by Anya Seton
Byrd started. “That’s ridiculous! A sickbed fancy! How dare you make an outrageous conjecture like that!”
“I’m sorry,” said Jenny softly. She looked at him with genuine sympathy, and left the room.
On some days Evelyn seemed better. She awoke without a drenching sweat, she coughed less, and everyone except Jenny was hopeful. On one of these days, she was alone with Evelyn, when the latter said, “I’ve been thinking of our past together, of our schooldays, and what a strange life you’ve led.” She paused and rested before going on. “Jenny, I want you to get your Radcliffe ring. It’s in the oak chest in the attic. Get it and keep it with you. It shouldn’t be left here when I’m gone, and surely Rob won’t mind if you wear it now.”
I’m afraid he would, Jenny thought. She went to the attic and found the ring in the toe of her red-heeled slipper, which lay with its mate beside the rose taffeta gown. The gown was cracked open along the folds, there was mildew on it. Jenny put the ring in her bosom, because Rob had arrived at Westover, and was waiting as patiently as possible for the inevitable -- which Jenny had convinced him of.
It came at three o’clock in the morning, when Jenny and William Byrd were both in the sickroom. Jenny had summoned him an hour earlier. There was a change in Evelyn’s breathing, a change in her face. Her fingers plucked constantly at the counterpane and she was unconscious. They sat silent on either side of the four-poster bed, while the fire died low, and the candles guttered.
Suddenly Evelyn sat bolt upright in bed. She opened her mouth and blood gushed out, running down the front of her white nightgown. Jenny and Byrd were both frozen, as Evelyn stared down at the bloodstains. “Why see!” she said in a strong voice which seemed to hold both wonder and amusement. “A whole flight of cardinals. They’re such beautiful birds.”
Jenny ran for a towel, and Evelyn turned to look at her terrified father. “Poor Papa!” she said. “You’re a beautiful Byrd too, though you don’t like name puns. I forgot. I don’t mean to tease you, I really do love you, but you see Wilfred has come.”
Jenny stood transfixed with the towel, while Evelyn slowly moved her head and gazed at the wall between the river windows. Jenny followed the direction of the huge exalted eyes, and thought that she saw against the strip of paneling a shimmer of green and a dim face beneath a white wig.
Evelyn made a small, contented sound. She dropped back on the pillows, sighed once, and was still.
PART SIX: 1746
NINETEEN
All the sultry July afternoon there had been distant rumblings of thunder in the mountains. They made Jenny restless, apprehensive in a way thunderstorms never used to, for they could be so fearful in Virginia. Lightning had once killed three of their hogs, and far worse than that was the news last year of Ben Harrison’s incredible death. He had been watching a storm from a window at Berkeley, two of his little daughters beside him, when a bolt of lightning felled them all.
So young Ben was master at Berkeley, as young Will was master at Westover. Jenny couldn’t picture Westover without William Byrd -- or Evelyn -- and she had never gone back there since the day they stood beside Evelyn’s grave in the little churchyard while Mr. Fontaine read the burial service in a shaking voice.
William Byrd had moved the church after Evelyn died, moved it downriver onto Herring Creek. Hers was the last burial in the old Westover churchyard by the river. Her father, who died in August of 1744, had not cared to join her there. Mr. Fontaine had written to the Wilsons in a slightly disapproving tone, that Byrd desired to be buried in his own garden with an obelisk and a copious epitaph to cover him. In fact, wrote the minister, Colonel Byrd had never mentioned Evelyn’s name again after her burial, though, on the other hand, he kept her portrait in his library. “ ‘Every way of a man is right in his own eyes; but the Lord pondereth the heart,’“ Mr. Fontaine wrote. “So I cannot presume to. The Colonel was a good man according to his lights, & most certainly a cultured, and at times a witty one. He has left some writings about his western journeys which are delightful, and his vast & well-thumbed library indicates a quality of intellect I fear we shall not soon see again.”
A just enough summation, Jenny thought, and glanced nervously towards the mountains, where there was another growl of thunder. Her brown beagle, Spot, came streaking out from the woods, his tail flattened to his behind, his eyes beseeching.
“You don’t like storms much either, do you?” said Jenny, lifting the dog and kissing his muzzle. “Well, stay with me, and we’ll shut the house windows.”
Spot returned the kiss and wagged his tail. Rob had procured him as a puppy from Spotsylvania, where he had traveled one summer to inspect the ironworks and furnace established near Germanna by former Governor Spotswood. Hence the dog’s name. And there were other substitutes for the baby which had never come to replace Robin. Jenny kept school in the winter; she had taught all of Nero’s seven children to read and write -- also there was Bridey Turner, now twelve and a quick lovable child who adored Jenny.
Jenny toured her house, shutting windows and feeling as always a small glow of satisfaction. The windows were curtained in soft blues and reds which she had dyed and made herself. There was a Turkey rug in the dining parlor, Evelyn had left her that, and a mammoth silver punchbowl from London, and an elaborate walnut highboy which glorified the simpler pine pieces Rob had made.
We must give a party, Jenny thought, trying to lift her mood of apprehension. As the oldest settlers in these parts it was high time they asked the new neighbors. There was Dr. William Cabell, who had established himself across and up the James, not twenty miles away, and Peter Jefferson, whose wife had been a Randolph -- they lived farther off; yet, with trails so much improved and actually a few roads built, distances had shortened greatly. There was even a courthouse now, across the river, and their county, carved last year from Goochland, was christened “Albemarle.” Rob said it would probably have another new name someday, so fast was the western tide progressing, and she knew this did not altogether please him. He wanted more land, and the best was already taken up. Nor did Rob like to feel crowded.
However, they should give a party, and she would coax Rob to play his pipes. He was always so busy that he seldom found time for them; while at night, after doing accounts or worrying about the crops, Rob tumbled into bed and fell into a heavy sleep, often seeming to forget that she was there beside him and waiting for at least a goodnight kiss.
On impulse, in their bedroom Jenny changed from her workaday calico to the blue muslin dress they’d bought in Williamsburg. She combed the twisted-up plaits which kept her hair out of the way in hot weather. The hair was still very thick and fell to her waist, but wasn’t it of a duller gold than it used to be? She pinned it up in a more becoming style and peered into the wavy greenish mirror.
“I’m thirty-six, Spot,” she said to the dog. “Do you think I’m still pretty?”
Spot bounded towards her, wagging himself frantically.
“Thank you,” she said. “No one else ever tells me. Come, we’ll go find Willy. I want him to kill me a chicken for supper. ‘Tis too hot for ham.”
Jenny and the dog went outside, and she cast a practiced eye over the various departments of her realm. In the flower garden, some of the roses should be picked and the hollyhocks staked against the coming storm. In the vegetable garden the runner beans were ready. She looked beyond the paddock and tobacco sheds, and the cabins and the barnyard to the north tobacco field, where Nero and three of his sons were pinching suckers from the young tobacco plants. Black clouds hung heavy over the Green Mountains beyond, but perhaps the storm would not come here after all, the air seemed lighter.
She found Willy in the workshop, which housed all the skilled activities needed on the plantation -- blacksmithery, carpentry, hide-tannery. Willy was squatting on a cobbler’s bench sewing on the sole to one of Rob’s boots. He greeted Jenny with pleasure. “I’ve been wanting to ask ye something, ma’am, private-like.”
“Oh?” said Jenny. “By the way, how’s Peg? Is she taking the bark I gave her?”
He nodded. “She had a fit this morning, though she soon stopped shivering, and’ll be all right tomorrow, always is the third day.”
Peg never seemed to get “seasoned” as the others had, and developed fever every summer.
“Where’s Mr. Wilson, d’you know?” asked Jenny.
“Gone to the mill, where they’d broke the wheel; he’s mending it. Ma’ am -- ” Willy put down the heavy cobbler’s needle, and fixed his one bleary eye intently on Jenny, “have ye heard any more news about the Rising in Scotland? I keep a-thinking of it.”
Jenny took a quick breath and shook her head. She too kept thinking of the rumors brought three months ago by an Indian trader. The trader said that the Young Pretender, Prince Charles Stuart, had landed in Scotland last summer with a force of six thousand men, that he had been victorious everywhere, and when last heard of in November was marching into England. Jenny had listened to this with poignant emotions. There had been an unconsidered leap of joy for her father. Was his passionate dream to be realized at last? Was it possible that there would be another Stuart restoration, and the king to whom she had sworn allegiance sit on his rightful throne?
Not possible at all, said Rob angrily. The English had more sense, as they’d already proved, and anyway he didn’t believe the rumors.
There were always Jacobite rumors of one kind or another, and they invariably turned out to be as wispy as the feckless lot which caused them. “And moreover,” Rob added, frowning at Jenny, “what interest is all of this blather to you? I thought you’d forgot that Jack nonsense long ago.”
“It’s not surprising,” she replied coldly, “that I should be interested in what might so concern my father.”
“Whom you’ve not even heard from in twenty years,” said Rob with brutality that was a measure of his annoyance. They had not referred to the subject again, but there was a constraint.
“I wish it could be true,” said Willy sighing and picking up his needle. “I picture him in my head -- Mr. Radcliffe that is -- no, he’s the Earl now, to be sure -- I picture him riding next to the Prince, on a great white horse charging at the head o’ the army, so gallant an’ so bold like he was at Preston. He’s waited long enough for his revenge.”
Jenny too could picture this, and felt again the spurt of joy, followed by guilt, then anger, because of Rob’s unreason. “Willy,” she said, “do you understand why Mr. Wilson dislikes it so when the Jacobites are mentioned, or my father? It didn’t used to be that way, at least, he helped my father to escape from Newgate.”
Willy’s wise eye turned sympathetically to her brooding face. “That was a long time ago, ma’am, and afore he loved you. And can ye not see reasons why he might mislike your Stuart blood?”
“Aye,” she said looking away. Robin of course. There was that.
Willy had not been thinking of Robin. He was thinking of the strange jealousies which lurked in a man’s breast, and of how fair and winsome a lady Mrs. Wilson was.
“Then too,” said Willy puckering his monkey-face, “he might dread what King Jemmie’d do to these Virginia lands. And I needna tell you how hard Mr. Wilson’s worked to gain his lands.”
“I never thought of that!” she said, startled. “Do you think King James could take back the land that King George has granted?”
“I believe he could,” said Willy. “I do not think he would. Yet Mr. Wilson has prospered here under Hanover, and so he might reason like that.”
“I see,” said Jenny slowly, relieved and contrite. Willy was doubtless right, and she would put away the hurt resentment she sometimes felt. She would also put away any thought of what was happening in that far-distant England, she would forget once more the father who had certainly forgotten her, and think only of the pleasant enough duties she had here, and of her husband. She asked Willy to kill the chicken -- one task she abhorred -- and went back to her kitchen to make an arrowroot pudding, of which Rob was extremely fond.
As though Rob had shared her resolution to patch the tenuous rift between them he came home for supper in a very good mood. He brought her a trout he’d caught above the mill and cleaned it for her. He noticed her gown and said that blue became her, and it was about time for another jaunt to Williamsburg. He praised the arrowroot pudding and agreed that they might invite the neighbors for a party. He said he must practice the pipes and got them out from a cupboard, while she sat down with her knitting. There were always stockings to make. Spot curled up at her feet.
The rumbles of thunder began again, and Jenny said, “I wish the thing would break. I was on edge earlier, though I’m never afraid when you’re with me.”
“Wey -- hinny,” said Rob, smiling and drawing a few notes from his chanter. “That’s a canny speech. Will ye sing, love?”
He hadn’t spoken quite like that in ages, and she was delighted. No premonition stirred in her, no impulse to touch wood, none of the usual superstitious fear that when matters go well fate is waiting to pounce. Even when the dog barked and Rob turned quickly to listen, saying “I hear horses outside, we must have visitors,” she felt only pleasurable anticipation, put aside her knitting and rose as Rob went to open the front door. She held back a little as was proper, waiting for him to greet the callers whoever they were, and saw Rob clutching the knob of the open door in utter silence. She saw too that he had hardened into what she called his black look.
A voice outside spoke -- a Northumbrian voice. It said, “Rob Wilson? Is it indeed you? I’ve had a de’il o’ a time finding ye in this bloody wilderness where ye’ve buried yourself.”
“And why have you wished to find me?” said Rob scowling and unmoving.
Jenny walked forward, and peered at the man on the doorstep.
A middle-aged dapper man, dressed in a smart black grosgrain suit, a cocked hat, edged with a gold line, on top of a neat brown bag-wig. He had a sharp mottled face, which she did not recognize. But the eyes which looked beyond Rob to meet hers were cocky, humorous, deferential, and piercing. She knew those, and gave a cry of unbelief. “Alec! Alec Armstrong! It can’t be!”
“It is, m’lady,” said Alec, taking off his hat and bowing. “May I come in? And is there some place to stow the lad who’s guided me here?” He ignored Rob and asked his questions of Jenny.
“Yes,” she said. She put her hand against the wall to steady herself. “I don’t understand. I feel giddy.”
“Come into the parlor. You can sit down,” said Rob to her in a toneless voice. “You too, Alec. The lad may go to the kitchen. We’ll feed him presently. Here Jenny, drink!” He poured out some apple brandy and gave it to her. “Now, Alec, what means this! What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come for her ladyship,” said Alec. “Her father has sent for her.”
Jenny clenched her hands on a fold of the blue muslin. The brandy warmed her stomach but the giddiness continued.
“Why do you call my wife a ‘ladyship’?” said Rob in the same flat voice.
“Because her father is now the Earl of Derwentwater.”
“Is the Pretender, then, on England’s throne?”
Alec hesitated. He looked away from the grim hazel eyes beneath the formidable eyebrows. “Nay,” he said finally. “Not yet. There’s been a miscarriage of the plans.” There had in fact been the Battle of Culloden, a defeat so crushing that his lordship had not seemed to credit the news. Yet it was next day that he sent Alec off on the long search for Miss Jenny.
“Ah,” said Rob. “Then Charles Radcliffe is attainted for treason, as he ever was, and his title but a heap of straw, and I’ll thank you to address my wife as ‘Mrs. Wilson,’ which is all the title I am able to provide her with.”
“Fakins!” Alec cried jerking his head. “Don’t ye come the master over me, Robert Wilson, my Tyneside pit laddie! Ye may remember that I knew ye as a stable boy at Dilston, and I watched ye muck i’ the cow-byre at the Snawdo
n peel, no matter what a piddling position ye’ve made for yoursel’ i’ the wilds o’ nowhere!”
Rob’s eyes glinted, a white line showed around his mouth. “You can have supper, and a bed in the barn,” he said hoarsely. “Tomorrow you’ll go back as you came!”
“Not wi’out her ladyship,” said Alec. “I come to fetch her at her father’s wish -- and I will.” He was much shorter and ten years older than Rob, yet the men stood poised glaring at each other as though ready for equal combat. Jenny stood up and walked between them.
“Where is my father?” she said to Alec.
“In the Tower.”
“The Tower! You mean he’s a prisoner?”
“We was captured,” said Alec flushing. “On a ship bound for Scotland to join the Prince -- last November. Eighty of us was captured, besides his lordship and his son, Lord Kinnaird.”
Rob exhaled his breath slowly, and sat down in his armchair.
“So -- ” he said, “Radcliffe’s not even seen the fighting, has he! I presume there has been some? And he’s been caught again, as he was t’other time. And he has the insolence to think my wife would mix herself into his degraded affairs.”
Jenny twisted her fingers together, yet she gave her husband a level cold look, and said, “Rob, I don’t like your tone, and I don’t like your words. Courtesy alone should make you hear a man out who’s traveled all these thousands of miles to find us, but -- ”
“Aye,” he said. “But I’m not courteous or gently bred! You knew that when you married me!”
She turned to Alec, whose face had gone impassive, as a well-trained servant’s should, and she said, “Since my husband so dislikes the news you bring, I think you’d better tell it to me elsewhere.”
She gestured towards the door and preceded Alec from the parlor. Rob poured himself a mugful of brandy and downed it in three gulps; then he sank back in his chair and sat scowling at the andirons.
Jenny led Alec around the gardens and outbuildings to Willy’s cabin, which had a trim wooden porch on which he sat smoking a clay pipe and watching a murky purple sunset over the distant hazy mountains. “Willy,” said Jenny, “I’ve brought you a most unexpected visitor. You will want to hear what he has to say as much as I do.”