34

The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good.

Samuel Johnson

Around noon the next day came Factor Granger, tromping through snow that nearly reached the ankles of his high black boots. Lark shuddered and turned away from the stillroom window, squinting at the glare, as he passed by the glass and cut across the service yard to the mansion.

Though Royal Hundred’s six chimneys all belched smoke, she’d not seen Mistress Flowerdew nor Trevor this morning. Was he a late riser? After supper, he’d asked use of the Osbournes’ library. Before she’d tucked Larkin into his box bed beside her, she’d taken a last look at the mansion house and saw a sole light upstairs. No doubt their guest had read into the wee small hours.

She dressed Larkin warmly, donned her own scarlet cape, and trudged to the kitchen where Sally and Cleve huddled near the snapping fire. A copper teakettle puffed steam beside a small pot of porridge.

Their glum faces stole Lark’s appetite. Not even Larkin’s merry, nonsensical chatter put a dint in their demeanor, usually as steady as the Virginia sun.

“Sit a spell,” Sally said, taking the kettle from the fire. “I expect you be called to the big house ’fore long.”

Lark sat down hard on a crude chair, Larkin on her lap. “What has happened?”

“Runaways,” Cleve said. “And no way to track ’em in this snow, not even with dogs.”

So Rory had gotten away. Lark sat very still, letting the fact sink in with all its mournful implications. “Why would Granger report runaways to Mistress Flowerdew?”

“For all his high and mighty ways, he can’t read nor write. Least here lately. It’s left to Flowerdew to tell Osbourne. Pen him a letter.”

“It ain’t like he’s never learned,” Cleve explained. “Something in his head gets letters and figures backwards ever since he first took sick.”

“What do ye think ails him?” Lark asked, genuinely interested despite Granger’s harsh reputation.

“Don’t know what to call it.” Sally shook her head and poured tea into cups. “Ever so often he seizes, freezes up. Frightful how it comes on all a sudden and leaves him wrecked. Can’t even walk for a spell after. Then time passes and he gets around again.”

’Twas what Mistress Granger, his wife, had said when seeking out Lark in the stillroom. Pondering it, she fed Larkin spoonfuls of porridge laced with honey. Granger was brusque, argumentative even, and he offended Mistress Flowerdew’s sensibilities. Their infrequent meetings were fraught with peril. Though the housekeeper spoke ill of few, she did complain about the factor.

Cleve began humming a tune as if to cut the tension in the kitchen, reminding Lark of the Watts hymnal she’d found in a stillroom cupboard. She’d given it to the only literate slave she knew, Royal Hundred’s blacksmith, Josiah. As musical as he was skilled at the forge, the industrious Josiah seemed grateful. She’d lost count of all the times the singing from the quarters drew her, the blend of voices like some heavenly choir.

“Ye needn’t any printed music as yers is divine,” she’d told him as she’d offered the hymnal. “But mayhap this will be of use to ye in some way.”

Emotion glazed his dark eyes and he took the gift almost reverently, making her glad she’d offered it. “We want to thank you for the help you give,” he said, eyes on his hands. “The coverlets and stockings you bring. Our children don’t suffer as much from the cold.”

Glad she was to help, though such seemed a tiny golden thread of relief in a dark tapestry of needs. But she’d done what she could.

Sally was studying her as if privy to her thoughts. “I suspect Granger’s goin’ to make trouble for you now that he’s stirred up about the runaways too. Told Cleve just yesterday he don’t like you goin’ to the quarters.”

What could she say to this? Mistress Flowerdew had no qualms about her visits. Yet she knew she acted in a manner no usual indenture would. Should she fear doing what she thought was right? What she felt prompted to do? Would the Lord not hold her accountable if she bowed to fear and ignored His compassionate leading to help where and when she could?

Be mine defense.

She sipped her tea, pondering this news, the hot liquid stealing to the benumbed parts of her. Looking toward the frosted window glass, she envisioned what she wished she could see. Scotland. Spring. Bees and birdsong. A letter from Magnus.

Within a quarter of an hour, a housemaid came to summon Lark. Her terseness betokened something dire. Without a word, Sally reached for Larkin, leaving Lark to walk the just cleared path to the mansion alone, a few snowflakes sifting down.

Raised voices greeted her from Osbourne’s paneled study off the foyer, Granger’s foremost. No sooner had Lark wiped the soles of her shoes on an entry mat than he stormed past her, the stench of his unwashed garments leaving a sour smell. Her dread eased only a bit at the slamming of the back door behind him.

Mistress Flowerdew stood in the open study doorway, her face a strange mingling of ire and distress.

“Yer upset,” Lark said. “What has happened?”

“I fear Mr. Granger’s illness has scrambled his mind in the extreme. He lays part blame at your door for the latest runaways at Star Farm. Someone saw a Scots indenture, a former sea captain named MacPherson, talking to you not long ago in the garden. This man is one who got away.”

“He said he planned to run, but I wasna sure I believed him. He told me to come to Star Farm by month’s end if I wanted to go with him.”

“Why would you?”

“He’s a fellow islander. From Kerrera. The laird knows him too. But I have no wish to break the covenant with Mr. Osbourne, nor leave Royal Hundred.”

Nodding, Mistress Flowerdew took a steadying breath. “Let us forget the overseer’s outburst. His quarrel with you likely stems from your latest interference, as he calls it, in the quarters, more than this flimsy association with a runaway.” She backtracked into the study, a paper in hand. “Please sit down, my dear. I have other unfortunate news.”

Lark’s heart seemed to skitter to a stop. Magnus. At last?

“Mr. Granger communicates occasionally with an overseer at Trelawny Hall in Jamaica, a distant relation. Since Granger’s illness, I have to pen his replies and manage his correspondence as his wife is not literate.”

Lark waited. Would she not hurry and tell all the rest?

The housekeeper began reading from the Jamaican overseer’s post, voice wavering.

“The Scots laird and factor, Magnus MacLeish, lies gravely ill with yellow fever. He is not expected to recover. I have sent word to Osbourne about a possible replacement, one who is not averse to enslaving Africans and the conditions in which we must keep them. MacLeish has plans in place not only to teach select slaves to read and cipher but to place them in positions of authority here. ’Tis no surprise these chosen Africans warm to his outrageous plan. As they are lords over their own people, I suspect much mayhem to follow. Even so, there is to be a better harvest this year, due to the Scot’s management. MacLeish is a force to be reckoned with, even half-dead. By your receipt of this letter, he will likely be buried . . .”

Mistress Flowerdew’s voice trailed off wearily.

Long moments passed before Lark said, “No more?”

With a shake of her head, Mistress Flowerdew folded up the letter. The room grew colder and grievously still. Lark herself felt turned to stone.

Nay, Magnus, ye canna leave me yet.

What had he said to her at the last?

Goodbye for noo. See ye efter.

She fixed her gaze on the fire, the anguish of the unknown welling inside her.

“The Lord preserves whom He will,” Mistress Flowerdew murmured before they fell into another sore silence. “We pray the laird is among them.”

So lost was she in the misery of the moment, Lark startled at Trevor’s voice. She’d all but forgotten he was snowbound with them.

“May I intrude?” He filled the doorway, a book in hand, impeccably dressed and no worse for the weather.

“I’m afraid we’ve had rather an unpleasant visit from the factor, Mr. Granger,” Mistress Flowerdew said.

“I overheard something about indentured runaways.”

“Indeed.” She nearly grimaced. “I fear Mr. Granger was shouting and I apologize.”

“No, please. I would have come down sooner but thought I might aggravate the situation further.”

He entered the room and took a chair. They sat in a sort of triangle, Lark and Mistress Flowerdew on a brocade settee across from him.

“Several indentures from Star Farm have gone missing,” Mistress Flowerdew said. “Of course, Mr. Granger is upset about the lack of labor and breaking of covenants, a definite loss to the plantation. Normally he’d send trackers and dogs after them, but with this snow the runaways are likely gone for good.”

“What is this mention of Lark and the runaways?”

At Mistress Flowerdew’s hesitation, Lark briefly explained her tie to Captain MacPherson.

“But that is of small consequence,” the housekeeper said. “Word has come that the laird, Magnus MacLeish, has been gravely ill with yellow fever and might not recover.”

Hearing it again was just as much a trial as the first time. Could it be?

“I’m sorry to learn of this,” Trevor said quietly, staring down at the book he held.

“Is it true what they say,” Lark began with difficulty, “that those who want to die quickly go to the West Indies?”

Their eyes met, and she read his answer before he said a word.

“Few survive the debilitating fevers and diseases and climate, not to mention the dangers.”

“The laird strikes me as a man who isn’t hindered by much,” Mistress Flowerdew rushed to reassure her. “Besides, he’s a man of faith, is he not? I recall what George Whitefield, the great evangelist, once said, that as believers we are invincible until our work is done.”

Mulling this, Lark committed it to memory, praying that even as they spoke Magnus was on his feet, the sickness far behind him.

2 December, 1752

Dearest Lark,

I have heard the sorrowful news about the laird. I so want to cheer you now that the snow has melted and the way to town is clear. Might you come to Ramsay House for tea around our cozy warming machine on your next free day?

And do bundle up the babe and bring him with you. Trevor says he is the most splendid little fellow he’s ever seen.

Yours,
Thea

The prospect of warmth and fine tea wooed her. Weary of the cold stillroom, her mind worn to a melancholy rut over Magnus, Lark was only too glad to flee Royal Hundred. Yet something else marred the day just as she and Larkin pulled away from the service yard in the carriage. Mr. Granger appeared and stared after them as they rumbled over the hard winter’s drive to Williamsburg.

She tried to tuck any dark thoughts away and focus on Larkin. He sat on her lap, amusing himself with a tassel on the window shade. A brazier warmed her feet, but by the time they reached town the coals were tepid at best.

Theodosia was waiting at a front window as a servant hurried out the front door to the mounting block. Would she always feel surprise at being entertained by the likes of Mistress Ramsay? But Theodosia herself was not a society woman, Mistress Flowerdew confided, preferring the comforts of home and a few close friends.

Theodosia embraced her warmly beneath the magnificent stairwell window before taking Larkin from her, her face lit with delight as he smiled shyly then buried his face in her shoulder. Though Theodosia was barren, she hadn’t let it sour her, unlike Isla.

“Dear Trevor did not exaggerate. He’s truly beautiful—or what is it you Scots say?”

“Braw.” Lark smiled. “Bonny.”

“He has a penchant for silver spoons and hat boxes, or so Trevor told me.”

They passed through the dining room door to the warming machine, which was stoked full of an endless supply of coal. Coal was luxuriously warm. Toys decorated the carpet at their feet, so many and so well made that Lark’s eyes went wide.

“These are from Bellhaven, my family’s plantation where I was raised,” Theodosia said. “My little brothers have no use for them now that they’re in Grammar School at the college.”

She set Larkin down on the rug with a grace that reminded Lark that Theodosia was the oldest of ten children. Together they watched as Larkin picked up a toy drum then set it down in favor of a wooden soldier.

“Ye spoil him. Soon he’ll be asking to come visit ye,” Lark teased. “He’s begun saying a few words.”

“No doubt he’ll like our refreshments. I asked Cook to make some almond macaroons.”

The tea service was brought in and set between them on a cherry tea table with a decorative piecrust edge. Theodosia served, leaning down to give Larkin a macaroon. He took it readily, letting go of the toy to examine the tasty offering.

“Say thank ye,” Lark told him with a smile. “Or ‘bethankit’ as we Scots say.”

He babbled a nonsensical word, waving a wee hand and the sweet in his endearing way.

Theodosia returned to her tea with a lingering smile. “How do you manage, Lark? A baby and your duties in the stillroom and garden too?”

“Little is done in the winter but dispensing tonics and readying for spring. Sally—Royal Hundred’s cook—is a blessed help. She is fond of Larkin and sees her grandchildren in the quarters but little.”

“I can only imagine. We have such a busy household even without children of our own.”

“What is yer day made up of? Ye are far more than a pretty gentlewoman, Mistress Flowerdew tells me.”

“Pretty gentlewoman, indeed! I start the day in the kitchen, deciding what recipes to have for dinner and then supper. I measure out sugar and spices that are kept in a locked cupboard. Sadly, some of the servants have been soundly whipped for stealing. I keep a close tally on accounts. Entertaining and social obligations never end. Last year we went through twenty-seven thousand pounds of pork, nineteen beeves, one hundred fifty gallons of brandy, five hundred bushels of wheat, and one hundred pounds of flour for our guests. No doubt Richard Osbourne will do the same when he’s in residence.”

Aghast, Lark stared at her, then remembered the prosperous Ramsays had a great many servants. Still, managing and supervising them and an abundance of guests was no small task. “I’ve heard yer an accomplished embroiderer.”

Theodosia smiled over the rim of her teacup. “’Tis as scandalous for a woman not to know how to use a needle as it is for a man not to know how to use a weapon. Petit point is my specialty, mostly chair seats and fire screens for practical purposes.”

“I was taught the same at the castle,” Lark said, sampling a macaroon. “But mostly linen samplers worked with wool and silk thread, though once I completed a stomacher for a tenants’ ball.”

“Which brings me to the real reason for our meeting. The laird. You’ve received no more word of him, other than secondhand about his illness?”

“Nothing more, nay.” Lark fixed her attention on Larkin’s head, his curls a red halo. “His last letter was some time ago.” And perused so many times it was coming apart at the seams, the ink smudged from one too many emotional readings.

“Once you told me there was naught between you and his lairdship but friendship. I want to make certain of that before I say more.”

Lark leaned back in her chair, a bit overwarm from the hot tea and sitting so close to the warming machine. “I’ve known the laird my whole life. And until recently there’s been no talk of the future.”

“Until recently?” Theodosia leaned forward with interest.

“Before the laird left we spoke of our hopes for the future.” Lark looked to her lap, tripping over her words if only because sharing her treasured feelings seemed to open a door better left closed. Besides, Theodosia was a new friend, the future uncertain. If Magnus succumbed to yellow fever, there would be no future. She focused on Theodosia’s rapt expression, trying to stay atop her fractured feelings.

“I only met him briefly but ’twas enough to make a lasting impression. He’s an uncommon man and I’m truly sorry for his loss. And yours, if so.” Theodosia returned her teacup to its saucer. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your grief but feel ’tis time to mention my brother-in-law.”

Trevor? Lark saw the hesitation in her eyes, the worry of mishandling a fragile situation.

“Trevor has become quite fond of you.” She studied Lark as if gauging her reaction. “There are other young women who look his way, but he seems to have eyes only for you.”

’Twas no surprise. Had she not sensed his interest? Even when she’d been forthcoming about her indenture? Still, she balked, at least in her innermost thoughts. “Surely a man of Trevor Ramsay’s standing wouldna seek a lass such as I, not even in forward-thinking America.”

“’Tis precisely his standing that allows him the freedom to choose. He has no need of any dowry. And he can redeem your contract in a breath. I doubt even Mr. Osbourne would object to the match.”

“But I remain a stillroom mistress. A lowborn Scot.”

Theodosia’s smile was wry. “Say what you will about yourself. Your deportment, fine bearing, civility, and speech belie your humble station. Your family history and schooling alongside the laird makes you not only suitable but far more interesting than these Virginia belles. Not only that, you share Trevor’s interests. Gardens. Beekeeping. Babies.”

At that, she handed Larkin another macaroon. He’d pulled himself up, holding on to Theodosia’s skirt, and was eyeing the tea table.

“He’s quite taken with Master Larkin. Think of the advantages the new attorney general of Virginia Colony could give him as a stepfather.”

Was she serious? Marriage into the powerful Ramsay clan? No more worries or woes over Mr. Granger and what he might do. A new home of her own in Williamsburg, a town as charming and current as Kerrera Island was rustic and remote. But also instant social standing, something she cared nary a fig about. And they were a slave-holding family like so many wealthy Virginians.

Her prolonged silence set Theodosia to talking again, crafting a persuasive case of which her barrister husband would be proud. “You must meet the Gilliams. They arrived on Virginia’s shores as indentures in the seventeenth century, and through a combination of industry and clever marriages now find themselves in the top tier of society here. Their home, Weston Manor, is not far.”

“I should like to meet them,” Lark said, finishing her macaroon and finding it delicious. “Almond with a hint of rosewater?”

“You have a discriminating palate, another fine attribute.”

“Where is Trevor today?”

“At the capital.” Theodosia seemed pleased at the inquiry. “When he’s not there he’s at his property on South England Street supervising construction of his new house. We seldom see him these days.”

Finished with her tea, Lark bent and reached for a jack-in-the-box, showing Larkin how to turn the crank so that a jester popped up.

“You can expect Trevor to come calling soon,” Theodosia announced with a soft, satisfied smile. “He rather enjoyed being snowbound with you at Royal Hundred.”