The Second War of Rebellion
Page 8
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Until the crew was paid out and monetary disputes settled, Maddie had to wait. She stood near the purser at his desk, to bid farewell to the few able seamen she had come to know before her leash was shortened. Most of the men were sad, not to be home, but to be out of work. The Royal Navy was largely laid up in ordinary because of the peace, and the officers would have to get by on half pay until hostilities resumed. With no battles to fight, there could be no advancement up the ranks, either, and the afternoon grew increasingly glum.
“Miss Beauchamp, if you please,” one of the sailors whispered to her, an American and a South Carolinian like herself if she was to judge.
The bedraggled man held his hat in his right hand, with the left contorted into a claw that was as good as useless. “I sailed your father’s ships for many a year until the English kidnapped me. Please, miss, my elbow and my shoulder were smashed up and I’m useless as a sailor. I want to get home is all, back to my brother’s farm, but the purser took all my pay. For expenses, he said. I don’t know what to do.”
How well she knew the empty ache, the longing for home. “But I have nothing, sir,” she said. “If you can find your way to Farthingmill Abbey, I could find work for you of some kind, and you could earn passage. I’ve been told it’s not far, but I do not know where it is or how to get there.”
“Any sort of work would be welcome, Miss Beauchamp,” he said, his eyes damp with tears. “From sun up to sun down if you so ordered.”
No matter how near or far the estate might be, the man would need food and drink to tide him over. The silver comb, so hastily traded for a pair of trousers that had been confiscated, would have brought in enough in pawn, and Maddie regretted her earlier haste. Given that her trunk was already off the ship, she had to find something near at hand but she carried no money or jewels. Her gloves were a good quality kidskin, but they would not fetch enough. She slipped out of her surtout, the expensive wool fabric sure to bring in a decent price. “Take these,” she said. “Get as far from the docks as you can before finding a second-hand dealer.”
“God bless you,” he said. “Jim Nipper, at your service, miss. I’ll see you at Farthingmill Abbey in a week’s time if not sooner.”
Before the Admiral escorted her to the post chaise, Maddie had time to discover that June in England was far different than that same month in Charleston. She shivered in the chill, clinging to her stepfather for warmth. With his arm around her, holding her close, he chatted about the house, about the village that was within walking distance, about his failure to keep a carriage and those who saw a need that he did not recognize. He supposed he would have to keep one for her use, as it would not do for the daughter of a baron to ride in a rented conveyance.
“Were you aware of your mother’s intention to develop a stud?” the Admiral asked.
“I recall something of the undertaking,” Maddie said. There was no rug to drape over her legs, no soft fur throw to snuggle into. Miserable and wretched, she cast a glance out the window but the grey day only made her feel worse.
“It would be an excellent pursuit,” he said. “To see your mother’s dream to fruition. I shall have my estate agent contact an architect to design a stable. You should be involved in all stages of planning. An opportunity to study the fundamentals of construction and style.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” she said. There was plenty of time, in the next six years, to develop some skill. Besides, President Jefferson was a talented architect, and Ethan admired the gentleman. Her brother would be proud of her, and boast of her accomplishments, and not have to worry about the sort of suitor she would attract.
Green fields rolled by the windows, a landscape that was as foreign as the open ocean had been. “Hampshire, is it a state, sir, like South Carolina?”
“Not exactly. America is a republic, made up of individual states. England is a constitutional monarchy in which the land is divided up into regions for purposes of governance.” The Admiral pointed to a large flock of sheep grazing in a meadow, noting that American cotton was perhaps more popular than British wool among ladies of style. “France, on the other hand, is cursed with a dictator who styles himself an emperor. Unfortunate for the people that their revolution went so wrong.”
Since leaving Southampton, Maddie had tried to find something about England that was attractive or pleasant or interesting, but no matter how long she gazed out the window, she saw nothing appealing to her eye or her heart. “It is quite lovely, sir,” she lied. “Is the soil good for growing wheat or only for grazing?”
The Admiral launched into a monologue, and when his enthusiasm over crop rotation reached a high pitch, Maddie presumed that they were getting close to Farthingmill Abbey and he was referring to his land’s yields. When the carriage rolled past a tall stone post, she sat up a little straighter and fought against a trembling that was not entirely caused by the cold air. On and on they rode, winding along a track that was bordered by fields, then woods, more fields, and another copse banked by masses of rhododendrons. A dirty pile of stones appeared through the trees, a sprawling expanse of gloom at the far side of an open park. Sitting beyond the carriage path was a murky pond that added to the dismal atmosphere.
“There, just there,” the Admiral said. He kissed her hand and she felt his excitement, the happiness that came from returning home. “Shall we ride out today, what do you say? We shall explore together so that you can get your bearings.”
“I should like that very much,” she said. The house was far inferior to the big house on the Ashley. The climate was dreadful. How could Mama have wanted any of this for her?
“You must settle in first, unpack, meet the staff,” he said. “I find that I am rather hungry. Craving fresh milk, aren’t we, like all sailors home from the sea. A cup of tea, then, and we’ll be off.”
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a house that had no piazza at all, only a door at ground level that was wide open. Extending from the gap was a double line of people, men and women, young and old, craning their necks with anticipation. A footman handed Maddie down and she passed her eye over a horror of a structure, all sharp crags, rising up like faces of sheer cliffs. To gain entrance was to pass through a dark portal. No warmth would be found within such a cold place.
Maddie took the Admiral’s arm and wobbled across the stone path on sea legs. The people who made Farthingmill Abbey run were introduced by the estate agent, Mr. Turner, who instigated a chain of bobs and curtsies like an undulating wave that swept Maddie into the entry hall. The gloom took her breath away. A heavy wooden staircase lumbered up to the second floor, a haphazard pile of lumber in an oak-paneled forest. So this would be her prison for the next six years, this dreary, dismal abode with its air of dampness and dismay. The prospect was unbearable.
“A tour of the house would be in order,” the Admiral said to his housekeeper, Mrs. Finch. “As my daughter is here for a thorough education, she would benefit from any knowledge that you might share. The chain of command, that sort of thing.”
“Every room, your lordship?” Mrs. Finch asked.
“As many as might be needed to navigate through the part of the house that will be open while Miss Ashford is in residence,” the Admiral said. He planted a tender kiss on Maddie’s forehead. “You will find many rooms and many doors, my dear. Follow closely so you do not get lost.”
There would be time enough for wandering later. First, Maddie had to dig out whatever warm things she could find before she froze to death. Would it be unseemly to ask that a fire be built in her room?