33
Be slow in choosing a friend, but slower in changing him.
Scottish proverb
By the Sabbath the weather took an abrupt turn, closing the curtain on a colorful fall. Snow began swirling down—huge, white flakes that reminded Lark of lace. By the time they reached Bruton Parish Church, all of Williamsburg was dressed in white. The bells pealed in the snowy stillness and were heard for miles.
Mistress Flowerdew had given Lark a cloak in dove gray, cape trimmed with ribbon, the muff of the same. When Lark had protested such finery, she’d received a fine scolding. “You shan’t go to church and freeze to death!”
Larkin had remained home with Sally, snug by the fire.
Now Lark huddled beside Mistress Flowerdew near the back of the church, noting the Osbournes’ box pew was conspicuously empty. The Ramsays sat at the front, Trevor’s broad shoulders a striking counterpoint to Theodosia’s slender, sloping carriage and Prentice’s fleshed-out form. The widow Ramsay sat between her sons, her graying head covered in a large calash.
Though the church was beautiful, hallowed, ’twas cold as a tomb, their combined breaths pluming like white feathers. The brazier of coals beneath her feet warmed only those. Yet she was glad of the cold. How weary she’d grown of the oppressive Virginia heat.
She took a discreet look about. These Anglicans were a far cry from her Scots-Presbyterian roots. How did Magnus worship in the islands? Was it not the Sabbath everywhere? Lark took a childish, whimsical comfort in the fact they shared the Sabbath, at least. On Kerrera they honored the day quietly. No telling what these Virginians did. Till now she’d spent the Sabbath simply reading Scripture at Royal Hundred, till Mistress Flowerdew begged her company today.
Her gaze lifted to the rosette windows letting in snow-glaring light. Governor Dinwiddie arrived to sit on his canopied chair at the front. Next came the government officials, mostly burgesses, Mistress Flowerdew whispered to her. They took their assigned places and the service began, the beadle casting a wary eye over the congregants, especially the William and Mary students in the gallery.
Lark followed Mistress Flowerdew’s lead, reading from the prayer book after the minister. In two hours the sermon was done. Her extremities were numb, and the ancient woman in the pew ahead of them snored softly. A benediction was said, and all filed past the liveried footman at the entry.
“Your cheeks are red as the Hawthorn berries by the church’s tower door,” said a voice behind her. Trevor Ramsay.
She stepped into a corner of the vestibule, firming her chin to keep her teeth from chattering, and buried her hands deeper in the borrowed muff. “Good morning, sir.”
“Sir? Didn’t we dispense with that at Royal Hundred? Must I call you Miss MacDougall? Lark is far more fetching.”
“As ye wish, Trevor.” She smiled up at him, admiring his handsome fulled cloak while people pressed past.
Theodosia came down the flagstone aisle at last. “Come with us, Lark. You and Mistress Flowerdew must warm up before riding home.”
Trevor winked. “My sister-in-law wants to parade her latest acquisition from London before you.”
“Nay, I do not,” Theodosia protested. “I am not proud, Trevor. Just cold.” She looked about for Prentice, who was deep in conversation with several burgesses. “My husband seems determined to turn me into an ice sculpture.”
“Let us go, then,” Trevor said, escorting them to a waiting coach. He stepped aside to help his mother and Mistress Flowerdew into the Osbourne conveyance. “My brother can walk. Heaven knows some exercise will do him good.”
Lark nearly laughed. Truly, the ponderous Prentice could benefit from a brisk if brief walk. Ramsay House was not far.
Down Palace Street they went, going slowly in the slippery snow. In a quarter of an hour they alighted and were escorted up the slick steps and into the foyer like before, the enormous window on the landing framing a leaden sky. To their right was the dining room, door open.
“And what is your pleasure, Lark?” Theodosia asked as a servant removed her wraps. “Tea or cocoa?”
“Coal,” Trevor said with a wry smile. He took Lark’s elbow and guided her into the dining room toward a papered, paneled wall.
Lark blinked. Tried to puzzle out the odd contraption before her, though the delicious heat emanating from it gave a telling clue.
“’Tis a warming machine,” he told her. “Designed by a clever Londoner named Buzaglo.”
Taking her gloved hand, he placed it lightly on the stove’s ceramic face. Her fingers thawed. She smiled, taking in the embellishments and scrolling design, an artistic marvel from tip to top. “’Tis like an enormous three-tiered cake.”
“Aye, ‘one of the most elegant warming machines that ever was seen in this or any other kingdom,’ says the papers. I’m considering ordering one for the orangery I hope to have built.”
“Complete with lemon trees like Royal Hundred’s? Mr. Munro said you are especially fond of those.”
“Don’t forget the oranges.” He let go of her hand as Theodosia invited them toward a cluster of chairs.
“Where is Mistress Flowerdew?” Lark asked. “And Mistress Ramsay?”
“In the small parlor,” she replied, motioning a servant to set down a tray.
“My mother has pronounced the warming machine extravagant,” Trevor told her, taking a chair. “Youthful vanity.”
“Oh?” Lark moved her feet nearer the warmth. “I confess I am quite smitten.”
“As I am,” he said with a wink, holding her gaze. She looked away, rattled, glad for her friend’s presence.
“Have some chocolate, Lark, to further warm you.” Theodosia poured then passed her a delicate cup.
Lark took a careful sip. Never had she sampled cocoa. She tasted vanilla, sugar, and spice. Rich and creamy and satisfying on such a day.
“’Tis new to you,” Trevor said. “Like syllabub.”
“Indeed. And like syllabub, I hope cocoa will be a dear friend.”
He chuckled, taking a drink from his own cup. “’Tis reputed to be a digestive aid and of benefit for lung ailments, especially nourishing for the sick.”
“Mayhap I should keep some in the stillroom. Surely ’tis good for body and soul.”
“At least in the snow and cold.” Trevor balanced his cup and saucer on one knee. “Thankfully, Virginia’s winters are brief.”
“Nonsense,” Theodosia said, taking a chair nearest the warming machine. “Two years ago, we didn’t see the ground till April. I felt I was in the arctic. Every gardener in Williamsburg was apoplectic!”
“I was in London, remember,” Trevor said, gaze shifting to Lark. “When the snow melts you’ll have to see the progress of my property. I’d like your opinion of the layout of the physic and bee gardens.”
“Of course.” Lark smiled at him over the rim of her cup.
“Any word on when the Osbournes are due?” Theodosia asked. “I’m anxious to meet the new mistress of Royal Hundred. The former, God rest her, was also a dear friend.”
The lament in her tone tugged at Lark. “Mr. Osbourne’s last letter spoke of a spring sailing.”
“Any news from the laird?” Theodosia asked, pouring more chocolate.
At Lark’s simple nay, Theodosia and Trevor exchanged glances. Instantly she felt a qualm. Did they know something she didn’t?
A noise in the foyer was followed by Prentice Ramsay’s entry. Face reddened with cold, he greeted them heartily and took a cup of cocoa from his wife’s hand.
“’Tis snowing harder,” he remarked, obviously not minding his bracing walk.
Lark’s gaze strayed to the windows clad in heavy brocade and wooden Venetian blinds. All were covered but the one nearest the door, showcasing a blindingly white world.
Her cup was empty. She craved the stillroom’s scent. Her humble hearth. Larkin. “We must be away then.”
“Away? Surely there’s no need to hurry on so stormy a day,” Prentice said. “We have room aplenty should you and Mistress Flowerdew need to stay the night.”
“Kind of ye, but I am missing my wee lad.” The quiet words tumbled out before she’d given them thought. To her knowledge no mention had yet been made of Larkin. “He’s at home in a servant’s keeping.”
All eyes pinned her, their shocked silence begging explanation.
“You have a child?” Theodosia finally said with something more akin to envy than surprise.
The Ramsays had no children, Lark remembered. “His aunt placed him in my care before she died. His mother passed away before that. And his father’s whereabouts are unknown.”
“Orphaned, then,” Prentice said. “Like so many, including my dear wife.”
Theodosia’s lovely face darkened. “My mother died of a brief illness when I was a girl. Then the year before Prentice and I were wed, my father and two sisters were taken. Their deaths were such a shock ’tis still talked about in town. They were struck by lightning during a summer storm.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lark murmured, though the words seemed woefully inadequate.
“We’ve helped raise Theodosia’s younger brothers,” Prentice said, moving nearer the stove. “At the moment, they are enrolled at the Grammar School at the College of William and Mary on the outskirts of town.”
“How old is your”—Theodosia mulled the word—“son?”
“Not yet a year.”
“A baby? How delightful! And what is his name?”
“Larkin. It means fierce or warrior in Gaelic. But ye may call him Laurence, the English way, if ye’d rather.”
Theodosia’s eyes widened. “How extraordinary to learn his name mirrors yours.”
“He’s by far the bonniest lad I’ve ever seen,” Lark said, craving his company. “A redheaded handful.”
“Nothing like a child to enliven a home,” Trevor remarked.
“Providence does have a sense of humor,” Prentice said.
They lifted their chocolate cups in a sort of toast to Larkin at Trevor’s invitation. And then the merriment was broken by Mistress Flowerdew’s voice and the click of a door closing.
“Come, Lark,” she called. “’Tis time for us to be away.”
“Only if you’ll let me escort you.” Trevor stood and followed Lark into the foyer. “If your coach should break down or some mishap occur, you’ll need an able hand.”
“Very well.” Mistress Flowerdew stepped toward the door opened by a liveried servant, snow blowing in on a gust of wind. “But you must stay the night at Royal Hundred, Trevor Ramsay. Something tells me the storm is here to stay.”
“Come, my little prince, and meet yer company.” Lark bent over Larkin, who lay on the bed of their cottage as she changed both his clout and his clothes. “Ye must look yer best. And act yer best too.”
He squirmed as she pulled the linen leine over his head, freshly washed and smelling of the dried lavender she’d sewn into the hem. She wished she’d had time to give him a bath. He smelled of wood smoke from the kitchen, though Sally had fed him, his mood content.
He smiled up at her, making his baby noises as she tickled him, calling forth his gurgling laugh. Taking up a blanket, she wrapped him snugly before heading out the door to the mansion, mindful of the slippery walk. Cleve waited just outside the cottage door with a lantern, lighting her way through the still swirling snow. Sally was likely preparing supper even on the Sabbath.
Up the steps into the big house she went, Larkin in arm. What would Trevor think of him? The Ramsays’ shock that afternoon left her feeling she’d been keeping Larkin a secret. But in truth, her short acquaintance with them hadn’t called for sharing so personal a matter.
She’d dressed Larkin as snugly as she could in a knitted cap and stockings yet still fretted he wasn’t warm enough. Her mother’s heart wouldn’t rest, yet she felt all the pride and pleasure of presenting her firstborn to a guest. The fact their guest was Trevor Ramsay, a person she was becoming aware of as a man of some standing at least in Virginia, made the occasion more memorable.
“There you are,” Mistress Flowerdew exclaimed with all the warmth Lark found endearing. “No doubt Master Larkin thought we’d forgotten all about him, spending so long a Sabbath in town.”
Trevor stood by the hearth, hands behind his back, eyes on the lad she carried. Larkin’s hair strayed in bright wisps beyond his cap, and his alert blue eyes fixed on the sole man in the room. Immediately the babe reached out plump arms to him.
Surprised, Lark handed him over. “He doesna always take so kindly to strangers. He was terrified of the sailors aboard ship. But ye, sir,” she added with a pleased smile, “are no sailor.”
“He has a fascination for buttons,” Trevor replied as Larkin began examining his silver-threaded waistcoat. “A stout fellow. And pure Scots from the look of him.” He shot a glance at Lark. “I still find it remarkable he shares your coloring. He could well be your son. And your eyes are the same shade of blue.”
“Remarkable, indeed, though many Scots have such coloring,” Mistress Flowerdew said. “Master Larkin has brought a great deal of joy to this echoing house. And I hope he’ll soon have a playmate once the Osbournes arrive with their young son, Master William.”
“Soon your young man will be ready for Grammar School at William and Mary as I was.” Trevor took a chair, Larkin on one knee. “There are a number of students, even Indian youth, who board there.”
“A few years yet till he’s eight and ready to cut the leading strings.” Mistress Flowerdew took a chair opposite Trevor, leaving the seat nearest him to Lark. “I shan’t like to part with him just yet.”
Lark sat, feet to the crackling wood fire, finding the marble hearth far less cozy than the Ramsays’ coal stove. Seeing Larkin happily settled on Trevor’s lap unleashed an avalanche of memories. Magnus kissing Larkin’s unfurrowed brow. Magnus tickling him and tossing him in the air. Larkin reaching for Magnus at the last. Babies needed fathers. Other than Cleve in the kitchen, Larkin rarely saw another man.
“This makes me think of a family of my own.” Trevor’s candidness turned him grave. “When one considers there are no children at Ramsay House after seven years . . .”
“I still pray for an heir,” Mistress Flowerdew said. “You’ll make a fine father, Trevor, if our stout Scotsman is any indication.”
Truly, Larkin seemed as at ease as Lark had ever seen him, now besotted with the chain that led to Trevor’s timepiece.
“He takes in everything. And I mean everything,” Lark said, remembering the swallowed button. “And he’s quite fond of Royal Hundred’s fare, especially peach preserves and biscuits.”
“He has a healthy appetite then.” Trevor took his timepiece from his pocket and planted it in Larkin’s hand. “No maladies to speak of?”
“A cold and cough soon after we arrived but nothing of consequence.”
“I’ve cautioned Lark to keep away from the quarters this winter,” the housekeeper said. “Fevers and the like spread like wildfire among the servants.”
Trevor nodded knowingly. “’Tis the same at Ramsay House. The doctor is often sent for when Mother and Thea cannot manage on their own.” His eyes found Lark’s. “I suppose your hands are full with tonics and the like in the stillroom.”
“Betimes. I told the overseer any sickness was bound to be reduced if the quarters were improved and the people given ample bedding, clothing, and food.”
“And did he take your recommendations?”
“Nay.” Could he hear the regret in her tone? The frustration? “’Tis especially hard on the wee ones. And there are so many of them. With winter here, I’m especially concerned.”
“Lark has secured a large quantity of osnaburg to make winter garments for the children. And the spinning house is weaving extra coverlets, of which I wholeheartedly approve. Lark has all the makings of a fine plantation mistress.”
“Ye flatter me. ’Tis only what any charitable person would do,” Lark said with a slight smile. Was Mistress Flowerdew trying to do a little matchmaking? Not with one of the most eligible bachelors in all Virginia Colony, surely. And not when her heart was so firmly anchored to Magnus. “I ken I’m better suited to a Scottish island than a Virginia plantation. I miss it with all my heart.”
Tiring of the watch, Larkin struggled to be free. With an ease that surprised her, Trevor stood him on the carpet, holding on to his hands to keep him upright. Apparently pleased with his newfound accomplishment, Larkin laughed and revealed his latest tooth.
“Will you go back, then?” Though Trevor kept his eyes on Larkin, Lark sensed an undercurrent of dismay. “To Scotland?”
“Did ye not miss Virginia when ye were in London?” she asked gently.
His features relaxed. “Aye. Being native born to America, ’tis my home. Like Scotland is yours.” Leaning forward in his chair, he began to walk Larkin over to Lark.
“Whoever would have thought a barrister could be so good with children?” Mistress Flowerdew commented before leaving the room to see about supper.
The compliment made Trevor seem as proud as Larkin. “We legal men are not all bewigged and dour.”
Once again, Lark’s thoughts cut to Magnus, as much a barrister as Trevor Ramsay. All that was no more. Had his banishment stripped him of his legal standing? Would he ever again don his judicial robes and resume his position in Edinburgh’s Court of Session?
She took Larkin in her arms, softening when he burrowed his face in her bodice then lifted his face and gave her a wet kiss on the chin.
“Ye imp.” She hugged him nearer, aware of Trevor’s eyes on them. “I wonder what sort of future he’ll have here.”
“He’ll be a Virginian, if you stay,” Trevor said. “As his guardian, you have the choice.”
“We’re here for three years hence at least. Mr. Osbourne holds my indenture, ye see.”
Trevor looked less surprised than when he’d learned about Larkin. He merely nodded. “Indentures are coming into the colonies in droves and have for a hundred years or better. Not only from Great Britain but all of Europe.”
She’d lost track of all those indentured aboard the Bonaventure but Magnus and Rory MacPherson. Had the former captain and free trader run? If he was caught, the penalty would be severe. In the hands of Factor Granger, harsher still.
“Let us have supper, shall we?” Mistress Flowerdew reappeared and opened a hall door that led to the dining room.
Once again, Trevor surprised her by plucking Larkin off the carpet, where he’d been hugging Lark’s knees, as if he weighed no more than a feather. Larkin peered over one wide shoulder before Lark went into the dining room ahead of them.
Mistress Flowerdew had spared nothing for their Sabbath supper. The best plates and crystal shone, and the pleasant scent of beeswax bespoke the best light. Lark helped situate Larkin in the walnut infant chair rescued from the attic. When he grabbed at the fine linen tablecloth, she handed him a silver spoon to fist instead.
Trevor took Magnus’s chair. The accompanying pang was so acute it felt almost physical. Would she ever get over missing him? Waiting and wanting to hear from him?
“This is how I envision family life,” Trevor remarked, eyeing the fine papered walls and paneling. “No children shut away in separate rooms but all present and accounted for.”
Lark smiled. Which colonial belle had he set his cap for? Mistress Flowerdew said his arrival back in Virginia had caused quite a stir.
He said grace, and thoughts of Magnus again intruded, his resonant Scots overriding Trevor’s melodious Virginia dialect even in memory.
She looked to a window, the panes blurred by snow. Trevor Ramsay might be snowbound at Royal Hundred for days.