In a short while he’d reached the edge of the market street.
“Fresh crabs! Best in Virginia!” The scent of seafood emanated from a nearby fishmonger’s stall.
Several slave women stopped at the cart. Their bright head coverings shone a bit of brightness in the sea of dark clothing worn by the businessmen who strode by.
Walkers moved aside as a carriage, drawn by a pair of perfectly matched bays, drove by. From within, Graham Tarleton’s father sat erect, his demeanor suggestive of a man who would be king if such was possible in a free land. How Phillip would relish beating the man’s son when he raced against him.
He strode on toward the bakery, where the scent of sugar and vanilla bean overpowered the fishy odors he left behind.
Inside, several young bucks clustered near the counter, elbow to suited elbow.
“We raced through the crowd to get here, Mrs. James,” a redheaded youth proclaimed.
The other gents laughed, but Phillip frowned, failing to understand their humor. The pack of them huddled together, reminding him of pups about to be tossed a few cornbread scraps from the kitchen.
The woman nodded, turned on her heel, and went to the rear of the store. Soon the baker handed each what appeared to be the same map he’d received earlier. So that was why she’d retrieved the diagram for him earlier—Phillip had accidentally spoken their coded phrase of racing to the bakery.
Mrs. James opened her now-empty palm to them. “There’s a sugar cookie to be paid for, young fellows, for each of you.”
After each young man placed a coin into her calloused hands, the elderly baker removed cookies from her case and gave each one.
As they departed, they returned their hats to their heads and tipped their brims at Phillip. He recognized all as being elder brothers to his academy students, all sons of large plantation owners and close to a decade younger than himself. He dipped his chin as they passed and then moved to join the proprietress.
“Good day, madam. I’ve returned.”
She arched a white eyebrow. “My eyes are just fine, Mr. Paulson. I can see you’ve come back. And I might say, you waited quite patiently for a man of your station.”
“Thank you. I think.” He chuckled. “Mrs. James, do you know if Tarleton has retrieved his map?”
“Ah, yes, he and Christopher are thick as thieves again – now that a girl isn’t coming between them.” She nodded for emphasis, set a loaf of Sally Lunn inside the case, and then wiped her hands on her apron. “Never knew who the girl was, only that they both wanted her for themself but she preferred young Master Tarleton. Then she left them both.”
They referred to Miranda as a girl? True, his cousin wasn’t quite a woman, but she was, or had been, a sweet, innocent young lady and not someone to be referred to so flippantly. And how had she kept the courtship with Osborne secret? From what it appeared today, Tarleton was now chasing after Miss Osborne. Now not only would Phillip endeavor to have Johnny returned to his family home but to somehow keep Miss Osborne safe from the likes of Tarleton. He knew only too well what the young rake was capable of where young women were involved.
“I see. And where is this doubly-pursued young lady now?” Thank God Mrs. James didn’t realize the “girl” was the daughter of his Uncle Lightfoot. Wouldn’t her tongue wag over that?
“Heard she left for Norfolk—probably chasing after a sea captain now. Graham says a college boy wasn’t good enough for her.”
So the two young men had quarreled over his cousin. And now Tarleton was spreading rumors that she was chasing a bigger catch. Phillip knew without a doubt that Christopher Osborne wasn’t responsible for Miranda’s condition, for his terrified cousin had revealed her situation to him alone. Phillip hadn’t known that his cousin and Osborne had ever officially courted, which only meant their liaisons must have been clandestine as had been the contact with Tarleton. That the cad had the audacity to abandon Uncle Lightfoot’s youngest daughter in her time of need and now chase after his friend’s sister. Surely if young Osborne was the culprit his sweet cousin would have told him. He trusted her utterly.
Phillip rubbed his chin. “I’m no sea captain, nor a college boy, and well past such tittle tattle, but I’d best catch my packet home.” Before this budding headache blossomed full bloom.
“A brisk breeze today, you should make good progress.”
“If you hear of anything that concerns you about Miss Osborne, would you send word to me at my home?” He slid money across the counter, enough to ensure her interest and keep her silent.
Although she attempted to be surreptitious in counting the money, the woman’s eyes widened. She began to cough and patted her ample bosom, presumably because of the amount he’d set down. Although he wasn’t always so generous, Phillip had set out a goodly sum to procure the baker’s powers of observation. No other young woman should suffer as Miranda had.
“Are you all right?” He pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to the shopkeeper.
Mrs. James covered her mouth and nodded. When she ceased her episode, she slid the cash into a drawer. “You can be sure I’ll keep close watch over Martha, and I’ll get word to you.”
“Thank you.” He turned to go.
“Mr. Paulson?”
“Yes?”
“You’ll be back for the Osborne’s party Saturday eve next, won’t you?” The singsong quality of her voice left no doubt that she suspected he knew nothing of it, which he didn’t.
He hesitated only a moment. And before he could deny it, he said, “Yes, I shall.”
What on earth was coming over him? Twice in one day he’d uttered falsehoods. Lord forgive me, again. I shan’t be racing in those young men’s race nor shall I be attending a party to which I am not invited.
Several hours later, after disembarking from the Paulson schooner and retrieving his mount from the stable, Phillip tried to shake off the image of Tarleton setting upon Miss Osborne. Now, not only did he have concerns about Johnny, but distress over the notion of that fiend preying upon a single woman who defied society’s conventions by wandering around town unescorted. His head began to pound as he mounted Othello and patted the gelding’s glossy black head.
“Good boy. Take me home, old fellow.” Would he ever have a place that was his very own home? While it was clear that Paulson Farms would always be his residence while his father was alive, could the same be said when George became master of the property? And would he keep the farm operational without resorting to slaves as their uncle Dodd, on his huge estate, continued to do? Andrée’s family still expressed outrage that their family initially refused the gift of “property” they’d sent with their daughter—a maid, an additional footman and a valet for George, an additional kitchen servant, and a stable lad no older than Johnny Osborne. Mother had finally relented when the slave child’s mother was also allowed to come. And Father consulted an attorney as to how to set the slaves free within the Commonwealth, so they may have their freedmen papers.
Instead of riding toward the farm, Phillip directed Othello toward the school. Reading stories to the lads each night had begun to establish a routine he could not ignore. Phillip had always been a creature of habit, but this new regimen had taken root so fast, it astonished him. He could not envision himself sleeping soundly until he’d ensured Johnny had been read to properly.
Othello nickered to the other horses as they arrived at the stable. Phillip dismounted and passed his reins to a stablehand.
“Mr. Phillip!” Johnny ran across the lawn, away from a small group of boys tossing rings.
Home. How could a parent leave such a child behind? A boy who inspired such a ready attachment? Who brought up emotions only connected to permanence? And to a home.
Why, when he considered that notion, did Martha Osborne’s pretty face come to mind?
Chapter 3
After awaking from a night filled with dreams of the angel Gabriel doing battle with a host of red-eyed monstrous black stallions,
Martha awoke expecting to find the stranger standing over her bed. When she didn’t, she went about her morning ablutions. Pulling her robe tightly around her, she’d snuck into Christopher’s room and found him yet soundly asleep. At least he wasn’t coughing. But his room reeked of brandy. Was his “illness” a ploy to get himself into his cups without Father objecting to his frequent tavern visits? She stifled a groan of disgust and returned to her room.
Martha donned her riding attire and soon scrambled down to the stables, ready for a taste of freedom. Christopher, in the state she found him, would likely sleep until noon, giving her plenty of time for riding. She went straight to the stall as the steed nickered to her in greeting.
“Galileo, how could anyone neglect so beautiful a beast as you?” Martha rubbed the gelding’s back. “Christopher is sleeping in, yet again, and here you need a splendid run, don’t you?”
“Miss Martha, you gonna get in some big trouble one of these days if your father finds out.” The tall, lanky freedman, Asa, shook his head as he helped her lead the gelding out.
“Make sure Father doesn’t know, then.” She grinned at their stablehand. “Now give me a lift.”
In short order, she directed Galileo out behind the chapel and through their neighbor’s grove at the edge of Williamsburg proper. Keeping to the paths, she could avoid detection as she headed south. Before long she was on the horse path to Yorktown. Ten miles was a long jaunt, especially over the terrain she had to cover, but the weather looked promising, with robin’s egg blue skies and clouds like puffs of drifting cotton bolls.
How she wished the angelic stranger rode beside her. She took comfort knowing God was always with her. But wouldn’t it be lovely to draw strength from the physical presence of a protecting man? A man who accepted her as she was and didn’t try to mold her into someone else, like Letitia had tried, and failed to do.
She exhaled a long sigh, bent low over Galileo, and pushed him to a canter as they entered open fields. A network of her friend’s plantations allowed her to travel unimpeded, save for several short jaunts.
Just as Martha gave Galileo his head, someone or something crashed through the thicket beside her.
“Marty!” A youthful voice called out.
Martha’s heart hammered as she slowed Galileo to a halt. He neighed in protest.
Sally King’s younger tow-headed brother urged his mare toward her. “Marty! I need a favor!”
He drew alongside her with a lopsided grin. At fourteen, he already sported the beginning of a moustache.
“What is it, Nathan?”
“Please convince Christopher that I can race.” He puffed out his narrow chest as though to prove his point, but failed. “I’m old enough.”
“Shouldn’t you be at the college?”
“I’m sick.” He faked a cough and pounded a fist against his chest.
Had Nathan, as well as her brother, concocted a scheme to convince their families they were ill, yet they were, in fact, well but carrying out their own plans? “What are you up to?”
“I’m practicing. I want to do the race with them.”
“What race?”
“The one to the steeple of Grace Episcopal!”
“Tell me all about it and I’ll see what I can do. But no promises!”
Nathan prattled on until Martha’s ears were ringing and her head swimming. “Whoever wins gets a large cash prize.”
“How much?”
When Nathan named the amount, Martha gasped. Such a sum would surely cover a goodly deposit on the livery she hoped to run and rent for the cottage adjacent to the stables.
Galileo munched on grass while the youth explained Christopher’s race. “We’re supposed to get from Bruton Parish to Grace Episcopal as quickly as we can. No rules about the route we take, but I suppose with all those maps Chris has made for the college, he has an advantage.”
“So the rules are limited?”
“Right.” Again he straightened, led his horse in a tight circle, and announced, “I believe we’re all young gents and shan’t cheat and what not.”
“Are there any rules against ladies competing?” She arched an eyebrow at him.
With Christopher so ill recently might he even be able to ride?
“Dunno.” He scrunched his small features together, reminding her of a dried apple’s head doll’s face. “But I doubt it.”
If she won, and began a new life, surely then she could bring Johnny home. “Thank you, Nathan. I shall put in a good word for you.”
Phillip’s manservant, Mingo, eyed him quizzically. “Ya sure ya don’ want me to come with ya, sir?”
“Uncle’s footman, Benjamin, can square me away once I arrive.”
The tall man shook his head and mumbled something as he finished buffing Phillip’s shoes to a high glossy shine.
A rap on the door was followed by Father’s bushy mane and a servant standing behind him. “Solomon told me you were dressing for courting, but I wouldn’t have believed it had I not witnessed this with my own eyes.”
“Solomon should be looking for a new job.” Phillip narrowed his eyes, catching the thin, grizzled-haired servant’s wide, dark eyes before he disappeared down the hall.
Father chuckled. He turned his head and called out, “No need to hurry off, Solomon, my son isn’t paying the bills around here. Not yet.” His voice dropped off to deadly quiet on the last two words and Phillip locked gazes with him.
He frowned. When, if ever, would he be issuing orders or paying bills at the estate? George would have that task. Phillip looked away, taking in the finely appointed room he’d called his own ever since he’d left the nursery. Checkered homespun curtains and American-made furnishings clashed with Maman’s massive French armoire from Paris that hunkered in one corner of the room.
Father closed the door behind himself as he left. At least he knew when to quit agitating. Mingo, however, took up tssking.
“If’n ya had give this vest to me earlier I’d have brushed it out right good. But now…”
“It’s all right, Mingo. I’ll have Benjamin give it a good airing and brush it out before I…” What should Phillip call what he was about to do? He wasn’t an invited guest. On rare occasions, some of the local gentry showed up at any social gathering without an invitation and the hosts chose to overlook their social gaffe. Would the Osbornes do the same?
“Leastwise ya sit down heah and let me fix your hair for ya.” The servant waved toward a Louis XIV chair near the window and Phillip grunted as he lowered himself into it.
“I need my hair tied back in a queue for riding.” Although the strip of old leather that secured it could do with replacing.
“Yahsir, I know you think so.”
But with a jerk and a few snips, Phillip’s long shank of hair fell to the floor. He rose to his feet, his hands involuntarily balling into fists. When Mingo shrank back, Phillip flexed his fingers, as air stabbed around his naked neck. “What have you done?”
The man’s lips trembled as he slowly lowered his hands, which had flown up in a defensive posture. “Bringing ya into the nineteenth century, Mr. Phillip.”
Pressing his eyes closed, Phillip prayed for patience. When he opened them, Mingo held a mirror out and Phillip took it, examining the damage. “My hair was perfectly fine.”
“Yahsir, it was…” Mingo’s lips pulled into an amused pucker. “For old folk, mebbe.”
“I say!” True, Phillip was set in his own ways. “Mayhaps more backcountry gentleman than city, but I’ve no desire to look like old Boney.” His mother might be French but there was little love for Napoleon Bonaparte, nor his hairstyles in this household.
“No, sir. But we could fix you up here, a little.” He pointed around Phillip’s hairline.
Phillip slumped back into the chair. Might Miss Osborne find a more current style appealing? Would she cease staring at him as though he was some strange creature? Perhaps if he no longer had his hair so severely tied back with a leather
strip then she may consider him more of a gentleman—instead of a stranger who’d so heavy-handedly tried to evict a family friend from her property.
“Keep going, Mingo. Make me pretty.” He laughed. This young woman didn’t seem to know who he was. Perhaps he’d keep it that way. After he spoke to her father, he’d chat with her alone about Johnny. And about his position at the academy. There was no need to share anything else unless someone there recognized him and tried to make conversation. He’d ensure such an event didn’t happen.
All Martha could think about, as she prepared for the party, was the race. One with a large sum of money for a winner. And if she won, she could purchase a small stable at the edge of town and rent a cottage where perhaps she and Johnny could wait out Letitia’s return. Would she return? Martha nibbled her lower lip as she sliced carrots on a wide chopping block, brushing the ends off and into a tall crock destined for the neighbor’s pigs, once it was filled.
Jessamine, a pretty servant with a café au lait complexion, slanted one eyebrow at Martha. “You choppin’ with a little too much gusto, there, Missy Martha. Mebbe you should slow down afore you chop off one of those pritty little fingahs of your’n.”
“I’m fine.” She set her knife down and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Don’ you need to get ready for the party, Missy?”
She’d not really considered all the physical preparations she needed to make, but she should have. All Martha had to do tonight, she’d convinced herself, was to begin her ruse for the race. And that meant she needed to convince Christopher’s friends that she was one of the most feminine and scatter-brained females in all of the Tidewater area. For if she was to take his place in the race, she couldn’t have them contemplating that she’d consider such a proposition. At least half of his friends already judged her of dull wits. Convincing those young bucks that she was also decidedly female shouldn’t be so hard. After all, hadn’t Father and Christopher both professed that men thought with their eyes and wanted to believe what they saw, particularly when it came to pretty women? At this point, dressed in her work clothes, Martha certainly wasn’t feeling very attractive. But that would be remedied.
The Steeplechase Page 3