35

A day to come seems longer than a year that’s gone.

Scottish proverb

“You are doing too much,” the physic warned.

“There is much to be done,” Magnus replied.

His work began at four o’clock in the morn and did not let up till nearly midnight. Already a fortnight had been lost due to illness. The three overseers kept their distance in fear of catching the fever but ’twas simple enough to ken they hoped he wouldn’t recover. The Africans waited to see if he would die or survive as they prepared the fields for planting. He still felt like death, but the needs before him were unrelenting.

Turning his horse away from Trelawny Hall’s colonnaded loggia, he rode toward yet another new windmill that marred the landscape. He finally dismounted and turned loose his horse to graze on the lush Guinea grass the livestock favored. He then took up a hoe while one gang of Ashanti men regarded him with unveiled astonishment. Did they think the fever had burned his brain? He worked with determined intensity alongside them, digging trenches and laying cane end to end. By sunset they’d planted two acres as other gangs fanned out around them and did the same.

“If I am to understand ye—and ken this plantation—then I am to be one of ye,” he explained, knowing that without Rojay the words were lost to them. Yet perhaps they understood simply by his actions. Confusion cleared from their expressions as he finished speaking and took up his implement again.

How else was he to master this unsavory operation if he did not learn it like they did, from planting to harvest, using the broad curved machetes for cutting? Even though he was bleeding from the cane’s sharp edges, back nearly broken from the work, sugar was but one crop in an endless succession of harvests. There was cocoa and coffee and indigo too.

He penned Osbourne a letter that evening from a chair on the loggia, a lap desk on his knees. A cooling coastal wind ruffled the paper’s edges and dried his ink nearly as fast as he formed the words. Weighing his thoughts, he looked out on a series of sandy, turquoise coves shimmering in the setting sun.

Care shall be taken that the Negroes shall have an abundance of food and every other assistance. I consider their preservation and comfort to be the first object on every well-regulated estate, their houses put into repair . . .

Though the overseers had implemented the changes, they grumbled and called him a sorner behind his back.

“What means this, sir?” Rojay had asked, ever faithful.

“Sorner?” The word sat sourly in Magnus’s mouth. “Worthless vagabond. One who shirks work.”

“I think they are that,” Rojay replied before he showed the trio into Magnus’s study for another meeting.

The overseers gave an accounting of the improvements and a report on runaways, which had decreased markedly in Magnus’s short tenure, even with the removal of the mantraps, the slave catchers at the plantation’s edges. Then came a litany of petty grievances.

“There’s no cure for their deceit,” one said, face shiny from the evening’s heat. “Continually the worst of the slaves break tools to retaliate for some perceived slight or another. They even have a system where they sleep or shirk work, using hand signals or speaking their language to warn when we are near.”

“Then bring any sorners to me,” Magnus said, dismissing them.

They’d moved off the porch, a simmering resentment in their wake.

Dismissing the memory, he resumed his letter writing, still weak from the lingering effects of the fever. A dish of freshly cut, sugared lemons and limes were near at hand, a luxury. Beside these were a stack of ledgers to review that he’d gotten from plantation clerks.

He reached for his quill again, inked the tip, and penned the name at the forefront of his every thought.

7 December, 1752

Dearest Lark,

I am on my feet again, having turned yellow from fever. Such did not set well with my Scots coloring, to be sure. As you were not here to nurse me back to health, my recovery was slow.

But I will not speak to you of hardships. I ken you have your own. I’ll speak to you of the small pleasures to be had even in the midst of Hades. For one, there are butterflies here big as my hand. Swallowtail, they are called. They would do well in your garden alongside your bees. The flowers here are just as large, though I do not know their names. I tried drying one that was red and one yellow to send to you, but they stay limp and damp in this tropical heat.

I am surrounded by a sea of Africans. As many as thirty slave ships arrive daily in Montego Bay, a grievous number, even as we export as many ships overfull of sugar and rum. The Ashanti are a remarkable people of greater faculties than the white men who oversee them. I am of a mind to make managers of them, these Africans, if they are willing.

Lest you think I am starving here, I oft wish I could sit down at table with you. I wonder what you would make of the curious Caribbean fare. There are plantains, not unlike the Virginia sweet potato. And stew peas and rice, even salt fish aplenty. I am partial to the jerked meat cooked over green pimento wood, and bammy, a bread. Alas, nary a bannock in sight.

As I go about this strange country I imagine how you and Larkin are. Those last days in Virginia retain their sweetness. I pray they will stay so till we meet again.

Yours entire,
Magnus

The slave quarters were most brutal in winter. Lark could almost not bear to go and dispense the needed tonics, pushing another cartload of coverlets and stockings besides. A few chimneys puffed smoke, but with Mr. Granger rationing firewood as an unnecessary expense, how warm could the people be? Still they sang, prayed, labored. They died and were born in an endless cycle of poverty and want, though some remained remarkably rich in spirit.

Josiah was one of those shining souls seemingly undaunted by the injustice around him. He preached to his fellows, encouraged them, strove to better their lot when he could. Now he held the Watts hymnal she’d brought him alongside his Bible. Somehow Granger hadn’t stopped their singing and sharing the Word. Lark sent up a bethankit for that.

“We heard Granger is against your comin’ here, Miss MacDougall,” he confided. “We pray you stay strong. We pray for your boy to stay strong too.”

It struck her then how a marriage to Trevor Ramsay might somehow help. If Magnus had passed—Lord, nay—mightn’t she as Lark Ramsay do more than simple Lark MacDougall? Sway Trevor to enact legislation in the slaves’ favor? Was that worthy grounds for marrying him, coupled with her desire for Larkin’s well-being—even if she didn’t love him? Might she learn to love him?

She went away as burdened as if she still carried the load of quilts and stockings she’d just dispensed. She was unsure of Trevor and his stance on slavery. She knew his politics yet was unsure of his religion, his true heart. All of this turned her own heart to Magnus, though she had no idea if he even lived. Theodosia seemed to expect the worst, even spoke of him in the past tense. Not knowing his fate grieved her mightily, but what could she do?

Her steps were slow, her whole being weary, but she was more wearied in mind than body. The cold day gathered round her as the sun dipped to the west in a puddle of golden light demanding her notice, its beauty solacing her a bit.

“Mistress MacDougall.” The voice, loud and firm, even grating, stopped her cold. “I would have a word with you.”

Behind her, the factor had gotten off his horse. A patch of snowy ground was between them, not yet melted beneath the canopy of oaks above. She turned warily. No smile of greeting was lighting Granger’s harsh features. Or hers.

Would he take her to task about the runaways? Her visits to the quarters?

“I have spoken to the parish about your infant. It falls to them to take the child and assume responsibility for him.” He fingered the whip in his gloved hand, looking smug. “Indentures are to be served without the encumbrance of children. I have given testimony that the child is interfering with your work.”

“Interfering?” Fury stiffened her voice. “Mistress Flowerdew says quite the opposite.”

“But Mistress Flowerdew is merely the housekeeper. Granted, Osbourne gave her charge of you for some inexplicable reason. But I remain the factor and supervise all other indentures and their covenants. You are in violation of yours.”

“So ye would take my child from me? ’Twill be by force. I’ll not give him up to ye or the parish or anyone else. Mr. Osbourne had no objection to my having him when we left the Glasgow docks.”

“But Osbourne is not here.” He paused, and then a cold smile made his sallow, distorted face more grotesque. “Female indentures have little voice in these matters. If I say the child is keeping you from your work, then the child is keeping you from your work. Period.”

She turned away from him, walking with such haste her cape flew out behind her on the scantest wind. Thankfully, Larkin was not here but with Mistress Flowerdew in the mansion. She had requested Lark not take him to the quarters. Fearing illness—or Granger?

“How were the coverlets and stockings received?” the housekeeper asked when Lark entered her private sitting room.

“Well enough,” she replied breathlessly. But the visit to the quarters had left her mind. Granger filled it to overflowing, adding another layer of misery atop her heartache over Magnus. “The factor stopped me on the way back. He—” Misery nearly choked her. She looked to Larkin sitting on the housekeeper’s lap, contentedly chewing on a toy. Would he be taken from her? Given over to the parish poorhouse? Did that mean she could not see him?

“I’m afraid he’s been by here too.”

Lark stared at her, waiting for the words she had no wish to hear.

“No doubt he told you the same thing he told me. His threat about the babe, I mean.”

“Can he do such? Take Larkin away?”

Her prolonged pause only spiked Lark’s alarm. “Mr. Granger is a man who is not in his right mind and is capable of doing great harm. But we are going to counter it, you and I.”

“But we women have little say in matters. I dinna ken where to begin. If the laird were here—”

“We shall turn to Trevor Ramsay. Studying law at the Middle Temple in the Inns of Court in London counts for something. He may well advocate for you and wee Larkin. Factor Granger dare not stand up to that.”

“How do we contact him? Shall I send a note to Williamsburg? Or go there myself?”

“Neither.” Mistress Flowerdew bounced Larkin on her lap when he began to fret. “Providentially, he’s sent a note round saying he would like to call tomorrow afternoon.”

The candlelight flickered on the paper, the glistening ink slow to dry in the cold. Shrugging her shawl closer, Lark dipped the quill into the ink pot again.

Dearest Magnus,

Word has come that you have been unwell. I pray night and day that nothing shall take you down nor disturb the good work you have started there. I continue to believe that you are alive and well and that it is only your letters that miscarry. I have received no word from you since your one post, dated soon after your arrival in Jamaica.

I ask that you pray for me and Larkin. The overseer here is bent on removing the babe from my care. I believe it is in his power to do so but am yet unsure. Indentures have few rights and Osbourne is an ocean away. Granger has even spoken of selling my contract to another. If I am to lose Larkin I cannot bear knowing he may go to the parish poorhouse and receive little loving care. ’Twill likely be the end of him, and me.

I am sorry to burden you with this but have always looked to you as laird and counselor. Though you are far away, you remain close in spirit. I cannot accept that you are gone from me forever.

Yours,
Lark

She paid the post and the letter was carried away. Benumbed, she spent precious time rocking Larkin, who slept against her with the warm weight she’d come to treasure, oblivious to all that swirled around them.

Am I to lose everything, Lord? Scotland, Magnus, and now the babe?

Twilight drew a curtain on the melancholy day. Sally brought supper when Lark failed to appear at the kitchen house. But Lark had no heart to eat.

“I been prayin’,” Sally told her as she set down the tray. “I told Josiah in the quarters what Granger wants done. He’s prayin’ too.” She darted a fretful glance at the door as if suspecting the factor hovered outside. “That babe is yours and ain’t deservin’ o’ no poorhouse. And you done nothin’ that calls for sellin’ you to another plantation.”

Lark placed a spoon in Larkin’s fist and watched as he began feeding himself his supper with a clumsy hand. “Pray that Mr. Ramsay is able to turn things in our favor, though colonial law regarding indentures might be set in stone.”

Sally went away more mournful than Lark had ever seen her. The stillroom clock ticked on. Mistress Flowerdew was expecting them as usual. Her cozy sitting room had become a haven of acceptance and comfort. Did that rile Granger too?

Trevor Ramsay arrived at two o’clock the following afternoon. He came into the mansion foyer whistling a low tune and unintentionally lifting Lark’s spirits. Mistress Flowerdew took his cloak and gloves, her expression a stew of worry and relief. “Welcome back to Royal Hundred.”

“Dear Lark.” His eyes met hers across the expanse of polished foyer.

His lack of formality and his unexpected tenderness distracted her from her own distressing circumstances, if only momentarily.

They passed into the sitting room where Larkin gave a little shout at the sight of the tall man in his finely tailored winter’s suit. In a gesture that made the moment sweeter, Trevor picked Larkin up and sat him on his knee, giving over his timepiece to play with.

He eyed both Lark and the housekeeper. “You seem uncommonly worried. Surely my visit isn’t the reason for that.”

“Heavens, no,” Mistress Flowerdew assured him. “We simply find ourselves amid distressing circumstances that coincide with your visit. Perhaps that barrister brain of yours can be of help.”

“Of course. What is the trouble?”

“New concerns with the factor here, Mr. Granger. He is a man of many schemes. Of late he seems bent on selling Lark’s contract to another plantation and removing her from Royal Hundred. His resentment of her interest in the quarters knows no bounds. He’s even spoken with the parish about giving them charge of Larkin. This would make for a more profitable sale of Lark’s contract. Few are willing to take on an indenture saddled with a child.”

Lark listened to the bare facts, the fragile life she’d constructed in Virginia about to shatter like window glass. But what did it matter if Magnus was gone? She was on the edge again of the unknown, trying to pray her way through a great many ill-scrappit feelings. Fear. Sorrow. Anger. Helplessness. Resignation.

She looked to Trevor entreatingly. His calm blunted her rising bewilderment. Uppermost was her panic over losing Larkin, nearly as huge a hole as Magnus’s loss. The both of them would send her into an abyss she would never recover from. This she knew.

“Indentures do have rights, including the right to protest ill treatment from someone like Mr. Granger.” He looked at Larkin. “The babe I’m less sure of. I’ll have to consult the burgesses and parish vestrymen in the capital. See what can be done.”

“With your good name, your family’s standing, I’m sure something will turn in our favor,” Mistress Flowerdew said, pulling the bell cord. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll oversee refreshments.”

Trevor studied Lark, alone with her but for Larkin. Though her hands were folded sedately in her lap, Lark’s unease soared beneath his close scrutiny. Could affection be felt so early? Love at first sight was not something she believed in. The love she sought grew with time and loving-kindness, shared circumstances and bedrock beliefs, stoked into a steady blaze that could not be put out. Or so her practical self said. What had she with Trevor Ramsay on such short acquaintance?

Dunderheed.

The slur curled in her mind like black smoke, a taunting hiss.

Here she sat with one of the most eligible suitors in Virginia, who was looking at her with something more than friendship in his countenance, mayhap offering her the moon, and she was . . .

Unmoved.

She cleared her throat and forced a smile. “I shall leave the matter in yer capable hands. And I thank ye for helping us.”

Larkin tired of the pocket watch and reached for her with a yawn. She took him, settling him on her lap and rocking him back and forth in the finely wrought Chippendale chair. Rain smeared the windowpane behind Trevor’s fair head, reminding her once again of Scotland. Home.

“Lark, your safety and comfort are of utmost concern to me.” His voice was cool and unconcerned, a hue and a cry from how she herself felt. “This may sound premature, but you needn’t waste any time wondering what might befall you and the babe.”

She nodded and attempted to turn his attention away from her and back to the present. “Tell me how it goes with yer property on South England Street.”

At this he came alive, describing the construction thus far and in future. A solid sandstone foundation. A cornerstone with his initials and the date. A dry brick well in the cellar to keep ice and food fresh. The approach lined with elms. Ninety acres of woodland, gardens, and orchards. He seemed especially proud of the ordered pine paneling and walnut doors with heavy brass locks. She herself was taken with the plan for a second-floor gallery that overlooked the foyer.

“’Twill be second to the Governor’s Palace in grandeur,” he said.

“Will ye have an orangery, Trevor? Bees?”

“If you like, Lark.” A faint flush crept into his fair features, and he looked down at the carpet as if contemplating its swirling design.

“I should like that very much, but it isna for me to decide.”

His chuckle made her feel cornered. Flustered. Theodosia had told her of his intentions. Must she herself now thwart them? Beyond the sitting room she heard the clatter of crockery. Larkin finally slept and she ceased her rocking, wondering why Mistress Flowerdew was taking so long.

“You make a fetching picture,” he remarked.

“Larkin means the world to me.”

“That I see. ’Tis a trait that commends you, having taken in an orphan that would have a very dour outcome otherwise. Have you chosen godparents? Considered having him baptized?”

“I would follow Scots-Presbyterian tradition.”

“Would you consider becoming Anglican?”

Anglican was so very . . . English. All she knew of his religion she’d found within the ornate walls of Bruton Parish Church, so different from the simple stone kirk on Kerrera. Yet she recalled something an officer had said aboard the Bonaventure, that many colonial Anglicans—the gentry mostly—were shallow as a puddle in their faith and congregated mostly for social reasons, their souls growing fat and proud on fancy colonial trappings. But could she trust the judgment of a profane seaman?

“I ken little of yer faith, being new to America,” she admitted.

He gave a slight shrug. “’Tis of little consequence. A private matter, mostly.”

Of little consequence? Her knowing about Anglicanism, or faith in general? She opened her mouth to question him, but the maid came in with Mistress Flowerdew and refreshments were served. They passed another pleasant hour with the housekeeper before he departed, his lingering look promising a speedy response about the matter with Granger.

The post rider passed him on the drive, and she waited alongside Mistress Flowerdew in the open doorway for fresh news, again on tenterhooks.

Lord, please. Just one line. A simple I am well would suffice.

But there was only a post for the new gardener, Mr. Munro, from Philadelphia.

Despite her best efforts, Lark’s spirits sank to her soles.