by Laura Frantz
But no one wrote. Not Ma, not Pa, not Susanna. Not even Ma Horn. Lydia Darrah felt so sorry for Lael she shared her own letters. Soon it became a game in their attic room, the six of them circulating mail and discussing the lives of family and friends. Lydia. Sophie. Euphemia. Molly. Esther Ann. Lael fed them tidbits about her frontier life to make up for her lack of letters.
“You should write a book,” Lydia told her. “You make up quite the best stories I’ve ever heard.”
Molly lit a candle, defying their bedtime curfew. “Tell us again about Captain Jack. Did you say he has green eyes? How queer that he’s lived as an Indian for so long but can still speak English!”
“Show me the blue beads,” Esther Ann begged. “Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”
Somehow, sharing her past kept it as near and dear as the beads in her pocket. Yet spilling her secrets seemed also to tarnish them and make them less sacred. As the days passed she grew quieter. Practicing her penmanship, she composed copious letters to Susanna that were never mailed, detailing her melancholy. When she partnered with her dancing master, she pretended he was Simon. Playing pall mall on Briar Hill’s expansive lawn, she purposefully hit her ball through the wickets far into the park of trees, just so she could pretend she was in the woods again, with Captain Jack at her heels.
Despite her daydreaming, she excelled in every subject except the art of fancy needlework. While the other girls embroidered and tatted lace, Lael sewed shirts for the Continental Army and kept abreast of the war. General Washington had just established West Point as his official headquarters, and the long-awaited French fleet was now lying at anchor off Sandy Hook in Delaware. But she read that Washington was already growing weary of French officers who acted in a condescending manner toward him and his men.
Despite the war, a late-summer dance was to be held at Briar Hill. Lael marveled at the gowns the girls had brought with them for just such an occasion. Her apple-green dress, now too short and too snug, was sorely lacking.
“Lael, you must wear one of my gowns,” Lydia told her, throwing open one of her trunks to reveal a rainbow of fine fabric and lace. But Miss Mayella had other ideas, and a seamstress was called in from nearby Williamsburg.
“Your father has generously provided funds for a new gown,” Miss Mayella explained with a smile. “A girl’s first ball is an extraordinary event. You do want to attend, don’t you?”
Lael looked pained. “I—no.” Would no forever nettle her tongue? A simple, settlement nay was what she longed to say. “I have no heart for it.”
Miss Mayella gestured for Lael to sit down with her in a deep window seat that overlooked the sea. “You have been here four months, Lael. What would you rather I tell your father? That you are learning and growing and making him proud, or so homesick he will have to come and get you? I must give him honest answers.”
Lael sighed. “Pa was wrong to bring me here.”
Miss Mayella’s mouth set in a soft line. “I don’t think so, Lael. There is a purpose in everything, so Scripture says. ‘A time to be born, a time to die. A time to laugh, a time to mourn.’ Even, I think, a time to be a lady.”
Her face turned entreating. “How long will it take? To make me a lady, I mean?”
Miss Mayella looked like she might laugh. “That, my dear, is entirely up to you.”
Lael looked down at her hands, her long fingers no longer tanned by the sun, her callused palms softening. All the wilderness was slowly seeping out of her. If she hurried the process, might Pa not fetch her sooner? If she dallied, he might let her linger.
She decided a Briar Hill ball might be at least as interesting as a fiddle on the fort common, and when the day came, she no longer felt like a crow among cardinals, smothered as she was from head to toe in rose silk. Standing beneath crystal chandeliers, the heat of a hundred candles turned her face the color of her gown.
“Why, Lael!” Miss Mayella had exclaimed. “You look positively regal.”
Regal. Another word for too tall, she reckoned. Yards of silk, the color of the cabin’s roses, framed her bare shoulders and cinched her waist before flowing to the floor in a cascade of white lace. Delicate ruffled sleeves left off where snug, white gloves began. A lady with ill-fitting gloves cannot be well dressed.
Aside from her too-tight shoes, a painted fan finished her toilette and had a language all its own. Turning her eyes on the Twin Oaks gentleman in evening dress across the crowded ballroom, Lael slowly twirled her fan in her right hand, meaning I love another. Next she brought the fan to rest over her left ear. I wish to be rid of you. Finally she pressed it to her left cheek. No, thank you. Would the men understand this unspoken communication? Around her, Lydia and Esther Ann fluttered their fans as well, but flirtatiously.
’Twas a good night to run off, she decided. She wouldn’t be missed in the press of people. A full moon beckoned off the ballroom’s veranda. Just beyond, the sea was a bewitching silver. She slipped outside. The great oaks and elms on Briar Hill’s lawn were as dark and forbidding as the frontier forest but smelled more of the ocean than the wilderness.
“Would you care to dance?”
She spun, startled, and faced a boy—a man?—nearly as tall as Simon, though his hair was as fair as her own. Her silk skirts settled, and she raised her fan to touch her left cheek in refusal. He waited, the perfect gentleman, as she fought a furious battle, all her wilderness ways rebelling against the lady she was fast becoming.
His outstretched hand seemed a bridge to her new life at Briar Hill. Once crossed, she would turn her back on her beloved wilderness, on her girlhood and all she held most dear. No longer would she be simply Lael Catherine Click of Kentucke, but Miss Lael of Briar Hill.
Truly, what choice did she have?
Reluctantly, she placed her gloved hand in his and felt his fingers tighten around hers, leading her back into the crowded, candlelit ballroom.
Help me, Lord. Help me get home.
It was the first prayer she’d prayed in a long time, for she felt the Almighty had failed to hear her thus far. Perhaps, she decided, God would rather listen to the prayers of a lady. He didn’t seem to hear the ones of a homesick settlement girl torn between the savage and the civilized.
“Lael? Where are you?” Lydia Darrah’s voice seemed to echo off the stone portico, her tone a trifle exasperated. “It’s your birthday—what are you doing out here alone?”
“Enjoying turning seventeen,” Lael replied, the stone bench beneath her warm and inviting. Hemmed in by a flurry of blossoming lilacs, she was nearly concealed in her painted silk gown, for it was the same shade as the heady, fragrant flowers. She nearly laughed as Lydia—dear, near-sighted Lydia—crisscrossed the lawn looking for her.
“I’ve brought you a surprise,” she said, ducking into the lilac bower to sit beside her. “But you’ll have to read it aloud to me, as I’ve forgotten my spectacles.”
Sitting shoulder to shoulder with Lael in the spring sun, Lydia passed Lael the latest issue of the Virginia Gazette. Looking down, Lael scanned the front page, eyes lighting on a boldly printed column bearing a beloved name. For a moment her smile nearly slipped, but she kept it in place for Lydia’s sake. Still, it hurt her to hear about Pa this way, secondhand, seemingly a continent away.
“Well, go on,” Lydia urged.
Lael scanned the newsprint. “My father is surveying near the Falls of the Ohio with George Rogers Clark, so this says. And settling disputes over land claims.” She couldn’t say more for the lump in her throat, relieved when Lydia took back the paper.
“Rather dry reading this time,” Lydia said. “I much prefer reports of his exploits in Missouri territory or treating with Indians.”
Lael turned thoughtful eyes on the trimmed lawn that rolled in gentle Virginia fashion to a fringe of sand that seemed to hold back a wealth of blue water. Today—her birthday—the Atlantic curled and foamed just as it had every spring, with an awesome familiarity that nearly eclipsed the
memory of Kentucke altogether.
She’d come out here today to hide among the lilacs, shutting her eyes against all the refinement and elegance and ease surrounding her, willing every hazy detail of her home place to come back to her. Three years she’d been here, and the hollow feeling in her heart told her she’d likely be here three years hence.
“Any letters lately?” Lydia asked, tucking the newspaper out of sight.
“None from Kentucke,” Lael answered. “Just a note from Esther Ann in Philadelphia.”
“Announcing her debut, I suppose.”
“Aye—yes. She’s become a bonafide colonial belle.”
Lydia leaned over the bench and took in Lael’s slim bare feet. “You might be a belle too if you’d wear some shoes!”
They laughed, and Lael tucked her toes out of sight. “’Tis my last holdout against civilized life. Look at the rest of me. I fairly shine with refinement. My bare feet simply remind me of who I really am.”
Lydia’s smile turned pensive, and she tucked a strand of russet hair into her carefully pinned chignon. “What’s to become of us, Lael? Now that Euphemia has returned to England and Molly and Sophie have married, we’re the oldest ones here. And Miss Mayella has turned us into student teachers, like it or not.”
“Not,” Lael said, smoothing her shiny skirts. “But at least we’re out of indigo and those awful pressed collars and cuffs.”
“Sometimes I think we’ll always be here, till we turn gray . . . hobbling about these old halls with canes—”
“Nay!” The forbidden word burst forth with such unladylike force that Lydia drew back. Lael was instantly sorry and gave Lydia’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “The war won’t last forever, you know, and your father will finish fighting and take you home.”
“If we Americans win the war, you mean. You forget what will happen if England triumphs. My father and every other Continental officer will be tried for treason.”
Lael shook her head, thinking of all the recent reports she’d heard and read. “Our side seems to be winning.”
“This week, anyway,” Lydia mused, reaching out to pluck a lilac. Bringing it to her nose, she said, “Enough melancholy talk. There’s to be a ball tomorrow night. What will you wear?”
“My royal purple sacque dress,” Lael said with a winsome smile. “And my two bare feet.”
“That seems rather dangerous given all your partners.”
“Thankfully they’re not all toe steppers, though they do tend to be shorter than I am. And it’s not me they’re interested in but my father’s exploits, same as you.” She bit her lip and said quietly, “I’ll take a long-legged frontiersman any day.”
Lydia studied her thoughtfully, as if all too aware of the heartache beneath her simple words. “Sadly, you’ll not find any frontiersmen around here.”
And that, Lael lamented, was her principal complaint about Briar Hill.
The tea room on Lee Alley was just beyond the gates of Briar Hill, and Lael fled to it as often as she could. Sometimes she would sit alone at a tiny linen-draped table, a wide window before her, admiring the fine thistle pattern on the exquisite English china, if not the owner’s Tory leanings. Occasionally Lydia would join her, and they’d talk of anything but lessons and pupils and finishing-school rules.
Today, as autumn transformed the world outside the shop window with a windblown assortment of scarlet and gold leaves, they huddled over their steaming cups, breathing in the scent of Egyptian chamomile and oranges and a host of other exotic things.
“I’ve heard the ‘queen’ is about to issue a new edict,” Lydia told her in hushed tones.
A wry smile pulled at Lael’s face. “Banning us from Tory tea shops? I’d heard the same.”
“She’s a hard headmistress. I’ve often thought how well she fits her name.”
Lael toyed with a silver sugar spoon absently. Truly, Alexandra Ice presided over Briar Hill with the cold formality of a queen. And it was this that had finally goaded Lael into action. She gave Lydia an apologetic look, feeling the need to tell her first. “Perhaps now’s a good time to reveal I’m planning to leave this place.”
A flash of concern darkened Lydia’s face and nearly made Lael wish she’d not said the words. “Has your father sent word he’s coming for you?”
“Nay. I sometimes think he never will, so I’m taking matters into my own hands.”
“When?”
“Not now. Next spring.”
“I’m glad of that. But Kentucke? You’re hardly the sturdy frontier girl who came here four years ago. You’ve grown soft, as you’ve said yourself.”
“Aye, and I’ll grow even softer if I stay.” Lael leaned back in her chair, knowing her news wasn’t welcome and wanting to take away the sudden sadness in her friend’s eyes. “With the war nearly won, you’ll be leaving too.”
But instead of bubbling over with enthusiasm at what lay ahead, Lydia reached up and rubbed her temples with gloved hands. The unusual gesture pinched Lael with alarm, and she noticed Lydia’s high color. “Lydia, are you unwell?”
Lydia looked down at her unfinished tea, her shoulders lifting in a little shrug beneath her scarlet cape. “Just a headache.”
“I’ll ask Mrs. Moss for some thyme tea then.” Rising, Lael started to turn away, but Lydia caught her arm. “Just help me back to Briar Hill. Perhaps if I lie down . . .”
The odor of camphor and the oil from cupping lamps reached Lael as she stood in the hall outside the room she shared with Lydia. As she watched the doctors—dark, dour men suffused with their own self-importance—hover over her friend as she lay on her bed, she felt a terrible disquiet.
Could Miss Mayella sense her agitation? Surely so, for she reached out and squeezed her arm as they waited, saying, “Dr. Clary will bleed her to restore the body’s balance, and all should be well.”
At this, a cold hand seemed to clutch Lael’s heart. “But Lydia’s afraid of bloodletting—”
“Lael, please.” The pale, composed lines of Miss Mayella’s face tensed. “She’s passed into unconsciousness. Besides, the doctors know how to best treat such a fever.”
Did they? Lael’s eyes fastened on the lancet Dr. Clary held. Why were his hands shaking? Was he addicted to drink like the last physician who’d come? The assortment of brass scarificators and bronze cups gleamed harshly in the lamplight, and she turned her back in silent protest.
Unbidden, the hazy image of Ma Horn sprang to mind. Bloodletting was against nature, she’d often said with vigor. Such a practice caused more misery than it relieved, and Lael had shared this with Lydia. Besides, Lydia had a terrible fear of worms and spiders and snakes.
Oh Lord, please don’t let her come awake.
The bloodsucking leeches were applied nearly round the clock, but blessedly, Lydia remained lost in the fever’s delirium. Lael sensed that she was more ill than they’d let on, and the following hours only confirmed this as her fever climbed higher.
Looking on, Lael wondered what cruel twist of fate kept her friend’s father on some far battlefield while his only daughter lay dying.
At last, Lydia’s next of kin, an aunt in Williamsburg, was sent for.
When she wasn’t teaching, Lael stood by helplessly in the hall, wanting to shout at the doctors to take their cupping sets and get out. What Lydia needed most was a healer like Ma Horn, who’d break the fever with boneset and cold cloths and kind words. The thought brought about such a crushing wave of homesickness that Lael rushed to the window of her empty classroom in a near panic and considered leaving before winter set in.
Leaning her forehead against the chill glass, she weighed what she would need to travel four hundred miles through still-hostile wilderness. A horse. A gun and powder and lead. Flint and steel to start a fire. Enough warm clothes and provisions to take her there. She’d be fighting the elements all the way now that winter neared. And Lydia—she couldn’t leave Lydia till she got well or . . .
In a week’s time, L
ydia was whisked away to convalesce with her Williamsburg relatives, who announced she would not be returning to school. Her teaching responsibilities were given to Lael, who felt the weight of them settle over her and shackle her to Briar Hill in new ways. As the autumn days grew darker, the panic that had settled over Lael upon Lydia’s leaving returned with chilling regularity.
Oh Pa, where are you? Will I ever see you or Kentucke again?
22
Briar Hill, Virginia, 1783
The high-ceilinged room was filled with the cold light of early spring, not unlike that spring five years past when Lael and her father first set foot on Briar Hill. Alexandra Ice presided over the small gathering in a black satin gown with pearls draped like rope about her wrinkled neck. She looked, Lael thought again, like a queen. Dark and dour, she’d said little thus far, but her eyes, needle sharp, roamed the room as if ferreting out the slightest infraction.
Miss Mayella was present, as were all Lael’s instructors. Each wore the characteristic dark silk and lace except Lael. She was dressed in a traveling suit of fine black cloth with fifty faux-pearl buttons from collar to hem. In her hands she held a straw hat, the only hint of color allowed her. Its lavender feather fluttered softly in a draft as she set it atop her lap.
“First, I want to offer my condolences regarding your great loss,” the headmistress began. “You have been an exceptional student and assistant teacher. Your father would have been proud.”
The letter bearing the black wax seal, with its news of Pa’s fate, lay in her pocket alongside the blue beads. Lael sat very still, her eyes on the wide oaks just beyond the narrow windows, their vivid greenness heralding spring despite the sudden cold. Dogwood winter, she mused for a moment, her concentration slipping. The dogwoods were blooming now from cabin to river, and if she hurried she might just see the last of their showy splendor . . .
“I think I speak for all of us when I ask you to reconsider your rather rash decision to leave us. We are in need of another instructor at Briar Hill.”