Langley's Choice

by Kate Dolan

  Caroline sat down on the edge of her bed and brought her hands to her eyes, as if she could somehow squeeze the memory out of her head. She had pushed Charles away, acted as if she did not want him to find her. And, indeed, she had not wanted him to find her.

  Yet, would she really have been happy, alone in a strange town, wondering if anyone had missed her at all? Charles had cared enough to risk his life for her, and her father had cared enough to jeopardize the family fortune. And Mr. Throckmorton, well, she must owe him some gratitude as well. Had he merely come to reclaim her as his property? If so, he certainly hadn’t taken much proprietary interest since their return. So why, then, had he come?

  She pushed the hair back from her face. It just now occurred to her that Mr. Throckmorton had undergone the same risk on her behalf as her brother had done. Because he had survived where Charles had not, she had never given a thought to his hardships. She had behaved as rudely to him as to her brother.

  She groaned aloud when she thought of all the trouble she had caused. Where would it end? One innocent act, like a pebble cast into a pond, had sent forth ripples that escalated into enormous waves, destroying everything in their path. At least Mr. Throckmorton had not been destroyed. He still retained his fortune and his plantation. Now he would find another lady of proper station to take as a wife.

  Caroline pulled the pins from her hair and began attacking the tangled strands viciously with her hairbrush.

  “Mother is coming down!” Johanna fairly bounced with agitation. “Ooh, it’s so cold in here. May we not build the fire up more, Caroline?”

  Caroline sighed with perhaps greater force than was necessary. At least Johanna had asked, and not simply emptied the woodbin as she had earlier. “If you are chilled, remove yourself to the kitchen. There’s a great enough fire in there.”

  “The kitchen? Surely not, Caroline. Mother would never care to rest in the kitchen with the—” Johanna stopped suddenly.

  Caroline felt the corner of her lip twitch upward. “There are few enough servants in the kitchen these days. I daresay Mother will find plenty of room on the bench near the fire.”

  “But…Mother does not care for the kitchen. And Leda? What will she say about Leda?”

  “She had better say nothing untoward about Leda, do you hear?” Caroline heard a surprising venom creep into her voice as she looked into her sister’s eyes. “Leda has kept us all from starvation. I will not have Mother or anyone else giving offense to her. Do you understand me?”

  Johanna had taken a step back but made no answer.

  “Do you understand, Johanna?”

  The younger girl finally nodded, started for the door then turned back around. “She’s not going to be pleased.”

  Caroline decided there was nothing she could say to answer that remark. It was true; her mother would not be pleased. But it was more important to protect the sensitivity of the only person in the household who held any useful skills than the imagined sensitivities of a lady who had been too lazy to take on any share of the work.

  Was that fair? Was her mother really lazy? Was she not more likely just frightened at the change in her world?

  Fear was no excuse, but it was an explanation.

  In another minute, she heard her mother descending the stairs.

  “I am not an invalid, Johanna. I can manage these stairs perfectly without your help and have been doing so since well before you were born—” The end of the sentence was punctuated by several heavy thumps.

  “Mother, are you killed?” Johanna shrieked.

  In a few strides, Caroline reached the foot of the staircase. “No, I’d say just uncomfortably bruised.” She bent down and offered her arm.

  “What has happened to those stairs?” Mrs. Carter looked accusingly at the steps behind her. “They are much too shallow—and too steep—to traverse with any safety.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Caroline started to pull her to her feet.

  “My ankle is twisted, and I’m sure my back is quite ruined.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Together, Caroline and Johanna succeeded in setting Mrs. Carter upright.

  “And I am sure I shall never be able to walk again—”

  Caroline pulled her into the room.

  “—without a great deal of pain.” Mrs. Carter winced and waved her hand toward the nearest chair. “Please, help me to this seat.”

  I hope I never get to this state, Caroline thought as she and her sister heaved their mother into the leather chair. I never wish to be old and always complaining. Or, when I am, I wish to have servants around me to take care of me.

  Of course, her mother had always had servants around to take care of her, and now she could no longer take care of herself. And she wasn’t old, strictly speaking, not at all. Her hair showed gray in only a few strands, and though her skin sagged it was not greatly creased.

  Had a life of dependence on servants made her mother so very useless?

  Caroline found she could no longer look at her. “I’ll get some more wood for the fire,” she announced suddenly and headed for the kitchen.

  “But you said—”

  “Never mind, Johanna. My mind has changed. Make Mother comfortable—read her a book or something,” she said over her shoulder.

  As she returned with an armful of wood, she was struck by the peace of the scene before her. Johanna had drawn a chair up next to her mother’s, and they leaned in together studying a book on her mother’s lap. The murmur of happy voices drifted across the room, and Mrs. Carter even smiled as she looked up.

  “A book of cookery! How delightful this is—the very thing for planning menus.”

  “Yes.” The book had also proved invaluable in cooking the food on the menu, but Caroline saw no need to belabor the point at present. “As a matter of fact, I could use your help in planning the dinner for tomorrow, when we entertain the first guests we have known in some time.”

  “Have we guests arriving tomorrow?” Mrs. Carter looked around the dusty room in alarm.

  “Only neighbors, Mother. They will not stay with us.”

  “All the same, this room, this house, is such a mess. This will not do for guests. We must see to it these rooms are cleaned at once.” She stood abruptly and moved toward the door. “And the parlor with the dining table, what must that be like?”

  Caroline stepped out to block her mother’s path. “I see that your back injury is healing nicely. You’ve no need to disturb yourself—the other room is just as dusty. But it will not be of consequence.”

  In fact, the room with the large table was in even worse shape. She had been taking meals in the kitchen with Edwina, while Johanna, Georgiana and their mother ate upstairs. The unused dining table had acquired quite a collection of odds and ends in the meantime, and the room had scarcely been dusted or swept in weeks.

  “What do you mean, it will not be of consequence? Are we not having guests on the morrow? We cannot have them see the house in such a state. What will they think?”

  “Mother, it does not signify,” Johanna interjected sadly. “It is only Mr. and Mrs. Johnson who dine with us.”

  “Whom? I do not believe I am acquainted with a Mrs. Johnson.”

  “No, indeed, Mother, you have not yet made her acquaintance.” Caroline picked up several books perched precariously on the edge of a shelf and began to slide them back into place. “She and her husband and family are the new residents at Hill Crest.”

  “New residents?” Her mother looked confused.

  “They are but tenants, Mother. And poor ones, from what I hear.” Johanna addressed this last remark to Caroline with a look of disdain.

  “Tenants? We have tenants? And they come to dine with us?”

  Caroline waited until she was certain her mother’s indignant outburst had concluded. “Yes.” She scooped an embroidered cushion up off the floor and replaced it on its chair. “Now, will you help me plan the menu?”

  “Dining with poor tenants. I cannot believe it pos
sible.” Mrs. Carter slowly sank into the nearest chair.

  “You will find Mrs. Johnson’s company most enjoyable, I am sure,” Caroline said soothingly. “She’s…a most capable housekeeper, and…has a pleasant manner and is very deferential.” Caroline could see this last point, at least, seemed to calm her mother a bit. She picked up the cookery book from where it had tumbled to the floor and replaced it in her mother’s hands. “Now, I was thinking perhaps of an onion soup, then some fried trouts—”

  “An onion soup? No meat? Isn’t that very mean for guests?” her mother objected.

  “The book says this is called ‘The King’s Soup,’” Caroline reassured her. “And then a Sirloin of Beef en Epigram and a Sally Lunn.”

  “Hmm, nice. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a decent bread.”

  “And pumpkin fritters, and,” Caroline added, watching her mother’s reaction closely, “a salmagundi.”

  “A salma-what?”

  “Salmagundi.”

  “Wherever did you get this book?” Mrs. Carter flipped to the title page.

  “It’s not in the book. It’s a dish I tried in Charles Town. It’s popular with…people who travel frequently.”

  “Yes, I think I’ve heard of it, Caroline.” Edwina entered the room eagerly. “Pirates brought it back from the Indies.”

  “Pirates? Surely not. What would I know of pirates? It was eaten by the cultured people of Charles Town.”

  “Well, with or without the salma-dish, I think it sounds like a splendid meal.” Mrs. Carter beamed with pride at her daughter’s menu planning. “It shall be the first we’ve had in some time. I shall be honored to preside.”

  “What’s to be for dessert?” Johanna hopped up from her seat to look at the book.

  “A Bon Chretien Pear Pye.” Caroline said triumphantly. “And we shall have a syllabub to drink.”

  “Well, well, my dear. I believe the menu does credit to your training. It should be most fine to impress our guests and yet not so dear as to overtax our household expenses.” Her mother patted Caroline on the back of the hand as she spoke. “And now I believe I’ve had enough of work for one morning. Who will play me some music? Caroline? I’ve not heard your flute for some days now.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother.” Caroline stood and looked toward the door, feeling suddenly as if little needles were poking in the back of her forehead. “Perhaps Johanna will oblige. Edwina, will you be so good as to join me in the kitchen?”

  Edwina looked at her mother sitting with her feet propped up in her favorite chair then at Caroline’s tense posture. She nodded once.

  Caroline sighed with some relief—at least she would have a little willing help with this venture. Her mother’s remark about the household expenses brought a sense of reality crashing down in front of her like the iron bars of a dungeon. Not overtax the household expenses, ha! They had already accomplished that feat. Now they could buy next to nothing and would have to make do with the stores they had. And the help—or lack thereof.

  Leda had proven most proficient at preparing daily fare, but she certainly could not read the English cookery book and would be unlikely to be familiar with the fancy dishes Caroline had selected. The menu could be altered, of course, but it had sounded so elegant and exciting…

  Well, she would ask Leda what she thought they could manage. As she headed through the kitchen, she turned to tell Edwina she was going out to the yard to fetch her. Maybe with a few substitutions they could—

  As Caroline backed out the door, she suddenly remembered performing the same feat with a slippery, ash-covered ham. And then Mr. Throckmorton had appeared in the midst of the shameful disarray, and he had been so…sympathetic and helpful. Even amusing. Very unlike himself. Had he been drinking? No, that would have been unlike him, too.

  She looked around as if she expected to find him outside the door once again, but there was no one in sight. A gust of wind made her skirt flare out to the side then shifted and dragged a loose strand of hair into her mouth.

  Why would she want to see Mr. Throckmorton? It was Leda whom she had wished to find.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  "I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Throckmorton. What is it, exactly, you are asking me to do?” James Goodwin sipped his tankard of ale before easing down to the ground with his back against a sizeable tree trunk.

  Josiah took a deep breath. “I want you to arrange the assumption of the Carter debts, the crippling ones.” Was he really doing this? This would surely ruin his plantation.

  “Yes, I heard what you said, but I still do not follow.”

  Josiah realized he was thinking aloud as he paced in front of the attorney. “The debt is to be assumed by an alias, and you are to say…that it is a distant relative…in England…who hopes to enjoy future commerce or better yet, wants to ensure the propriety of the family name in the colonies.”

  “An alias?” Goodwin’s eyebrows had drawn together almost in a single unbroken line. “And I am to inform Carter that it is a relative who has done this?”

  “Yes,” Josiah answered absently. His own family could absorb this debt; they would not like it and would certainly require him to give up his plantation and return to England, but he had already planned to do so, hadn’t he? They would balk. His brother would complain. Eleanor would feel some disgrace, he was sure. But he could remind her that the disgrace of having a brother in straitened circumstances would be ever so much more—

  “But, Mr. Throckmorton, I still do not understand.”

  “What?” The interruption made Josiah answer sharply; he was already planning what he would say in a letter to his brother.

  “Who is to assume this debt? Are we to find a distant relative in England? It sounds as if we invent one.”

  “Of course, we invent one.” Josiah stopped and leaned against a thick lower branch of the tree. “If Carter had an actual relative willing to take on his debts he would not be in this predicament.”

  “Well, then, who is really going to pay this debt?”

  Josiah looked at the attorney as if he were a student who had failed to grasp the same Latin conjugation for the seventh time in a row. “I am, sir. Why else would I have asked you to arrange the matter?”

  The puzzled eyebrows detached into twin arches of surprise. “You, Mr. Throckmorton?”

  Josiah nodded in assent.

  “Whatever for?” The attorney grimaced at his inappropriate familiarity and hastily stood. “I beg your pardon, sir. It is indeed none of my concern.”

  “No, it is not,” Josiah snapped, “and I’ll thank you to confine your questions to those necessary to complete the business of this arrangement. Before the end of the assize. I will, of course, provide you with the names of my guarantors in London.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Goodwin bowed respectfully.

  “I have further business to attend to this afternoon.” Josiah now felt uncomfortable. “May we continue this discussion this evening?”

  “As you wish, sir.” The attorney bowed once more.

  Josiah started away quickly and continued walking at a brisk pace, though he had no immediate goal in mind. He had been embarrassed by his brusqueness toward the attorney, and yet, he should feel no shame—the man was his inferior in society and education. He might with propriety speak to him however he chose. Nevertheless, he had been rude.

  Or had he just been afraid of answering the man’s question?

  Why in heaven’s name was he assuming Carter’s debts? An indescribable sense of conscience had seemed to drive the idea forward in his mind. It was the right action to take. It would save the family. It would save Miss Carter.

  But it was no longer his duty to save Miss Carter. Had he not already done more than enough, risking life and limb on the long pursuit?

  Josiah stopped walking and turned around. He had risked, yes, but he had lost little, really. A horse, a few months of his time—and what was his time worth, in any event? He started walking bac
k the way he had come. What did his time amount to? His plantation seemed to manage itself fine without him. The correspondence he kept was meager at best, and his visiting even less frequent. His studies amounted to little these last several years, and he paid only half-hearted attention to the books of business. His time was, then, not so valuable, to him or anybody else.

  He kicked morosely at a stone in his path. Charles’s time had been put to better use, he was certain. He had managed the work of the plantation, applied himself to his studies, even tended to a spiritual life. Catered to it, actually. The memory of Charles dashing off into the woods to consult with the Almighty made Josiah roll his eyes and almost smile. Charles had made so much more of his life; he had been more useful to his family, to society—and now he was gone, while Josiah remained.

  It was not right. Of what use was he, a second son, not needed to run the family estate and unsuccessful in increasing the family fortune? He had, in fact, just committed to decreasing it. He suppressed a groan; in trying to be of service to friends, he was now burdening his own family.

  The buzz of voices all around suddenly brought back an awareness of the courthouse surroundings. He would return to the queue before the clerk’s desk and file an action to recover the horse. If his time was worth nothing, the horse, at least, had a definable price.

  He looked up at the new brick structure standing starkly against the trees, as if it had fallen from the sky to fit a niche carved in the primeval forest. It was actually the nicest building he had seen in Maryland. And it was busy. Men milled about in quantity as far as his eye could see. Already the length of the docket had required the court to extend the planned duration of the assize by two days, and it could stretch for many more.

  His time could be worth something here, in this building. Learned attorneys were a rare commodity in the county court, and educated barristers unheard of, confining themselves to more lucrative practice in Annapolis. If he opened a crude sort of chambers here, he could make his time worth a great deal. And he could start right now.