Latimer caught Ceressa in his arms, raging inwardly at her cumbersome gown as he lifted her. She moaned, her face falling against his chest. Mariette cried out as Benjamin Harrell rushed toward him.
“I’ve got her,” he assured his young estate manager. “She’s most likely hungry and overheated. Who wouldn’t be, dressed like this and with the sun as sweltering as though it were August?”
“Lawrence’s is but a few steps away. If we take her there, we can all get something to eat and drink. The Lady Ceressa isn’t in the family way, is she?” Bengie asked in a whisper. Latimer forced back a sarcastic retort, aware that Bengie would have no way of knowing his marriage had yet to be consummated. It was a thorn in his side, but it was of his own making, and he didn’t care to discuss it with anyone, not even his trusted friend.
“She just needs water, a seat somewhere cool, and some food.”
Mariette was clearly alarmed, her sweet eyes large and fearful.
“Ceressa is going to be fine,” he assured the distressed girl. “Lawrence’s it is.”
“Put me down,” Ceressa weakly demanded, having regained her senses. “I won’t be carried about like an invalid.”
“Very well.” Upon doing as she requested, she reeled and clutched his sleeve. That imp of mischief that resided within him was secretly gratified by her unsteadiness. But as he gazed down at her, an unexpected surge of tenderness swept him. He’d had no right to be angry with Ceressa because of Willshire’s open flirtation. His dislike of the overbearing, insufferable aide to the governor was his problem.
He should’ve introduced Ceressa properly to Bengie, but his temper had prevented him from exercising any semblance of civility. Poor Bengie, so the lad had shared, had been traveling back and forth between Tidelands and James Cittie once a week hoping for the arrival of his ship. Now Latimer owed an apology to both Ceressa and Bengie. How was it Willshire could turn him into a snarling wolf?
Lawrence’s ordinary overflowed with patrons, so Latimer was relieved when a group of his Surry County neighbors spied him and motioned them over. One, Bartholomew Carruthers, nearly two score and ten in age, but still in possession of a vitality and appearance that belied his years, left his seat to meet them. Latimer shook the hand of the silver-haired man.
“I guess you can tell that all manner of insanity has taken hold.”
“So I see. You’re going to fill me in?”
“Just as soon as you’ve had something to eat and drink. Latimer”—Carruthers had noticed Ceressa—“is this?”
“My wife, Ceressa,” he responded without hesitation although he could feel her fingers digging into his arm. “Ceressa, this is my friend and nearest neighbor, Bartholomew Carruthers. He owns Carrumont, which adjoins Tidelands.”
“At last our wild Latimer is tamed and by one of unsurpassed beauty. A true honor it is to meet you, Lady Kirkleigh.”
“Mr. Carruthers,” she said softly. Latimer noticed that she was still very pale. “What a pleasure to meet you.”
“You look all but done in, Lady Kirkleigh.” There was no mistaking the genuine solicitousness in Carruthers’ voice, making Latimer feel like a cad given the way he’d treated Ceressa earlier. “Come take a seat with us. You could use a cool drink, I’m certain, and some filling food. I’d say Lawrence’s lemonade is what you need and some of his wife’s rabbit stew. Come along.”
Latimer led Ceressa to the table, and the men rose, their eyes on Ceressa and Mariette. A young boy brought extra chairs, which were squeezed in among the others already at the table.
“Before we plunge into a rabid political discussion, I’d like you to meet,” Latimer said as he turned his gaze upon Ceressa, whose lips trembled and face still held no color, “my wife, Ceressa.”
“Lady Kirkleigh, we are indeed favored to have so lovely a lady in our midst, but the times are so distressing, I fear our welcome will not be as generous as we would like, but we are most relieved to see our Latimer properly settled.”
“Ceressa, this gentleman with the wagging tongue is Clayton Crimmons. And we have Arthur Allen, Tribley Beryl, Wilfred Haverly, Atteridge White, and Cephas Marlington. And this lad,” he indicated Bengie, “is the only man in Virginia who can keep me on course. I couldn’t run Tidelands without Benjamin Harrell.”
“How good to meet all of you,” Ceressa murmured. Latimer took the seat wedged between hers and that of Tribley Beryl while Carruthers took another. Bengie and Mariette drew their chairs off to the side, deep in conversation.
Latimer wondered if the girl had already snared the heart of his estate manager. If so, he couldn’t fault the lad for being captivated by sweet blue eyes and a profusion of chestnut curls.
He’d developed a fondness for violet-brown eyes and wheat-colored tresses, and this fondness only showed signs of deepening. Putting an arm about Ceressa’s shoulders, he drew her close hoping the gesture would be seen as a reassurance. She immediately stiffened, which re-ignited his ire and made him more determined to keep her near.
Lemonade and a meal for the four new arrivals was requested of the serving wench, and it wasn’t long before the boy who’d brought the chairs returned with tankards, steaming bowls of stew, a roasted chicken, and a loaf of crusty bread. The conversation quickly turned to the topic uppermost in everyone’s mind. It was Marlington who delivered the first shock.
“Bacon was elected a burgess from Henrico County. He was here late last night with Lawrence and Drummond plotting and planning. Slipping away just after midnight, he and his scurrilous lot stole a sloop.”
“Who are Lawrence and Drummond?” Ceressa asked. Latimer glanced at her, relieved to see the color back in her face. But with the return of good health, she would be back to her usual curious, opinionated self. There was no telling what she might come out with.
“Richard Lawrence is married to the woman who owns this tavern,” Latimer explained, “and as unbelievable as it seems, is Oxford educated and a former burgess. William Drummond was once a royal official in the North Carolina colony. Both he and Lawrence are fanatical supporters of Bacon.”
“Apparently, this was one plan of Bacon’s that failed,” Haverly said. “He’s the governor’s prisoner now. And Berkeley promised Bacon’s wife he would hang him when he caught him.” Latimer glanced quickly at Ceressa, who had paled again. It was understandable talk of hanging would distress her. He reached beneath the table and squeezed her hand reassuringly.
Latimer remained silent as he took several spoonfuls of the delicious stew, and then broke loose a leg of the roasted chicken, the scent of herbs clinging delectably to the meat. He placed it on Ceressa’s plate then removed the other for his consumption.
“I once favored Bacon’s methods,” Beryl confessed. “But I realize now I should’ve listened to you, Latimer. You spoke reason when no one else did.”
“That’s a fact,” Marlington agreed. “I accused the governor of inaction not so many months ago as we all stood outside Lawn’s Creek Church. It was you, Latimer, who said that civil strife would divide the colony as badly as Cromwell divided England and there were dark days ahead. Your words were prophetic.”
Latimer chuckled as he pulled off a chunk of bread and handed it to Ceressa, who promptly accepted it and slathered it with butter from the crock. “I recall the conversation. I believe that was when you suggested I accept Sir William’s appointment to his Council. I told you I had no desire to involve myself in the treacherous machinations inherent in politics.”
An unnerving silence fell, Latimer’s friends looking uncomfortable as they glanced at one another. A warning sounded in his head while an uncanny sixth sense presaged unwelcome news. He looked over at Carruthers, who would never lie to him. “Bartholomew, how went the opening burgess session?”
“I’ve heard it was disorderly, thanks to Bacon.”
“Weren’t you there?”
“No.”
Latimer met the man’s eyes, uneasy with what he saw. “Weren’t you re-elected a burgess for Surry?”
“No, I wasn’t. I didn’t put my name up this time. I, as well as the others”—Carruthers gestured to those gathered about the table—“decided our perspective on matters could be best presented by someone new.”
“Someone new has been elected?” Latimer placed his spoon aside with amazing calm as he awaited the answer.
Ceressa dropped her half eaten bread in her plate. She, too, sensed something amiss.
“Ah, yes, we have,” Beryl said, then cleared his throat. “We weren’t sure he’d be back in time.”
“You elected someone who wasn’t here?” The stew settled heavily in the pit of Latimer’s stomach.
“Uh, yes, we did,” Haverly said, glancing nervously at Carruthers, who nodded his head reassuringly.
Latimer leaned against the spindle-backed chair, crossed his arms, and regarded his friends, already knowing the answer before he asked. It was written on the faces of all those present.
“Might I ask who the gentleman is?”
It was Carruthers who finally broke the uneasy silence.
“You.”