By late morning, Ceressa was surrounded by ten children of various ages and colors, four mothers, Mariette, and Libby, all eager to begin learning. The impromptu gathering was a get acquainted session as Ceressa explained what she hoped to accomplish. As she talked, she noticed that Suzanne Willett joined the group, her eyes alight with excitement. Each child told Ceressa their name and who their parents were and their age. She didn’t single out Suzanne, for she didn’t want to embarrass the girl. But after giving all present a tentative schedule with classes to start on the morrow in a vacant worker’s cottage offered by Latimer, Ceressa made her way over to the young girl.
“Are you going to join us?”
Suzanne nodded her head. “Jarrett can read and do sums, but I can’t. I’d like to surprise him. Do you mind?”
“Of course not. This is wonderful.”
“My mother says I need to be educated even though Papa thinks differently. He can be difficult.”
“I gathered as much last night,” Ceressa said and smiled reassuringly. “But don’t let that stop you. I’ll see you in the morning, then?” Suzanne nodded then left. April and Sissy ran up to her, each one grabbing a hand.
“Could we start learnin’ now?” Sissy asked.
“Please,” April begged, her dark eyes reminding Ceressa of a pleading little puppy.
“Why don’t we see if Latimer will let us go into his library and find some books? I know he has a wonderful globe of the world. I could show you both where I come from. And I could show you all the places Latimer’s Aunt Reva has traveled. Did you know she once met the king of Persia?” Both little girls were wide-eyed with awe as they shook their heads. Laughing, Ceressa turned them around and began the walk back to the house. They hadn’t gone far when she noticed a carriage coming up the drive, the wheels moving over the oyster shells with a grinding crackle. Not certain who was calling, she decided April and Sissy should head for the safety of the kitchen and Cassie. She quickly sent them off, though they made her promise to come get them as soon as she made whoever it was that was coming go away.
Ceressa suspected it wouldn’t be quite that easy. When the carriage rolled to a stop before the entrance to the house and the coachman assisted his passenger down, Ceressa’s heart sank. It was none other than Phyllis Carruthers. Distraught, she almost failed to notice Bartholomew alight. Phyllis came straight toward her, wearing her customary smug expression. She paused before Ceressa and spoke in a low voice. “So, you’ve installed yourself here at Tidelands. I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you.”
****
The unexpected arrival of Phyllis and Bartholomew unnerved Ceressa, but Mrs. Arston was unruffled. As Latimer escorted their guests into the salon, Mrs. Arston whispered to Ceressa that the Carrutherses were frequent visitors, for Lord Kirkleigh and Master Carruthers were involved in several joint business ventures. That was less than reassuring to Ceressa as she contemplated having to entertain the woman who thought she should be mistress of Tidelands.
After the housekeeper promised to bring refreshments, Ceressa joined those in the salon and took a seat. Bartholomew apologized for the intrusion but thought that Latimer would want to know the most recent news concerning Bacon. As the two men engaged in what rapidly became a serious discussion, Ceressa could see the boredom etched in Phyllis’s eyes. As for herself, Ceressa wanted to know what was happening and was most attentive to their every word.
Bartholomew revealed that Atteridge White had been at Fort Smith when the rebels had invaded James Cittie. Apparently, Bacon had issued an order to kill and destroy if so much as a shot was fired at him or his men. When that news reached the governor, Sir William commanded his men to lay down their weapons and had the cannons removed from their carriages. Bacon then proceeded to confront Sir William at the State House and bullied those present to meet his demand for a commission.
Ceressa was about to ask what had become of those residents who had remained in James Cittie when Phyllis stood and walked over to her.
Latimer and Bartholomew were so involved in their discussion they paid her no mind.
“Why don’t we leave the men alone? I’d love to have a look at the garden to see how the roses I presented Latimer on his last birthday are faring. I had them sent from London—four new varieties created specifically for the king. Did you know that Latimer loves roses?” Suddenly, Ceressa wished she wore another scent. Was there no end to this woman’s odiousness? Perhaps it would be better to get her out of the house and away from Latimer.
“Yes, we should take a stroll about the garden. I’ve yet to have a look. You can point out the roses.” Ceressa smiled sweetly when she wanted to glare.
Phyllis was stunned but immediately recovered. Ceressa started to say something to Latimer until she noticed how disturbed he appeared to be over Bartholomew’s words.
She and Phyllis left, Phyllis confidently walking to the rear of the house. To Ceressa’s amazement and annoyance, Phyllis opened the door of the library without so much as a moment’s hesitation, entered, and then crossed the floor pausing before a set of French doors. How many times had she been in the room, Ceressa wondered. So often she is quite at home and knows the shortest route to the garden.
Phyllis opened the doors and stepped out upon a flagged terrace and proceeded toward a perfectly clipped hedge. Ceressa, after closing the doors, followed, soon lost in a profusion of scented blooms and an amazing variety of colors. She’d never seen so many roses; each and every one a magnificent specimen.
“It’s something, isn’t it? Even the garden at Carrumont can’t compare with this. Funny how I always thought I’d be the one to nurture and tend it. But apparently, that job has fallen to you. I wonder if you’re up to the task.”
“Somehow, I don’t think you’re speaking of roses,” Ceressa said, meeting Phyllis’s cool gaze. “If you’re asking if I am capable of running Latimer’s home, I am and I will. I don’t want to be your enemy. I’m truly sorry that you want something you can’t have. In all honesty, I don’t believe you love Latimer. You only desire him because he now belongs to another woman.”
“Why don’t you go back to London? You couldn’t possibly want to be here. This place can be terrifying for someone sheltered and pampered. You won’t find life here to your liking.”
“It would take a great deal to make me leave and return to England.” Had she really spoken those words? Three months ago she had dreaded the thought of living in Virginia. Now she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else
“Well then, I suppose there’s nothing else for me to say. There is one thing more I’d like to show you.”
“What would that be?” Suspicion spread through Ceressa.
“There’s an old trail, probably made by the Indians long years ago, that leads down to the river. It’s beautiful this time of year. Come and I’ll show you.”
How was it Phyllis knew so much? She knew Latimer loved roses; she knew that the doors of his library opened upon the garden; she knew where the path was that led to the river. Had there been more between Latimer and Phyllis than she’d been told? Ceressa hesitated.
“If you don’t want to go, that’s fine.” Phyllis started to turn away. Was this the woman’s way of extending the olive branch? If Ceressa called herself a Christian, shouldn’t she give Phyllis the benefit of the doubt?
“Certainly. I’d enjoy that.”
Phyllis pressed her lips together in a tight smile then led the way from the carefully tended rose garden. It wasn’t long until they entered a dense growth of trees where little light filtered through, cutting off all view of the house. Ceressa could barely make out a path, and was beginning to question her wisdom in accompanying Phyllis. No doubt the woman was up to something.
“Phyllis, I think I’ll return to—” Before she could complete her sentence, a man jumped out from behind a tree. Ceressa stood there trying to make sense of the macabre garments clothing the man. It seemed that a white man was trying to look like a native. And failing miserably. Having seen Bocatakum and his tribesmen, the loin cloth and breeches worn by this man were amusing. He’d pulled his hair back and tucked goose feathers among the strands. Waving a small ax, the man pranced about as though performing some sort of tribal dance. Uttering guttural sounds, he tried to look menacing by shaking the ax at her. Laughter burst from her lips.
“Phyllis, who is this? He has a look of your coachman. You didn’t really think—”
Phyllis screamed, and Ceressa quickly turned to see that the woman had traveled about six feet in the direction from which they’d come. Now two men loomed over her, one brandishing a pistol, and the other a knife, both dressed shabbily and sorely in need of a bath. Besides the pistol and knife, bandoliers crossed their chests, and one carried a matchlock musket. A sword swung by the side of the man with the pistol.
Ceressa knew with undeniable dread that these two men were not hapless minions of Phyllis dressed up to scare her. Their eyes glittered with a deadliness that chilled. Ceressa’s would-be “Indian” attacker uttered a screech and turned about. Before Ceressa could tell him to stop, the man with the pistol fired. The poor coachman fell to the ground, crying and begging for mercy as he writhed in agony.
By now, Phyllis had backed up and was directly before Ceressa. The two men advanced, licking their lips as though they anticipated sampling a delectable morsel. Ceressa knew she and Phyllis were their dinner. How far were they from the house? Would someone have taken notice of the shot or would anyone who had heard assume a man or men from the plantation hunted in the woods?
“Do you know that you’re trespassing?” Ceressa asked, praying that her fear wasn’t noticeable even though her legs had lost their stiffening.
“That matters none to us,” one of the men retorted, the one without teeth and holding the pistol. The other chuckled lewdly. “It be apparent that ladies dressed as fine as the two of ye are just the company we need.” They moved closer while Phyllis inched back. Ceressa took note of the sword swinging at the one man’s side, certain if she could get her hands on it, she might manage to gain the advantage.
Phyllis whimpered and the injured coachman cried hysterically. Drawing a deep breath and praying for help, Ceressa pushed past Phyllis and came to a stop directly before the men. The stench nearly caused her to heave up the contents of her stomach, but she swallowed down the nausea.
“What did you gentlemen have in mind?” Ceressa asked and then winked.
The two men looked at each other, openly salivating at Ceressa’s unexpected amiability.
“We was hopin’ to ’ave a little private time with the two of ye. We’re thinkin’ down by the river.”
Ceressa steeled herself and laid her hand on the toothless man’s shoulder. Slowly and determinedly, she slid her hand down the length of his arm. The man’s eyes nearly popped from his head, his breathing raspy and uneven.
“By the river?” she repeated, as she lightly rested her fingers on the sword’s hilt. The pistol posed no threat, but the musket and knife did. “But why waste the time to walk to the river. Why don’t we take advantage of this privacy?”
“No!” Phyllis shrieked. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
There was no time to silence Phyllis. Ceressa grasped the hilt and pulled the sword free. She immediately swung the blade and sliced deep into the arm of the man who held the musket. Yelping, he dropped the musket and knife, clutching his arm as his cries mingled with those of the wounded coachman.
Phyllis stood immobile, screaming over and over, while the other man stared at Ceressa. Anger darkened his eyes, and he lunged at Ceressa.
She quickly stepped back but bumped into Phyllis. Somehow, her feet tangled in her skirts, and the next thing she knew she was laying on her back looking up at the enraged visage of their attacker. Rolling to her side, she avoided his fist. Roaring in rage, he struck again; this time he hit her jaw.
Stunned, Ceressa struggled to regain her wits, which proved detrimental as the man grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrested her to her feet. She was vaguely aware that she still held his sword, and as he forced her mouth nearer to his, she drew back her shaking arm and thrust the sword into his thigh. He dropped to the ground, his bloodcurdling cries clearing her head. Staggering away, she grabbed Phyllis’s arm with the intention of fleeing.
Iron hewn arms encircled her. Ceressa instinctively raised the sword only to have it pulled from her grip. Snapping her head up, she gasped in relief. Latimer.
Her knees gave way, and Latimer lifted her. Several men, including Bengie, Avery Willett, and Malcolm MacLarren, swarmed around them, while Bartholomew drew his sobbing daughter into his arms. Latimer issued terse orders to tend to the wounded men with instructions to hold all three until the facts could be sorted. By then, Ceressa had regained the power of speech.
“The one dressed as an Indian—he’s the Carrutherses’ coachman. He caused no harm. The other two are the men who meant to hurt us. Latimer, I didn’t know you liked roses.”
“Hush, my love,” he whispered then pressed his lips to her forehead. As he carried her from the woods and back into the clearing that surrounded the house, she was content to obey his request, drawing comfort from the strength of his protecting arms.