by Anya Seton
Is the coldness of my dear.
Yet still I cry; O turn, love,
I prithee, love, turn to me
For thou art the man that I long for,
And alack, what remedy!”
She sang all the verses in the same quiet way, while tears began slipping down her cheeks.
She did not hear footsteps behind her, nor was conscious of anyone in the room, until she was interrupted by a kind of strangled gasp. She jumped and saw Edward Randolph standing in the middle of the floor, his hat crushed in his hands, his blue eyes staring at her in adoration. “Miss Radcliffe,” he whispered. “Oh, Miss Radcliffe -- don’t stop -- oh damme, you’re weeping! Don’t weep!” He stumbled across the floor, and flung himself down on his knees. He grabbed her hand and held it violently against his chest. “Miss Jenny --oh my angel,” he gasped. “Why are you sad?”
Jenny repressed an impulse to snatch away her hand and shove him off with it. She knew it was unjust to feel a leap of fury because the intruder was the wrong man. She was angry nevertheless, and she said crisply, “Indeed, Captain Randolph, how should I be sad, when it is with this song that my great-grandmother captured the fancy of King Charles?”
“What?” stammered the Captain. “My sweet angel, I don’t understand you.”
“Why,” said Jenny, “ ‘Tis simple. Moll Davis sang this song one night at the Duke’s Playhouse, and thereby exchanged her hard lodging on the cold ground for the soft heat of the royal bed.”
Randolph bit his lips and recoiled a trifle, while loosing her hand. His blue eyes were confused. “You -- you speak very coarse,” he said. “You are joking.”
“Not at all,” said Jenny. “I am coarse. Oh, Captain, do get up! Suppose someone saw you.”
Randolph flushed, and rose to his feet. He stood looking down at her. Sunlight through the window shed a nimbus on her yellow hair, it glistened off the tears on the rose and white of her cheeks. Her head was averted from him, the line of her profile was so pure and he found her so beautiful that he instantly forgot his dismay; in fact he ascribed her remarks to some form of girlish mystery, and he cried, “Miss Radcliffe, I’m never alone with you, you seem to avoid me. But can you doubt my feelings? I love you. I wish you for my wife. I know I’ve not much to offer, but I should try to make you happy!”
Jenny turned and looked at him more kindly. A stocky young man was Ned Randolph. His sandy eyebrows twisted now in pleading above the vivid blue gaze. It was a pleasant face despite the roughened skin -- and the missing teeth were not visible unless he smiled. “Ah, Captain,” said Jenny. “ ‘Tis a great compliment you pay me, and would you indeed try to make me happy?” She sighed and touching one key softly let her hand fall on her lap.
“Aye,” he cried. “Aye. I’m quite well off, there’s my share in the family ships, and there’s my plantation, ‘Bremo’ --it’s not in order for a woman, but I can make it so. The house is trim, and you’d have plenty of servants, and if my -- my person is -- is not entirely pleasing to you -- well you’ll not be overtroubled with me, since my voyages are long--” She made a faint pitying gesture, and he went on quickly, “Yet -- oh, Miss Jenny -- if you come to love me, if you should wish it -- then I’d find some other Master for my ship. I’d stay at home with you.”
Jenny swallowed, and shook her head. “Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t talk like that. For I could never make you happy. You don’t know me, Captain, you don’t know my people or beliefs or what I’m like inside. You don’t even know why I came to Virginia!”
“It doesn’t matter!” cried Randolph. “Nothing matters except that you give me leave to hope! You aren’t pledged to another, are you?” he added in sudden fear. “You’re not affianced?”
Jenny lifted her chin and stared past the imploring Captain. “No,” she said flatly. “I’m neither pledged nor affianced.”
He did not hear the bitterness in her voice, he heard only the context, and he cried, “Then sweet, sweet Jenny, I may hope?”
“Why not?” she said with a half smile. “Everyone may hope. Hope and fear -- see, ‘tis the motto on my ring.” She held it out to him, but the Captain was not interested in mottoes, nor could have read the Latin.
“Miss Jenny, may I kiss you?” he asked in a reverent whisper. This time Jenny smiled outright. No man whom she had ever known had been tentative or reverent in love-making, no man had acted as though she were a chalice made of fragile glass. She stood up and gracefully extended her cheek to him. She heard his indrawn breath, and saw him tremble as he kissed it, and to her the kiss was no more moving than had been those of the Lee children. Could I learn to love him enough? she thought. He deserves it, poor soul. And she thought too of what he had offered her -- a home of her own, position, security -- and all that without exacting on her part any return but the gift of her body. They were romantic, these Virginians, they treated women like flowers. No Englishman did.
“And now, Captain,” said Jenny, seating herself at the harpsichord with a finality which precluded more kisses, “shall I sing you something cheerful? How about ‘Begone dull care, I prithee, begone from me’ -- ‘twill suit us both.” And she began at once on the rippling melody.
William Byrd, on his way to his chamber preparatory to dressing for a call on the Governor, was attracted by the music. He peered through the door and was pleased to see the enamored Captain draped over the harpsichord, and clearly on good terms with the fair singer. Byrd went on his way, feeling benevolent. John Custis had grudgingly admitted that the Council was eager for Byrd’s return, that poor ailing Governor Drysdale himself had expressed a desire to see him at once, and be guided by his reports from England. The slanders and suspicions about Byrd’s accountings as Receiver General some years ago -- these were forgotten. They had all sprung from Spotswood’s hostility, anyway, and Spotswood no longer had a shred of power in Virginia, or much in England, where he had returned to sulk, stabilize his Virginia land grants on the frontiers in Spotsylvania, and incidentally get himself a wife.
For the first time since his landing, Byrd was lighthearted. He caught a glimpse of a pretty mulatto chambermaid in the passage, and felt instant resurgence of the old temptation, so often yielded to, so often repented of. Perhaps tonight, he thought, then quickly read a page of Greek in Lucian as antidote. He was jovial and forebearing with Eugene, even when the youth buttoned the brocaded vest awry and couldn’t find the gold-banded Malacca stick which Byrd always carried on dress occasions. It was as though Jenny’s determined song “Begone Dull Care” had permeated the whole dismal house.
Evelyn heard the singing and was glad for Jenny, though puzzled. John Custis heard it as he returned from the garden, and listening a moment in the hall to the fresh, young, and yet wistful voice, checked the angry comment he had been about to make on female frivolity in his parlor.
The next day continued to be pleasant for the visitors. The girls strolled around Williamsburg, escorted by Captain Randolph and young Daniel Parke Custis, Evelyn’s cousin. He was a handsome tall lad of fifteen; he had flashing eyes like Evelyn’s and wavy hair, lightly powdered and queued. He skipped his classes at the College that day, though his father, still immersed in the garden, did not know that. The young people amused themselves by eating syllabubs and drinking beer at Marot’s Ordinary, and they bowled on the green behind Stagg’s little theater near the Palace. Jenny flirted airily with Ned Randolph, allowing him to hold her hand when they walked, and even to snatch another kiss in the dusk, when they parted.
As for William Byrd, he had gone to the Capitol at ten, mounted to the Council Chamber -- which was vastly more elegant than when he saw it last -- and been cordially reinstated in his proper place at the great oval table with its Turkey rug covering. Senior to him there were only the doddering Edmund Jenings, “King” Carter, and the Commissary, James Blair. All older men who might be expected to die off soon, thereby making Byrd President of the Council -- or even, Byrd thought (glancing at the Governor, who
was so obviously ill), by the renewed exertion of influence in London – why not the head of the table in the great chair with the Royal Arms carved on it? Yes, I’ll be Governor yet, he thought.
The Council business was routine: the appointment of excise officers, repairs to the Governor’s Palace roof, examination of the currency and bills of exchange, and talk about westward expansion with a view to curbing the encroachments of the French along the Ohio. The latter interested Byrd, who wanted more western lands; he was also interested in the need for surveying the dividing line between Virginia and Carolina. It was flattering that the Governor and fiery old Blair seemed to think Byrd fitted to be one of the Commissioners on what would certainly be an adventurous expedition. All in all, so agreeable was Byrd’s reception that, on leaving the Capitol at two, he reflected that there were compensations for being a big frog in a little pond, and decided to put aside any further regrets for the hurly-burly of London.
The following day, on Saturday, April 29, the Governor and his lady entertained at the Palace. All morning liveried servants had been running up and down the Williamsburg streets, delivering invitations to members of the Assembly and the very few resident elite of the town.
John Custis refused to accept, but the rest of his household set off with enthusiasm. Though the distance was only three blocks, Byrd and the two girls were driven in the coach, as his importance required. Beside the coach, under the catalpa trees through the fine spring evening, walked Captain Randolph and young Daniel Custis.
In the coach the girls’ best dresses, with their panoply of hoops and stiffened petticoats, took up so much room that Byrd had good-naturedly seated himself opposite on the other seat. They were a pair to be proud of, he thought. Jenny was exquisite in her Parisian rose taffeta gown, her wealth of golden hair falling in curls down her back and on her shoulders. Byrd reflected with satisfaction that she would soon be off his hands, judging from Randolph’s ecstatic behavior. Then Byrd’s eyes lingered on Evelyn -- Amasia, the beloved one that she was and had always been, despite the anger she often roused in him. She looked very much as her mother had twenty years ago on their wedding day, the same huge dark eyes, the same lift of the head, even the same length of black curl falling on her right shoulder. Evelyn’s gown was of rich gray brocade -- he still remembered the exorbitant bill for it -- and he wondered again why she insisted on dressing herself always in the hues of semimourning. He had remonstrated with her time and again to no avail. Then he noted that she was carrying the ivory and lace fan he had given her, and he said, “Ah, my dear, what a tale that little fan could tell! I remember how you dropped it when you curtsied to King George . . . and His Majesty himself retrieved it for you!”
“Yes,” said Evelyn. She had dropped the fan because her Presentation occurred during her secret engagement to Wilfred Lawson, who was a Groom of the Bed Chamber and she had just caught sight of Wilfred standing behind the King and smiling at her. “I remember it well,” she said. “And do you remember that the King asked my name, translated it as ‘Vogel,’ then made some German pun at which he roared with laughter?”
“I don’t remember that,” said Byrd stiffly, wondering why Evelyn was always deflating. He did not like puns on his name, since that lampoon of the despicable Lawson’s, though once he had been complimented at being called the “Black Swan” and had even signed various love letters as “Inamorato L’Oiseau.” Long ago, that was.
The coach stopped at the Palace gates, Negro flunkies opened the door, Byrd handed the ladies out, then drew Evelyn’s arm through his. Randolph, rushing up, offered his arm to Jenny, who accepted with a demure smile. They crossed the court, where tall cressets were burning fragrant applewood. They mounted the steps and entered the great hall, a luxurious chamber of dark gleaming woods and flashing crystals beneath the lights of a dozen wax tapers.
At once they heard the tinkle of music from the ballroom. Jenny recognized a gavotte she had learned at school, and turned impulsively to her escort. “Oh, there’ll be dancing!” she cried. “I do love it, don’t you, Captain Randolph?”
He, who didn’t know a jig from a minuet, murmured an untruthful assent, while squeezing her arm timidly and gazing at her in rapture. Others were looking at Jenny too. The hall was rapidly filling with guests, who had to wait there for their turn to mount the staircase and salute the Governor in his private parlor. The Governor’s steward explained that His Excellency had not felt well enough to come down tonight, and that he had strength for only a few visitors at a time.
Byrd, and Captain Randolph, were constantly bowing to friends and kinfolk as they all waited. There were Beverleys, Stiths, and Ludwells, Nathaniel Harrison of “Wakefield” -- uncle to Ben Harrison; Mann Page of “Rosewell,” the Carters -- a great many Carters, including the huge patriarch, “King” Robert Carter himself. Byrd proudly introduced Evelyn, who immediately presented Jenny to all these people. “My friend, Miss Radcliffe from London,” she said to each one. Jenny was so busy curtseying and murmuring the proper howdye do ma’am’s or sir’s that all the curious admiring faces were a blur. Neither she nor anyone else noticed a small man in a baggy brown tradesman’s suit who had squeezed himself near the door. He had a face like a puckered one-eyed monkey, mournful and a bit raffish because of the black patch which covered his right eye. His name was Willy Turner, and he was servant and Jack-of-all-trades to Dr. Archibald Blair, the Commissary’s brother. Dr. Blair had sent Willy Turner to the Palace with some new pills for the Governor to try, and instructed him to deliver them personally to the Governor. So Willy waited, unobtrusively, until all the grand company should have been received. Very soon his eye lit on Jenny, and grew rounder. His keen ears had no difficulty in hearing her repeated introductions as “Miss Radcliffe” and he said “Holy Blessed Saints!” under his breath. He stared after Jenny, as the summons came and she mounted the broad mahogany staircase with the Byrds and Randolph. “I’ve got to know,” he muttered to himself, and set his wits to working.
The interview with the Governor was brief. The old man was huddled in shawls and coughing. His skin was jaundiced. In a rasping wheeze he spoke a few gracious words, as befitted the King’s representative.
Other guests were ushered in, and the Byrd party went downstairs into the great ballroom. Here Mrs. Drysdale greeted them. She was a plain, dumpy woman under her vice-regal coronet, and she could not quite hide her fears for her husband; yet she received her guests with practiced cordiality and begged them to enjoy themselves.
Both Jenny and Evelyn obeyed this request. They burst into Williamsburg society like a couple of sparkling Catherine-wheels. To their different styles of beauty they also brought the charm of novelty and the aura of London.
The men were dazzled. “King” Carter himself, after rather ponderously likening the girls to “Rose-red” and “Rose-white,” led each one out for a dance.
The ladies were not as dazzled. A group of wallflowers on the gilt chairs beneath a portrait of King George decided that Evelyn was too tall, that the extraordinary gray dress (could that be the present fashion in London?) made her skin sallow, and that her manner was too bold. It was harder to find fault with Jenny, until someone said that a cleft chin was a sign of lewdness, and that surely the girl painted, such coloring couldn’t be real; whereupon the ladies felt better as they watched their menfolk making fools of themselves.
Evelyn had her cluster of eager beaux, Jenny had hers, though Captain Randolph, after several drinks of punch, grew jealous and so proprietorial of Jenny that one of his elder brothers, John, drew him aside and said, “Look here, Ned! You haven’t made a serious offer to that lovely little creature, have you? Not without consulting the family!”
“Yes, I have!” said the Captain angrily. “And no pack of brothers’ll stop me!”
“Now, now,” said John Randolph. “You’re a man of sense, Ned, or used to be. I’ve been talking to Colonel Byrd, who was evasive. There’s something odd about that girl -- something discredi
table in her background, and she’s practically penniless, nothing but a dependent of Miss Evelyn’s. Believe me, Ned, she’s not the sort that Randolphs marry! I fear she’s trapped you into thinking so.”
“God damn you for a blathering fool!” shouted the Captain, and turning on his heel he stalked to the supper room, where he found Jenny with one of the Ludwells, drinking punch.
“Come for a walk in the garden, Miss Jenny!” said the Captain, glaring at Ludwell, and in a voice of distinct command which Jenny quelled by lifted eyebrows and a questioning smile. “I mean,” said the Captain, instantly humbled, “if you please, I --I wish to talk with you so much. The garden’s pretty, there’s a maze, and -- flowers.”
Jenny laughed. “Most gardens have flowers, and isn’t it rather dark for the maze? But very well, I’ll welcome a breath of air for a few minutes.”
He took her arm and they stepped out to the garden. The evening air was balmy and smelled of boxwood and lavender. There was light from the Palace windows and light from a newly risen moon. Other couples were strolling along the graveled paths. Randolph’s determination ebbed. Stung, in spite of himself, by his brother’s remarks, he had meant to question Jenny, find out something of her early life, though now that she floated along beside him, so ethereal in the moonlight, he lost courage, knowing that he was afraid to find out much, and that also she had given him no real right to question her.
Jenny was both relieved and rather bored by this unexpected silence. She longed for more dancing, more merriment, and more adulation. In the ballroom she had thought of nothing except the gaudy moment, intoxicated with pleasure -- to which some glasses of punch had materially contributed. “Well, Captain,” she began gaily, “shall we go in?” and moved aside as a little man with a black patch on his eye darted down the path towards them. She expected the man to go by, but he did not. He stopped and peered at her.
“I was hoping ye’d coom out here, miss,” he said in a rather squeaky voice. “I’ve been watchin’ for ye, if ye’ll forgive me presumption, sir,” he added to Randolph, who stiffened and said, “What do you want of the lady?”