Before she could voice further doubts they were going into the great hall and a servant hurried forward to take their cloaks. Then Carolina was ushering their guest into the drawing room where Fielding Lightfoot rose and drawled a cold welcome to his wife’s ‘favourite’ cousin.
‘Good day to you, Fielding.’ Having bowed to his hostess, Sandy hardly glanced at Letitia, who was regarding him with a smiling stillness in her dark blue gaze. ‘I am afraid I have stopped by to speak to this gentleman’ - he nodded towards Ralph Wormeley - ‘and thus save myself a journey to his house. I wanted to thank you, Ralph, for coming to Estelle’s defence in my absence.’
Letitia stopped the motion of her fashionable ivory fan in midair and regarded Sandy intently. Estelle was Sandy Randolph’s wife - the madwoman of Tower Oaks, the woman he could not divorce.
‘Well, I could not have the Bramways calling her a witch,’ retorted Ralph Wormeley mildly. ‘To say that she had cast a spell upon their tobacco - and to say it at the Raleigh!’ His eloquent shrug spoke volumes.
‘Essie too would thank you if she could,’ Sandy said moodily. ‘But she is presently confined to her bed with one of her migraines. As it is, I thank you on her behalf.’ Carolina knew that Estelle’s bouts of madness were always passed off as ‘migraines’ - which seemed appropriate for she was said to be prone to clutch her head and moan and scream about the pain.
Ralph Wormeley acknowledged this tribute gracefully. ‘I was about to take my leave,’ he said diplomatically, noting the growing tension of his host. ‘Would you care to accompany me home to Rosegill, Sandy? You have recently been in London and I need some advice concerning my London agent. I have heard ugly rumours about him and you might have a suggestion for me as to a new one.’
‘Perhaps I do,’ said Sandy. ‘So, ladies, if Ralph is leaving I will take my leave as well. Fielding, by your leave?’
‘Oh, don’t let me detain you, Randolph,’ said his host with a slight edge to his voice. At his wife’s sudden frown, he added, ‘I realize how delicate a matter it is to secure the proper agent.’
‘Who was it who accused Estelle of witchcraft?’ Letitia’s clear voice rose above their farewells.
The elegant figure in orange tawny turned towards her and Sandy Randolph drank in the sight of the tall commanding woman who stood before him. His silver eyes softened as always at sight of her. Letty ... his Letty. Even though she had shared a roof these years past with Fielding Lightfoot, he would always think of her as his.
‘Duncan Bramway’s wife Amanda,’ he said tersely.
Letitia caught her breath. Amanda Bramway was the beautiful brunette Fielding Lightfoot had once been expected to marry - before she had stolen him away from her. This September past Amanda Bramway had married her cousin Duncan Bramway and gone to live in Bramble Folly, his small estate on the James that adjoined Tower Oaks. ‘Amanda Bramway!’ She muttered the name like a curse.
‘Just so,’ said Sandy Randolph. His handsome face - scarred long ago by his mad wife’s knife-wielding hand -betrayed no expression at all.
Letitia’s did. Her dark blue eyes had gone stormy. ‘Fielding, you have kept this story from me,’ she murmured. And then to Sandy, ‘Tell me more of what Amanda Bramway said,’ she commanded.
‘I am told she regaled the entire Apollo Room with an account of how last summer poor Essie had come to her in a dream and announced that she was running through their tobacco fields at night, cursing every stem! And that she had leapt up and peered out of her bedroom window and seen Essie there in the moonlight running through the tobacco plants in her nightdress!’
‘At that point I felt I must intervene,’ said Ralph Wormeley. ‘Amanda may have seen someone running about, but certainly not Estelle. I pointed out with some heat that Estelle was doubtless locked safely away the whole time, for Randolph here would have left strict orders that the house be kept locked by night for her protection.’
‘As of course you did!’ cried Letitia. ‘And what did Amanda say to that?’
‘She replied,’ Sandy told her through his teeth, ‘that Essie, being a witch, could have gone through a locked door quite easily!’
Letitia swung around to Ralph Wormeley. ‘And what did you say to that?’
‘I said that she must have dreamt it all, that the whole tale was ridiculous on its face - Duncan Bramway’s tobacco fields are hidden from his house behind a grove of trees and lie in the wrong direction to be seen from their bedchamber - which I know for a fact, having been a guest at Bramble Folly no longer than a fortnight ago!’ ‘But she had an answer for that, didn’t she?’ guessed Letitia, turning her narrow gaze upon Sandy.
‘Yes, she did,’ he told her stonily. ‘She said that on the night in question she had been indisposed, and so as not to disturb Duncan by her turning and tossing, she had sought another bedroom on the side of the house towards the tobacco fields. She said that the trees had been swept bare of leaves and that she had seen Estelle in the moonlight wandering through the fields just as in her dream.’
‘And I am sure that even if all that is disproved, Amanda will invent fresh lies to shore up her accusation,’ murmured Letitia. ‘She will say that it happened on some other night, or that she has seen Estelle do this more than once, that she slipped out of the house and went stealthily over the dark lawn and observed her from behind a tree!’ She shot Fielding a glance. ‘Why have I not heard of this before?’
Fielding looked uncomfortable.
‘Probably because I managed to silence her,’ sighed Ralph Wormeley, taking a pinch of snuff. ‘At least I hope I did. I told Duncan that no gentleman would accuse a neighbour’s wife of such a thing in his neighbour’s absence. And at that he had the grace to quiet Amanda.’ He closed his enamelled snuffbox with a snap.
‘Well, Randolph is now back, Letitia, and he can deal with his own problems,’ said Fielding, eager to see the door close behind his rival.
‘Indeed I am, and indeed I will,’ said Sandy. His light grey eyes glittered and he fingered the hilt of his sword lovingly.
He is going to call Duncan Bramway out! thought Carolina with a little thrill of unease. Her mother’s next words told her that Letitia was of the same opinion.
‘Have you spoken to Duncan Bramway and told him that Amanda should be restrained from spreading such unfounded tales?’ she demanded.
Sandy Randolph gave her a steady look. His expression was a daunting one. ‘I tried to. I hailed his barge and he waved me off, called out that he had nothing to say to me.’
‘How infamous!’ Letitia’s slim figure stiffened at this further affront. ‘And what did you do then?’
‘I rammed his barge,’ said Sandy calmly, and Rye Evistock hid a grin. An experienced buccaneer - which Sandy Randolph was - should have no trouble in downing a wallowing river barge!
‘Good God!’ cried Fielding Lightfoot.
And Ralph Wormeley exclaimed, ‘Did he drown?’
‘No.’ There was a note of regret in Sandy’s voice. ‘I saw him swim to shore and crawl out - shaking his fist. I was some way downriver by then. All aboard made it,’ he added, and Ralph Wormeley’s expression lightened.
‘Amanda Bramway, I take it, was not on board?’ There was a glint in Letitia’s eyes.
‘No. I’d not have rammed the barge had there been women aboard.’
‘Too bad,’ murmured Letitia with a shake of her head. ‘I would have had no such qualms!’
‘Being a woman,’ he said, and smiled at her.
But she was not to be seduced into regarding the situation with humour. ‘You had best start carrying a pistol, Sandy,’ she advised. ‘And give Bramble Folly a wide berth.’
‘Oh, come now!’ expostulated Fielding. ‘Duncan Bramway’s no savage! He won’t lie in wait for Randolph here and ambush him!’
‘Who knows what anyone will do?’ Letitia said lightly. ‘Be on your guard, Sandy!’
He nodded gravely, and his gaze as he took his leave was wistful whe
n it rested upon her. She should have been his, this gallant lady, would have been his save for a cruel twist of fate . . .
‘Letitia, you are not to meddle in this!’ cried her husband, vexed, when their guests had cleared the door and were seen to be sauntering down the lawn. His dark brows met in exasperation. ‘This quarrel is between Duncan Bramway and Sandy Randolph.’
Letitia shrugged her taffeta-clad shoulders. ‘Tis not my quarrel,’ she declared cheerfully, her gaze following Sandy as he swung away from the house. ‘I but counselled Sandy as I would have counselled you - to have a care. Amanda Bramway is a dangerous woman and her husband is too big a fool to realize it!’
Fielding snorted. ‘I doubt she will shoot Randolph!’
His wife ignored that. ‘Did we not hear that Amanda Bramway has gone to Williamsburg for the birth of her niece’s first child, Fielding?’
He nodded.
‘To that tiny house on Botetort Street?’ exclaimed Carolina, startled. ‘I wonder that they could squeeze her in!’
‘Yes, and now with cousins visiting from England, there must be at least sixteen people crowded inside,’ agreed her mother.
‘Oh, Amanda will no doubt be staying round the comer at the Raleigh,’ said Fielding indifferently. ‘Amanda couldn’t stand to be crowded in like that, with her - ’
‘Delicate sensibilities?’ suggested his wife with a dangerous smile.
‘With her dislike of feeling confined!’ exploded Fielding. ‘You have heard her say yourself that she feels trapped like an animal in that small house at Bramble Folly.’
‘Oh, I’m sure Amanda would be far happier in a large house,’ said Letitia with an edge to her voice. ‘This one, for instance.’
Carolina, hearing that note in her mother’s voice, thought suddenly, She is jealous! Jealous of what Fielding might still feel for Amanda Bramway! And suddenly she appreciated, as never before, her mother’s predicament. It was Letitia’s misfortune to love them both: elegant Sandy with his easy smile and tarnished reputation, and unpredictable, spendthrift Fielding who would have fought the world for her.
Carolina’s gaze rested on her beautiful mother for a moment with heartfelt sympathy. Life had trapped her!
Fielding’s lowering gaze was also upon his wife. ‘Damme, Letty, can’t we talk about something else?’ he burst out, running his fingers angrily through his dark hair. ‘And not go on about Amanda Bramway all day?’
‘I am entirely through discussing Amanda Bramway,’ Letitia said calmly.
But it was no surprise to Carolina when the next morning her mother announced at breakfast that she must go to Williamsburg to take a look at Aunt Pet’s property in her absence. And - since Rye had not seen Williamsburg and Carolina had been gone for such a long time that it would be a treat for her too - she was going to take them all with her. ‘Including Virginia,’ she added firmly, with a glance at Virginia, who, feeling stronger, had trailed down to breakfast.
Carolina shot a worried look at Rye but his saturnine face was imperturbable.
Fielding, however, looked up from his eggs and corncakes which had been fried in an iron frying pan with legs called a ‘spider’ since it crouched spiderlike over the hot coals. His expression was one of surprise. ‘But Petula’s property is being well looked after,’ he protested. ‘You had a report on it not four days ago!’
From across the table Letitia favoured him with a vague smile. ‘Yes, but I’ve had a premonition about it since. Last night I dreamt of falling chimneys and you’ll remember we did have high winds just before the snow fell. Suppose some roof slates have blown loose? Rain could come in and ruin her furnishings! No, I must go.’ Briskly. ‘Petula would not forgive me if I let anything happen to her house. And besides,’ she added dismissively, ‘there is the material for Carolina’s wedding gown to be searched for in Williamsburg - or had you forgotten about that?’
Her husband groaned.
‘We’re going to Williamsburg!’ Della cried rapturously from down the table.
‘No, you and Flo are going to stay here - with nurse. Just Carolina and Rye - and Virginia, of course, who is looking much better today - are going with us.’
Above the clamour of the younger children’s protests, Carolina, just spooning Damson preserves on to her hot corncakes, asked, ‘Where will we stay?’
‘At the Raleigh,’ said her mother distantly. ‘I wouldn’t want to open up Petula’s house just for an overnight stay.’
‘It looks like snow,’ observed Fielding gloomily, glancing out of the window at a milky sky. ‘There may not be a room to be had at the Raleigh, for if it snows, those who are already in town will remain there.’
‘Nonsense,’ was the airy response. ‘I’ve already sent a servant riding to Williamsburg to tell them to expect us, that we will be there in time for supper.’
‘Letitia,’ Fielding grumbled to the world in general, ‘seems to expect everything to fall into place for her. What if there are no rooms to be had at the Raleigh?'
Letitia gave him a scathing look. ‘There will be,’ she said confidently.
Virginia and Carolina exchanged mirthful glances. They knew - if Fielding did not - why their mother was always so confident of securing a room. In a day of rigid price controls with the cost of accommodations set by law, she would have sent a servant ahead with a healthy tip - enough gold to make it feasible for an innkeeper to reshuffle his guests’ accommodations or even to boot out some slow payer to make room for the Lightfoots.
Carolina’s silver-grey eyes sparkled as she looked at Virginia. With Amanda Bramway already in residence and Letitia and her brood about to arrive, she felt there might be a bit of excitement at the Raleigh!
PART TWO
Sparks Fly at the Raleigh!
You want my husband, do you?
Each hour your love grows stronger?
You’d last with him five minutes -
And not a moment longer!
THE RALEIGH TAVERN
WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA
WINTER 1689
5
True to Fielding Lightfoot’s gloomy prediction, the snow began falling from a fleecy sky before they were halfway to Williamsburg. By the time they had reached the outskirts of the town it was descending at such a rate as almost to blind the coachman.
‘Flakes like snowballs,’ was Fielding’s disgruntled comment as he lifted the leathern flap that covered the window beside him to peer out as the first houses appeared, their gambrel roofs and tall brick chimneys dimly seen through a curtain of white.
‘Large flakes mean the snow will soon stop falling,’ scoffed Letitia, clutching her seat as the carriage rocked violently from side to side over a road whose ruts were becoming obscured by snow. She was wearing her best plum velvet cloak trimmed in beaver and beneath it her best gown - of supple violet velvet over a rustling lavender silk petticoat.
Virginia had protested at the sight. ‘I can’t believe it - you’re wearing your best gown for a long ride in a coach?’
‘If the weather’s as bad as your father predicts, we’ll arrive late and there’ll be no time to dress for dinner,’ said her mother dismissively. ‘We should all be dressed to dine.’
And dressed to dine they were.
Carolina, who had brought little ashore with her for she had expected her stay in the Tidewater to be short, was wearing one of the gowns she had left behind her at Level Green - a crystal-encrusted pale ice-green velvet with an elegant figure-hugging bodice that wondrously outlined her firm young breasts. The wide velvet skirts, split down the front, had been drawn over her knees in the cold coach but before dinner they would be artfully swept back into puffed panniers over each hip, the better to display her rippling ice-green satin petticoat. And over all was a French grey velvet cloak trimmed with fluffy black fox.
Virginia too was a marvel. She had pleaded to be allowed to wear her warmest brown woollen for the cold drive but her mother had been adamant. Virginia could wear all the warm wo
ollen petticoats she owned, but above them would be one of gleaming amber silk, and above that a striking gown of bronze cut velvet trimmed in acres of copper lace, and above that a bronze velvet cloak, fur lined. Topping all that off, in her effort to keep warm, Virginia had borrowed a red fox hood and muff from Carolina.
‘I’m always cold now,’ she had explained as she snatched up a woollen blanket to wrap around her feet in the coach.
And Carolina had urged on her the hood and muff, and had cannily taken along a box of sweetmeats to be taken out by their kid-gloved hands and nibbled in the coach.
The men kept warm in another way: They closed gauntlet-gloved hands around leathern flasks and sipped brandy against the numbing cold. They were more soberly garbed. Both were wearing fashionable dark tricorn hats, each with a feather - but there the similarity ended. For Fielding’s bronze-feathered tricorne sat atop a huge black periwig which rested on the shoulders of a voluminous dark brown cloak which occasionally parted to reveal a bronze velvet suit, the coat loaded with gold braid and gold buttons. And brown leather boots.
Rye Evistock’s grey-feathered tricorne sat atop his own dark hair, pulled back into a decent queue at the rear and tied with a bit of black grosgrain riband. His clothing was notably sombre - indeed the same in which he had arrived: a suit of fine grey broadcloth, the coat of which was of the new narrow-waisted wide-skirted variety, with a slit down the back for riding and slits down both sides for better convenience in grasping a sword hilt; it was modestly trimmed in black braid and sported silver buttons. Black jackboots shone polished against his dark grey trousers. Only the spill of frosty white lace at his cuffs and throat - the latter enlivened by the flash of a single emerald - identified him for the gentleman he was. And Carolina knew he wanted it that way. He wanted to melt inconspicuously into the crowd, an unnoticed stranger visiting the hospitable Lightfoots of Level Green.
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