38
Never marry for money, ye’ll borrow it cheaper.
Scottish proverb
She had only to say aye and end the matter. Here they sat again with the churchwarden, listening to new particulars in her and Larkin’s case. And she need only tell Trevor Ramsay she would wed him and the whole matter would end. Or so it seemed. Was he waiting on Richard Osbourne’s reply and approval by post? If it was slowed by a sea voyage, they might not hear for another two months or more. Perhaps Osbourne would even wait till he came to Royal Hundred as planned to give them his aye or nay.
Bethankit for the delay.
She doubted Osbourne would care about Trevor’s request to court her and mayhap marry her other than to give his blessing. Could anyone truly say nay to a Ramsay?
Could she?
She’d left Larkin with Theodosia at Ramsay House till the meeting at Bruton Parish was done. Yet it seemed to drag on, mired down by the ill health of Granger, who must appear to help resolve the matter. And he was too ill yet to join them.
The holidays had passed, and a new year had begun. Another spate of bad weather had kept them at Royal Hundred since Christmas. She’d not seen Trevor since their caroling and bonfire till today. Given that, he was in no mood to return her to the plantation in haste.
“Come with me to South England Street,” he said when the futile meeting was over.
She obliged, her curiosity over the building of his new home stretched to the limits of her imagination. Kerrera Castle it was not, but the late winter sunlight revealed a sprawling, ambitious foundation, sure to become one of the finest homes in Williamsburg.
They walked across the acreage beyond the house’s beginnings, the ground beneath her slippers hard and damp but holding the promise of spring. Here in Virginia even the weeds seemed to flourish in winter, warmth never far away. Williamsburg’s riotous, colorful gardens had completely won her over.
“I’d not thought to see anything prettier than my island, but yer property holds great promise,” she told him in the fragile winter’s sunlight, burying her hands deeper in her fur muff.
He looked down at her with a smile. “Your Scottish climate is home to the hardiest of plants but lacks many of the fairest. I want these Virginia gardens to be yours as well, Lark. You know where I stand regarding our future.”
“And I beg ye to reconsider,” she said quietly, eyes on a barren dogwood tree. “Would it not be more advantageous for ye to marry a woman of standing? Of connections? With a dowry, at least? What will yer friends and acquaintances say of ye when word of yer suit is made known?”
“I care very little for the opinions of others and, being a Ramsay, have no need of the things you mention. Your beauty and character are enough. And I’m baffled by the fact that you tread so cautiously, especially given the case against you. Has it something to do with my person? Some trait or attribute you find disagreeable?”
Pity lanced her. Here was the catch of Virginia Colony looking as crestfallen as if she’d been the belle of Williamsburg and refused him. Yet she would be honest to the heart. “There’s a Scots proverb my granny oft said: ‘Fanned fires and forced love ne’er did weel.’”
He chuckled good-naturedly. “But love is as warm among cottars as courtiers, aye?”
She sighed, looking at the untilled ground before her and trying to imagine orchards, flowers, an orangery. “Ye have become a dear friend, Trevor.”
He touched her cold cheek. “Perhaps friendship is the best foundation for marriage.”
“If so, ye would make a bonny husband.” Always Larkin leapt to mind. “And father.”
“I would be both to you and the lad. Once I receive word from Osbourne, I would urge marrying without hesitation. The house won’t be finished for a time, but my brother and Thea assure us we’d have a home with them until our own is done.”
“’Tis very gracious.” Yet even as she pondered it, she did so for all the wrong reasons, large and small. A full table. The warming machine. Theodosia’s friendship. Larkin’s future.
And she hid the true reason for her ongoing reluctance.
“Mercy!” Sally said as she sampled a wooden spoonful from a black kettle over the hearth’s fire. “Better eat up all this right fast lest you be put in charge of the kitchen house too.”
At this Lark laughed and sneezed at once. “I misdoubt ye’ll be replaced as cook. Yer Southern fare is a feast, even the simplest dishes.”
Lark had taught her to make black bun and now Cullen skink, both Scottish favorites. Homesick, chilled by another snow, and nursing a cold, she dreamed of Granny’s croft and the tiny window overlooking the sea. But ’twas futile to look back. Days past meant a time without Larkin. Without Sally and Cleve and Mistress Flowerdew. The Ramsays. The garden of her dreams. With effort, she turned her heart to spring.
“I sense you is pinin’ for home,” Sally said in her shrewdly observant way. “Yo’ granny.”
Lark nodded and dried her hands on her apron, looking toward Larkin as he played with Cleve. “I wrote Granny another letter, but she has to seek out the minister so that he might read it to her.”
“So, she can’t write back,” Sally said. “Tell you how she is and the like.”
“For all I ken, she’s gone . . .” She couldn’t say dead. Or even with the Lord in heaven. She let the excruciating thought go.
“What you doin’ now?” Sally asked as Lark donned a cape, tying the chin ribbons of her bonnet securely.
“I’m off to the quarters to deliver some needed tonics.”
“Best look behind you while you is doin’ it,” Sally cautioned, her own eyes wandering to the window. “Any more word of Granger? He ain’t been nosin’ ’round here o’ late.”
“Glad I am of that. Word is he’s ill again and keeping to his lodgings.” She started for the door, basket in hand, and bent and kissed Larkin’s brow. “I’ll not be long.”
He continued to play contentedly with some jelly molds Sally had lent him. Lark let herself out and walked through the service yard, bypassing the many dependencies, their respective sounds and smells comingling.
The gardens were already showing signs of life at the coaxing of Mr. Munro, who was a wonder with spade and shovel. New beds were in place, and piles of fertilizer awaited dispensing along with new shell walkways and botanicals. Of all the tasks that awaited her, she was most enthused about her bee garden, itching to turn over the loamy Virginia soil.
Before her the river spread a pearly blue-gray. She cut left through a copse of bare-branched trees she now knew as chestnut and oak. Smoke from a great many chimneys layered the chilly February air as she neared the quarters. In the distance, voices of children playing, punctuated with their laughter, lifted her spirits.
She preferred to come at dusk, an almost hallowed time when she heard the singing. Never had she experienced such music. Heaven seemed to come down when the slaves sang. There was no accounting for such beauty in a people so repressed. Mayhap God had gifted them with music to weather such a time well.
Now, in the forenoon, there was little music as field hands labored at plowing the distant fields for maize, or Indian corn, in former tobacco fields. Trevor had told her Virginia shipped large quantities of corn to the Caribbean for the workers there. She’d come to be nearly as fond of the grain as oats or even wheat, finding the pone, grits, hominy, and mush fine fare. Larkin clearly agreed.
“Mornin’, Mistress MacDougall,” the greeting rang out from all sides as she walked the rutted way between dwellings.
Her smile was warm, for she was glad to see them. Children came from all directions to tug at her skirts. She tried to remember them when she visited, packing her pockets with some sort of treat. Last time it was sugar-coated nuts. Today it was tiny cinnamon and candied orange comfits. Sally had made a batch for Larkin to give to him over the long winter. Why not share the bounty with the quarters’ children too?
“You be good now—and proper,” one apron-waisted granny scolded as Lark handed out the comfits. Childish faces shone with delight. Pleasure welled up inside her, banishing her low mood of before. Surely giving was good medicine, as was a merry heart.
Pockets empty of all but a few treats, she moved in the direction of the blacksmith’s dwelling. Josiah’s wife, Nelly, was in need of one of her tonics for a complaint in her chest. No doubt the dismal living conditions worsened her cough. Lark could hear the familiar hacking the closer she drew. Their youngest child was in the doorway, about Larkin’s age but already standing on bare feet.
Her heart squeezed. His clothing was wanting, though he did drag a blanket after him. Was he not cold? One thumb was hooked in his mouth. She dug in her pocket, wishing for far more to give. Kneeling in the cracked doorway, Lark lay the comfit in her palm and offered it to him.
Across the room, Nelly watched her son’s quiet delight, pleasure on her own face. “What you got today, Miss Lark?”
“A tonic for yer cough.” She smiled as she came into the cabin, wanting to curl her nose at the smell of fatback and boiled turnips.
They visited awhile, Nelly’s leanness necessitating an inquiry about what she was eating, if they had enough provisions. Lark learned much about the plantation from those who knew it best.
She moved on to a few more cabins, emptying her basket and assessing needs, before turning toward the mansion again. A sharp wind picked up from the river, ruffling the blue water till it frothed like fluted lace.
She mulled what remained to be done this day. Decocting a face wash for Mistress Flowerdew. Counting stores and taking inventory of the stillroom. Examining the bee skeps. Meanwhile, Royal Hundred was abuzz with new arrivals, mostly house servants and indentures, ahead of the Osbournes. Shipments of goods were arriving almost daily from England, including livery suits and silver-laced hats from London for the postilions and coachmen, as well as new garments for the housemaids and waiting men.
She shifted her basket to her other arm, eyes on the rocky path before her. Royal Hundred was no longer the sleepy plantation with an echoing mansion house. Spring was at hand, and with it a great many changes. Just that morning Sally had told her of the hiring of a French cook, not to displace her or Cleve but to help manage the Osbournes’ future guests at table.
Her steps slowed as she mulled the many changes, and then a high whinny cut short her musings. There, blocking her meandering path, sat Granger atop his fine sorrel horse. She stopped. Wished him away. His eyes bore into her unblinkingly, his expression sullen. In one gloved hand was a whip. His other clutched the reins.
Wary to the bone, she waited, but he did not move. He bristled with ill will. It roiled between them in the damp air.
“You’ve been to the quarters again,” he said, eyeing her empty basket.
She nodded. “So long as there is a need I shall go.”
He pushed his horse forward till he was within spitting distance. Truly, he looked capable of spitting, so strong was his ill will. She itched to take a step back, but cowardice was not to be borne.
“You look at me as if you’ve done nothing wrong,” he said in a voice that raised gooseflesh on her arms. “Like the tart you are.”
He slumped a bit in the saddle, pride and sheer will keeping him upright. He was a gravely ill man. His distorted face, struck with paralysis on the left side, made his words a bit slurred. A spasm of pity hit her before fury rushed in.
“I’ll have you know that the ship’s captain—the runaway of your acquaintance—has been caught and hung deservedly.”
The captain killed? Shock cut through her, so swift it nearly sent her to her knees.
Oh, Rory. Though I didna agree with ye leaving, I kenned yer longing for a better life.
“I won’t rest till I see you answer for your part in his fleeing.” Granger shifted in the saddle, smug despite his infirmity. “Not only that, I have written Osbourne and met again with the churchwardens. Soon you’ll be removed to another plantation, separated from your illegitimate son, incapable of meddling and squandering Osbourne’s precious supplies—”
“A liar should have a good memory,” she returned hotly, all sympathy fleeing. “Ye told the churchwardens my son is illegitimate, then turned round and said he was born of a prostitute, when in truth he was given me by his aunt out of desperation as she lay dying. I help the slaves here at Royal Hundred when the call and need arise, mainly because ye fail to supply them as a proper manager should. And now ye have the gall to waylay me on a wooded path like no proper gentleman would—”
“How dare ye!” He raised his whip with surprising ease, so quick she could not step back or even flinch. The leather descended with a painful snap, the tail end biting into her jaw like a stream of boiling water.
She stumbled backwards as he raised the whip again, nudging his nervy horse nearer. Would he beat her like she’d heard he whipped field hands accused of some oversight? Her hand went to her burning jaw and came away crimson.
“Mistress MacDougall?” The resonant voice rang out of the woods, and then the preacher-blacksmith stood between them. Josiah turned his back on her and faced Granger, a muscular, dark wall. “I beg ye, sir, to leave be!”
Granger tensed with renewed rage. Immediately Lark’s fear for herself shifted. Defying a white man was a fatal offense. Granger raised his whip again and his face purpled, distorting his already grotesque features. This time his ire was for Josiah.
The whip came down again, but with a callused hand, the blacksmith grabbed the tail end like a child might a firefly, wrenching the whip from Granger’s grasp.
“You filthy upstart—” Granger spat the words, spittle whitening his mouth. And then, in slow motion, he stiffened and clutched his own collar, as if the neck was too tight.
Stunned, Lark watched as the factor fell from his horse with a decided thud on the damp ground. For a long moment, neither she nor Josiah moved. Then, kneeling, Josiah carefully rolled the factor over, the abandoned whip on the thawing ground. Granger’s wide, unseeing eyes stared upwards. Josiah tried to return him, shaking his shoulders and then his wide, jutting jaw as if to awaken him from a profound sleep.
“He’s gone,” Lark said, the sting of her injury helping her focus. “Ye can do no more here. If found like this ye might well be blamed for his demise. Please, return to yer work. I’ll go to the mansion house and tell Mistress Flowerdew.”
He stood and stepped back. Bowing his head, he said a silent prayer. She waited till he’d left them before she sent up a prayer herself. For protection. Peace. Granger’s widow needed telling and the body laid out for burial.
Lark ran all the way back to the house on quavering legs. The riverfront door was open wide, housemaids beating and airing the rugs just outside. They saw her coming, eyes wide, attention drawn to her bloodied face and bodice. One ran to summon the housekeeper with a surprised exclamation that carried on the rising wind.
Lark waited on the back step, woozy. Sally had come out of the kitchen house, Larkin on her hip, her own eyes sharp. Amid her own revulsion, Lark felt a profound relief. No more Granger. No more lies. No more threats to Larkin or herself.
Oh Lord, let it be.
And yet, what if someone blamed her? Like they had at Isla’s death? What if someone had seen her in the woods with Granger and accused her of lending to his collapse?
Mistress Flowerdew came with haste from the laundry, fairly flying across the service courtyard. “Merciful days . . .”
With gentle hands, she led Lark inside the mansion foyer to the safety and privacy of her sitting room. There the housekeeper examined her chin where the whip had cut deep. She went to a locked cupboard and opened it with a key from her chatelaine. The softest cloths and ointment were on hand, and a basin of warm water was soon brought.
“Tell me what has happened. I fear it involves Mr. Granger.”
Lark spilled the tale, leaving out the blacksmith’s part. He was but a passerby come to help her. No good would come of his involvement if told. “Mr. Granger struck me when I stood up to him. I fear ’twas the death of him.”
“And he has none to blame but himself,” the housekeeper replied resolutely.
Lark took a breath, her next words framed with disbelief. “What’s more, he said the indentured runaway, the captain, was caught and hung.”
Mistress Flowerdew nodded, her expression sorrowful. “I wanted to spare you that. I learnt of it a few days ago. Now, let us have no more trouble on account of that unhinged man.”
No more was said. Chin salved and bandaged, Lark watched as Mistress Flowerdew went to fetch someone to summon the physic and authorities as well as stand watch over Granger himself. “But first his widow must be told.” She returned to Lark. “’Twill leave a scar, I fear. Mar your lovely face.”
What was so small a scar? She’d seen ugly marks across the backs of Africans—and brands. Even her hardy Scots sensibilities were shaken by that. “I have little to complain of, truly.”
“I urge you to rest here in my sitting room the remainder of the day. Let Sally tend to Larkin.”
“Thank ye, but nay. Work keeps my mind from the worst.”
She sought the solace of the bee garden the rest of the afternoon, attempting to return to her usual duties and quell any fears over being blamed for the factor’s death. The news he’d brought about Rory wore a hole of sorrow in her. As she worked, or tried to, the sun broke through the clouds as if the Almighty Himself was trying to raise her limping spirits.
At six o’clock Trevor Ramsay rode up. A stable hand met him and led his horse away. Lark saw the familiar mount being taken to the stables. So the news had reached Williamsburg. Let Mistress Flowerdew tell their guest the particulars. Lark had no words. With a sigh, she dismissed a qualm about her unsightly chin, Larkin in arm. Though she was glad to see her friend, her whole being cried for word of Magnus. For Magnus himself.
Trevor opened the gate of the freshly painted white fence that hemmed in the bee garden. His face was drawn, even angry. Their eyes met over the slowly awakening beds of yarrow and hyssop, coneflower and asters.
“Lark, for heaven’s sake . . .” His focus strayed to her throbbing chin, the bandage in place. “Thank God no worse harm came to you. If Granger was not bound for a coffin I’d call him out.”
“The trouble with him is o’er, I hope.”
“Most certainly. I’ll meet with the churchwardens and burgesses and close the case tomorrow.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I am sorry for his widow. But glad for the quarters and the people, all who came under his ill-trickit influence.”
He grimaced, hat in hand. “Hell is made worse for his being there, if there is such a place.”
She pondered that, the evening’s chill overtaking them. Once Trevor had closed the distance between them, Larkin reached up and tugged at his waistcoat.
“You clever lad. ’Tis my pocket watch you’re after, aye?”
Lark smiled. “Come inside and we shall have something warm to drink.”
“’Tis precisely what Mistress Flowerdew said when I arrived. Shall we?”
Together they walked arm in arm to the mansion house, Larkin held by Trevor and dangling the gleaming watch. The aroma of Darjeeling met them. But the housekeeper was absent, the maid said, called out to resolve a matter in the dairy.
They sat by the fire, Larkin on the settee between them, his bare toes peeking out from beneath his gown. Distracted by the events of the day, she’d changed his clout but forgotten to fully dress him. But the parlor was warm, her own color high.
“Tell me what happened after Granger collapsed,” Trevor said once the maid had left the room.
She shared the details she’d been told. Of the sheriff’s arrival and the body being taken away. The distress of Widow Granger. The lack of management left by the factor’s absence.
“A new factor will be assigned in his stead.” Trevor reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a post. “A bit of glad news amid the bad.”
He opened the letter slowly. From Magnus by way of Trevor’s friend who’d gone there? Nay. Osbourne’s writing hand. Trevor’s half smile seemed to confirm so. “Your contract holder states, ‘I am not surprised that you have taken notice of Miss MacDougall’s charms. I myself was not unaware of them when the laird introduced her to me in Glasgow. She is no common maid. This induced me to offer the indenture terms to begin with at the behest of Magnus MacLeish. And as such, she has my blessing should she agree to be courted by you or even wed, at which time you would redeem her contract and end the agreement between us. Legalities aside, am I to deny a Ramsay? I sense you would bar me from Virginia Colony, if so.’”
She smiled at the humor within. The way had been made. Permission granted.
If she was willing.
Trevor returned the letter to his pocket. “So now the courting can begin in earnest, perhaps.”
Larkin let out a screech as if punctuating his words. They laughed, paying little attention to their tea. But for her stinging chin, she would have felt a glimmer of happiness, honored that such a man would count her worthy.
“Trevor, I am honored by your attentions. But they are misplaced.” Gently, she tried to remind him of the truth of their situation, not wanting to lose his friendship, just remove any of his false hopes.
“I shall go slowly,” he said. “I’ll be away in Norfolk for a time, overseeing a shipment of stone for Ramsay Manor, as you call it. ’Twill give you time to recover. Consider my suit. Let any unsavory matters regarding Granger rest.”
So, he would not give up despite her distancing words. Must she be more adamant?
“There’s something else I must say before ye go away,” Lark said. “Though ’tis hard for me to speak of such, I feel ’tis only fair. Ye see—” She grappled for the right words, her throat so constricted with emotion she felt she would choke. “My heart was captured long ago. I’ve only lately come to realize it. When I was a girl I didna ken what it was I felt, but now, as a woman . . .”
“You’re thinking of the laird.” Trevor looked at her a bit impatiently, like one who was about to correct a wayward child. “Lark, I doubt the laird lives. Perhaps ’tis only a childish hope that keeps him alive in your heart and thoughts.”
Was that it? If so, she could hardly bear it. “I canna deny the way I feel. Mayhap one day my affections will turn or fade altogether if he is truly gone.”
“That is my hope. Grieve for the laird but do not love him, for I truly believe he is no more.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it as if to solace her. As if he knew Magnus was gone for good. “Soon Osbourne and his family will dock, and Royal Hundred will return to life the way it was before tragedy struck and he left. ’Twill be a new beginning for many of us. A wedding would be a fine celebration for Tidewater Virginia.”