True Heart

by Arnette Lamb

  “Your vocabulary doesn’t need much work, but I’m afraid I can’t teach you Scottish. Or do you remember how to speak it?”

  She’d avoided dredging up old memories; now she must sift through the imaginings and call up the true past. “In the MacKenzie household, both English and Scottish are spoken.” She almost mentioned her mother’s heritage, but why should Mrs. Parker-Jones care about that irony?

  “Good. Will you tell me about your siblings?”

  “There’s Lily, Rowena, and Cora. They were nine, eight, and six when last I saw them. And Kenneth, my father’s heir. He was three.” She remembered a laughing fair-haired boy, they called Gibberish because he talked too fast.

  “What of your other four sisters? You said you had seven.”

  “They’re older.” The addition came easily; Virginia had practiced that ability, too, since coming to Poplar Knoll. “They are seven and twenty years old now.”

  Mrs. Parker-Jones frowned. “All of them are the same age?”

  With the calling up of those memories came a sense of peace and love. “Papa’s very handsome. He went to court and fell in love with four women at once. When they bore his children, he took Agnes, Lottie, Sarah, and Mary from their mothers and raised them himself—until my mother came to Scotland.”

  Mrs. Parker-Jones opened the book. “This was written by the earl of Cathcart. ‘Edward Napier.’ She spoke his name with the proper respect due the nobleman who invented tools for the common man. “He names his wife in the dedication.”

  “It must be Sarah. Papa always said a blueblooded lord would woo her, and she’s so very beautiful and as bright as any Oxford scholar.”

  “No, it’s not Sarah.”

  The oddity of the conversation baffled Virginia but in a pleasant way; she was discussing her family with someone who believed her. “May I read for myself?”

  Embarrassment brought a flush to her scarred cheeks. “I did not know you could read.”

  A prevarication popped into Virginia’s mind. She would not endanger Merriweather for the kind gift of sharing the newspaper with a lonely girl. Then she remembered that she needn’t make excuses for herself any longer. She took the book and traced the golden letters on the binding. Plows for Field and Farm, by Lord Edward Napier, earl of Cathcart. Virginia knew the Napier name. Every plantation and farm used the tools he’d invented. The Napier plow was as common as the Morgan rake.

  With a shaking hand, she turned the pages. On the dedication page, she found the words, “For my children, Christopher and Hannah, and for dearest Agnes, who has made us a family again.”

  Agnes. Fondness choked Virginia. Agnes, the trouble finder, as Papa used to say. Agnes had fallen in love and married an important man. Bully for her.

  “You remember Agnes fondly?”

  “Fondly? Of course. She’s my sister.”

  What other great events had occurred in Virginia’s absence? Was Papa alive? Mama? The possibility that they might be dead was too wretched to contemplate.

  Virginia clutched the book to her breast. Surely her family had lost hope of finding her. She remembered the exact moment she’d given up hope of finding them. It had been her fifteenth birthday. But by putting away the past, she had bettered the present. From that day forth, her life at Poplar Knoll had become livable. With one exception. But she wouldn’t think about those dark times. Not now.

  “What are you thinking, Virginia?”

  “They gave me up for dead.”

  “Not anymore.”

  If that was true, if Cameron and her family now expected to find her, what regrets would they bring with them? How had they dealt with her loss?

  “I’m sorry. But I’ve said that to you before. When I learned about what Mrs. Moreland had done to you, I could not fathom a deed so cruel.”

  The darkness of denial blanketed Virginia. Never again would she visit those evil times. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  Mrs. Parker-Jones shivered in revulsion. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” Composing herself, she continued. “I wasn’t blessed with children, but I do come from a large family. We lost a brother once. I’m certain your loved ones were bereft at losing you.”

  Bereft. She thought of the funerals she’d attended with her family. Cameron standing beside her, helping her place a rock on the cairn in tribute to a family friend. Save Cameron’s strong presence, the memories were vague. Had the MacKenzies constructed a cairn in memory of her?

  “Imagine how happy they are now.”

  Mrs. Parker-Jones looked so distressed Virginia felt bound to comfort her. “All will be set to rights when Cameron comes for me.”

  “What will you tell him of your life here?”

  Dread chased away her joy. How could she look her family in the face and tell them the truth?

  “I do not know.”

  Chapter

  3

  Everyone had given up hope of finding Virginia. Everyone except Agnes MacKenzie. For the first five years, Cameron had kept the faith. He’d searched the world and yearned for the girl he had planned to grow old with. When he’d finally accepted defeat, he’d done so with the help of her father, Lachian MacKenzie. That had been five years ago. Five years of peace with himself, years of accomplishment and restful nights. He couldn’t start believing again. But the closer he traveled to America, the greater the battle.

  Three weeks and four days out of Glasgow, her hold perfectly weighted with stone, the Maiden Virginia eased into the James River. Cameron stepped aside and allowed Quinten Brown to take the helm. Never had anyone other than Cameron’s father or his crew piloted his ship. Cameron had sought out Brown in Norfolk. The man assured Cameron that he could steer a man o’ war safely up the James River. To Cameron’s disappointment, Brown had no knowledge of who had created the hallmark, only that it had come from Poplar Knoll. Rather than hire another man’s ship to sail the unfamiliar waters of the James River, Cameron had hired the man.

  The crew went about their tasks, but their attention was fixed on the English captain at the wheel. MacAdoo Dundas was more blatant in his unease, for he noisily hammered an extra horseshoe into the mast.

  “She’s a fine one, Cunningham,” said Brown, loud enough for all to hear. “I’ll not run her aground, so you can belay that scowl.”

  Cameron tried to stand at ease but could not.

  Beside him, Agnes MacKenzie laughed. “Well said, Captain Brown.”

  Agnes had married Edward Napier, earl of Cathcart. She’d even shunned Highland tradition and taken his name. But she’d always be Agnes MacKenzie to Cameron. More than a friend to him, she was the true believer he could never be. She’d pledged her dowry and her life to finding Virginia. Cameron’s efforts paled by comparison, but Agnes had yet to deal with the guilt she felt over the loss of Virginia. Perhaps now she would be spared that pain.

  She’d been out of the birthing bed only two days when Cameron had arrived in Glasgow and spied the cask. Upon seeing the hallmark, she’d packed a bag and sent messengers to every member of her family. Then she’d demanded that they sail immediately for America.

  That’s when her husband had stepped in. Edward Napier had lost his first wife to an Atlantic crossing, yet he could not refuse Agnes this voyage. As her physician, he’d insisted that she stay abed for at least a week. She had compromised and rested for three days.

  Amazed at her resiliency, Cameron watched her sway easily with the motion of the deck. A year older than she, he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known Agnes MacKenzie and her three sisters. Then Virginia had come along, and Cameron’s life had forever changed.

  “Do you think Virginia will favor Papa or Mama?” she asked.

  MacAdoo politely excused himself, but his sour mood was evident in the stiffness of his gait. He’d taught Virginia to climb the rigging.

  “Cameron, are you listening? How tall do you suppose she has grown?”

  Cameron gritted his teeth, lest he give in to temptation
and begin to hope. Virginia was dead. The hallmark on that cask was a coincidence. Some smitten cooper with courting on his mind had created the romantic design.

  Agnes clutched his arm, her brown eyes narrowed in determination. “She’s alive, and I say she favors Father.”

  On the subject of Virginia, Agnes had always spoken succinctly, but a new conviction now fired her belief. She’d sailed with Cameron to China and spent a year learning the weaponless fighting skills of the emperor’s best. She could bring any man to his knees with one well-placed blow. Garbed in bright yellow wool, her golden hair twisted into a shapely do, she looked like a helpless noblewoman. A contradiction. A foolish assumption.

  Cameron couldn’t help but smile.

  Her brows flared. “Are you mocking me, Cameron Cunningham?”

  He held up his hands as if to ward her off. “Never.”

  “Are so.” She smoothed the fit of her butter yellow gloves. “But then I suspect you are anticipating the uncomfortable conversation you must have with Adrienne Cholmondeley.”

  The problem of Adrienne was his affair, and he made a practice of never speaking with Agnes about his love life. How could he when she believed his betrothed was alive and any romance he enjoyed was a betrayal of Virginia?

  He knew the way to deal with Agnes. “On the matter of whom Virginia favors, I say one MacKenzie female with your father’s temperament is quite enough.”

  She fairly preened, for she knew he was speaking of her. “I meant to say that Virginia will favor the MacKenzies in physical appearance.”

  She knew when to retreat. Cameron grinned. “In that event, I pray she favors Lady Juliet.”

  The humor faded from Agnes’s eyes. “I pray she has Mama’s strength.”

  She meant fortitude, and she referred to Lady Juliet, Virginia’s mother and the woman who had raised Agnes. Even Lachian MacKenzie knew better than to cross his duchess. But Virginia had been closer to her father. He’d taken her everywhere, taught her to ride as soon as she could stand. He’d formally given her to Cameron on her tenth birthday. He’d also given her up for dead.

  “If you truly believed she is dead, why have you kept that tobacco cask?”

  Too late Cameron realized Agnes had tricked him into thinking casually about Virginia. He also knew when to retreat. “You should rest,” he said. “I promised your husband you wouldn’t tire yourself.”

  “I’m fine, but I will leave you to fret over your future and Captain Brown’s helmsmanship.”

  Brown stiffened formally. “You needn’t have a care about that, my lady. I know this river as well as I know the buttons of my shirt.”

  She turned on the charm. “I fear that’s not enough to assuage poor Cameron and his crew, but the MacKenzies are indebted to you, sir.”

  As the object of her attention, Brown almost groveled. “You will remember me to your father, Lady Agnes,” he said. “Best man o’ the Highlands is how Lachian MacKenzie’s known.”

  “That he is. You can be sure I’ll tell him that you led us to Virginia.” She slid Cameron a challenging glance, but her attention was fixed on Brown. “I believe, however, that he’ll thank you himself. He cannot be more than a day or two behind us.”

  As a result of her three-day forced bed rest, the messenger had surely reached her father at his home in Tain before Cameron had set sail. Lachian MacKenzie would make haste to follow. The rest of the family had probably already arrived in Glasgow, for the hallmark was the strongest lead to Virginia they’d had in over five years.

  Brown acknowledged a passing ship, but his interest clearly lay with the conversation. “Every Scot in the Chesapeake will turn out for a chance to see the Highland rogue in the flesh.”

  Cameron had to say, “What if she isn’t here, Agnes?”

  Her smile faded and stone would have melted beneath her gaze. Without a word, she strolled across the deck and down the companionway.

  Cameron said, “She’s yours, Brown.”

  “Oh, no. I know better than to rile that MacKenzie female. They say she took a bowshot to save Edward Napier.”

  Cameron had been speaking of the ship, but Brown had a point. “She did indeed save his life, but her husband swears he prevails in their disputes.”

  “Smartest man in the isles ought to know his way around MacKenzie’s firstborn lass.”

  “Aye, Agnes and Napier are well paired.”

  They shared an agreeable glance, then Cameron moved to the bow.

  In the ship’s wake, waterfowl took flight, and deer dashed for safety in the lush landscape. Rain clouds hovered in the northern sky, moving westward and leaving the James bathed in sunshine. Riverboats stacked high with hogsheads of tobacco lumbered past. Swift passenger ships and slave sloops scurried around the Maiden Virginia like skitterbugs on a smooth lake. In the distance, an occasional chimney fire streamed upward, the smoke clinging like a beard to the face of the forest. The sails snapped in the breeze. The damp air smelled ripe with spring.

  Anticipation sat like a stone in Cameron’s belly, and he gripped the bulwark to push the feeling away. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about the past. He remembered a girl who’d despaired because her younger sister, Lily, had gotten a love letter first. He thought of the spring they’d found a wounded badger and nursed it back to health. She’d stood beside him in this very spot. He’d been a brash and cocky youth. Virginia had been reasonable and honest but not always truthful, he corrected, recalling the time they’d dressed in servants’ garb and gone to the docks without permission. Her father had caught them, and when the duke accused the older Cameron of corrupting Virginia, she’d looked her father in the eye and sworn the fault was hers. What the duke could not see was her hand and the odd fist she made when telling a lie. Only Cameron knew about that habit of hers among many others.

  The old ache seeped into his soul. On its heels would come hope. Then disappointment more bitter than before.

  Virginia Mackenzie had been the joy of his youth and often his savior. If he fell asleep in church, she always awakened him. She’d been the perfect friend for a headstrong lad with more swagger than sense.

  That she would one day become his wife had been a foregone conclusion. They’d even picked out names for their children.

  “Look a port bow, Cunningham. Poplar Knoll, ho!”

  A newly refurbished dock came into view, the piers carved with doves. A brick path, laid out in herringbone design, led to a gabled mansion as fine as any he’d seen on the river.

  * * *

  “It’s another ship, Virginia,” said Mrs. Parker-Jones.

  They were upstairs in Virginia’s room. The mistress of Poplar Knoll stood at the window. Virginia sat in a chair, her back stiff and straight, a result of the new stays. She rubbed a tender spot beneath her breasts and wondered why free women abided the things.

  “Virginia, how many ships is that today?”

  Virginia went back to the dress she was hemming. “I’ve lost count.”

  She’d been treated with every kindness since moving to the main house. Before leaving this morning for Richmond to attend the tenth anniversary ceremony of the moving of the capital, Mr. Parker-Jones had apologized again and wished her luck should her family arrive before he returned. She’d asked him to give her back her indenture papers and the twelve pounds, sixteen shillings she was due. He’d signed the document and, to her surprise, given her one hundred pounds. She’d contemplated leaving—going to Williamsburg or Norfolk in anticipation of Cameron’s arrival. But he must not learn the truth of her life here. Those years and the private hell that accompanied them were hers alone.

  “The ship’s docking, and it—” Mrs. Parker-Jones gasped. “Sweet Jesus. It bears your name.”

  Virginia sprang from the chair, her mind suddenly blank with fear. For three days she had vacillated between joy and melancholy. For three nights, she’d walked the floor.

  “Will you come down with me?”

 
As if to emphasize the moment, the plantation bell pealed, announcing the arrival of visitors. Pain squeezed Virginia’s chest, but she forced herself to choose a path.

  Moving to the window, she looked at her hands. Her nails were now groomed, but the dye stains had not faded. There’d been no time to sew gloves and Mrs. Parker-Jones’s hands were much smaller than Virginia’s. Her old smock had been given to another servant, and she had altered several of the mistress’s dresses. The feel of soft cotton against her skin should have given her confidence; it confused her more, for it was a constant reminder of how mean her life had been.

  “Will you come downstairs with me?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  In the sunlight, Mrs. Parker-Jones looked younger than her years and deeply troubled. “They are not strangers, you know.”

  But Virginia was a stranger to them. For ten years, their lives had been as different from hers as cold to warmth, freedom to servitude. If they knew the details of her life, her family would hold themselves responsible.

  The blame and the burden were hers alone to bear.

  On that fateful day ten years ago, when she’d learned that Cameron had already sailed, she’d willingly boarded MacGowan’s ship. She’d believed his lie about taking her to France and Cameron.

  Sparing her friends and family grief was also within Virginia’s power. She had changed. Would they recognize her? Would they pity her?

  As other questions rose in her mind, she watched the dockmen moor Cameron’s ship. The Maiden Virginia rested at her doorstep. How many times in the early years had she pictured his ship sailing around the bend, her knight come to rescue her? Too many times, and that fanciful notion sobered her to the reality of the moment.

  When the gangplank was secured, she strained to better see the two men and one woman who moved to disembark. The woman wore a yellow gown and matching gloves. Fair and light on her feet, she came first. She couldn’t be Cameron’s sister; Sibeal had red hair. Had Cameron married? Virginia had often imagined that. The knowledge would hurt more now, for it would prove that he’d forgotten her, but not by any fault of his own. He’d take her to her family and go home to his own. Virginia would embark on a new life.