Langley's Choice

by Kate Dolan

  Then it was Josiah’s turn to look puzzled. Carter was recommending that he use a mere attorney, hardly more than a scrivener, to represent his interests in court? “He is not a barrister, then?”

  “No, no, we have no need of such here. I suppose there must be one or two in Annapolis.”

  “And your attorney, this Mr. Goodwin, argues cases before the court?”

  “Yes, most expertly.”

  His ignorance of local procedure notwithstanding, Josiah would have sooner eaten his hat than allowed a mere attorney to advise him on a legal matter. He did, nevertheless, have to be polite. “I shall look forward to meeting him.”

  “Yes, I imagine you could find quite a lot to discuss with him, with your legal experience. He’s most quick-witted and really quite knowledgeable. Once, when he was arguing a case for a neighbor, I saw him look up a case in Coke’s Reports and quote the law, the actual law, to the justice.”

  “Once?” A sharp intake of breath caused Josiah to swallow a great gulp of air before replying further.

  “Yes, it was magnificent.” Carter smiled at the memory.

  “Only once did he quote the law?” This made no sense. Josiah knew that every point in a good legal argument must be supported by legal precedent or statute. Sometimes finding the marked pages in the books in the heat of argument could be the very devil—he was forever forgetting which point came from which volume. But he never would have considered making a point without precedent to back it up.

  “Well, yes.”

  “What did he say the other times he argued before the court?”

  “Oh, well, very clever things. He speaks most sensibly, without the flowery words some attorneys use to try to impress their clients.”

  Josiah could scarcely think of a positive reply. “Indeed” was all he finally managed before lapsing back into silence. If for some completely horrid reason he did need to seek advice on a matter of Maryland legal procedure, he would seek out one of the attorneys that used “flowery words,” no doubt Latin legal terms with which Carter was simply unfamiliar.

  “It’s not much farther now, and a good thing, too. I have a most rapacious appetite.”

  “Will we be dining with this attorney in his house?” This would be completely foreign to Josiah’s experience, but it made sense. The attorney could not possibly have an office out in the middle of a wilderness without some habitation nearby.

  “Yes, of course. The Goodwins provide the best bed and board you’ll find on court days. Though now, with the court moved, it’s rather inconvenient. Since I must meet with him in any event, I decided it was just as well to ride out here and lodge in comfort. I hope you do not mind. You may move your accommodations closer to the courthouse tomorrow if you find it better suits your purpose.”

  Josiah merely nodded. Since he had no true purpose, except to try to assist Carter, it mattered not where he stayed for the duration of the court.

  But why was Carter’s attorney running an inn as well? He did not hold high hopes for either his host’s hospitality or his legal acumen.

  Josiah found his hopes for a decent dinner, at least, rising substantially soon after they came into sight of the Goodwin house. Silhouetted against a sky that was rapidly fading to a dusky twilight purple, the building looked substantial and symmetrical. Large chimneys at each end sent plumes of smoke twirling into the night.

  As they drew up close and dismounted, the door to the house opened, and the sound of laughter and the scent of well-seasoned meat cascaded toward them. Josiah breathed in the wonderful smell with great relish then immediately stopped, ashamed of his coarse behavior. Carter seemed not to have noticed.

  “Mr. John Carter, I do believe it is!” a woman fairly shrieked in greeting from the open doorway. She quickly shook the crumbs from a cloth, tucked it under her arm then held out her open hands in a gesture of greeting. “Come in, come in, the night is getting on a chill, it is, and you’d best get by the fire.”

  Who was this woman? Surely, this common workwoman could not be the wife of the attorney Carter had so highly praised. And yet, he had said the Goodwins offered room and board on court days, and this woman could be pictured as an innkeeper’s wife, if one did not have high expectations of the inn. Perhaps she was a servant, a very forward servant.

  “Mrs. Goodwin, you worry overmuch! My bones are not yet so old they need protecting from the night air.” Carter stepped up to her, took her hand and gave it a kiss.

  Josiah couldn’t believe his eyes. He could have sworn he then saw Carter reach around and pinch the woman on the backside.

  She squealed pleasantly. “Ah, well, you needn’t try to prove anythin’ to me. You seem fit enough, and I’ll take your word for the rest!”

  “Mrs. Goodwin, I must introduce you to my companion.” Carter waved Josiah to come closer. “Mr. Throckmorton, may I present Mrs. Goodwin, who has graciously opened her home to me on many occasions in the past.”

  The woman giggled then stepped slightly away from Carter to make a brief curtsy. Josiah felt his cheeks flush and hoped no one would be able to notice in the dim light.

  “Mrs. Goodwin, may I present Mr. Josiah Throckmorton of Hanset Plantation. He is…a neighbor of mine.”

  Josiah bowed slowly, trying to compose himself as he looked down at the planks of the front porch. Was there something between this woman and John Carter? “Your servant, Madam,” he said as he straightened.

  “Oh, well, now, if you’re my servant, I’ll put you to work, you handsome devil!” Before Josiah could even think to reply, his hostess linked her arm through his and began to drag him toward the front door.

  Carter laughed. “I see you’re quick to throw me over for a younger man, Mistress Goodwin, but the night has many more hours yet and I will win back your favor ‘ere we set off to bed.”

  Josiah had been looking back to Carter for help as he was propelled into the house by this strange woman; but he soon realized he could expect no help from his companion, who seemed suddenly as crazed as the hostess herself.

  It was no better inside. There were more people gathered in the main hall of the Goodwin home than Josiah had seen together in one room anywhere in the entire colony. A surprisingly high percentage of them, he noticed, were women. Trenchers of food and tankards of drink perched on every available inch of space that was not filled with humanity.

  Carter stepped between Josiah and Mrs. Goodwin and spoke to her, having to lean in close to be heard over the noise of the other guests. Josiah stood alone, trying to adjust to the sudden change in environment.

  People pressed against each other on all sides, owing to the tight space in the room; but there was an added element of closeness not called for by the tight quarters alone. Men and women touched each other freely, a hand on an arm here, an arm around a waist there and more than a few apparent pinches and giggles. Louder laughter, too. Some couples sat on the stairs, and as he watched, another pushed past them up the steps and out of view.

  Had they entered a brothel?

  “Ah, court days, there’s nothing like ’em”

  Josiah felt his arm being tugged again and noticed that Mrs. Goodwin had reappeared at his side. Reluctantly, he accompanied her toward a doorway at the back of the room. Carter was nowhere in sight. He held back a little as they approached the next room, not even wanting to consider what they might find; but to his immense relief, he discovered his hostess had drawn him into the kitchen. She gently released his arm and patted his hand.

  “Your neighbor has gone looking for my husband, but he will be back soon enough. James won’t want to talk business long this evening; after all, it is the first night. While we wait for them I had hoped you might help me fix up a plate or two for your supper.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Josiah said, and then was immediately surprised at having done so. Never in his life had he served food for himself or anyone else. Yet, under Mrs. Goodwin’s tutelage, it seemed most natural to take the proffered trencher from h
er hands, scoop into it a large ladle of stew from a steaming pot over the fire and top it with a large hunk of cornbread.

  His hostess pointed to a crude bench not far from the fire. “You may sit in here, if you like, and eat while the food’s still hot.”

  Josiah glanced back into the room from which they had come; it seemed noisy and crowded and, indeed, it would take a deal of effort to find a place to sit. The seat by the fire in the kitchen, humble though it was, offered a more pleasant alternative. “Thank you, Mrs. Goodwin.”

  Taking his seat, he glanced around in vain for a fork. “Have you a fork I might use?”

  “A fork?”

  “Never mind,” Josiah said in response to his hostess’s blank look. He had always traveled with his own before and wished he’d remembered to do so this time. “Might I trouble you for a spoon, Mrs. Goodwin?”

  She fished around in a pot of water to retrieve a spoon, which she handed over with a smile. “If you’ll forgive me, I need to get some of these washed up.” She gestured toward a pile of dirty trenchers and assorted kitchenware.

  “Please, do not mind me.” Josiah was grateful no one would see his attempt to eat without proper utensils. With a bit of effort, he managed to maneuver all but the largest chunks of food onto his spoon. Then, with a sigh, he ate the last bites with his fingers. In a sudden vision, he pictured his sister sitting down at table and being expected to pick up her food with her fingers. He smiled and then belched, horrifying himself with the rude noise. His hostess only laughed.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment on my cooking, shall I, Mr. Throckmorton?”

  “Um, yes, do,” Josiah said, feeling heat rise to his cheeks once more. “A most excellent meal.”

  “Do have some more.” Mrs. Goodwin put down the pan she had been scrubbing and ladled out another generous portion of stew.

  “No, I would not care for—” Josiah started to say, but he closed his mouth as his hostess deposited the stew onto the wooden trencher in his hands. He almost never ate second servings. This time he realized he wanted to, even without a fork.

  Just as he was trying to balance a large chunk of turnip on his spoon, Carter stepped into the room. “Oh, there you are. Found a good place by the fire, I see.” He smiled broadly at Mrs. Goodwin. “I know I see something I want.”

  “Go ahead, help yourself. It’s my best squirrel stew.”

  Squirrel? Josiah coughed.

  “Oh, the squirrel. Yes, I want some of that, too.” Carter reached across Mrs. Goodwin as she scrubbed her pan, planted a kiss on the top of her head and grabbed a clean trencher.

  They were eating squirrel? Those rodents that looked like rats with inflated tails? Josiah put his trencher down on the bench next to him.

  “Well, you can serve yourself now.” Their hostess pointed to the kettle full of stew that had, up until a minute ago, smelled almost heavenly.

  “And the other?”

  Mrs. Goodwin laughed heartily. “You’ll have to wait. I have a husband who’s everywhere, you know.”

  Josiah thought he was going to gag. He had eaten two large servings of a stew made from an animal that was essentially a colonial version of a London rat. And the respected John Carter was making lascivious remarks to his married hostess, a woman who, while bearing a warm temperament and friendly smile, also bore fewer teeth and far more girth than could have been considered remotely attractive.

  “Why, what’s the matter, dear boy? You look positively ill. I’ll fetch you a glass of wine straightaway.” Mrs. Goodwin set down her pan for the third time and disappeared through the door before Josiah could object. A glass of horrid colonial wine, homemade with a variety of inappropriate local fruits and too much sugar, was the last thing he wanted.

  He looked at Carter, who had dished out a huge portion of stew and was eating contentedly with his fingers as he stood in the doorway, watching the drunken antics of the guests in the next room.

  Had Carter lost his wits? Eating like a barbarian, flirting shamelessly with a married woman practically under her husband’s very nose and now tapping his toes to the beat of some primitive sort of music from the next room, looking for all the world like he would throw down his food and dance at the slightest provocation.

  After their hostess had squeezed in through the doorway (getting her bottom soundly pinched for her efforts) and handed him a pewter cup filled with something purple, Josiah began to wonder if it might be he who was losing his wits. The unknown purple liquid actually tasted rather good. And it had been kind of his hostess to get it for him.

  “Thank you,” he said as he brought both his trencher and the empty cup over to where she sat washing dishes. He was surprised to feel a sudden urge to kiss her on the top of her head. He shook his head to try to clear it. Nothing was making sense.

  “We’ve saved the best beds for you and Mr. Carter.”

  “You have?” What had made this woman think of bed all of a sudden? “How–how did you know we’d be coming?”

  “My James told me we was to expect him, when he saw Mr. Carter’s name posted on the courthouse door.”

  “And–and me?”

  “Well, we weren’t expecting you, of course, but young Charles usually accompanies his father, so we saved two beds.”

  Josiah expected her to ask why Charles had not come this time, but she did not.

  “Would you like me to show you up?”

  “No! I mean, that is, not just yet, anyway.” It was still early, and, at the very least, Josiah wanted to find out what business Carter had managed to discuss with his attorney. And ashamed as he was to admit it, he wanted to see what form of low behavior Carter would sink to next.

  He headed back to the main room, where drinks flowed freely, to see if he could find any more of the mysterious purple wine.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Water sloshed rhythmically in the pail as Caroline carried it over to the kettle hanging near the fire. By the time she had finished pouring it into the cooking pot, all thoughts of beef soup were replaced by the memory of pouring pails of salt water on the deck of Captain Talbot’s ship.

  Where was that deck now? Was it as clean as when she had scrubbed it? Well, she didn’t really care about that. Where was the ship? And where was he? A face came to mind, slowly, more slowly than she would have liked. A face framed by waves of dark hair. Dark eyes…were they brown or deep blue?

  She couldn’t remember.

  In fact, the whole face was a little hazy. But she did remember fine, elegant hands and a voice that was strong and clear, almost musical.

  It was funny—she had not thought of the Osprey or Captain Talbot for so long the whole episode almost seemed unreal. It was as if she had read a book describing the adventures of another; she remembered the events, but they seemed to have happened to someone else.

  Now, though, as she looked around the kitchen, her surroundings seemed equally unreal. Had she been peeling potatoes? Had she been slicing onions and grinding corn and spices in this room? What about her books? What about her sewing? What about her visits to Aunt Bennett? What had happened to her life? Since the servants had been sold, she had been away from the plantation only once, to attend church near the landing.

  Leda came into the room and quietly deposited a load of firewood in the woodbin. “Miz Carter, you’ll have to move dat kettle closer to de fire if you wants it to heat.”

  Was she really allowing one of the slaves to tell her what to do?

  This could not be.

  Caroline cast the wooden pail into a corner and ran up the stairs to her bedchamber. The room felt tiny; the four walls and the low, angular ceiling seemed to press in on her from all sides. Bright color glowed through her small window; and she very nearly reached out, as if she could grab on to it. Instead, she dashed down the other stairs, took her cloak from its peg in the parlor and raced out the front door.

  A brisk wind blew her hair in all directions so that she had to brush it back from her ey
es to see. She ran uphill, pushing as hard as she could, until it hurt to breathe. Then she slowed her pace to a walk but kept moving forward, trying to beat back the hysteria rising in her mind.

  This is not my life!

  The view from the top of the hill was familiar and calming, despite the fierce gusts of wind and the leaden sky overhead. Caroline stopped walking and took a deep breath as she looked around her. So many picnics she had taken on this hill with her sisters, using a broad, flat rock as their table. When they were small and brought their dolls up for supper parties, they had used large fallen branches for seats.

  With the leaves off the trees, the small valley below spread out before her, looking the same as she had always known it. This was her place.

  At least, it had always been her place. She had grown up on this land. And lately, she had become closer to the land and the plantation than ever before. But was she to stay here? Did she want to stay?

  Did she have any choice?

  A panic started to rise up inside her again, and she felt as though she would run in circles, screaming her unanswered questions.

  Instead, she sat down.

  She would get no answers with panic, no answers with screaming. No answers with running.

  “Listen, Caroline, you must be still and listen.”

  She felt as if Charles had spoken directly into her mind.

  “Your prayers are but half-finished—you recite words as if in a race and give no chance for a reply!” He had said as much to her nearly every week when they had been younger.

  But she hadn’t been praying this time. And Charles wasn’t here.

  Nevertheless, she stayed on the ground and tried to calm her breathing, tried to quell the urge to run. And though she didn’t try to listen for the voice of God, as Charles would have wished, she hugged her arms to her chest and tried to take comfort from the sound of the wind in the trees.

  “Trust in God’s will.”

  Charles’s words kept reintroducing themselves! He could be so dreadfully annoying; why, here he was, pestering her from beyond the grave.