Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  And he was beside her.

  “Ah, the sea,” Jonathon took a deep breath and then exhaled. Looking down at her, Jonathon was stunned by what he saw in Emily’s eyes. The silent, aching appeal was there, albeit unknown to the girl. Jonathon understood.

  He realized what a precarious position they were in. She was his ward, his responsibility. He could no more take her into his arms to ease the longing and comfort her than he could turn away and leave her here. But Jonathon was torn between two loves already. One the seductive, undulating call of the sea, a mistress that seeped into his being and lulled him with her vastness and freedom. She could rage at him with a violent tempest or mock him by withholding her breezes as an angry lover looms in silence over her faulted beloved. The other love: his land. Her perfume, the magnolia and lilac, and the sweet smell of freshly plowed fields. She beckoned no less seductively with her wild, wooded acres and gently rolling hills promising majestic mountains beyond, poised as a vain woman allowing him to drink in her beauty. And she could ruin him with floods or drought, destroying in days what took a lifetime to build. Two loves, both addictive, neither controllable.

  And beside him, this girl. Beautiful, vulnerable, needing to be held, not realizing her need. Jonathon had avoided emotional entanglements so far; taking his pleasure with women who knew it was only that. Never commitment, never love. But this was not what Emily needed. She needed the love and commitment of a lifetime from a man who would be hers alone. Not the sea’s, not the land’s.

  Jonathon recovered.

  “So, Miss Wentworth, soon we will be home.”

  “Your home, Captain. Mine has been left far behind,” she replied in a tight voice.

  “When you see Virginia, Emily, you will claim her for your very own. Lazy summer days, gentle breezes that rest soft upon your cheek; rivers that slip through thick forests and burst out over rocks, past emerald green lawns that sweep down from red brick manor houses. Sleepy nights listening to the crickets sing. Em, you can ride for a day and never leave Brentwood land. We shall do that one day; you will not believe how beautiful it is. Wooded hills, and in the west, mountains so high the tops hide in the clouds. I shall show you all of it.”

  “You sound like a besotted lover,” she snapped.

  “Of course, when you arrive, Virginia will have a rival to her beauty. Why, the young men will be tripping over each other to win your favor.”

  “And I am sure you will find each one of them unacceptable as a husband for me. No, you will wait until some doddering old fool with gout and a large purse comes along and marry me off to him so you can increase my fortune that you hold.” Emily looked up at him, her eyes blazing.

  “So you think me a scheming opportunist,” Jonathon chuckled. “I told you about my land holdings, Em. I am really not that close to starvation that I must steal from innocent young women and doddering old fools.”

  “Frankly, Captain Brentwood, I think you exaggerate. Perhaps if we ride in a small circle we can ride all day on your land. I shall believe it when I see it; until then I am convinced these are the rantings of a colonial fool. England, in case your memory is poor, is quite beautiful, too.” She glared at him. “Good evening, Captain.”

  Jonathon looked into her eyes. One fire had been extinguished by another — anger. That was good; she would sleep much easier tonight. He watched her walk to the steps leading below. Soon she would see that he was right.

  • • •

  There was an undercurrent of energy and anticipation within each man. They had traveled this route enough to know instinctively that they would sight land soon, discounting the endless, unbroken horizon that surrounded them. It seemed to build daily until expectation was almost a tangible entity among them. Coiled ropes were undone and recoiled, polished mahogany was buffed again, secure riggings were rechecked, and throughout it all surreptitious glances took in the western horizon. They smelled land before they saw it.

  And at dawn one morning the shout came, “Land ‘ho!”

  The reined anticipation erupted into boundless energy. Men scrambled up rigging and across decks preparing the ship to enter port, Jonathon among them shouting orders, checking charts and compass. Andrew worked among them readying the Destiny for her home harbor while he crushed down his unbearable excitement. Excitement welled up and spilled over in all the men as hearty laughs joined lusty jokes about how the first evening ashore would be spent.

  A strangely quiet figure stood at the rail staring at the distant shoreline. Somehow leaving London had seemed unreal. There was always the hope that they would, in fact, return. But the proof of their destination loomed ahead and had to be faced. Emily’s emotions churned — apprehension, curiosity, fear and excitement. Would Virginia live up to Jonathon’s descriptions? As afraid as she was of finding out, she was also strangely exhilarated.

  Andrew came up beside her and squeezed her hand. “What do you suppose it will be like, Emily?”

  “From what Captain Brentwood says, it is heaven on earth,” she answered dryly.

  “Will you ever like him, Em?” Andrew asked looking at his sister curiously.

  “I have told you, Andrew, he tries to take Father’s place; he fancies himself part of the family.” She knew these were lame excuses, but she honestly did not know herself why this colonial sea captain disturbed her so. She turned to look at her brother. “I do not like feeling as if we owe him something. I keep waiting for him to call in the debt,” she glanced away, “and I am not sure I am ready to pay his price.”

  Andrew was bemused. “Em, he was Father’s friend. He agreed to this long ago.”

  Emily looked back at him. “That may be so, Andrew, but he probably agreed thinking that Father would live to a hale and hearty old age. I doubt he ever expected to end up playing nursemaid to two reluctant offspring.”

  “I am not reluctant, Em. I think Jonathon is a fine man, and a good captain. He does not treat me like a child. Why, he says I am as fine a sailor as any of his crew was at the end of their first voyage. When my schooling is done, I shall sail with him again.” Andrew’s eyes sparkled and Emily had to smile.

  “I am glad to see you so happy, Drew.”

  “But I want you to be happy, too, Em. Since Father’s death you seem so restless and preoccupied. Jonathon wants the best for us, just as Father did. He would have approved your marriage to Michael if he thought you would have been happy.”

  Emily’s mouth opened in surprise. “Why do you say that?” she demanded.

  “Because he told me so,” Andrew replied.

  “So now Captain Brentwood thinks to read my mind!” she huffed indignantly. “Oh, that egotistical boor …” Her tirade was halted by the sight of the lush, green coastline growing on the horizon. “Oh, Drew, look!” she exclaimed. Suddenly her knees trembled and she lost her cool reserve. What would Virginia hold for her and Andrew? Would they be happy there? Doubt and fear possessed her, and she wanted the ship to turn back. She took a deep breath and composed herself. Sensing a presence beside her, she looked up into warm, brown eyes.

  “Remember the favor I asked, Emily,” Jonathon said softly. His eyes were tender, and a worried look touched his brow.

  “As I recall there were two that were mentioned. To which do you refer, sir?” she questioned imperiously.

  “Which do you prefer, Miss Wentworth?” he countered.

  She caught Andrew’s bewildered look and bit back a retort. “I will try to be open minded about Virginia, Captain,” she replied.

  They turned to view the enlarging coastline. The emerald green trees were a startling contrast to the clear, blue sky. Emily reluctantly admitted to herself that it was a striking first impression. But, she thought firmly, I would need more convincing than a pretty coastline.

  They sailed past Cape Henry and the Destiny glided regally toward the York River
to drop anchor at Yorktown. The day was hot and clear, the sun lending brilliant color to the passing shore. But Emily was more impressed with the look in Jonathon’s eyes. He was home, and he seemed to drink in every detail that he saw. A grin had played about his mouth all day, even when he was caught up in the details of readying his ship for port. As they gracefully neared Yorktown, his happiness was barely checked, and coming up to Emily he stood before her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

  “We are home, Em.”

  But the girl could not speak over the catch in her throat. One of the crew called for Jonathon, and he turned and left. Andrew came up to her and placed an arm around her waist.

  “Chin up, Emily,” Andrew said tenderly. “We still have each other.”

  Emily gave him a brave smile and blinked back the tears. They walked to the rail and watched the activity. Men rolled, carted or carried hogsheads of tobacco to be shipped to England. Sailors headed to nearby taverns to quench long overdue thirsts, or tipsily staggered back to ships to sleep off just such quenching. Street urchins ran about trying to earn a coin by performing various chores. Voices ran together in the churning, noisy bedlam.

  “It could be a pier in London,” Emily thought, “or, for that matter, in any country. People are not so different though oceans separate them.”

  “May I escort you ashore, Miss Wentworth?” Jonathon’s eyes sparkled as he offered her his arm.

  “Thank you, Captain. Your Virginia is living up to your mad ranting, thus far. But you still have much to prove, ‘Mountains that touch the floor of heaven, vast acres of Brentwood land …’”

  “So you were listening. I am honored,” he bowed.

  Emily stopped, embarrassed. “There was precious little else to do on this long, lonely sea voyage, Captain.”

  “Lonely, Em? With you aboard I was not lonely at all,” he grinned. She gave him a withering look.

  They descended the gangplank with Andrew and found Mr. Gates. Emily and Andrew studied the busy wharf as the two men spoke. Soon Jonathon returned.

  “Would you mind a carriage ride after our long journey? We could stay at the Raleigh Tavern in Williamsburg. I am anxious for news of home, and that is where it is to be found,” he said. “Mr. Gates will tend to the ship.”

  Emily and Andrew agreed, and soon they were bouncing along the road in a carriage. Jonathon sat across from them and Emily often felt his eyes upon her. She continued to look at the passing scenery; elation welling within her at the beauty of the countryside as well as the attention Jonathon paid her.

  • • •

  The coach lamps were lit after sunset and candlelight flickered off faces glowing with anticipation, excitement, and curiosity. Finally they reached Williamsburg and the coach halted before the Raleigh Tavern.

  Voices filled the common room as debates and discussions held the patrons’ attention. One man facing the doorway caught sight of the three arrivals as they entered. Excusing himself, the man rose quickly and approached them.

  “Jonathon! I had thought the devil had taken you,” he exclaimed, his hazel eyes never leaving Emily. Rusty colored hair framed his handsome, jovial face. He was as tall as Jonathon and as broad in the shoulders.

  “Randolph, he would not have me… nor you!” Jonathon answered in high spirits. “May I present my w — ?”

  “Your wife!” Randolph exclaimed. Emily’s eyes grew large and Jonathon’s mouth dropped. Andrew just laughed. “Where did you find a woman who’d have you?”

  “Not my wife. My ward!”

  “Your ward?” he asked incredulously. “Then you are a fool, man!” Randolph boomed. Emily looked from one man to the other not sure whether she should be enraged or amused. Jonathon had a wicked twinkle in his eye.

  “Perhaps you are right, Randy. Maybe I should reconsider this relationship and set it aright. Picture me around the hearth with my sweet Emily and our brood of children.”

  Emily blushed furiously and shot him a warning glance.

  “So Emily is your name. I thought this raving madman would never get on with the introductions. Emily who?”

  “Emily Wentworth, sir. And may I present my brother, Andrew.”

  Randy bent and kissed her hand, then shook Andrew’s. “I am pleased to meet you. I am Randolph William O’Connor.” He bowed low. “You are George Wentworth’s children?”

  Emily nodded.

  “I met your father. He was a fine man. I was sorry to hear of his death.”

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Connor.”

  “Randy, please. All my friends call me Randy.” He slapped Jonathon on the back. “Jonathon does, too.”

  “A rascal he is and be warned,” Jonathon countered. “I am anxious for news, Randy. The rumors I have heard sound ominous.”

  “Aye, things are moving, Jonathon. Come have an ale and some supper.”

  Conversation was light over a supper of hearty stew, warm rye bread and ale. Talk centered around plantation life, births, deaths, and marriages. Local politics were alluded to, but Emily sensed beneath it all an urgency to move on to important events that would require more than a light skimming over. The two men, she suspected, would be up the better part of the night delving into discussion, perhaps plans, of a serious nature. Sensing their impatience, and noting Andrew’s yawns, she rose to retire. The men rose also, and she took Andrew’s arm and bade the other two good-night.

  Emily’s suspicions proved correct; Jonathon knew exactly where to go to learn the current state of affairs, and the two men joined others and lively discussion ensued. Unfair taxation by parliament in the Stamp Act and the Townshend Acts was the subject of animated debate, and some enthusiastically recalled the answer the colonies had given. The House of Burgesses, Virginia’s legislature, was bubbling with unrest and claiming their sole right to levy internal taxes. Thomas Jefferson was writing stirring essays on the God-given rights of man, a concept completely foreign to British rule. And the Royal Governor, Lord Dunmore, had again dissolved the Burgesses who reconvened in the conviviality of the Apollo Room at the Raleigh Tavern, whose motto was written on the mantel: Hilaritas sapientiae et bonae vitae proles (Jollity is the offspring of wisdom and good living). The vigorous debate lasted into the early hours of the morning.

  • • •

  Dawn was streaking the eastern sky when Emily awoke to a tapping on her door. “Wake up, Emily. We want to get an early start,” Andrew called softly.

  Emily washed and dressed, noting that the day was already warm and humid. She donned a light silk dress of palest blue with white lace at the bodice and elbow-length sleeves. Brushing her hair, she pulled it up in combs to keep it off her face and neck as much as possible.

  This was the day she would meet Jonathon’s family. All the doubts and fears that had kept her tossing and turning the night before crept over her again. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her skirts, straightened her shoulders, and went downstairs.

  They ate a hurried breakfast of cold ham, cornbread and fruit and soon were on the road. The countryside was still the flat, green land of the tidewater, but after a time it gave way to gently rolling hills.

  As Jonathon told them of plantation life and of his family, Emily’s nervousness increased with the miles. Jonathon pointed out places of interest and plantations of friends he had known all his life in this society of the gentleman planter. They stopped to dine at a quaint inn and again ate hurriedly, each anxious either to arrive or to get the dreaded moment over with.

  Emily noticed Jonathon’s silence after a while and, looking across at him, caught the intense scrutiny with which he was studying the landscape. His eyes glowed with pride, and she knew they had reached his land. For a moment she felt uncomfortable, like someone who has intruded on an intimate moment. But Jonathon turned shining eyes upon her and said simply, “We are home.”


  Finally the coach turned down a road, and Emily craned her neck to catch her first glimpse of Brentwood Manor. After a time, they broke out of the trees into a circular drive that curved gracefully along lush, green lawns and swept before a stately manor.

  Emily caught her breath. “Oh, it is beautiful,” she whispered.

  Jonathon beamed at her. “I knew you would like it, Emily.”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Andrew remarked, “You did not do it justice, Jonathon.”

  The three of them laughed remembering all the times he had described Brentwood Manor — always in superlatives.

  Majestic catalpa trees lined the drive and sculpted shrubs hugged the mansion. Made of red brick in the Flemish–bond style, it had two enormous chimneys equidistant from the center of the roof; a pair of large windows flanked either side of the central entrance and five smaller windows lined the upper story. A wing with a slightly lower roofline extended out from each end of the main structure. It was beautiful in its simplicity of design and bore an elegance of time and tradition.

  The front door opened and a slender, dark–haired woman appeared, followed closely by a tall, blonde man. Each held a parcel as they stood on the bottom step awaiting the coach.