Furmidable Foes

by Rita Mae Brown

  Bettina, the head cook, bustled down the main hall, much of which she filled. “Mr. Ewing, hot Irish tea. I’ll bring it into the library.”

  “Would you rope it for me?” He asked her to add a wee bit of spirits, whiskey.

  “On a day like today, perhaps a bit more than wee.” She turned her back, singing as she walked down the polished hall.

  The medium-height fellow, a tiny bit overweight but not much considering he was in his late fifties, dropped into a brocade-covered wing chair as Roger briefly disappeared.

  Bettina returned and placed the small silver tray on the Hepplewhite stand next to the chair. Scones rested on a plate along with the tea.

  “Thank you. You know, of course, I was at Maureen Selisse’s. Maureen Selisse Holloway. I can’t get used to her new married name.”

  “Tell you what. She burnt the wind marrying that handsome young thing, Francisco not even cold in the grave.” Bettina put her hands on her hips.

  “Bettina, he was cold long before he was dead.”

  The two looked at each other, nodded in agreement.

  “I do hope the Lord forgave his sins. I never will.” Bettina now folded her arms over her ample bosom.

  “Indeed.” Ewing agreed.

  She waited. He sighed. Roger returned.

  Ewing took a deeply restorative sip for he had become chilled on the ride home, even though the carriage was enclosed. “She throws up one barrier after another. Now we all knew she would do that, but I must say that Gorgon betrays more imagination than I ever imagined. We are still negotiating over DoRe, as you might suspect, but now she wants breeding rights in perpetuity to Catherine’s two blooded stallions. Says she needs beautiful horses to show off her husband’s handiwork.”

  DoRe, Maureen’s head of the stables, had proposed to Bettina, both of them middle-aged and widowed. It was a love match.

  “Mr. Ewing”—Roger also addressed Ewing thus—“you will wear her down like water on rocks. Time. All in good time.”

  “Wisely spoken.”

  “Bettina.” Serena called from the kitchen.

  “That girl.” Bettina had no wish to leave but Serena sounded in need.

  She was. The pork roast had caught on fire in the large indoor oven built into the sides of the enormous brick fireplace in the large kitchen. A large pot hung on an iron pole over the fire, middle of the fireplace. Food preparation moved into the house when frosts came. Otherwise all roastings, frying, boiling pots were supervised outside in the summer kitchen.

  Bettina grabbed a pan of sauce and tossed it over the pork, putting out the fire without subjecting the meat to water.

  Back in the library, Ewing motioned for Roger to sit by the fire.

  “Mail?”

  “Two letters from France. One from Boston.”

  “Well, nothing good is coming out of France right now. I’ll read them tomorrow. Maureen has so many ties to France and Spain. She asked me did I think the Treasurers would declare financial matters closed, since the state cannot pay its debts. I said I didn’t know and I don’t. There’s enough to concern us there. God knows what the French will do.”

  “The way of the world.” Roger shifted his weight as he sat to the side of the fire on a shining bench.

  “Was Mr. Jeffrey with Mrs. Selisse?”

  “No. I walked down to his workshop. He has three carriages under construction. Three. He is a good fellow. She bought him that title, well you know all that. He doesn’t care but she says when they go to Europe he will. No one is anything over there without a title. I don’t see that working with one’s hands reduces one in society, but then again we live in a new world, or we’re trying to.”

  Weymouth, Roger’s son, early twenties, came to the open door. “Bettina feels you need more tea.” He held the teapot.

  Ewing waved him in. “Did she offer anything else?”

  Weymouth smiled broadly. “Forthcoming.”

  Serena, young, attractive, snuck up behind Weymouth with the whiskey decanter.

  “Ah, please.”

  She poured a dram. “Sir?”

  “Oh just a thimbleful, my dear.” He smiled up at her. “Weymouth, bring a glass for your father. He’s been out in the cold today almost as much as I have.”

  Sharing a bit of whiskey with Roger was not lost on either Roger’s son or Serena. Watch the men, watch what they did, to whom they spoke, and if given direction, take it. Roger was the most powerful slave on Cloverfields. Ewing was one of the most powerful men in Virginia. By extension, Roger’s power seeped out from Cloverfields.

  When the two young people withdrew, Ewing took another sip, then asked about Weymouth’s lack of a wife. “Any luck?”

  Roger shook his head.

  “Perhaps in time. If he meets the right woman. He’s a good young man, Roger, but he lacks ambition.”

  “I thought he could take over for me someday but he has no interest. He doesn’t memorize the names of important people who come here, the names of their family, their special interests. Their holdings are of no importance to him.”

  “Don’t despair. Being a father presents many trials. And he is young.”

  “When I was his age I shadowed Chibee.” Chibee was the butler before Roger. “I soaked up everything he told me. When we called on other landowners for gatherings or meetings, he would pull me to the side, tell me everything about everybody.”

  “Very intelligent man. As are you, Roger. Really, don’t despair over Weymouth. Tell me what happened while I was at Big Rawly with the harpy.”

  Roger laughed. “Inspected Jeddie’s cabin. He needs new boards on the porch. He’s a tidy man.”

  “Catherine says he has wonderful hands on a horse. As does she. But don’t you find it odd, Roger, that Jeddie is down there by the weaving cabin, with no interest in the women. Unless I’m missing something?”

  “None.” Roger sighed, for Weymouth had an interest, but in the wrong women.

  “He seems manly enough.”

  “Yes,” Roger simply responded.

  “If there were anything amiss, wouldn’t we know by now, or at least you would know? You know everything.” Ewing laughed at Roger, who feigned ignorance.

  “I don’t know a thing.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  A silence followed this. “If a man’s behavior compromised Cloverfields, I would. But I figure such things are people’s business. But I truly believe Jeddie evidences no interest in women. Now remember, Catherine cared nothing for men.”

  “True. She met the right one and that was that. Well, for me, too. As I recall when we were young, Roger, you were more of a sampler of feminine beauty.”

  Roger laughed, as did Ewing. “Took me longer but I found a good woman in the end. She’s still with me and every day she surprises me. Now she’s not worried at all about Weymouth.”

  “Boys tend to be close to their mothers.”

  “And vice versa. Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself.”

  “Oh, my Isabelle was the same. I guess God gave us different gifts.”

  “Well, he forgot some people. One thing I did hear is that Maureen has set a bounty on William’s head.”

  “She didn’t tell me!”

  “She wouldn’t.”

  William, a runaway slave from Maureen’s Big Rawly, had also seduced Sulli, a pretty house servant about sixteen. Maureen, never wanting to lose a penny, flew into a rage. She had beaten anyone on her farm whom she suspected might know of something. Finally, Jeffrey, who had never asserted a husband’s assumed authority, stepped in and told her in no uncertain terms that that was enough and she was never to have anyone beaten again. Maureen, amazed at the transformation of her pretty boy, backed down.

  “And what if the bounty hunters find him an
d Sulli, too? She’ll have two recalcitrant people in her farm stirring the pot. No good can come of any of this.”

  “What if they find Ralston?”

  This was a young man who worked in the stables with Jeddie. They hated each other. Then Ralston ran off with William. They succeeded in eluding their captors and crossed the Potomac, finding a place at a big horse farm owned by an Irishman who had made good in the new country.

  As Ralston had started trouble and became aggressive toward the women, all were glad he ran off.

  “He’ll stir up trouble, too. Ever notice how some people have no sense? They never come to a good end.”

  True.

  4

  November 15, 1787

  Thursday

  The green and white Royal Oak sign, the letters in old gold script, swung on its hinges. The horses, snug in stalls, paid little mind to the increasing wind. The cattle huddled in their large barn. Thick red Hereford coats kept them warm.

  The humans on this large working estate battled the elements, without the benefit of fur. Ralston, head down as he walked outside the stable to check on the gates, wore a hand-me-down leather jacket, a thick sweater, decent gloves, and an old skullcap pulled low. The farm manager, Ard Elgin, an Irishman like the owner, Mr. Finney, liked Ralston because he worked hard and thought ahead.

  Ralston wrapped up the last chores of the day in enveloping darkness. He always checked and double-checked the horses before retreating to the unmarried men’s bunkhouse. One of the reasons Ard liked him was because the young man didn’t complain and learned everything he could.

  Cloverfields, the stables well run by Catherine Garth Schuyler and Barker O, driver, head man, bred different kinds of horses than Mr. Finney bred. Ralston wanted to learn everything he could about horses, shoeing, catching problems early.

  The wind now howled around his ears. He hurried to the bunkhouse, which should now be warm, as the other men preceded him by at least an hour.

  Mr. Finney, and by extension Ard, hired men based on experience and ability. The younger you were, the lower on the ladder. Mr. Finney employed both white men, usually Irish or of Irish descent, and black men whom he never inquired as to how they reached him. Mr. Finney and Ard figured any worker not local, not born and bred on the northern shore of the Potomac River in Maryland, was most likely a runaway. Not only did they not care, they figured those men would be loyal. They were. The bunkhouse again was more divided by age than race, but mostly the younger fellows created their rules. The young men of color slept on the top bunks. A rough equality worked in this atmosphere. Chores for keeping the bunkhouse cleaned and warm were divided up. Shaving times also were specified; otherwise every man would be bumping another to stand in front of the mirror and scrape. Not that Mr. Finney forbade beards. He forbade sloppiness. If you were clean shaven, good. If you had a beard, tidy it up. The men’s clothing was washed and ironed, depending on the item, by the women workers. Mr. Finney loathed any form of what he deemed “unkempt.” This progressed to “bloody unkempt.”

  Mr. Finney, late forties, was a hard man but a fair one. He proved generous at Christmas and encouraged his “boys” to embrace the One True Faith. But if a worker did not become a Catholic, he forgave them. Mr. Finney, although devout, thought religion the cause of endless unrest, that and stupidity, which never seemed in short supply.

  Maryland, founded by Catholics, pleased Mr. Finney. Although the Catholic Church fostered slavery, it being mentioned many times by the Bible, Mr. Finney did not. A small but influential number of landowners questioned the practice.

  Ralston, quiet, walked to the fireplace to sit and warm up a bit.

  An older man, Sean, walked to sit beside him. “Snow, I think.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ralston addressed older men as “sir.”

  Sean offered Ralston a puff on his pipe, which the young man gratefully took.

  “Eases the mind.” Sean took his old pipe back.

  “Does.”

  Slowly warmth crept into Ralston’s bones. “Cuts to the bone that wind.”

  Sean nodded. “We’re close to the big river. Always raw near a river. Don’t guess you were raised near a big river.”

  “No, sir. Lot of strong running creeks, though.”

  “M-m-m.” The older man took a deep drag, offered his pipe once more to Ralston, then took it back. “Boy, you keep on. Good hand with a horse. Don’t pay that other boy no mind.”

  He was referring to William, who had earned the dislike of most of the men thanks to his bragging. The women loathed him because he had knocked around Sulli. William could have cared less about her but she kept him warm at night. She slept with him whenever he demanded it. The two of them lived in a cabin at a distance from the last stable. Had its own pump, which saved steps.

  Ralston loved Sulli. She said she loved him, too, but if William ever found them together he’d kill them both. She swore this after they slept together the first time after William had knocked her around and left her for a few hours.

  Ralston looked at the medium-built man, heavy muscles, bright blue eyes, light brown hair, and a lilting Irish accent. “Thank you, sir.”

  Sean stood up, put his hand on Ralston’s shoulder, then walked to his bunk near the fireplace, where he’d sleep well.

  Sitting there, Ralston thought about the people at Cloverfields. They were all he knew. He did not miss his mother or his father. All they did was tell him what to do and how to do it. Sometimes he missed Barker O, the powerfully built stable manager. Sometimes he even missed Catherine. She knew horses. He’d observe. He felt he would never see any of those people again. Fine. Apart from William, whom he now hated, he also didn’t much care for Jeddie Rice, a far better rider than himself. The young women had spurned him, which infuriated him. Well, he was free. They weren’t.

  He put two more heavy logs on the fire, walked to his bunk in the rear, disrobed, climbed up the ladder attached to the beds, and crawled under the blankets, old wool blankets, but they kept him warm. He fell asleep immediately.

  * * *

  —

  Down in Richmond, staying in an Ordinary, the weather there being ugly, too, sat the two men looking for William and Sulli. They knew a third slave had escaped but he didn’t belong to Maureen Selisse Holloway. That didn’t mean they couldn’t trap him, too.

  Once hired with the tantalizing carrot of a $500-apiece bonus if they found the escaped slaves, they rode on a mail carriage, cheaper and they knew the driver. Reaching Richmond in three days, lots of stops, they walked to the tobacco warehouses, the lower James River. Speaking to the captains of the various boats, they left papers with drawings of William and Sulli, as well as physical descriptions of each and a listing of their skills.

  No one had seen them, and as the captains all knew information on the slaves would have earned a tip, both Martin and Shank believed them.

  Sitting at a rough table, they listened to the wind outside. Although farther south, it proved as cold as up in Maryland. The whole mid-Atlantic was hosting the beginning of the first winter storm.

  “I still say they made it to Philadelphia. Place is crawling with runaways.” Martin held a hot whiskey in a glass with his left hand; his right held a biscuit.

  “Money. Costs money to get up there,” the thinner Shank responded.

  “They stole some jewelry.”

  “Not enough.”

  “What if the girl had filched that pearl and diamond necklace Mrs. Holloway kept blabbering about? You know, took it and hid it.”

  Martin half smiled. “Two young kids, slaves, people would know that they would never be able to get away with that much money. A necklace like that would tip the whole thing off. They’d be dead, I think.”

  “She did froth at the mouth about that necklace. She smelled of money.”

  “And French perfume.�
�� Martin drank some whiskey. “They’re on foot. Probably tucked up somewhere or even working. Unless they found a ride or had enough to pay for one, they aren’t in Philadelphia. Might be on their way.”

  “Goddamned Quakers.” Shank grimaced.

  “Hey, they’re doing us a favor. Lots of runaway slaves up there.” Martin nodded.

  “The trouble with Quakers is they won’t tell us the truth, even for some of the reward Mrs. Holloway is offering.”

  “Now Shank, not everyone in Philadelphia is a Quaker and I expect even a Quaker can be bought if the price is right.”

  “Ha.” The thought made the thinner man happy. “I say we head north and at every river crossing find the ferrymen. Never know but if those two are up north, they had to get across the Rappahannock; if they swung west, then they had to cross the Potomac. There are only so many ferries. If nothing turns up, then we head up to the Susquehanna. Sooner or later someone will remember.”

  “Not that I’m complaining, but those two brats don’t seem worth the reward. A person with real skill, yes. But they are shy of twenty. Wet behind the ears. No real skills.”

  “Mrs. Holloway’s a hard woman.”

  Martin thought, listened to a shutter still fastened wobble against the wind, rapping short taps on the building. “Maybe that’s the answer. If and when we drag those two back, she’ll make an example out of them. Scare the hell out of all the others. She won’t kill them but I bet she’ll come damn close.”

  “If she is paying all this money to find them, she isn’t going to kill them,” Shank sensibly said.

  “Well, back to business. Everyone has his price.”

  Neither man could know that Maureen Selisse’s right-hand woman, Sheba, had worn her necklace and earrings when Maureen would go on a long trip. In France, at a convent school sent by her Caribbean father, Maureen, very pretty, learned about fashion, saw spectacular jewelry on Countesses, Duchesses, and Princesses. Once married to Francisco Selisse, she expected great jewels and received them. Given his incessant infidelities, it seemed a fair trade to Francisco.