Leigh grinned, thinking she had just discovered the solution to both of their problems. “Would you wash these, Jassy?” Leigh suggested, shoving the bundle of buckskin toward the startled girl. “They won’t take long. And Jolie will be pleased and she’ll leave you alone.”
Now she could walk leisurely into the house without making Jolie any more suspicious than usual, Leigh thought, and she would have the stranger’s buckskins washed before she returned them—which, considering their condition, was a great kindness on her part—and Jassy could avoid Jolie’s wrath.
Jassy frowned as she stared down at the buckskin breeches she now held out in front of her. “These men’s britches,” she said in amazement. “An’ a mighty long-legged one at that. Where’d you get these, Miz Leigh?” she demanded, looking them over with a critical eye. “These aren’t a gentleman’s britches!” she suddenly exclaimed, lifting her nose with a disdainful sniff.
“Shhhssh!” Leigh hushed her, cringing down even lower.
“How’d you get hold of these, Miz Leigh? Yer mama’s not goin’ to like this any if she finds out,” Jassy said wisely, for everyone knew that the mistress of Travers Hill was a proper lady.
“Please, Jassy, just wash them for me,” Leigh pleaded, peeking across the washing to where Jolie still stood, hands on her hips, but Leigh would have sworn Jolie had moved a tub closer. “It is a secret.”
“A secret?” Jassy asked, a doubtful look on her face as she held up the shirt. “They must be Mister Guy’s? That’s it! Always doin’ somethin’ he shouldn’t be. But I don’t know where he’s goin’ to wear somethin’ like these ol’ britches. An’ they’re too long fer him anyway. He’s almost as short legged as Mister Stuart. What’s this? You want it washed too?”
Leigh was just as startled to see the leather pouch drop to the path when Jassy shook out the shirt. It was the first time she’d seen it, but when Leigh picked it up and felt the shape of various items within—and one particularly sharp item—she suspected it was what she’d been sitting on.
“Don’t you worry about this, I’ll take it with me,” she said, hardly able to contain her curiosity about its contents. “Hurry now, Jassy, and wash those buckskins for me before Jolie finds out and has you washing all those bed linens instead. I’ll do something special for you,” Leigh promised, and since Jassy knew her word was good, she nodded, placing the buckskins in the empty basket as she turned and ambled toward the big tub, her gaze steady on Jolie as she waited her chance to sneak the dirty clothes into the soapy water.
Seeing Jolie with her back turned slightly, and the buckskins now safely immersed in the soapy water, Leigh hurried toward the house, certain she had successfully made her escape yet again today.
She had almost reached the house when she heard her name called out. Glancing around, Leigh managed an innocent look as she greeted Jolie, but never stopping as she continued toward the house, keeping the buckskin pouch hidden beneath a fold of her skirt.
Fortunately, Leigh didn’t see the look of dumbfounded surprise crossing Jolie’s high-cheekboned face when she caught sight of Leigh’s bare legs. She was also spared the glint that came into Jolie’s eye as she watched Leigh’s slender figure disappear inside the house with undue haste.
Hurrying across the rough brick flooring of the scullery, and not easily sidestepping the big iron pots and pans that were stored and cleaned there, Leigh entered the kitchens. The room was hot and airless, but cheerful with its white walls that reflected the sunlight pouring in from the two big windows. Bright red geraniums and Jolie’s special medicinal herbs were spaced along the deep sills in small clay pots. A fat calico cat that guarded the kitchens at night from marauding mice was curled up asleep in a spot of sunlight that bathed the sill in a warm golden glow. Bunches of rosemary, thyme, saffron, sage, parsley, dill, tansy, and assorted cooking herbs from the garden were being dried from the rafters where baskets of every weave, shape, and size dangled from hooks. The kitchen was redolent of savory aromas rising with the steam from the copper pots swinging over the fire in the great fireplace. Freshly baked beaten biscuits, browned to a light golden color, were being lifted from the oven on a long-handled wooden paddle. Earthenware bowls of creamy churned butter, eggs, honey, walnuts and pecans, lemons and oranges, flour, a pitcher of sweet milk, a cup of brandy, chunks of chocolate, and small bowls of cinnamon, nutmeg, mace, cloves, and ginger were crowded together at one end of the big table sitting square in the center of the kitchen. Rosamundi, the only kitchen maid Jolie trusted to measure out a recipe and prepare it without step-by-step supervision, was busy at her task. While still warm from the oven, the pecan and orange-nut bars, cinnamon squares, brownies, and brandy balls she was making would be carefully packed into tins. The treats were bound for luncheon baskets at the end of the week when many a guest faced a long journey home—the brimming picnic basket a tasty reminder of Travers Hill’s famed hospitality.
Leigh wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of the pungent odor of vinegar as she neared a smaller table near the window where freshly chopped snap beans, cauliflower, cucumbers, peppers, onions, and special seasonings were grouped in piles, ready to be pickled into Jolie’s famous chowchow. Many of the highly prized jars covered in green-checked gingham cloth were bound for favorite guests’ baskets, along with jars of peach chutney and apple butter—a tradition at Travers Hill. In her haste, Leigh bumped against a basket of white corn, ready to be husked, then nearly sat on top of a smaller basket of green tomatoes. When coated in seasoned cornmeal and deep fried in bacon drippings, the tomatoes would be served at dinner accompanied by chile sauce. It was a favorite of Guy’s, and whenever he was home Jolie made certain the family had it at almost every meal. Finding her balance, Leigh nearly fell over one of the maids. Down on her hands and knees, she was scrubbing at a sticky mess of sorghum that had spilled from an overturned jug. Leigh automatically glanced up at the wall where the waffle irons usually hung next to the oyster roaster, long-handled skillets, trivets, and fancy shortbread molds, but the space was empty, and she knew they’d be having waffles tomorrow morning for breakfast.
The hickory-smoked ham, the pride of Travers Hill’s smokehouse, was sitting pink and succulent in the center of the platter that would grace the head of the Sunday table. The matching tureen would be filled with chicken curry and rice and placed at the corner nearest her mother, who ladled a healthy portion into each person’s dish before Stephen removed the tureen from the table and replaced it with another course. Stacks of blue-patterned china, destined for the long mahogany dining table in the big house, were being carefully carried from the kitchens by the most sure-footed maid. In the back of the cupboard, and the only items collecting dust in the kitchens, were several cookbooks, the most valued a copy of the eighteenth-century edition of Mrs. E. Smith’s famed The Compleat Housewife. Leigh had been studying it of late, carefully turning the yellowed pages of the fragilely bound book. Handed down to her mother by her grandmother, whose own mother had brought it over to the Colonies from England, it occupied a place of honor on the shelf. But Leigh had found Mary Randolph’s The Virginia Housewife, and a newer volume called The Carolina Housewife—a gift from her mother’s cousin in Charleston after she had enjoyed a month of Virginia cooking—far easier to comprehend. Jolie, however, hadn’t missed them. Even if Jolie could have read, she would never have glanced at the books, for she knew by heart every recipe that was prepared, garnished, and served at table at Travers Hill. Leigh eyed the dusty tomes without pleasure, for trying to understand the recipes and prepare them had been frustrating, especially when she’d never seen Jolie measure anything—it was always a pinch of this and a dash of that.
Leigh was tempted to pinch a pecan off the top of her father’s bourbon pecan cake as she passed by the table where it was sitting in solitary splendor, but one of the maids would probably be blamed, for every pecan half and candied cherry was counted when placed in decoration. Besides, she didn’t like the taste of bourbo
n that the pecans soaked up when the cake was wrapped in a bourbon-soaked cloth to keep it moist. As the days passed, and the cake aged, the bourbon flavor became even stronger, which seemed to please her father, for there was never even a crumb left by the end of the week. Nearing the door, Leigh passed the row of stone jars filled with fermenting blackberries, currants, and dandelion blossoms, which in another two months would become wine worthy of being poured into crystal decanters and served to feminine guests visiting Travers Hill. The copper still, which occupied the far corner of the kitchen, and was not to be touched by anyone but Stephen, worked steadily producing corn whiskey and brandy for the master of Travers Hill and his thirsty friends.
Leigh almost ran along the passage to the big house, entering without a backward glance as she hurried along the paneled hall and past the silent library. On a side table, arranged in one of her mother’s prized Sevres vases, a fragrant bouquet of roses and blue delphinium caught Leigh’s eye. She sniffed curiously, then spied the box filled with cloths, dusters, and polish sitting on the floor beside the table, the linseed oil and beeswax overpowering the scent of roses. The double doors to the great hall were standing opened, but the elegant room was quiet. The side chairs and sofas, upholstered in pure silk woven in soft, mellow colors, the tea table, and the spinet and harp had been pushed against the walls. The floor had been waxed to a shining brilliancy the day before in preparation for the ball that would be held Friday, when the gilt-framed looking glasses spaced around the hall would reflect the dazzling light from the wall sconces and the crystal chandelier as ladies in their colorful gowns danced past on the arms of handsome gentlemen.
Leigh tiptoed past the door of the dining room when she heard a tuneless whistling coming from within and saw Stephen doing a last spot of polishing on the silver before it was laid for dinner. Her barefoot steps on the Oriental carpet covering the pine planking of the floor made no sound, and it was with a sigh of relief that she found the parlor empty. Leigh smiled unconsciously as she looked up at her grandfather’s flintlock fowling piece above the doorway. Next to it was a powder horn engraved with a map of Virginia. She’d always suspected that the long-barreled weapon kept people from lingering too long in polite conversation. Leigh glanced across the hall at the opposite wall. Displayed above the door to the reception room, where her father and his gentlemen friends always gathered for brandy and cigars and a friendly hand of cards after dinner, was a brass-hilted German sword with a long and tapered, diamond-shaped blade. Its counterguard embossed with a running horse seemed an appropriate symbol of Travers Hill. In reality, it had been surrendered to her great-grandfather by a Hessian officer he had captured during the Revolutionary War, but it complemented nicely the cavalry saber that same great-grandfather had taken from a British dragoon he’d wounded at Yorktown. As easy as winging a turkey in a shoot, her grandfather had claimed when reciting the story of his father’s experiences when the red-coated enemy had been trapped by sharpshooting Virginia militiamen and riflemen. He had often declared with a cackling laugh that he’d wished he been around to see Lord Dunmore, the last Royal governor of Virginia, sent packing in the middle of the night with his tail between his legs and Patrick Henry’s damning oaths ringing in his ears. Through the opened windows Leigh could hear voices and laughter coming from the veranda and knew Julia was well into recounting her own particular adventure of the afternoon.
Leigh nearly cried out in surprise when the tall-case clock next to the hall bench struck the hour. Her mother’s wide-brimmed garden hat was hanging from the arm of the bench, the silk-ribboned bonnet strings fluttering softly. Glancing at the front door, left open to allow the breeze to flow through the hall, Leigh wasted no time in climbing the stairs and walking softly past the doorway of her mother’s bedchamber. She did not need to look inside to know that her mother would be sitting in her favorite rose damask upholstered chair and working diligently at her sewing before returning downstairs to supervise the cooking of the Sunday dinner. Although it was her father’s bedchamber as well, the room seemed a reflection of her mother. Decorated in delicate shades of rose and cream, with the furnishings in warm cherry wood and the fragrance of roses and lavender always strong whenever one entered, the room was where her mother oversaw all of the activities of Travers Hill. From her small desk she handled the daily accounts and records, paid the bills, wrote letters to friends and family members, made entries in her diary, gave her orders to the house and yard servants, and disciplined her children.
Leigh gave a sigh of relief as she safely passed by, although she couldn’t help wondering what her punishment would be should her mother learn of her behavior of the afternoon. Putting it out of her mind, she hurried past Althea’s old bedchamber, then Stuart James’s, both of which were now used by her sister and brother and their respective families when they visited Travers Hill. Leigh was sorry to see Guy’s bedchamber empty. The colors of brown and green dominated the room, and hunting prints and marine paintings shared space on the walls with an extensive pistol collection. A model of a three-masted brigantine, cannons poised, and a pair of Staffordshire figures of noted pugilists, standing with fists raised, were ready to do battle on the mantelpiece. She would have liked to have shared the exciting story of her near escape at least with Guy—he would have found her mistaking the man for Adam amusing. But perhaps it was better that no one, not even Guy, know of her encounter with the stranger.
Across the hall from the room she shared with Blythe was Palmer William’s, but it would be empty until midweek. Leigh reached her bedchamber, hoping Blythe and Julia wouldn’t come upstairs too quickly. Gingerly, Leigh held the leather pouch out in front of her, eyeing it as if something distasteful might be hidden within. Hearing a step in the hall, her breath caught sharply, but it was just the house creaking in protest of the heat. Leigh glanced around, wondering where she could hide the pouch until she could return it, which would be as soon as possible—after she’d looked inside. A floral-patterned quilt was folded across the foot of the four-poster. She’d hide it there, but no, Julia would be certain to feel it on her feet tonight since she would be sleeping in their room. And the winter bed hangings and window draperies had been removed and replaced with light dimity, so there were no heavy damask folds to hide a leather pouch behind. And there was no place on the night table to conceal it. And she couldn’t wedge it between the table and the bed now that the big four-poster had been moved to the center of the room and the headboard removed so she and Blythe would sleep more comfortably during the hot nights. And Blythe was certain to discover the strange pouch if she hid it in the high chest of drawers, Leigh decided as she found another pair of pantalettes and stockings. Tossing them onto the bed, Leigh had just pulled out a dry chemise when her gaze came to rest on the blanket chest at the foot of the bed. It would be the perfect hiding place for…
“Miss Leigh!”
Spinning around, Leigh met the gimlet-eyed gaze of Jolie. Momentarily startled, Leigh was unable to say anything. Afraid her expression was giving her away, she managed to turn and hide the leather pouch in the fold of her skirt at the same time she walked casually toward the window.
“Miss Leigh! You get back over here. An’ don’t you go turnin’ a missish shoulder on me like I was one of yer beaus. You aren’t goin’ to think up a fib to fool poor ol’ Jolie into believin’ ’twas gospel truth. I’m not goin’ to swallow none of it. I saw yer face when you tried to sneak in the back door. I was out back, countin’ linens just in case any of them girls got light-fingered with Miss Beatrice Amelia’s finest. An’ I know you’re the one who gave that no good Jassy them buckskins. Thinks she can fool ol’ Jolie. She learned different when I boxed her ears good an’ hard. Reckon she ought to be thinkin’ about more ’n that good fer nothin’ Dan’l. An’ I warned that girl if I find out she’s been makin’ cow’s eyes at Sweet John I’ll send some of my kinfolks, an’ on my papa’s side of the family, after her. I already planned fer lil’ Rosamundi to marry m
y Sweet John. So I told Jassy that ol’ Colonel Leigh called my papa Reynard. That means fox in French. That’s what Steban says. To my papa’s people, he was Creepin’ Fox. He was that good a tracker. Why’d you think no runaway ever got more ’n a step or two off the colonel’s land? Creepin’ Fox. He scared them so they believed those yellow eyes of his were taken from a fox he hunted down an’ stole the soul from,” Jolie said with an emphatic nodding of her head with its tight wrapping of fine black braids, and Leigh knew Creeping Fox’s daughter believed it because she had inherited those eyes—and Leigh certainly knew Jolie could see in the dark.
“Now, no honey-tongued words are goin’ to keep me from knowin’ what you’ve been about. But I know this much, it hasn’t been good. You can’t fool me, missy, I raised you since you were no bigger ’n a sucklin’ babe.” The voice came soft, but insistent behind Leigh’s stubbornly turned back. “Now you tell me right this instant, lil’ honey, where you got yer hands on those buckskins, or I’ll have to tell Miss Beatrice Amelia, an’ yer mama’ll be sure to have some kind of fit when she learns you stole some man’s breeches.
“Hah! You can’t hide anything from Jolie. I saw you flinch like an up-to-no-good varlet. Ye’re goin’ to be the death of yer mama yet, an’ when we have to revive her with the salts, yer papa is sure to hear about it, an’ then…well, I just don’t know what will be happenin’ in this house. Figure the roof’ll blow sky high, what with little Miss Lucy turnin’ sixteen on Friday, an’ all the fancy goings on that we’ve been doin’, an’ yer Aunt Maribel Lu comin’, an’ all them nice folks from Charleston an’ Savannah. An’ here, just a lil’ while past, yer mama comes in here a-worryin’ herself sick, that poor lady, that yer hands were goin’ to be stained purple, an’ I find you sneakin’ in the backyard with a man’s breeches!”
When the Splendor Falls Page 10