THIRTY-FOUR
Before breakfast, Maddie sat down at her old desk in the morning room that had not changed in the least since last she sat there with a menu to review. In stacks before her she organized the numerous letters, the tallest stack belonging to those who might take a notion that she was holding a grudge about the war and intended to break friendships frayed by distance and years. Even more critical was communication with her brothers, and before their sons wrote, to inform them that the situation in England was radically different than they might have hoped. Their demand that the Admiral not be a part of the children’s lives was impractical, to say the least, and made little sense. Taking up the quill, Maddie held it motionless over the inkwell as she sought the best turn of phrase to make her case. No harm was about to befall anyone, and she would see to it that her nephews were protected from outside influences. Indeed, the dear old man was under the influence of his grandsons, and much improved by the experience.
She paused to rest her hand after finishing her replies to the collection of Carolinians and Virginians who sought out their own in a foreign land. Social calls on her countrymen would have to wait until the school term began, with her calendar already full in short order. As if she had never been away, Maddie’s old friends sent a steady stream of invitations, along with the latest gossip so that she would be up to date before the season opened at Ascot. She had dreams of hosting some small event at Albemarle, but that meant badgering the decorator to get at least a few rooms finished. The house kept her from running up to London to call on Lucy, and Maddie could not spare the time to visit Cecily or a fortnight would be lost to lazy workers who never seemed to be where they were supposed to be. Sooner rather than later she wanted to introduce her children to the Powell family, to mend a fence she herself had tumbled down for foolish reasons. Then there was her wardrobe, which needed attention and time to make adjustments. Covering up the scorch marks on the hem of her best dress would take a fair bit of sewing and some creative use of lace trim, while her ball gowns needed more than a few touches to update the style.
The Admiral knocked before entering, hesitant, as if he had to tread carefully in his own house. From the first, he had behaved magnificently, deferring to Maddie in all things related to the children and their daily schedules. As much as he longed to take them fishing, he waited patiently until the day’s lessons were concluded and never complained of the delay. His consideration had Maddie feeling as if she were the Admiral and her stepfather were the lieutenant, awaiting her orders. He so adored the little ones that she found it difficult to adhere to their schedule, his clear black eyes pleading for their company even though he dare not ask outright. Maddie had no doubt that he was doing everything possible to make right what he had done wrong, an effort that melted her heart.
“If you could break away for a moment,” he said. “Our desire that your stay here be seen only as a social call, to avoid malicious gossip. So that you can present yourself as a widow not dependent on her father’s charity, I have sent for the seamstress. Before you protest, my dear, I shall be blunt and tell you that your wardrobe will not support your words and there will be talk, I assure you. Let us remedy the situation before it arises.”
“I cannot afford to decorate both myself and Albemarle,” she said.
“Let me make this gift to you. What else am I to do with my money if not spend it on things that will give me pleasure. To see you dressed in accordance with your position will give me great pleasure. You would not deny me, would you?”
“One gown,” she said. To give in to her weakness for pretty dresses, for lovely bonnets and ribbons, was to give back a piece of the liberty she was determined to protect.
“One or two, what difference does it make? Thank you for indulging me. It’s all those years at sea, you know. Staring at nothing but white canvas and navy blue wool. Select something with color, won’t you? “ He took her hand and examined the emerald ring on her finger. “I have something I want you to see. Will you come?”
She had already seen the furniture that once graced his quarters on the Intrepid, the pieces that were being redone for use at Albemarle. Impossible that the upholsterer was finished, and she had yet to select the fabric for all the items. A mystery, then, and Maddie followed him up the stairs to his room. He indicated that she was to sit in the chair next to the fire, which she accepted gratefully.
“I remember the cold of England, but not quite like this,” she said.
There had been unusually heavy frost for early May. “It has been extreme,” he said. He popped into his dressing room and returned with a small chest. “I worry about the harvest if this unusual cold spell continues. Poor harvests brought down the French aristocracy in ’89.”
He deposited the box at her feet and braced himself, as if the ills of the world were about to fly out and bowl him over. A rush of emotion took hold of him and rendered him speechless. With gestures, he indicated that Maddie was to open it. Inside was a piece of linen that appeared to have been a man’s shirt, folded in an odd way. The fabric was pocked with holes, suggesting it had been kept at sea for many years. Along the hem was stitching that had faded into shades of muddled grey.
“Sarah Mahon,” Maddie read the embroidered script. “And next to it, this is the rebel flag, the thirteen stars.”
“This was my greatest treasure, this shirt that your mother made for me. It is cloth, my dear, only cloth. Not until you came here with the children did I realize how insignificant this was, that I had preserved the wrong thing. I never disposed of this memento. Neither did I dispose of you,” he said.
“If that is so, you did it in such a way as to disguise your true meaning quite well,” Maddie said.
“You must admit that you contributed to the debacle I commenced,” he said. “To lead me to believe that you were behaving disgracefully when you were not.”
She smoothed her skirts across her lap, needing time to prepare some suitable response. “It was you who tarnished my reputation. Can you fault me for trying to inflict a measure of my pain on you?”
He took her hand and squeezed it, as he had done when she was a child who had made him proud. “So let us have a frank and honest discussion as to your plans for the future.”
“And your place in it,” Maddie added. She closed the lid of the chest. Whatever the nature of her mother’s relationship with the Admiral, she would allow him to keep it in his heart. A man long accustomed to maintaining the façade of a fearless commander could not be expected to explain, if indeed he could understand it himself.
Maddie took his arm for the walk to his library, where he was compiling his memoirs with her assistance. They were promenading through the gallery, where an image of Lady Madeleine in her first ball gown held a place of honor, when the Admiral paused to admire the portrait of his mother that hung next to it. Before he could speak, they were both startled by a sudden cacophony that exploded in the entry hall. Afraid that the boys had done something dreadful, Maddie raced to the door.
All five children had sticks in their hands, weapons that they typically brandished like swords in games of make-believe. The object of their wrath was flailing his arms in an attempt to protect himself from blows to the head, a gesture that proved futile when his tall shako went tumbling down to the gravel of the drive. Twisting and turning, the lobsterback made his way to the entrance, seeking sanctuary.
“Sunderland,” Maddie bellowed. “How dare you insult my family.”
“We caught him,” Willie said. “He’s our prisoner, Auntie.”
“He’ll pay for Washington,” David added.
“Bad man.” Beau enunciated his verdict with a jab of his stick to Sunderland’s knee. The gentleman’s face blanched, and he emitted a slight gasp when Captain Tar jumped and batted his paws on the same spot.
“Never have I encountered such ill-mannered miscreants masquerading as the offspring of gentlemen,” Sunderland wheezed. He was clearly in agony.
“Boys, and you as well, Caro,” Maddie said. She reached in to stop further harm befalling one who so richly deserved it, and herded her band of warriors into the house. “Leave Firebrand Tommy alone before he burns down Grandfather’s house like he torched that of our President.”
“Mama knows him,” the murmur passed from child to child. Beau failed to heed the warning and raised his stick, only to have it swatted away by John. The baby fell to the floor and immediately began to bawl. The boys retreated a few steps, Caro ran to her mother, and the Admiral hastened to console Beau. Feeling a rush of righteous indignation, Maddie then noticed that her stepfather did not puff up and demand to know why Sunderland was there. His very posture suggested quite the opposite, and Maddie felt the hairs on the back of her neck prick up.
“My lord, you were not expected today,” the Admiral said.
Mrs. Finch bustled into the entry with a footman who was porting a large wicker basket. “What shall I do with these, my lady?” she asked, and the footman came forward. The load he was carrying shifted, he tried to regain control, but the basket tipped and the contents spilled out. Squeals of delight were coupled with the release of the three King Charles spaniel puppies, each one a replica of Captain Tar, who barked his superiority over the tribe. The hall descended into chaos as dogs and children gave chase.
“Into the garden, for heavens sake, take them outdoors,” Maddie said. “And you as well, Lord Sunderland. Out with you.”
“We are not prepared just yet,” the Admiral said with a meaningful lift of his eyebrows.
“Prepared? What preparation is needed, pray, beyond the calling of the bailiffs?” Maddie asked. “This man is as much a murderer as one who kills with a knife. He is a poisoner, a purveyor of slow and painful agonies.”
“I am a soldier, not a soft-hearted diplomat,” Sunderland said. He hobbled into the entry, favoring a bad leg. “Would that all conflicts could be settled with words.”
“Words, yes, you used words with great craft,” she said. “The words you wrote were a torment to my husband. If not for your words, he would be alive today.”
Maddie turned on her heel and marched up the stairs, only to be checked by her stepfather. “What words are these? He never told me of any correspondence with Mr. Taft.”
“Because I did not communicate with him, my lord,” Sunderland said.
Without doubt, there had been communication between Sunderland and her stepfather. Maddie’s head throbbed as she looked from one to the other, their faces masks of pure innocence. What she thought she would find upon her return to Farthingmill Abbey was not at all what existed. Her footing was no longer solid.
A brandy and water was prescribed for Maddie’s distress, a tonic to calm her before the Admiral launched into a parlay he had intended to commence over dinner. Unfortunate that Sunderland was called to the Albemarle stables on a matter of great urgency before such a discussion was undertaken, but as they found themselves thus engaged, there was no other recourse than to talk over matters at once.
In the drawing room, Maddie was brought on a voyage from Portsmouth to Chesapeake Bay. Over the course of those weeks at sea, in which Sunderland invited himself to the Admiral’s flag-ship and the Admiral’s table, the gentlemen debated and argued over war and rebellion. They dissected the concepts of civil disobedience and independence, and drew remarkable conclusions in regard to the dynamics of masculine pride.
“It was brought home to me at Bladensburg,” Sunderland said. “After General Ross was felled by an American sniper.”
“And we came to an accord during the shelling of Baltimore,” the Admiral said.
“Quite right. You see, American sailors were excused from fighting, which of course only proved their point. They were not British. But those who were spared from taking up arms against their brothers made themselves of use to the ship’s surgeon,” Sunderland said.
“They did not distinguish, in that case, enemy from friend, as they were brothers of another sort. Tied by a common language and customs, they ignored all consideration of national origin and went to the aid of their shipmates. Fellow human beings, no more nor less,” the Admiral said.
“At which point, we all, navy and army, realized that we were fighting against our own family,” Sunderland said. “It was most remarkable, Lady Madeleine, that your father and I saw this to be true at the same time. We understand the folly of our fathers’ feud.”
The Admiral, who had been pacing the floor, came to rest on the settee next to Sunderland. His face was the very image of smug satisfaction, of a preening boy who expected high praise for his brilliant accomplishment. “Squabbling over the colonies, but the colonies did not exist. No matter my father’s opinion, or the former Lord Sunderland’s opinion on the matter, the colonies did not exist in that form. The United States were a free and independent nation in spite of them.”
“That spelled the end of the disagreement,” Sunderland said. “Just as the military assault was pointless, and was called off. Our guns rained shot and shell on the American fort, with a loss of men and materiel, but to no gain. We returned to England, the peace treaty was negotiated, and today the two nations engage in free trade and amicable commerce.”
“Availing of the finest education to be found in the modern world,” the Admiral said.
Their touching reconciliation was a sweet tale that could have served as a child’s bedtime story. One thought pulsed in Maddie’s head, a sad note in their happy tale. It had come too late.
“You will join us for dinner, of course,” the Admiral said to Sunderland. “Having met my grandchildren, I hope that they may be given an opportunity to demonstrate their civilized side.”
“They are not inherently savages?” Sunderland asked. Maddie returned his impish grin with a frosty glare.
The meal was a surreal affair of friendly conversation, with a final course of battle tactics a la Waterloo served for further amusement. Sunderland won every boy’s heart as he maneuvered bread crumbs through military evolutions and explained how Wellesley defeated Bonaparte, and how Sunderland came to be injured. He answered questions about the burning of Washington, where he was only an observer because his injuries kept him from combat. To listen to him tell the story, one would think that he single-handedly prevented rampaging redcoats from burning the U.S. Patent Office, repository of inventions that could benefit all mankind and too precious to be destroyed. More than once, Maddie pinched her thigh to be sure she was not dreaming. The old enmity was gone, completely and totally gone as if it had never existed.
After the little ones were put to bed, and the new puppies tucked away in the kitchen until they were housebroken, Maddie retired to the drawing room where she could work out her befuddlement at the pianoforte. It was apparent that Sunderland was staying the night when he took up a post at her side, watching her play.
“Do you have no home to go to, my lord?” she asked.
“I have told your father about the note I sent,” he said.
“Your conceit is insufferable. To dare to command me to leave my husband is beyond all bounds of decency.” She slammed her fingers on the keys, hitting a discordant note. “The distress that you created in his heart. And in mine when I discovered your perfidy.”
“He should not have read something addressed to you,” Sunderland said.
Maddie left the piano as the Admiral entered the room, taking her usual spot at the tea table. Her stepfather inserted himself into the conversation she was hoping would expire a natural death due to disinterest. Attempts to appear calm as she served tea failed when she handed her stepfather a cup and it rattled loudly in the saucer.
“Do you continue to study rice cultivation, Sunderland?” the Admiral asked. The question was so obviously artificial that Maddie wanted to run out, grab the children, and flee to Albemarle, where she would bolt all the doors.
“Shall I make inquiries regarding available rice land?” Maddie asked. “But not during the sickly season, when a
man is prone to catching malaria and dying. A man pushed to such risks.”
“Would I find a welcome in Charleston?” Sunderland asked.
He touched her hand as he took the teacup from her, a gesture that was intentional and lasted too long.
“You could expect a most cordial welcome,” she said. “Senator Calhoun, may I present the man who put Washington to the torch? He would be pleased to shake your hand, would he not? And let us not forget the ladies. Begging for a dance from such a prominent gentleman.”
“But I would be previously engaged in dancing with you,” he said. He would not take the bait, would not engage in a war of words that was meant to send him packing.
“The marriage contract could prove onerous,” the Admiral said. “A man with a wife of independent means may not always feel secure in his position. Especially one who is cognizant of the woman’s reputation for running away from difficult situations.”
“Should a husband suspect dissatisfaction,” Sunderland said, “he is duty-bound to discuss it with his wife, rather than allow suspicions to fester.”
Maddie slammed her cup to the table, sending tea sloshing over the rim. “I have had my fill of husbands and marriage. Where has it gotten me? Of what use is a husband?”
“Precious little,” the Admiral said. “It is the man who has need of the woman, in my view. Our value to a woman is sadly limited.”
“Will you accompany me to the stables tomorrow?” Sunderland veered off course, but Maddie was glad of the change. She disliked the bitter taste of bile and had no appetite to spew more. Recrimination would not restore anything she had lost, and there was much she had gained that would not be hers if matters had played out differently. “We should consider the future of the stud, now that much of the bloodstock is aging.”
A tense silence settled into the room. The gentlemen took up books and pretended to read, while Maddie returned to music in the hope that a calm tune would replace the turmoil in her head. She was disoriented, uncertain, and felt as if she had lost some familiar path that was supposed to take her to a place that was never quite clear. Would she feel better if she spent time with her horses, or would such a visit be too painful?
“It was stupid of me to write,” Sunderland said.
“Very much so,” the Admiral said. “A grave error that must be absolved through penance and contrition.”
“That you would presume I did not love my husband,” Maddie said. She had adored Heywood, but in a quiet way, lacking a blazing passion. They shared an affection and respect that arose from a lifetime together, from common bonds of kin and place. Every day, she missed the sound of his voice and the comfort of his embrace, the twinkle in his warm brown eyes when she looked up from her mending and caught him watching her.
“I wanted to believe that you did not,” Sunderland said.
“As does every man who loses the woman he loves to a rival,” the Admiral said. He turned the page of his book, but Maddie would not believe for a second that he had any idea what was printed on it. “Although it can be true that the wife has no love for her husband. For example, when said gentleman holds a more favorable position and the woman finds herself in a precarious circumstance.”
“Lady Madeleine,” Sunderland said.
“Mrs. Taft,” Maddie corrected him.
“Please forgive me. The fault is entirely mine, and while I cannot restore your loss, I stand ready to make amends for conduct which I admit is inexcusable. I am your servant, Mrs. Taft.”
“We have entered a new era,” the Admiral said. “It is a fine time for fresh starts.”
“It is too late,” Maddie said. A deep weariness took hold, as if she had been fighting her entire life and had just been informed that the conflict was ended. “I would, however, like to see the horses. After working so hard to establish the stud, I wish to see how it has progressed.”
Unable to fall asleep, Maddie sat up in bed and stared at the shadows she had known since she arrived at Farthingmill Abbey at the age of twelve. A knock at the door startled her, a rap that was tentative and hesitant. For the moment, she held the superior position. If she did not act, Sunderland was likely to beat a retreat and come at her in the morning with his powerful alliance prepared to defeat her. Better to engage the enemy at once, rather than wait and lose a slight advantage.
They spoke for hours, although Sunderland did most of the talking and his words were largely those of apology. Maddie felt her old infatuation bubble up, but since their first meeting she had experienced much of life in its pleasures and its pains. No longer was she the innocent maiden, smitten by a man who fell to his knees and worshipped her until his sister slapped him into sense. But because she was not a maiden, she was free to yield to the fire that Sunderland had stoked in Lady Gravier’s garden, a fire that roared into an inferno when he kissed her as she had never been kissed before. Yield she did, and more than once before the sun rose.
“Good morning, Maddie,” he said, waking her from a pleasant dream of riding madcap across the fields of Farthingmill Abbey. “The maids will be here to build the fire. I must return to my room before anyone knows I did not sleep there. The children in particular. They would only ask awkward questions and I do not wish them to think poorly of me.”
“Good morning, Tommy,” she said. “I appreciate your discretion.”
He closed the door behind him with such care that the hinges did not squeak and the latch did not click. An urge to call him back pulled Maddie out of bed, but when she reached the door she thought better of it.
Sounds unlike Sunderland’s shuffling limp came from the hallway and she pressed her ear to the panel.
“Good morning, Sunderland,” the Admiral said.
She had forgotten that her stepfather was fond of rising early so that he could watch his grandchildren sleep. For a man accustomed to the sights of battle and all its horrors, the tumble of small bodies in their beds was all peace, a balm for his old eyes. He made himself their personal guardian in the event of a bad dream, patrolling the perimeter when Caro was frightened by shadows or telling Beau a story when the baby was restless. The Admiral claimed it all as a grandfather’s prerogative, and Maddie let him enjoy the innocence he had missed in all his years as a sailor far from home.
“A glorious morning,” Sunderland said.
“I am not certain what she may be up to,” the Admiral said. Maddie strained to hear, but her stepfather had lowered his voice and she picked up only snatches of the conversation.
“If not at the start of the season, then certainly before the end,” Sunderland said.
“The third one, I know, but it must be as spectacular as a first. Within bounds, yes, or the tongues will wag and I won’t have it.”
“Most definitely before the school term,” Sunderland said. “I have promised to take the scholars shooting.”
“Take my advice, the sooner you catch her, the quicker this will be,” the Admiral said. “She might think she can weather a scandal, until she realizes the risks to Caro’s chances.”
A rattling in the hall sent Maddie scurrying back to bed. The door was cracked open and she heard her maid addressing the men in a voice of complete composure, as if it was common for ladies to rise before dawn to take tea.
“You seem to have forgotten the milk and sugar,” the Admiral said. “Never knew my daughter to drink a drop of tea without it. Unlike coffee, mind you, which she drinks unadorned.”
“No, sir,” the maid said. “This is not that sort of tea.”
With a smile, Maddie propped up the pillows behind her and smoothed the sheets across her legs. Her stepfather issued another warning to Sunderland, that Maddie was up to something, but the voices faded as the old man moved down the corridor towards the nursery and Sunderland hobbled off to his quarters. For over fifty years, the Admiral had made a career of plotting, of concocting strategies and battle plans, but nothing in his decades of service had prepared him to take on a woman armed with the secrets kno
wn only to females.
The cotton root bark tea was as unpleasant as ever, but it was a necessary component of Maddie’s small arsenal. She drank it down while holding her breath to keep from tasting it, mentally apologizing to her former nursemaid Afi for engaging in such wickedness. One small slip from grace was the result of loneliness, a moment of weakness when Maddie came close to striking her colors and submitting to the subtle pressure her stepfather was applying. She had to be strong, given that she was only sitting down at the negotiating table. There was no formal peace treaty between them just yet.
She had once been promised two London seasons, and she would have at least one before she closed that chapter on her life. Who could say but she might meet a man who would drive Sunderland from her thoughts, and as she had wanted to explore such a possibility when she was seventeen, she would do so at twenty-six. Should Sunderland be made to squirm in the process, to feel his heart ache and wonder if Maddie cared for him after all, so much the better. He deserved the misery, indeed, he had earned it after hurting Heywood.
Perhaps it was too late for Sunderland, as she had thought the previous evening. There were three children to consider, too young to recall their father perhaps but old enough to know if they could accept a stepfather in Mr. Taft’s place. Their opinion would matter more than her desires in regard to any man. Her children were everything to her, their future hers to create. She would not fail them, no matter what sacrifices she might have to make. The taste of the root tea tickled the back of her throat. Some sacrifices, at any rate. Not quite all.
She would not do anything until she had consulted with her brothers, whose opinions were also of great value. As for Charleston society, no one would flinch at the introduction of a new member into their democratic circle, not when they all craved novelty in any form. Thoughts of the port city led to a hazy image of some distant future after the Admiral was laid to rest and the Beauchamp and Taft boys, education completed, returned to South Carolina to make use of their fine minds. Would she go with them, or would she have placed herself into a cage from which there was no escape?
The Admiral would balk, he might rail against her concerns, apply pressure to force her to yield, but a peace conference was rarely a scene of complete peace while the warring parties sparred one last time. Maddie tipped back the teacup and drained the last drops. She held the trump card.
It was a matter of when best to play it, to gain the maximum advantage and win the hand.
END
Also by Katie Hanrahan
The Leaven of the Pharisees
A Terrible Beauty
The Liberty Flower
Katie Hanrahan invites you to visit her
website:
www.katiehanrahan.com
The Second War of Rebellion Page 56