Langley's Choice

by Kate Dolan

  He pondered the desired qualities in an overseer and considered where to obtain horses to replace those taken by Ellis as he walked back to the house.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "Another ship arrived, sir, later in the day yesterday. After the one which brought Miss Carter.”

  John Carter looked up at Grimble in silence but made no move to reach for the letter on the tray, though the servant fairly waved it under his nose.

  “Another ship? From England?” Mrs. Carter rose from the bench in the other room where she sat with her daughters. Hurrying through the open door, she reached for the letter on the tray. “Mail from England?”

  Grimble nodded.

  “Mrs. Carter, if you please! I believe you’ll find that letter is addressed to me!”

  The sharp rebuke from her husband sent her back into the family parlor without another word.

  “Thank you, Grimble. You may put it there.” John Carter waved a hand toward his writing desk. After the servant left, he looked at the letter but still made no move toward it. Instead, he picked up his Bible and again tried to read passages from the Psalms. He knew Charles had taken great comfort from them, but the words ran together before his eyes.

  Caroline sat up to ease the congestion in her head. Parting the bed curtains, she slid off the bed and sat in the chair before the small window. Through the diamond-shaped panes she could see the bare, dark skeletons of trees highlighted against the gray sky. A cold wind had blown up during the night; she shivered as gusts of wind whistled around the window frame.

  Then she opened the window. She must face the cold, as Charles had. Charles at the bottom of the cold, dark sea.

  Now she was the oldest. Should she take charge, help run the plantation as he had done?

  Good heavens, no. She was a lady. She could take charge of nothing, except perhaps the dinner menus. Wherever had such a foolish idea come from?

  But, as the oldest, she did owe a duty to comfort her parents, especially since it was all her fault. Tears blurred the scene before her eyes, and she looked back at the bed. Before she could collapse onto her pillow again, she stood, closed the window and headed toward the stairs with resolute steps.

  Bypassing the family parlor and her sisters, mother and aunt, Caroline slipped through the dining room into the front room, where her father customarily sat. He, too, was staring out the window at the bleak sky. She curtsied and took his cold hand in hers.

  “Good afternoon, Father.”

  As if he saw very little that was good in it, he refused to answer her greeting. He did squeeze her hand, however, and with half a smile motioned for her to take a seat in the chair next to his.

  Neither spoke for some time. At first, Caroline took great comfort in simply being with her father, and she was thankful he had invited her to stay. The sound of shrill voices in the next room made his peaceful company even more inviting. After some minutes, however, the quiet began to feel oppressive, as if he used it to keep her at bay. She longed for him to break the silence.

  When he did not do so, she looked around for something with which to divert his attention. She discovered a tray with a letter, untouched, on the writing desk.

  “Have we had a letter, Father?”

  “We have. I have.”

  “May I ask who from?”

  “From London.”

  “Yes, but from whom in London? It is not Mother’s family, is it?”

  “No, it is not. But I don’t know exactly whom it is from. I do not recognize the sender’s name.”

  “But aren’t you the least bit curious?” Caroline’s voice rose in disbelief and excitement despite her gloomy mood.

  “No.” Her father stared out the window again.

  “Why not? How can you hold a letter addressed to you from a stranger in London and not want to know what it says?”

  “I believe I know what it says.” He still looked away.

  “You do? How could you? You said you didn’t even know whom it was from.”

  After several more moments gazing out at the lengthening shadows, her father turned to her and spoke in a soft voice. “I’ve been expecting a letter such as this.”

  “A letter such as what?”

  “I knew it would come from a stranger. We’ve taken credit from the same house for so many years, for ever so many years, before you were born. My father, and my family…but I knew the letter would come from a stranger.”

  “What letter? And what does this have to do with credit?”

  “Credit, my dear, is what enables you…” He looked at Caroline’s somewhat faded gown. “…or at least your mother and sisters to wear the latest fashions from London. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Credit purchased slaves for our fields, china for our table, curtained bedsteads for all of you children. It purchased the very chairs on which we sit. Credit has brought us a great many wonderful things. But I’m afraid that lately we have not been giving credit her fair due.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry; I wax poetic, and badly, too. We have not been paying enough on our debts these last several years. I believe it has now come back to haunt me.”

  “But, Father, why?” Caroline looked around the room. She did not pretend to understand the economics of the plantation, but it did not seem to her that they lived an extravagant life, certainly not compared to what she had glimpsed on the streets of Charles Town.

  “Our tobacco sold for practically nothing during the last few years of the war. I’ve known this, and should have required us to economize. Now, I fear it is too late.” He sighed and looked away again. “I learned yesterday that Charles incurred some rather weighty debts, too—on my behalf, of course.”

  “Charles?” Caroline wondered how Charles could have run up debts. He did not gamble on horse races or cards, he did not drink to excess—or rather, he had not done those things. Now, of course, he could do nothing. She felt tears start to return and began to blink very fast.

  “Well, my dear, I suppose I had better see what this stranger from London has to say to me, had I not?”

  “Yes, Father.” Caroline sniffed.

  “Would you like to break the seal?”

  She had to smile at this. Obviously, her father still remembered back to when she and her sisters begged for the opportunity to break the beautiful wax seals on his letters. When they grew older, they would take turns melting sealing wax onto folded pages of paper, seeing who could make the most interesting impression in it with objects from the house or yard. One time, her father had been furious because they’d used up all his wax with their games. They’d used quite a bit of paper too, she realized. Her father had simply ordered more. Was this what he had meant about the need to economize?

  He still held out the letter.

  “No, Father, you may open your own letter. Would you like me to give you privacy to read it?”

  “I see no need, since I have already told you what I believe it contains.”

  He sat down with the folded pages and soon became absorbed in the words. From the expression on his face, Caroline guessed he not told her the full extent of the letter’s contents. When he finished reading, he let out a long, low breath and sat staring at the signature for some time, as if willing it to life so he could speak with the author. Then he returned to the first page and read the letter again, even more slowly this time.

  “Father, are you ill? May I get you something?” Caroline had never seen her father look quite so frail before.

  “No, no, I’m quite all right. It’s just that this stranger has made a request which I had not expected.”

  “A request, Father?”

  “Yes. He wants me to come to London.” He looked aghast, and a note of despair had crept into his voice. “And this is without even knowing of the debt in Charles Town!”

  What was the debt in Charles Town? And what would be so horrid about a trip to London? Caroline could not bear to bring up anything having to do with Charles Town, but the se
cond question was easily vocalized.

  “Would it be so bad to go to London, Father? Indeed, we could all go—think how Johanna would enjoy such an experience. So would we all! Mother could see her family again, and—”

  “Stop this, you foolish girl!”

  “What?” Caroline sat back abruptly, hurt by the unaccustomed sharpness.

  “I cannot go to London. None of us can go to London. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This gentleman…” Carter waved the letter through the air roughly. “…says he wants to speak to me in person about the family’s financial position. I believe that is rubbish. I believe he wants me to come over so that he may all the more easily clap me in debtor’s prison.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  "Priscilla, get in here this instant!”

  The angry screech was not what Josiah would have chosen to wake up to, but Betty, yelling out the open door downstairs, had given him no choice.

  He found it nearly impossible to get back to sleep once awakened these days; too many thoughts preyed upon his mind. Perhaps bed curtains would better keep out the noise? They would certainly keep the bed warmer at night. He made a mental note to order some with the next London ship.

  London ship. There had been a ship in from London two days ago and he’d had no correspondence, which was odd. He would usually have at least one letter from his sister and something from his factor or someone else vaguely connected with his plantation.

  Pulling on a warm pair of breeches, he tried to shrug off the omission. After all, he did not particularly enjoy the letters from his sister. And no news was good news, as far as his financial affairs went. But he did feel a little left out, disconnected from family and business in England. Had they forgotten him?

  Josiah hurried downstairs and decided to order chocolate for breakfast, just the thing to counter the chill in the air.

  “I need the key, sir.” Betty held out her large palm.

  The key?

  “Oh, yes.” Josiah wondered where on earth it was. The chocolate, like the sugar and coffee, was kept in the locked drawers of a small chest. Betty usually held the keys, but before he had left on the Canary, he had given all the keys to Ellis. Josiah groaned. He would never get his hot chocolate now.

  “But the coffee? How did you make coffee yesterday?”

  “That lock don’t work,” Betty answered flatly. When she saw her master’s face contort with worry, she added kindly, “No one but you likes the coffee anyway, sir.”

  “Oh. But the chocolate?”

  “Don’t break the lock, sir, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Right. Will you check Ellis’s quarters to see if perhaps he left the keys…?”

  “Certainly, sir.” Betty walked purposefully over and opened the door, but instead of stepping outside, she hollered out for her assistant. “Priscilla! Damn that girl.” She turned back toward Josiah. “’Scuse my language, sir, but if you must know…”

  Josiah tried hard to look as though he did not have to know.

  “If you must know, I believe that she’s—”

  “Yes, yes. I know.” Betty believed Priscilla spent far too much time with the slaves, and she insisted on passing along every sordid detail she could possibly imagine. Josiah did not want to know. It was embarrassing, really. If Priscilla chose to eat and sleep with the slaves, it was none of his concern, so long as she was careful and did not end up—well, he did not want to think about it. And he didn’t want to be constantly reminded of it by his housekeeper.

  “But she’s not doing her share of the work, sir.”

  “Now, that would be unacceptable. Send her here. I’ll have a word with her.”

  “Right, sir.” Betty smiled gleefully as she went to the door again. “Priscilla!”

  Josiah felt his ears ring. “Perhaps, Betty, you could go fetch her, since you believe you know where she is.”

  Betty huffed outside, leaving him to enjoy the quiet. Even without a mug of chocolate or coffee, it was nice to sit before the warm fire, safe and secure in his own home.

  The peace didn’t last long. First the nagging, unpleasant thoughts returned. When was he going to speak to Carter about his daughter? What would he say? Where would he find another wife? Where would he find another overseer?

  He stood and went over to the locked chest of drawers. The first one he tried was, indeed, unlocked and contained a bag of coffee and a miniscule quantity of tea. He tried the next drawer very slowly, and his hopes soared as it moved a fraction of an inch. Then it stopped, held fast by the old lock. The others were the same. He looked around for something he might use to pick the lock; spying an article on the floor that looked like a small metal pin or skewer, he dove under the table to retrieve it.

  The door opened, and a waifish feminine voice called out hesitantly, “Mr. Throckmorton, sir?”

  “Yes,” Josiah said from under the table.

  “Betty said you wished to see me, sir?”

  “I did, Priscilla.”

  “Do you…want me to come down there?”

  “No! Good Lord, no.” He emerged with his prize and placed it carefully on the table. “You see? And now I—” Josiah watched with dismay as the metal pin rolled off the table and back into the corner. Enough was enough. “Fetch my keys,” he ordered. “They’re in Ellis’s quarters.”

  “Sir?”

  “The keys should be in his room. Get them and bring them back. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Yes, sir.” The girl spoke with polite deference but made no move to curtsy before she exited. Now that he thought of it, Betty never curtsied, either. He should probably instruct them—house servants required a certain amount of social grace. Even in a house this small. After all, someday it would be larger.

  But he’d have to find a new overseer first. And he could no longer put off his conversation with John Carter. He would go today, right now. Or rather, he would go as soon as he finished his conversation with Priscilla. Well, and after that, he would probably have to talk to Betty. And he probably should go see how much corn remained in the fields.

  No. That, at least, could wait. He would talk to John Carter this morning. Right after breakfast.

  Where was his breakfast?

  Betty marched in with a plate of cold mush, burnt bacon, cornbread and a dish of oozing purple jelly.

  “What’s this?” Josiah wrinkled his nose and waved toward the plate.

  “Breakfast, sir,” Betty answered somewhat indignantly as she deposited this repast on the table.

  “No, I mean the jelly. You know I prefer honey on my cornbread.”

  “It’s in the drawer, sir. With the sugar.”

  “Oh.” Josiah poked at the offending dish with his spoon. It was probably blackberry. He hated the way all the little seeds got stuck in his teeth.

  “It’s my best jam, sir. Blackberry. I once won a prize for it back in Dorset, sir.”

  “Blackberry, eh? Well, that’s splendid.” He could tell he had hurt the woman’s feelings. He hurriedly spooned a big, unappetizing mound onto a square of cornbread and took a large bite—and was unable to suppress a small wince at the sensation of seeds sliding down his throat.

  Betty turned without another word and stalked toward the door, only to meet face-to-face with Priscilla as she returned from her errand.

  “Hrumpf,” the housekeeper announced, and her assistant stepped aside to let her return to the kitchen.

  “Beg your pardon, sir.”

  “Yes.” Josiah wiped the rest of the jelly off the cornbread with his napkin.

  “The keys was not in Mr. Ellis’s room, sir.”

  “The keys were not, Priscilla.”

  “They weren’t?”

  “Yes, they were not.”

  “Did you know they wasn’t there?”

  “They were not. Were not.” Josiah laughed. “And yes, actually, I did have a pretty good idea you wouldn’t find them there. But we had to chec
k.”

  The young servant looked at him strangely but said nothing. He took a few more bites of his breakfast in silence, thinking about the most likely place to find duplicate keys. Reluctantly, he had to admit the Carter plantation would be the best place to start, though they had no blacksmith to make copies. If one of their keys matched the lock on the drawer, he could have a copy made elsewhere.

  Priscilla coughed quietly, and Josiah decided he had left her standing long enough. “Priscilla, I hear you have not been doing your fair share of the household work. Is this true?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe it is.”

  He fairly gaped in surprise. He never expected anyone to admit to an accusation. It seemed to go against the very laws of human nature. “You admit you are not doing all that your indenture calls for you to do?”

  “Probably not, sir.” She was starting to look rather miserable.

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I’ve…I’ve not been well, sir.”

  Josiah eyed her a little suspiciously. She looked well enough, if paler than he remembered. Although, she did appear rather frail. “Betty says you need to eat more.”

  “I try, sir.”

  “Well, do try. It’s your duty to try. Consider it part of your chores.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “Good. That will be all—except, Priscilla, please do try to come when Betty calls you. You owe her the respect of higher rank, just as you owe it to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please take my plate into the kitchen when you go.”

  As soon as Josiah nodded her dismissal, she reached swiftly for the plate and disappeared out the door. He followed her to the doorway and watched to see how Betty received her when she reached the kitchen. However, she did not go to the kitchen. Instead, she dropped the porcelain plate as if it had been made of tin and fled several feet away into the trees. She then fell to her knees and appeared to retch into a tuft of weeds. So, she indeed had not been well. This could be troublesome. A sickly servant would be a drain on his resources; a dead servant would be a totally wasted investment. She still had nearly four years left in her indenture.