A Place Called Freedom (1995)

by Ken Follett

  “How will your father take it?”

  Jay grinned. “He’ll be furious, but what can he do at this distance?”

  “I suppose it’s all right,” Lizzie said dubiously.

  He did not like her questioning his judgment. “These things are best left to men.”

  That annoyed her, as always. She went on the attack. “I’m sorry to see Lennox here—I can’t understand your attachment to that man.”

  Jay had mixed feelings about Lennox. He might be as useful here as he had been in London—but he was an uncomfortable presence. However, once he had been rescued from the hold of the Rosebud, the man had assumed he would be living on the Jamisson plantation, and Jay had never summoned the nerve to discuss the matter. “I thought it would be useful to have a white man to do my bidding,” he said airily.

  “But what will he do?”

  “Sowerby needs an assistant.”

  “Lennox knows nothing about tobacco, except how to smoke the stuff.”

  “He can learn. Besides, it’s mainly a matter of making the Negroes work.”

  “He’ll be good at that,” Lizzie said caustically.

  Jay did not want to discuss Lennox. “I may go into public life here,” he said. “I’d like to get elected to the House of Burgesses. I wonder how soon it could be arranged.”

  “You’d better meet our neighbors and talk to them about it.”

  He nodded. “In a month or so, when the house is ready, we’ll give a big party and invite everyone of importance from round about Fredericksburg. That will give me a chance to get the measure of the local gentry.”

  “A party,” Lizzie said dubiously. “Can we afford it?”

  Once again she was questioning his judgment. “Leave the finances to me,” he snapped. “I’m sure we can get supplies on credit—the family has been trading in these parts for at least ten years, my name must be worth quite a lot.”

  She persisted with her questions. “Wouldn’t it be better to concentrate on running the plantation, at least for a year or two? Then you could be sure you had a solid foundation for your public career.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “I didn’t come here to be a farmer.”

  The ballroom was small, but it had a good floor and a little balcony for the musicians. Twenty or thirty couples were dancing in their bright satin clothes, the men wearing wigs and the women in lacy hats. Two fiddlers, a drummer and a French horn player were giving a minuet. Dozens of candles lit up the fresh paintwork and floral decorations. In the other rooms of the house, guests played cards, smoked, drank and flirted.

  Jay and Lizzie moved from the ballroom to the dining room, smiling and nodding at their guests. Jay was wearing a new apple green silk suit he had bought in London just before they left; Lizzie was in purple, her favorite color. Jay had thought their clothes might outshine those of the guests, but to his surprise he found that Virginians were as fashionable as Londoners.

  He had drunk plenty of wine and was feeling good. They had served dinner earlier, but refreshments were now on the table: wine, jellies, cheesecakes, syllabubs and fruit. The party had cost a small fortune, but it was a success: everyone who was anyone had come.

  The only sour note had been struck by the overseer, Sowerby, who had chosen today to ask for his back pay. When Jay told him it was not possible to pay him until the first tobacco crop was sold, Sowerby had insolently asked how Jay could afford to give a party for fifty guests. The truth was that Jay could not afford it—everything had been bought on credit—but he was too proud to say that to his overseer. So he had told him to hold his tongue. Sowerby had looked disappointed and worried, and Jay had wondered if he had some specific money problem. However, he did not inquire.

  In the dining room the Jamissons’ nearest neighbors were standing at the fire, eating cake. There were three couples: Colonel and Mrs. Thumson, Bill and Suzy Delahaye, and the Armstead brothers, two bachelors. The Thumsons were very elevated: the colonel was a burgess, a member of the general assembly, grave and self-important. He had distinguished himself in the British army and the Virginia militia, then had retired to grow tobacco and help rule the colony. Jay felt he could model himself on Thumson.

  They were talking politics, and Thumson explained: “The governor of Virginia died last March, and we’re waiting for his replacement.”

  Jay assumed the air of an insider in the London court. “The king has appointed Norborne Berkeley, the baron de Botetourt.”

  John Armstead, who was drunk, laughed coarsely. “What a name!”

  Jay gave him a frosty look. “I believe the baron was hoping to leave London soon after I did.”

  Thumson said: “The president of the council is acting as his deputy in the interim.”

  Jay was keen to show that he knew a lot about local affairs. He said: “I assume that’s why the burgesses were so unwise as to support the Massachusetts Letter.” The letter in question was a protest against customs duties. It had been sent by the Massachusetts Legislature to King George. Then the Virginia Legislature had passed a resolution approving of the letter. Jay and most London Tories considered both the letter and the Virginia resolution disloyal.

  Thumson seemed to disagree. He said stiffly: “I trust the burgesses were not unwise.”

  “His Majesty certainly thought so,” Jay rejoined. He did not explain how he knew what the king thought, but left room for them to suppose the king had told him personally.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Thumson, not sounding sorry at all.

  Jay felt that he might be on dangerous ground, but he wanted to impress these people with his acumen, so he went on. “I’m quite sure the new governor will demand that the resolution be withdrawn.” He had learned this before leaving London.

  Bill Delahaye, younger than Thumson, said hotly: “The burgesses will refuse.” His pretty wife, Suzy, put a restraining hand on his arm, but he felt strongly, and he added: “It’s their duty to tell the king the truth, not mouth empty phrases that will please his Tory sycophants.”

  Thumson said tactfully: “Not that all Tories are sycophants, of course.”

  Jay said: “If the burgesses refuse to withdraw their resolution, the governor will have to dissolve the assembly.”

  Roderick Armstead, soberer than his brother, said: “It’s curious how little difference that makes, nowadays.”

  Jay was mystified. “How so?”

  “Colonial parliaments are constantly being dissolved for one reason or another. They simply reassemble informally, in a tavern or a private house, and carry on their business.”

  “But in those circumstances they have no legal status!” Jay protested.

  Colonel Thumson answered him. “Still, they have the consent of the people they govern, and that seems to be enough.”

  Jay had heard this sort of thing before, from men who read too much philosophy. The idea that governments got their authority from the consent of the people was dangerous nonsense. The implication was that kings had no right to rule. It was the kind of thing John Wilkes was saying back at home. Jay began to get angry with Thumson. “In London a man could be jailed for talking that way, Colonel,” he said.

  “Quite,” Thumson said enigmatically.

  Lizzie intervened. “Have you tried the syllabub, Mrs. Thumson?”

  The colonel’s wife responded with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Yes, it’s very good, quite delicious.”

  “I’m so glad. Syllabub can so easily go wrong.”

  Jay knew that Lizzie could not care less about syllabub; she was trying to move the conversation away from politics. But he had not finished. “I must say I’m surprised by some of your attitudes, Colonel,” he said.

  “Ah, I see Dr. Finch—I must have a word with him,” Thumson said, and moved smoothly, with his wife, to another group.

  Bill Delahaye said: “You’ve only just arrived, Jamisson. You may find that living here for a while gives you a different perspective.”

  Hi
s tone was not unkind, but he was saying Jay did not yet know enough to have a view of his own. Jay was offended. “I trust, sir, that my loyalty to my sovereign will be unshaken, no matter where I may choose to live.”

  Delahaye’s face darkened. “No doubt,” he said, and he too moved away, taking his wife with him.

  Roderick Armstead said, “I must try this syllabub,” and turned to the table, leaving Jay and Lizzie with his drunk brother.

  “Politics and religion,” said John Armstead. “Never talk about politics and religion at a party.” And with that he leaned backward, closed his eyes and fell flat.

  Jay came down to breakfast at midday. He had a headache.

  He had not seen Lizzie: they had adjoining bed rooms, a luxury they had not been able to afford in London. However, he found her eating grilled ham while the house slaves cleaned up after the ball.

  There was a letter for him. He sat down and opened it, but before he could read it Lizzie glared at him and said: “Why on earth did you start that quarrel last night?”

  “What quarrel?”

  “With Thumson and Delahaye, of course.”

  “It wasn’t a quarrel, it was a discussion.”

  “You’ve offended our nearest neighbors.”

  “Then they’re too easily offended.”

  “You practically called Colonel Thumson a traitor!”

  “It seems to me he probably is a traitor.”

  “He’s a landowner, a member of the House of Burgesses, and a retired officer—how in the name of heaven can he be a traitor?”

  “You heard him talk.”

  “That’s obviously normal here.”

  “Well, it’s never going to be normal in my house.”

  Sarah, the cook, came in, interrupting the argument. Jay ordered tea and toast.

  Lizzie got the last word, as always. “After spending all that money to get to know our neighbors you succeeded in making them dislike you.” She resumed eating.

  Jay looked at his letter. It was from a lawyer in Williamsburg.

  Duke of Gloucester Street

  Williamsburg

  29 August 1768

  I am commanded to write to you, dear Mr Jamisson, by your father, Sir George. I welcome you to Virginia and hope that we shall soon have the pleasure of seeing you here in the colonial capital.

  Jay was surprised. This was uncharacteristically thoughtful of his father. Would he start to be kind, now that Jay was half a world away?

  Until then, please let me know if I may be of any assistance. I know that you have taken over a plantation in difficulties, and that you may choose to seek financial help. Allow me to offer my services should you require a mortgage. I am sure a lender could be found without difficulty. I remain, Sir,

  your most humble and obedient servant—

  Matthew Murchman.

  Jay smiled. This was just what he needed. The repair and redecoration of the house, and the lavish party, had already put him up to his neck in debt with local merchants; and Sowerby kept asking for supplies: seed, new tools, clothes for the slaves, rope, paint, the list was endless. “Well, you needn’t worry about money any longer,” he said to Lizzie as he put down the letter.

  She looked skeptical.

  “I’m going to Williamsburg,” he said.

  28

  WHILE JAY WAS IN WILLIAMSBURG LIZZIE GOT A LETTER from her mother. The first thing that struck her about it was the return address:

  The Manse

  St John’s Church

  Aberdeen

  August 15th, 1768

  What was Mother doing in a vicarage in Aberdeen? She read on:

  I have so much to tell you, my dear daughter! But I must take care to write it step by step, as it happened.

  Soon after I returned to High Glen your brother-in-law, Robert Jamisson, took over the management of the estate. Sir George is now paying the interest on my mortgages so I am in no position to argue. Robert asked me to leave the big house and live in the old hunting lodge, for the sake of economy. I confess I was not best pleased with the arrangement but he insisted, and I have to tell you he was not as pleasant or affectionate as a family member might be.

  A surge of impotent anger possessed Lizzie. How dare Robert evict Lizzie’s mother from her home? She recalled his words after she had rejected him and accepted Jay: “Even if I can’t have you, I’ll still have High Glen.” It had seemed impossible at the time, but now it had come true.

  Gritting her teeth, she continued to read.

  Then the Reverend Mr York announced that he was leaving us. He has been pastor at Heugh for fifteen years and he is my oldest friend. Iunderstood that after the tragic early death of his wife he felt the need to go and live in a new place. But you may imagine how distraught I was that he was leaving just when I needed friends.

  Then the most astonishing thing happened. My dear, Iblush to tell you that he asked me to marry him!! And I accepted!!!

  “Good God!” Lizzie said aloud.

  So you see we are wed, and have moved to Aberdeen, from where I write.

  Many will say I married beneath myself being the widow of Lord Hallim; but I know how worthless a title is and John cares nothing for what society people think. We live quietly, and I am known as Mrs York, and I am happier now than I ever have been.

  There was more—about her three stepchildren, the servants at the manse, Mr. York’s first sermon, and the ladies in the congregation—but Lizzie was too shocked to take it in.

  She had never thought of her mother remarrying. There was no reason why not, of course: Mother was only forty. She might even have more children; it was not impossible.

  What shocked Lizzie was a sense of being cast adrift. High Glen had always been her home. Although her life was here in Virginia with her husband and her baby, she had thought of High Glen House as a place she could always return to, if she really needed sanctuary. But now it was in the hands of Robert.

  Lizzie had always been the center of her mother’s life. It had never occurred to her that this would change. But now her mother was a minister’s wife living in Aberdeen, with three stepchildren to love and care for, and she might even be expecting a new baby of her own.

  It meant Lizzie had no home but this plantation, no family but Jay.

  Well, she was determined to make a good life for herself here.

  She had privileges many women would envy: a big house, an estate of a thousand acres, a handsome husband, and slaves to do her bidding. The house slaves had taken her to their hearts. Sarah was the cook, fat Belle did most of the cleaning, and Mildred was her personal maid and also served at table sometimes. Belle had a twelve-year-old son, Jimmy, who was the stable boy: his father had been sold away years ago. Lizzie had not yet got to know many of the field hands, apart from Mack, but she liked Kobe, the supervisor, and the blacksmith, Cass, whose workshop was at the back of the house.

  The house was spacious and grand, but it had an empty, abandoned feel. It was too big. It would suit a family with six growing children and a few aunts and grandparents, and troops of slaves to light fires in every room and serve vast communal dinners. For Lizzie and Jay it was a mausoleum. But the plantation was beautiful: thick woodlands, broad sloping fields, and a hundred little streams.

  She knew Jay was not quite the man she had taken him for. He was not the daring free spirit he had seemed to be when he took her down the coal mine. And his lying to her over mining in High Glen had shaken her: after that she could never feel the same about him. They no longer romped in bed in the mornings. They spent most of the day apart. They ate dinner and supper together, but they never sat in front of the fire, holding hands and talking of nothing in particular, the way they once had. But perhaps Jay was disappointed, too. He might have similar feelings about her: that she was not as perfect as she had once seemed. There was no point in regrets. They had to love one another as they were today.

  All the same she often felt a powerful urge to run away. But whenever she di
d, she remembered the child growing inside her. She could no longer think only of herself. Her baby needed its father.

  Jay did not talk about the baby much. He seemed uninterested. But he would change when it was born, especially if it was a boy.

  She put her letter in a drawer.

  When she had given the day’s orders to the house slaves she got her coat and went outside.

  The air was cool. It was now mid-October; they had been here two months. She headed across the lawn and down toward the river. She went on foot: she was past six months now, and she could feel the baby kick—sometimes painfully. She was afraid she might harm the baby if she rode.

  Still she walked around the estate almost every day. It took her several hours. She was usually accompanied by Roy and Rex, two deerhounds Jay had bought. She kept a close eye on the work of the plantation, for Jay took no interest at all. She watched the processing of the tobacco and kept count of the bales; she saw the men cutting trees and making barrels; she looked at the cows and horses in the meadows and the chickens and geese in the yard. Today was Sunday, the hands’ day of rest, and it gave her a special opportunity to poke around while Sowerby and Lennox were somewhere else. Roy followed her, but Rex lazily remained on the porch.

  The tobacco harvest was in. There was still a lot of work to do processing the crop: sweating, stemming, stripping and pressing the leaves before they could be packed into hogsheads for the voyage to London or Glasgow. They were sowing winter wheat in the field they called Stream Quarter, and barley, rye and clover in Lower Oak. But they had come to the end of the period of most intensive activity, the time when they worked in the fields from dawn to dusk and then labored on by candlelight in the tobacco sheds until midnight.

  The hands should have some reward, she thought, for all their effort. Even slaves and convicts needed encouragement. It occurred to her that she might give them a party.

  The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. Jay might be against it, but he would not be home for a couple of weeks—Williamsburg was three days away—so it could be over and done with by the time he returned.