by Kate Dolan
“I was just fitting Mr. Archer into the grand scheme of things, that is all.”
“And does he fit?”
“As well as any of us do, I suppose.”
Caroline sighed and stood, adjusting her twisted petticoat. She looked at her sister once more. “Are you not pleased for me?”
“If you want me to be, I will. But you don’t seem to be any better matched with him than you were with Mr. Throckmorton when you became engaged to him last year.”
“There is no comparing. So much has happened since last year.”
“Very well. I shall be happy for you if you wish. But you might start by being happy on your own behalf. You are still crying.”
Caroline could not deny it—she was, indeed, still leaking tears. “I must be crying for joy, then, and perhaps,” she added, forcing a giggle, “a little bit of relief. I feared the other night I might never even be asked to dance again, and now, already…and Father says he can provide handsome dowries for all of us. So, someday you, too, will—”
“Let us not rush that day, Caroline.” Edwina stood and moved toward the door. “I wish to wait for a few new gentlemen to move in our neighborhood. The prospects here are too slim at present.”
“What?”
“Well, you have taken the two best of the lot.”
“Yes, and that will be enough. I shall leave the remainder for my sisters.”
“How very generous of you.”
Caroline dabbed her apron at the corners of her eyes. Her face felt flushed and hot, despite the chill in the room. “I believe I will take a short walk outside.”
“Well, it will freeze up those tears, at any rate. And, no, I do not care to join you. I’ve already been out, remember?”
Caroline smiled as she followed her sister through the door. Downstairs, she nodded to her father as she opened the front door. The cold air made her suck in her breath, but there was little wind so she could weather the chill for a few minutes, at least.
Her father’s face appeared in her mind as she walked. I have wonderful news. Certainly, her reaction had not been what he hoped. He had attributed it to illness, but she had felt no illness before.
It was news full of wonder. How could this be? You may thank Mr. Cheesewringer, he had said. She could not thank someone she had never seen.
Yet, that name was so familiar. She had met someone with that name, and not too long ago.
But it was a woman.
Her image came to mind, an uneven face on a lumpy body, with an eager smile. A grasping woman but not unkind. Surely, this woman or her family could not have been their mysterious benefactor? The Mr. Cheesewringer who had paid their debts must be wealthy. And generous—a trait she had not noticed in the landlady in Charles Town.
Why would someone have paid their debts? It was odd her father never seemed to question this generosity. Would this gentleman later require something of them? Was he simply embarrassed at the thought of relatives in poverty? None of it made any sense. Why would some unknown relative care if they were forced to work or perhaps lost their plantation? It would be nothing to someone on the other side of the ocean.
Had the real benefactor chosen to remain anonymous and used a pseudonym to remain so? But again, who among their acquaintance would have the means or the motivation to do such a thing? Perhaps, in recognition of their years of patronage, Mr. Goodwin might have…
No, an attorney could not shoulder the debt of every loyal client; and from what Charles had told her of Mr. Goodwin’s business, he did not have the means to casually assume such a debt.
Charles. It shamed her to realize she had not thought about him, or had at least not missed him so horribly, in these last weeks. She needed him now, though; she needed to talk with him. She was accustomed to conferring with Edwina or even Georgiana or her mother about many things; but for the truly serious questions, Charles was the only member of the family who spoke with any sense.
Why did the thought of marrying Mr. Archer upset her so dreadfully? Surely, this was the perfect match she had waited for, a handsome gentleman of good family. And when his father died and he took over the family’s estate, she would be mistress of her own plantation. Until then, she could enjoy visits, fine clothes, perhaps learn to play the clavichord. A life of grace and ease—away from her bickering sisters.
Yet the prospect held little appeal.
So what, then, did she want? Did she want to sneak on board a ship when the next convoy left with the tobacco crop? Would she search a seaport until she found a handsome captain? She could go look for Captain Talbot—but only to wring his neck. He had sold her off like chattel and deserved to have his ship sink under his feet or, better yet, be forced back to Elkridge Landing to face the wrath of the families whose lives he had disrupted so painfully.
Caroline swiped at a few crumpled brown leaves hanging from a slender tree branch. Most of the leaves crunched into pieces and fell, but one clung tenaciously to the branch.
This was when she needed Charles. He would diffuse her anger; he would help her focus on her dilemma.
Would she accept Mr. Archer’s proposal, if he made one? Her father had given him permission to wait on her, and their courtship could take some time. He might soon tire of her or find her unacceptable. Did she hope he would?
And why did he find her suddenly so acceptable? Mr. Archer had not been willing to dance with her until Mr. Throckmorton had taken her out—her dance with him had somehow seemed to clear away the taint that had hung over her almost palpably from the moment the first guests had arrived.
Mr. Throckmorton truly deserved thanks for coming to her aid that evening. She could write him a letter, or perhaps make a visit to Hanset with one of her sisters. Enough acquaintance existed between their families that surely it would not be improper for them to visit.
Perhaps tomorrow.
“Mr. Throckmorton, sir. Please rise.”
Josiah opened his eyes but could not tell who spoke to him in the early darkness. “Yes, what is it?”
“Sir James said to tell you the storm seems to be ending. The wind is down much, and you may be able to depart today.” A candle moved closer to the bed and illuminated the face of his brother-in-law’s servant.
Today? It was not even day yet. Josiah started to wave the man off and pull the covers back over his head.
“Shall I tell him you will be down presently?” he persisted.
“Yes. Leave the candle.” Josiah half-hoped the man would stumble on the uneven stairs then regretted the thought. It was not the poor servant’s idea to wake him this early. He amended his thought to hope it would be his brother-in-law who tumbled down the stairs.
He dressed almost without thinking. Most of his clothes had been packed; only one suit and a few shirts and sets of stockings remained out.
He was really leaving. Today, in all probability.
Several days of windy, wet weather had kept them all indoors and made the departure seem unreal and theoretical. It was as if he merely waited for his sister to leave him in peace. Except that he was going with her.
An unexpected wave of sadness rushed over him as he touched the doorframe on his way to the stairs. He would miss this house. It was his house.
What a ridiculous thought. He hated this house. And the last few days had made it easy to determine he hated Maryland weather, too.
Not that London was much better.
Of course, he would not be in London for long. Eleanor had indicated he should proceed to Hampshire as soon as practicable. And the weather there was, probably, about the same. It was a rather damp, dreary place, or so he remembered. And lonely.
He did not have to go. He could stay here, in his own house. He could ask Miss Carter to marry him, and if she rejected his suit he could court another.
He did not have to go.
He did not want to go.
This was his own plantation, his own affair, and he could make something of it that would be all his, not t
he cast-off inheritance of his family.
But what if his crop failed? What if debts overran him? What if Caroline laughed at him?
He hurried down the stairs, relieved to find his sister and brother-in-law and their servants all tended to business elsewhere so that, for the moment, he had the room to himself. His room.
As he had command of his house, he could also command his fears. What was the phrase he had used? “Be not afraid…” He had repeated those words from Charles’s Bible, and they always seemed to settle his nerves. This time, however, the words seemed to have lost their magic.
He shivered. Despite the large blaze in the fireplace, a cold wind swept past in insolent gusts. He would never have enough money to make this house comfortable. Caroline would never agree to live here: or if she did agree, she would berate him mercilessly over its faults.
It would be foolish to stay.
Chapter Forty-Five
The realization struck like the clapper on the side of a bell. It was Mr. Throckmorton who had paid their debts. Caroline put on her cape and yanked her hat from its perch on the wall.
“Caroline! Are you not going to wait for me?” Edwina called after her as she headed to the stable.
“I believe I had better go alone, and I need to go now,” she answered back over her shoulder. She could not discuss this in front of anyone else in the family, but she had to know if her presumption was correct.
Why else had he stayed unexpectedly in Joppa taking on legal clients? Who else would ever think of a name like “Cheesewringer?” He had the connections to raise such a sum, if he did not have the money himself. And perhaps he had come to know Charles well enough to feel a relationship akin to family.
It did not quite make sense; it seemed such a bold, reckless move for such a calm, staid gentleman. And yet, once she thought of it, there seemed no other answer. She would ask him, this day. He was planning to return to England soon, and she must know before he left.
“Caroline, wait!” Edwina came out of the house as Caroline rode out of the yard. “Father will not like this. Mother will have a spell.”
Caroline ignored her.
It had to have been Mr. Throckmorton. She hoped he could take time from his travel preparations to speak with her alone.
For some reason, she thought of his offer of a stroll together when she had been so concerned with her soap and her scents. Why had she not said yes immediately?
Of course, back then she would not have thought to ask about the debt.
She felt addled, as if her thoughts were shaken afresh with each step of the horse. Too much had happened. First she had been shunned by society then suddenly embraced, and was now expecting a call from a suitor. An announcement from Hanset had informed them the estate and furnishings would be put up for sale and that Mr. Throckmorton would return to England with his sister.
She urged her horse to move faster across the soggy ground. Surely, he would not have left already? The weather had prevented her from visiting sooner.
She had just today decided to ask about the debt. So, why had she been so anxious to visit him these last several days? Why had she felt such sadness when she heard he was leaving?
The truth nearly knocked her off her horse. She wanted him to ask her to marry him again. And he could not do this if he left.
She could not ask him to stay, but she could see him, at least, and apologize for her boorish, childish behavior in Charles Town.
Her face suddenly felt flushed, despite the cold.
Something was wrong. The house looked wrong. Perhaps this was not the main house—Caroline had only been to the plantation once before. But it was the biggest in the cluster of buildings.
No smoke came from the chimney.
She dismounted and hastily wrapped the reins around a post without tying them.
No one answered her knock.
In desperation, she turned toward the other buildings. A well-worn path led to a building where smoke swirled up in friendly curls. She nearly ran down to it.
“Yes, miss?” The girl’s surprise was evident on her face as she opened the door.
“I wish to speak with Mr. Throckmorton,” Caroline said, trying to keep her voice from sounding breathless.
“I am sorry, miss, but he has left with the others. They’ve gone to the landing, and will be there by now, I ’spect.”
“Thank you.” Caroline turned away quickly so the serving girl would not see the tears that sprang to her eyes.
She was too late. He had gone.
But perhaps not. They had gone to the landing, the girl said, but very likely the ship had not yet left. They might not even leave until tomorrow.
She dashed back to her horse, glad there was no one there to see the awkward way she scrambled onto the beast’s back.
A gray sky seemed appropriate to the morning; Josiah found he was irritated when the sky lightened enough he could clearly pick out the colors that trimmed his sister’s traveling suit. He wanted no color, only a muted, gray, dull world.
His sister may have sensed how he felt, or she may simply have been tired by the early hour of their rising. In any case, she did not attempt to engage him in conversation as they rode toward the landing.
The journey passed more quickly than he expected, and it was with no small reluctance he dismounted. The expense of transporting his horse to England would be too great; the animal would be sold with the rest of the property and servants he left behind.
He patted the horse’s neck. “I’ll miss you, old boy.” Disciple, Charles had named him, but that name made Josiah uncomfortable. He had always simply referred to him as “the old boy.” His new owner might very well give him a third name.
“I will miss you.” He patted the horse one final time. They had shared the trip to Joppa, the adventure in frontier law. He had stories for the fireside now, but no one with whom to share them. Someone might, perhaps, join him of an evening in Hampshire, and of course, one day he would have a wife…
But the wife he wanted by the fire, the one who would enjoy his story, was not in England. She was here. And he was leaving her. And only because he feared the consequences if he stayed—chanting “Be not afraid” like a conjurer had not driven those fears away. Why should it? What meaning did those words have for him?
They had meant something to Charles when he’d read them. Some of that meaning must have conveyed to Josiah. But it had long since faded. He could no longer even finish the sentence.
Be not afraid for thou art…Be not afraid for I am…It was hopeless. Why did the words tell him not to be afraid? He was under protection. He was under protection from the Lord. Because the Bible was supposed to be the word of the Lord.
He did not need to be afraid because the Lord would protect him. That sounded like something Charles would say.
Josiah watched his belongings being transferred from his small skiff to the ship that would take them to England. Did he dare order the seamen to halt the transfer? Could he tell his sister he had decided to stay?
Or would he make Langley’s choice, the return trip across the Atlantic to a land of civilization and predictability?
He continued to watch the loading.
Why did he not tell them to stop?
She could almost see the water now. One more bend, then it would be in view. The ship would still be at anchor—Caroline was sure of that now, she could feel it. The hour was too late for them to have caught the morning tide, so they would wait until evening, or perhaps even tomorrow. She would have ample time to find Mr. Throckmorton; and though she did not know what she could possibly say to make him stay, she might yet think of—
She felt a cold pain in the pit of her stomach as the landing came into sight. She was too late. The ship had already shrunk to small dimensions. Even if she were to ride directly to the waterfront and scream, her voice would not be heard by those on board.
She continued to ride toward the water anyway, but no longer with any objective
in mind.
She was too late. He was gone. She dismounted awkwardly near the dock, not caring—even taking a perverse pleasure in the fact—that many people might observe her uncouth behavior. She added to the unladylike effect by kicking viciously at the stones underfoot.
“Do take care, Miss Carter. I believe it would be much more painful to be hit by a spray of stones than it was to be attacked with sprigs of dried flowers.”
Heat rose in her cheeks as she looked up. Once again, Mr. Throckmorton was on hand to see her at her worst. But, more importantly, he was still there. She looked at the distant ship in confusion. “You–you were on…”
“I was supposed to be on the ship, yes. But I found the company to be lacking. And the destination too distant. I will be journeying only a little way. You travel the same direction, I believe?”
“Direction? Oh, yes.” What did he mean?
“Might I be so bold as to ask if you will allow me to accompany you?”
“Yes—oh, yes, of course.” She looked at him slyly. “And how far do you wish to accompany me?”
He smiled then pursed his lips for a moment. “There was a certain large rock near Hill Crest where I once laid my hat, before I assumed a posture of chivalric pomposity—”
Caroline giggled.
“—and asked you a rather long and drawn-out question.”
Caroline giggled again, her face feeling quite flushed now.
“Might we return to the rock?”
“Yes, yes.” It was getting exceedingly difficult to look at him without laughing.
“This time I will not be getting down on bended knee, you understand.”
“No.” She tried to keep her face straight. “Of course not.”
“I will not muddy my clothes, and dampness might give me the ague. But I will still put my hat upon the rock, if you wish.”
“Oh stop, stop,” Caroline laughed. “We need not go back to the rock.”
“But I rather had my heart set on seeing it again.” His face assumed a crestfallen look.
“You need not ask me the question.”