Toward afternoon, at work among the bees, she heard a horse beyond the yew hedge near the stables. Magnus was in the service yard talking with the rider. When he’d ridden off in a storm of Virginia dust, Magnus walked toward her and said, “We sail tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. The word sank like a stone inside her. Shifting Larkin to her other hip, she simply nodded, then returned to the stillroom where she lay Larkin in his box bed for a nap. Keeping the connecting door open between them, she set about finishing the soap she and Sally had started making yesterday. The frothy mix had cooled and hardened in large wooden frames on the stillroom’s worktable. Today she’d cut the soap into bars to cure, transforming a simple cupboard into a fragrant bower. Lavender and wintergreen made a fine toilet soap, silky and with a good lather, but Sally preferred sassafras, something unknown to Lark.
“’Tis good to see the stillroom busy again.” Mistress Flowerdew stood in the doorway. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the delightful fragrance. “Did I show you the bagnio—the bathhouse—next to the laundry? Soon you’ll have it in use again, though Dr. Meakes—the physic who treats the servants—may take you to task. He believes bathing destroys the body’s natural defenses and makes one prone to disease.”
“A common mindset.” Lark had mistaken the bagnio for a privy—a necessary, the housekeeper called it.
“By now you likely know the laird is leaving soon.” Even Mistress Flowerdew looked downcast. “This evening there’s an invitation to Mount Brilliant, the seat of the Calverts. I hoped you and his lairdship might accompany me.”
“Well . . .” Lark swallowed. Weary and soap-spackled, she’d envisioned a quiet evening with Larkin and Magnus. As for an invitation, a proper dress . . .
“I shall lend you another gown. And the bagnio is at your disposal. I’ll send one of the maids to help you dress.” She started away, clearly delighted. “Larkin will be kept by Sally. We shan’t be out too late.”