32

Do not anticipate trouble, or worry about what may never happen. Keep in the sunlight.

Benjamin Franklin

Lark moved the candle nearer till golden light spilled onto the page. She paused, gaze lifting from the Bible to Larkin as he lay sleeping in his box bed, clutching a rag doll Sally had made him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest reassuring.

Her eyes returned to the Psalms.

The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit. Many are the afflictions of the righteous; but the LORD delivereth him out of them all. He keepeth all his bones: not one of them is broken.

She had asked the Lord for a special Scripture then landed on this. It seemed a promise, the words rife with hope. Saveth. Delivereth. Keepeth. She prayed that for Magnus. But nary another letter came. The delay chafed and sent her nearly running when the post arrived. Even Mistress Flowerdew began to look disappointed. But the lack of letters did not stop Lark from writing. She penned half a dozen to his one, overflowing with news of Virginia, even Theodosia Ramsay’s inquiry about him.

Now that fall had taken hold, Lark spent more time in the stillroom than the garden. Soon the cupboards were full of more than soap, with tonics aplenty to see them through the coming winter. Her visits to the quarters increased. In turn, the people came to her, seeking this or that for some ailment or another when the factor and overseer weren’t watching. A doctor was sent for if matters turned dire.

She’d not seen Rory again. As the time ticked closer to month’s end, she wondered, Had his plans to flee changed? Would she know if he got safely away? His desire to see the Scots stronghold in North Carolina she understood. But would it improve his lot? Would he not still be bound? An indenture on the run? If he dared return to Scotland he’d run the risk of being caught and put to death.

Betimes she felt almost guilty at Royal Hundred. She was bound, aye, yet treated as more of an equal by Mistress Flowerdew. Even Sally deferred to her, helping care for Larkin as if Lark was a member of the Osbourne household. Kinfolk. Her work seemed almost child’s play compared to a field hand.

Blessings abounded. Plentiful meals. An adequate dwelling. Work she favored. The gardens both here and in Williamsburg were an endless delight. Though she hated to confess it, even the castle’s gardens paled in comparison. Her grudging acceptance of Virginia was giving way. She’d not dwell on the loss of her beloved homeland, her tarnished heritage, or Granny. Nor Magnus. She couldn’t lose Magnus. The heart words he’d spoken before leaving warmed her whenever she pondered them.

The next morning found her cutting flowers for the house. Mistress Flowerdew was fond of fresh bouquets in both the mansion foyer and her personal sitting room. Lark brought the blooms into the stillroom to arrange them in a vase she’d gotten from the pantry. Once finished, she made her way to the house, smiling at Larkin’s chortling as Cleve sat with him beneath a pecan tree.

Mornings held a special joy as the plantation slowly came awake, the day unblemished, the wide river a serene blue. Up the back steps she went, calling a greeting.

Mistress Flowerdew was in the foyer, holding a note. She waved it at Lark, eyes alight. Had Magnus written at last?

“We’re to have afternoon visitors. Theodosia Ramsay and a certain gentleman.”

Lark set the blooms on a foyer table. “Tea, then?”

“Yes, and Mr. Ramsay wants to make the acquaintance of Royal Hundred’s new gardener.”

“Theodosia’s husband?”

“Nay, his barrister brother and an avid horticulturist.”

“The Ramsays have no end.”

The housekeeper laughed, seeming years younger. “I’d best prepare Mr. Munro. As for you . . .” She looked at Lark’s workaday attire. “An afternoon gown might be more suitable. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

They proceeded to an upstairs bedchamber, the only room undisturbed by renovations. Great progress was being made in repainting and wallpapering all around them, but this room remained untouched.

“Before Felicity died she bequeathed her wardrobe to me to do as I wished. I sent most of her garments to the poorhouse. I’ve borrowed a fichu here and a sash there and have remade a few of her gowns to wear. But I daresay her youthful taste suits you far better.”

Soon Lark ran work-worn hands over the skirt of her chintz gown. Celestial blue, the color was called. Her ankle-length white petticoat drew attention to her shoes, also celestial blue, with ivory-colored rosettes. Hardly the stuff of the stillroom.

Her hands gave her away. She wore mitts that Mistress Flowerdew said were in fashion, though Lark refused to powder and pomade her hair, simply coiling it at the nape of her neck and affixing it with pins and fresh flowers.

By afternoon, while Larkin napped, Lark kept busy in the stillroom in anticipation of their guests. A look out the window told her Mr. Munro had tidied himself as well in weskit and breeches, no dirt or leather apron in evidence.

She felt she’d swallowed a swarm of butterflies. But why? Because she felt out of her depth in Virginia society? In Scotland she knew who she was, her place. Here . . .

She went into the garden and spoke with Mr. Munro, whose affable Scots set her at ease. Osbourne had secured the very best. Mr. Munro had been plucked from a Highland estate near Aberdeen because he’d heard Virginia gardens were the finest in the colonies.

“I had to set my aging eyes on the black-eyed Susans, the goldenrod, and the fall-blooming asters,” he’d said of the American botanicals. “’Tis a privilege to prepare Royal Hundred in advance of the Osbournes’ arrival.”

And not only the Osbournes. At half past two, the decisive clip of horse hooves sounded on the driveway. A merry exchange of voices could be heard in the mansion’s foyer through the open riverfront door. In minutes, Mistress Flowerdew led their guests down the bricked steps and into the formal garden. Though Mr. Munro had only been there a sennight, his capable hand was in evidence everywhere.

Lark’s gladness to see Theodosia again was tempered by the sight of her companion. Behind her came a tall figure in navy broadcloth. His cocked hat was held in his right hand, angled artfully over his heart. He gave a little bow as they made introductions.

Trevor Ramsay was nothing like his brother, Prentice, though nonetheless powerfully built. This man was so tall Lark had to tilt her chin to look up at him.

“My brother-in-law has just returned from London as his legal studies are at an end there,” Theodosia said. “He’s happy to be back home in Williamsburg.”

He was studying Lark, a lively light in his gray eyes. “Have we not met before, Miss MacDougall?”

“Only if ye’ve been to the Isle of Kerrera,” she returned with a smile. “Though I was once in Edinburgh and Glasgow.”

“I’m told you ken, as the Scots say, a great deal about gardening and stillrooms.”

“Not as much as Mr. Munro,” Lark said as the two men shook hands. “And I’ve yet to be thoroughly schooled in yer colonial gardens. They are as different from Scotland’s as homespun and silk.”

“Or bannocks and biscuits,” he said with a wink.

They laughed and began to look about. Theodosia fell into step with Mistress Flowerdew, and Lark expected Trevor Ramsay to partner with Mr. Munro, but he did not.

“Shall we?” he asked her, extending an arm.

She rested her fingers on his coat sleeve, and they took a bricked path past a dry fountain whose basin was filled with colorful autumn leaves. Beyond this stretched the part of the garden that was the most beautiful in late fall and nearest to the river.

“So tell me, what have you found to your liking in Virginia?” he asked.

“Other than sweet potatoes and hoecake?” At his amusement, she said, “Virginia’s jasmine I find intoxicating, and the tuberoses are the largest I’ve ever seen, particularly the apothecary rose.”

“You’ve not yet witnessed the flowering dogwood and redbud in spring.”

“Nay. I’ve only just arrived, sir, in September.”

“Please, call me Trevor.” He paused to examine a daylily. “And I would dispense with Miss MacDougall as well.”

She swallowed. Was an exchange of first names so soon a colonial custom? “Then ye may call me Lark.”

“Lark?” His eyes met hers with unabashed pleasure. “You belong in a garden then. I am wearied of so many Marthas and Janes and Theodosias.”

Theodosia cast a look over her shoulder at his teasing. “Don’t think I am deaf and cannot hear you, Trevor. Your time in England did not take away your roguishness, I see.”

“Nay,” he said. “Those staid London courtrooms only amplified it.”

“Beware, Lark,” Theodosia said. “Trevor is quite a charmer.”

“I shall set Royal Hundred’s bees upon him if he grows too knavish,” Lark returned with a smile, gesturing to the skeps.

“Bees?” His eyes found hers again. “Surely you jest. Mistress of the stillroom and the swarms too? I intend to have bee boles at my new property on South England Street in Williamsburg. Perhaps I can have a swarm of yours to start.”

“Not all survived the crossing. There was a frightful storm—several of the bee skeps were lost,” she lamented. “A good many plants perished. But yer welcome to take cuttings and such come spring, if Mistress Flowerdew permits.”

“If you’d like to tour the orangery, sir,” Mr. Munro said, “Miss MacDougall and I can show you what did survive. Fruit scions might be of particular interest to you in regard to your future orchard.”

Mr. Munro led them down another path bordered by a neatly trimmed yew hedge leading to the glass house. The orangery door was open, beckoning. ’Twas a favorite place of hers, smelling fresh, even exotic, and hosting the estate’s most prized and delicate botanicals.

Delight took the edge off Lark’s awkwardness. She held back while Mr. Munro began the tour, Mr. Ramsay—Trevor—rapt.

“Come, ladies, let us go to the arbor while the men speak their Latin and conspire,” the housekeeper said. “We must catch up on any unmasculine gossip.”

Lark heard a cry and started toward the stillroom, only to see Sally dart in and whisk the wide-awake Larkin away. To the kitchen, likely, to have milk and gingerbread, a favorite. Lark felt more at home in Royal Hundred’s humble kitchen than in the waiting elegant bower smothered with trumpet honeysuckle and wisteria. Thankfully, tea with Mistress Flowerdew had become so commonplace she’d learned the etiquette well enough, though ’twas a far cry from Granny and the croft with its cracked treenware. What would her grandmother think of her now? If Virginia’s colonial governor began life as a humble Scots merchant, why shouldn’t she be comfortable at this refined tea table?

Beyond the arbor’s deep shade, the southern sun mimicked summer. Indian summer, Mistress Flowerdew called it. ’Twas four o’clock in the afternoon.

Lark watched as Mistress Flowerdew poured steaming water into a silver teapot and let the tea leaves steep for the customary three minutes.

“I’m growing quite fond of cups with handles,” Theodosia said. “No more burning one’s hands and spilling tea on one’s skirts. I’ve ordered an entire set of Wedgwood from England and expect it any day now.”

Mistress Flowerdew smiled. “What news do you bring from Williamsburg?”

“The very best.” Theodosia looked to Lark. “There’s to be a fete in the governor’s new ballroom the first of December.”

“A winter’s ball?” Lark mused, envisioning it. Mistress Flowerdew had taken her past the Governor’s Palace earlier, as the royal residence was just down the street.

“No doubt the governor will be happy to meet a fellow Scot. A variety of guests shall attend, including the emperor of the Cherokee Nation with his empress and their son the young prince. Governor Dinwiddie even asked my husband about the laird. He remembers him from the Mount Brilliant ball. I explained he was in the sugar islands.” She took a sip of tea. “I suppose you’ve heard from him?”

“Nay.” Lark read the questions in her eyes, ones she herself couldn’t answer. Fighting melancholy, she changed course, suspecting Theodosia enjoyed talk of fashion. “What shall ye wear to the ball?”

“Something in blue, the very hue of your gown. The milliner is already at work. You must come into town and see her progress when I have a fitting.”

“I’d love to.” Summoning enthusiasm wasn’t hard, though would she herself even attend? “Kerrera Castle—the laird’s ancestral home—hosted many a ball.” As a child, she’d simply pressed her nose to a glass window of the Great Hall while sitting atop her father’s shoulders. But once she’d come of age, she’d been a guest, if only in the shadows.

“A Scottish fete!” Theodosia came alive. “I suppose the castle is ancient and majestic.”

“Ages auld, and majestic indeed.” Lark felt a wistful pleasure take hold. “All the ladies wore their finery, and many a tiara and gemstone were seen.”

“I can only imagine it, having never been outside these colonies. But you have had the good fortune of being both places. I wonder what you’ll think of this colonial ball?”

“I’m sure she’ll find it most agreeable,” Mistress Flowerdew said with her usual enthusiasm. “A chance to meet more of Williamsburg’s residents. A shame the laird can’t join us.”

“Perhaps the Osbournes will host a fete when they return to Royal Hundred. To become reacquainted with society all at once instead of a chance meeting in town or at church.”

“A splendid idea! I shall write Mistress Osbourne and inquire. The great parlor is being redone in verdigris at her request. ’Tis large enough for dancing.”

“Have you heard the minuet might be going out of fashion?” Theodosia asked as the housekeeper poured more tea.

Their chatter died down when Trevor reappeared, stooping a bit as he stepped beneath the arbor. He took a seat beside Theodosia across from Lark, eyeing the now tepid teakettle.

“It matters not whether it’s warm or cold,” he said at Mistress Flowerdew’s insistence the water be reheated. “I’m not a fussy sort.”

Lark smiled. He had an endearing way about him, an easy grace she found in few men. Theodosia was right. Trevor Ramsay was charming.

“So,” he began, holding a teacup that looked ridiculously small in his large hands, “I thought I overheard talk of a ball. Will you attend?”

The question was meant for Lark. She met his eyes, a bit unnerved by the intensity of his gaze. “I never thought to be invited to a royal governor’s ball.”

“I plan to,” he replied, taking a drink, “if only to reacquaint myself with town life. I’ve been away for so long I don’t know who’s who in Williamsburg of late.”

They turned to other subjects, circling round once again to a place rarely out of Lark’s thoughts. The sugar islands. Theodosia’s kinfolk had just returned from there.

“Your ailing brother found them utterly forgettable, and of no help to his condition,” Trevor said. “The Caribbean gives the appearance of unspoiled beauty. A pretty gloss covering the ills of slavery.”

“Now, Trevor,” Theodosia interjected, setting down her cup, “there are nearly thirty souls enslaved at Ramsay House. No doubt there are nearly as many laboring to build your fine townhouse. Don’t bore our hosts with any double-minded talk.”

“What of Miss MacDougall?” he said, looking again at Lark. “What are your Scots feelings on the subject? I know of enslaved Africans in Scotland, though not so many as here.”

“None on the Isle of Kerrera,” she said quietly. “I stand on Scripture. Does the New Testament not say that God ‘hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth, and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation’? Can it be any clearer?”

They lapsed into a thoughtful silence till Mistress Flowerdew asked Trevor, “What is in store for you now that you’ve returned from London’s Inns of Court?”

“Rumor has it that I’ll be appointed to a post by the royal governor. But for the moment I’m most interested in ground being broken for my home and the garden and orchard that need planting.”

“Perhaps you can borrow Mr. Blair’s Williamsburg gardener as we did,” Theodosia told him. “I highly recommend him.”

“Mayhap.” He leaned back, done with his tea. “I’m pondering what to call the place. There’s only one Ramsay House, after all.”

“And now there shall be two,” his sister-in-law said as a cool breeze lifted the lace edges of her kerchief. “We’ll lodge you as long as you like, though thankfully you’ll only be moving across town once you do go.” She looked at the timepiece attached to her bodice, bringing an end to a memorable tea. “How quickly time passes in the company of friends. Thank you for the lovely afternoon.”

“Till the Sabbath,” Trevor said, putting on his cocked hat. “I bid you gracious ladies good day.”