Furmidable Foes

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Yes, it does.” They walked behind the big house, still imposing without the wings. “When you see how people lived then, whatever their station, you realize how spoiled we are.” He laughed again. “We walk into a room and flick a switch. We open a refrigerator, food. We turn up or down the thermostat and if the house is high tech, the thermostat takes care of itself. Anyone living then would think we live in paradise today.” He paused. “When I visited Belvoir, where the castle was originally built in the 1180s, I think, and rebuilt twice since then, that’s when I really grasped how young we are. Kind of overwhelming.”

  “Yes, it is.” Susan agreed, then stopped. “The stone quarters are so symmetrical.”

  “They had clear ideas about practicality and beauty. It’s simple. Again, it reminds me of how young we are as a nation, the simplicity.” Harry wondered, “Don’t you think simple is better?”

  “For us, yes. But even one hundred years from now people will look backwards. We’ll probably seem a bit primitive.” He stopped. “Here’s the end of the more organized planning.” He swept his hand outward. “From here just native species.”

  Both Harry and Susan stared at the expanse, then considered the amount of study and work that had gone into bringing Montpelier back to life.

  “Incredible!” Susan exclaimed. “Beautiful.”

  Carlton Sweeny had proved an engaging guide, a young man who knew his stuff and loved his work. By the time the two dear friends drove back down to Crozet, their heads were stuffed full of facts, future plans, and new tips on how to maintain plant health.

  “You know, I now realize I’ve been cutting back my hydrangeas too early,” Harry said.

  “An enthusiastic young man. It’s one of the things Ned and I talk about, how many young people should study forestry, agriculture, horticulture. Critical areas. So many who go to college are focused on money. Someone needs to talk to them about a lifetime of fulfillment. I’m not sure pots of money are as fulfilling as what Carlton does.”

  “Well, Susan, your two kids made the right choices. But I know what you mean. Seems like everyone wants to start a computer something, be a lawyer, or be a doctor.” She turned her head as they passed the drive into the GE Building north of Charlottesville. “Speaking of going into business.”

  “The pendulum swings. Always will. Can GE recover its position? I don’t know. The mantra that companies are too big to fail is so much bull, you know?”

  “I do.” Harry agreed. “But think about it. Including you and me, most Americans have never known want, violence, or savage repression. Is repression still with us? Of course, but not anything like what our grandparents observed or experienced. My worry is we’re soft. Everyone thinks that life will always be easy, at least so far as the basic needs are concerned.”

  “Ease can often lead to bad decisions. Ned, a man who has never known want, tells me what really goes on in Richmond. Being a delegate has opened his eyes. He talks about the hidden poverty in Virginia. Is this a comfortable state? Sure, for most of us, but there are people here who have never seen a dentist.”

  “Good Lord.” Harry inhaled.

  “Speaking of how hard life can be, you know people lived up near the ridge behind your house. Not a lot, but families lived all along the Blue Ridge until the 1930s.”

  “FDR removed all of them to make the Skyline Drive, the Parkway. Cruel, really.”

  “You and I haven’t been up there since fall. Let’s go check the timber. Especially the hardwoods.”

  “Sure.”

  10

  November 28, 1787

  Wednesday

  Tidbit, a light chestnut mare, nickered when Ralston entered the stable. He adjusted her blanket, rubbed her ears, and put out fresh hay for her, as he did for the other six mares in the eight-stall stable. The one empty stall gave a tiny bit of relief. Caring for horses in the cold took longer. One’s hands froze; buckets of water spilled on one’s legs and shoes. Ralston stuffed his gloves in his pocket. He preferred mares. For whatever reason, they seemed to like him.

  Ard came into the stable, the packed earth crunching underfoot. “Good?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hands jammed in his pockets. “Why don’t you sleep in the stable tonight? I’ll have one of the boys bring wood and start the stove. It’s better sleeping in here than the bunk room. Keep an eye on the girls.”

  Ralston nodded. “Is. No one snores in here but the horses.”

  Ard laughed. “Mr. Finney’s wrapped up in his guests from Baltimore. Ship captain and his wife. Quite a peach, I’d say. A pretty girl lightens your heart. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my missus. A good woman. But I do like to look at the young pretty ones.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ralston smiled. “Anything special you’d like me to do with the mares?”

  “No. They’re in for the night. Going to be a cold one. They’ll be happy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Finney says Baltimore is growing. The port brings in goods, people. I suspect he’s thinking about investing in a ship or cargo.” He shook his head. “Not me. Worst time of my life coming over the water. I’ll never go back.” His face softened. “I’ll never see my mother. If she could see me now.” He smiled. “Royal Oak is grand.”

  “It is. Mr. Finney built a beautiful place. The stables have everything.”

  “That they do.” Ard walked down the aisle and returned, opened the door to the tack room. “Personally I think every stable should have a man sleeping in a tack room or stall. I bring it up, but Mr. Finney says the boys like living together. Do you?”

  “Ah.”

  “Ralston, I’m not a snitch.”

  “No, sir. I like being alone.”

  “Is your mother still alive?”

  He paused again. “Yes, sir, but we never got along. I’m happier on my own.”

  “Yes.” Ard liked the young man, curious about him for he was so closemouthed. “You and William are like chalk and cheese.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did you travel with him?” Ard knew better than to say “run away,” but that was obvious.

  “Well, he promised all manner of things.” Ralston took a breath. “Most of which was bull, but not finding Royal Oak”—a long pause—“a good thing. Good horses.”

  “I like you, Ralston. You’re a good hand with a horse, a good rider, and you keep your mouth shut. William talks against you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No one much listens. I’ll give him credit—he has courage on a horse. But he beats the hell out of his woman. She’s a sweet thing.”

  Ralston felt his face burn. “Mr. Elgin, no man should hit a woman.”

  “Oh, I agree. But as my sainted father used to say, ‘A woman can pluck your last nerve.’ Carried away by coughing, he was. Well, I’ll get the wood over.”

  Ard started for the door, which he had closed against the cold, wet wind. “Ralston”—he stopped—“I’ve seen you look at Sulli and I’ve seen her look at you. Watch your back, boy, watch your back.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Ard lifted his hand, then opened the door, closing it quickly.

  Ralston checked each stall, his face still burning.

  Two hours later, the night clear, the stars cold like brilliant chunks of ice, Ralston mended a pair of broken reins sitting by the potbellied stove. He heard the outer doors open and close. He didn’t move.

  A light knock on the tack-room door, then Sulli’s voice. “Ralston.”

  He put down the reins, vaulted to the door, opening it. “How’d you get away?”

  “William’s drunk. The boys found or bought liquor somewhere. Passed out.”

  Ralston wrapped his arms around her, kissing her. “I can’t live without you, baby.”

  Sulli kissed him back
. She had no answer but she felt the same way. They took off each other’s clothes, going to the firm straw pallet, covered with a thick blanket on the bottom and one on the top. With the stove crackling away, the room kept them warm as they kept each other warm.

  Afterward, she rested her head on his shoulder. “I have to go back. He’ll wake up from his stupor eventually.”

  “I know. Been drinking a lot?”

  “When he can get it.”

  “M-m-m.” Ralston sighed. “At least he hasn’t been beating you lately.”

  “No. But he nags at me. I wish he hadn’t told Ard we were married. I can’t get away from him.”

  He nodded, stroking her hair—she’d braided it tightly. He thought she looked like a queen. “Sulli, we’ll figure something out.”

  “He’ll never let me go. He doesn’t love me. He uses me.”

  “If he won’t let you go, then I’ll have to kill him. And if he lifts a hand to you again, I will kill him any way I can.”

  “You can’t go killing people. Someone will tell, you know? We’re free now. Won’t be free for long if you commit a murder.”

  “I’ll find a way.”

  11

  November 29, 1787

  Thursday

  “I think of the mountains as feminine.” Ewing swung out his gold-topped cane as he and Catherine walked west on the east-west farm road, one of his favorite walks. “The curves, the hollows filled with ground clouds like froth. Your mother loved the mountains.”

  “They certainly put things in perspective.” His beautiful older daughter, at twenty-four, agreed. “More snow. Look at the clouds backing up behind the spine.”

  “Winter. Ah well, Mother Nature keeps her own calendar. You know, my dear, it started early this year. The fall color painted the trees in what, early October?” He walked more briskly. “I have not heard anything from our friends in France.”

  “Perhaps no news is good news, Father.”

  A long sigh met this common expression. “Not this time. Baron Necker usually writes me once a month and I him. And those to whom we send tobacco, always a much-awaited crop, but I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Well, if Europe once again went to war, we would know.”

  “Oh, I think this is the calm before the storm. Remember the line from Tom Paine’s Common Sense? Where he declared if God believed in absolute monarchy, would he have given people an ass for a lion?”

  Catherine laughed. “True. You know, when you insisted that Rachel and I read pamphlets and such, Rachel was bored. I liked it as much as I could at twelve. Those readings made me think.”

  “Your sister possesses your mother’s artistic impulses. But when I would ask her questions, she did answer with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.” He smiled.

  “Let us say the French imitate us—not that they would admit it—but let’s say they, too, threw off a king’s yoke. I do not believe it will make one bit of difference. Feudalism runs in their blood, no matter how they dress it up.”

  “Ah.” He thought about this, happy to be in his daughter’s presence. “So there must always be a king or a queen or some sort of solitary leader, like Cromwell perhaps?”

  “Yes. Now, you have visited those countries. I have not. I defer to you, Father, but then I usually do. You are one of the wisest men I know.”

  “Oh tosh.” He loved it. “When your grandfather packed me off on my Continental tour plus England, Scotland, and even Ireland, I was overwhelmed by the architecture, the art, the dress, the wealth. Then I realized this is wealth accrued for centuries and often on the back of serfs who became servants. That is the way of the world. There will always be people on the bottom.”

  “Yes.”

  “But my dear, I met such intelligent, educated people like Baron Necker, both of us young men. And yet”—he paused—“and yet I knew I was a new man, a different kind of man, a man from the New World. I was young, perhaps a bit full of myself.”

  “Father, that’s not your way.”

  “Well, you flatter me, but I was in their countries and I did it their way, but I thought it all rather suffocating, this essentially pulling one’s forelock when meeting one’s so-called betters. You know, I am glad your sister married an Englishman, a highborn Englishman. Who knows better than Charles what we have to offer?”

  “He has often said had he remained in England, he would have been expected to marry, not for love, but to replenish the family’s fortunes as his older brother, Hugh, who inherited the title, had to do. I cannot imagine not marrying the man I love. John is not a reader; he’s a doer. Lafayette saw that.”

  “Your husband is a brave man. I think too much bookwork is not always the answer.”

  “Then why did you make Rachel and me endure those tutors?” She teased him.

  He looked at the ground, then up at her. “Sometimes you can be sly as a fox.”

  “Where do you think I learned?”

  He laughed, wiping his nose with a kerchief. It had begun to run in the cold. “Catherine, you and your sister lighten my heart. I forget to tell you how much you mean to me and I fear sometimes I forgot to tell your mother. One of the reasons I accomplished what I have is due to her wisdom.”

  “She loved you. She would always tell Rachel and me that she hoped we would find a man as good as you.”

  “I worshipped the ground she walked upon. Isabelle could see things I could not. I once asked her if she felt overshadowed, pushed aside because when we men would talk about the troubles, about should we break with the King, of course, she would leave the room. She said something that stuck with me. ‘I can get more done when no one notices.’ And she did.”

  “If the women, the wives and the daughters, had not supported the cause, I don’t think we would be free of the King. And yet, I wonder. You know, Father, how we women have been told we are citadels of virtue, the civilizing force.”

  “I believe it. I believe men without women descend into brutality.”

  “Then how do we explain the brutality of Maureen Selisse?”

  A snowflake twirled down. Ewing peered at the western sky, darkening. “Let us turn for home, my dear. Maureen, I have no idea. Cruelty seems to be her byword.”

  “She’s beating slaves again for the merest infraction. Bettina told me and DoRe told her. She pretends this is the overseer’s idea, but she’s determined to find Sheba and her magnificent necklace. Jeffrey put a stop to it but she continues behind his back.”

  “Those two deserved each other, Sheba and Maureen.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but it does appear that Sheba outwitted her. The necklace and earrings are worth a fortune.” Catherine slipped her arm through her father’s.

  “She’s been gone for a year, since October last year. Given the jewelry, her command of French, I assumed she returned to the Caribbean or went to France or perhaps even Quebec. Sheba is cunning,” he said.

  “You would think we would have heard something. She possessed something of such value, worth more money than most men make in a lifetime,” Catherine wondered.

  “It’s possible she has taken up with a rich man. I often wondered if she didn’t dally with Francisco, but then I thought no, she had Maureen in her power. She wouldn’t risk it. He could be a brute, too, I fear.”

  Catherine added, “I heard that Jeffrey built a fancy woodshed over the graves of Sheba’s mother and two brothers. Packed the earth down and even built a floor over it. No record of anything to do with Sheba or her people.”

  He waved his hand. “The dead can’t hurt you.”

  Catherine leaned on him slightly. “I don’t know about that.”

  12

  June 1, 2019

  Saturday

  “How many stops is she going to make?” Pewter complained. “The back of the Volvo is full of plants. What if
I wanted to sit back there and look out the big window?”

  “You never want to sit back there. You always want to be in the passenger seat.” Tucker rested her chin on her front paws, which poked into Pirate’s rear.

  As the Irish wolfhound puppy grew, Tucker refused to scrunch up, so the corgi would lie next to the big dog, push her legs into Pirate’s sides, or simply flop on top of that deep gray coat. Pirate never minded, but then Pirate hadn’t a clue as to how big he was becoming.

  As it was, the fat gray cat commandeered the front passenger seat with Mrs. Murphy squeezed next to her.

  “Everyone okay back there?” Harry glanced in her rearview mirror.

  “Yes,” the two dogs answered.

  Harry pulled into the ABC store, the state liquor store. Virginia swept up a lot of income from these state stores but they were not inspirational in their choice of alcohol. However, the bourbon, whiskey, and scotch were pretty good. Still. Harry, oblivious to booze anyway, put the car in park and left the windows open, for the late afternoon air was pleasant.

  Both cats strained to see what Harry was up to since this was not one of the usual destinations.

  Twenty minutes later, accompanied by a portly man in an apron, Harry rolled out a cart, as did he. She clicked her key fob and the back door clicked open.

  Lifting it up, Harry ordered in no uncertain terms, “Nobody move.” She turned to the middle-aged man. “We can put it here. There’s room. Doesn’t look like it as I picked up azaleas, but I know we can.”

  With care the two put in twelve huge bottles of cheap gin. Harry thanked him, tipped him, got behind the driver’s seat, fired the motor. Singing “Beautiful Savior,” she drove to St. Luke’s.

  Why she chose a hymn was anybody’s guess, but she carefully drove the station wagon to the back, parking on the side of the road by the second quad.

  “All right. Behave yourselves.”

  Potting soil, a small spade, plus a few handheld gardening tools were unloaded first. These she carried to the shrubs around the lower quad. Returning, she carried the azalea pots one by one. Harry was on an azalea tear. She placed these strategically in front of the peonies, some of which miraculously still luxuriated in full bloom. They were late bloomers; Harry could tap blooming dates. Of course, she read the information on tags. Having plants continue to bloom so there’s always something of interest open tests any gardener. Having played on these grounds since childhood, she knew St. Luke’s peculiarities with soil, shade, and wind.