by P. N. Elrod
“They?” asked Father.
“Anne wrote that she was not traveling alone, as it’s much too dangerous. I expect she’ll have some servants with her. My other cousins are choosing to remain in the city.”
Thanks be to God for His mercy, I thought.
“I don’t want her to think that we’re a tribe of uncivilized savages. All will have to be in readiness for her arrival, including getting rid of those soldiers.” She made them sound no more threatening than an inconveniently placed wasp nest to be smoked out by one of the groundsmen. “I won’t have them running about as though they owned the place. What would people think?”
“For a woman with such keen concern over the opinions of others, one would hope she’d have an equal regard for those of her own family,” I later confided to Elizabeth when everyone had gone.
“Oh, bother it, Jonathan. The woman has no regard for anyone but herself.” Elizabeth had taken her favorite chair near the settee. She’d found a piece of string somewhere and curled and uncurled it around her fingers.
“The woman?”
Elizabeth paused to wearily rub the back of her neck. “I’ll call her ‘Mother’ to her face, but don’t expect me to maintain any pretense in private. She’s no mother to me beyond the fact that I lived in her womb for some months before finally escaping.”
“Good God!”
“No need to be so shocked, little brother, for have you not had the same thoughts yourself? I see that you have.”
“Perhaps not so crudely put—”
“I know and I’m sorry, but that woman angers me so. Were a stranger on the lane to treat me as she does, I’d have nothing more to do with her, yet we have to put up with it day after day after day, and it’s far more dreadful for poor Father.” She twined the string around one finger tightly, turning the unadorned remainder red from the constriction.
“At least he’s able to find solace with Mrs. Montagu. I think that’s why he proposed an early card game.”
“Yes, get the evening’s torture out of the way so he’s free to leave. I’m glad he has Mrs. Montagu; she must be of considerable comfort to him. I wish she could be our mother instead. In a way she was for all those years that that woman lived away from us. But she’s Father’s solace, not ours. I wish I could find some for myself.” She unwrapped her finger and studied the ridges the string had impressed into her flesh.
“What do you mean? Take a lover?”
“Take a . . . .” Her mouth sagged. “Oh heavens, Jonathan, of course not! What are you thinking?”
My face went hot at this all too earthy evidence of my university education. Whyever had I said that—and to my own sister? I’d have given challenge to any man who’d even barely hinted . . .” That’s the problem, I wasn’t. Please forgive me.”
She turned thoughtful, though. “No need, I can see where you came up with that, and were I that sort of woman, I might consider it, but since I’m not, I shan’t.”
“Mrs. Montagu is a perfectly respectable lady,” I murmured.
“Of independent means and with her own house, things which are denied me. What were you thinking this time?”
“If I answered that,” I said glumly, “I should have to ask you to kick my backside. Rather hard.”
She laughed briefly, as I’d hoped she would, but sobered after a bit. “It’s just not fair. Men can follow all sorts of interesting pursuits, but women must be satisfied with babies and running the house and doing what men tell them.”
“Were you a man, what would you do?”
“Want to turn back into a woman, but as a woman, I should like to go to Cambridge as you did. I could study law or medicine, but perhaps not the clergy, as the work is much too hard: sermons every week, tea parties and having to be nice to everyone, including people like her.”
Mother. “What makes you think law or medicine is any less toilsome?”
“It’s not, I’m sure, but I’ve a better head for it. I see how Father enjoys what he does; he plows through his law books like a farmer in a field and he’s brilliant at it. I’ve also watched Dr. Beldon. He may play the toady for a place at the table here, but he’s a good physician. I wonder why he doesn’t set up his own household; he could easily support himself.”
“It’s too much to do. If he’s busy running his own house, he might not have time for his practice.”
“Then he should marry money. There must be some woman out there who enjoys housework.”
“I hardly think wedlock is anything he’d care to try.” I leaned back on the settee and put my feet up on the arm of Elizabeth’s chair. “For a man of his nature, he’s better off simply hiring a housekeeper.”
“Has he been any problem to you?” Elizabeth had an understanding of Beldon’s preferences. They mystified her, but she ignored them.
“Not at all. He’s a gentleman.”
“And extremely fond of you.”
“I’m aware of that, dear sister. However, it is not within me to return his regard in a like manner. He understands that.”
“It’s rather sad for him, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is.”
“Your boots want a polish,” she said after a moment’s idle study, having apparently forgotten her length of string along with Dr. Beldon.
“Another time.” One of the footmen could do that. I’d see to it Jericho got his proper rest. Only fair, considering what I’d learned. Head cradled back in my clasped hands, I shut my eyes and sighed with vast contentment. “It worked, y’know.”
“What worked?”
“Your idea about my sleeping in the barn.”
She shifted, her voice full of alert interest. “Really? With all the excitement about the Hessians, I forgot to ask. No bad dreams?”
“Not a one. I had no sense of the passage of the day—that’s what left me so confused, else I might have handled things differently when I woke up. Apparently I slept straight through, utterly oblivious.
“That’s excellent news, but what will you do for tomorrow? You can’t go back to the barn.”
“No, I can’t, but the experiment was a success, and from that point perhaps I may determine why it was successful. What quality is there about the barn that allowed me to find true rest?”
“Darkness?” she suggested.
“I have that up in my room.”
“Fresh air? I know there’s none once Jericho closes the shutters and windows and puts up the blankets to block the sun.”
“That’s something to consider. I could try sleeping in the basement today, plenty of air there every time the door opens. On the other hand, I do not breathe regularly, so why should I require fresh air, particularly when I am in a state that so perfectly imitates death?”
She tapped one of my ankles. I opened my eyes. Her own were sparkling with intense thought. “Consider this: where would you be had you not come back to us?”
“Out in the barn?”
“No! I mean where would you be if you hadn’t come back? If you were still—”
Ugh. I hated to think about that.
She answered for me. “You’d be in your grave. In the ground.”
“My body only. I should hope and pray that my soul might be more happily lodged in heaven.”
“Exactly. But both your body and soul have returned to the earth. Might we consider that between your death and return that some sort of compromise is required?”
“What are you leading to?”
“Well, just look at it. The only time you obtained any rest has been in the barn, on the bare earth of the barn.”
“Surely you’re not asking me to return to my grave?” I found the idea to be not merely repugnant, but enough to make my bones go watery.
“Absolutely not!” She seemed to find the idea as abhorrent as I did.
“T
hen—oh, yes, I think I perceive it now. You’re recommending that I simply sleep on the ground, preferably in some sheltered, sunless area. But I’ve already proposed to sleep in the basement.”
“With the scullery boy tripping over you and getting a fright like those Hessians? No, I’m thinking that you might take a quantity of earth with you when you go to bed this morning. Instead of going yourself to the grave, take a bit of the grave with you.”
“That’s horrid!”
“But it does have a kind of logical progression. And it’s worth a try. Why don’t you like it?”
The sheer morbidity of it raised the hair on my neck, but I couldn’t offer that as an excuse. “B-because the idea of pouring a bucketful of earth onto the fresh, clean sheets of my bed and then cheerfully wallowing in it for the day is hardly appealing.”
“Jonathan, you ass, put it in a sack first!”
“Oh. Well, I would have thought of that eventually.”
Her mouth curled to one side, indicating that she didn’t quite believe me.
“I’ll think about it,” I promised, which satisfied her, though her mouth remained twisted, albeit for a different reason.
“Move your boots, would you? You stepped in something awful and I’m tired of smelling it.”
I shifted my feet from her chair arm and sat up. “So you don’t think I should sleep in the basement?”
“Only if you insist. You’d have to have a little ‘talk’ with Mrs. Nooth, though, perhaps with the whole kitchen staff.”
“No, thank you. The last time I did so much ‘talking’ I got the most hideous headache for my trouble.” Headache . . . that reminded me of something. “Do you know aught of this cousin who’s about to inflict herself upon us?” It occurred to me that in the sense of self-protection I might have to exert a little influence over her when she arrived.
Elizabeth chuckled. “I talked to Mrs. Hardinbrook about her—or rather she approached and talked to me. She hardly ever does that unless she wants to inform me of some glowing virtue about her dear brother that I may have overlooked in the last three years.”
Mrs. Hardinbrook had the never-to-be-fulfilled hope that Beldon and Elizabeth might marry. “What did she say about the cousin?”
“Only general pleasantries of how nice it will be to have fresh company, but might it not be just a little bit crowded? She does like to clack on, you know, but it was a touch forced this time. I can only conclude that she’s worried her position as the household’s chief toad-eater is about to be usurped.”
“Yes, and if it does get too crowded, Mother will choose blood kin over her best friend.”
“Otherwise, what would people think?” Elizabeth did a credible, if supremely unflattering imitation of Mother’s favorite worry.
“Perhaps we may be sincere in our welcome of Cousin Anne, then. Unless she turns out to be as bad as Mrs. Hardinbrook . . . or worse.”
“That would take a bit of effort. Anne may share our Fonteyn blood, but please God, perhaps she’s been spared the Fonteyn temperament.”
“Amen to that,” I said fervently.
CHAPTER THREE
“Samuel, have you done anything about those soldiers on our land?” Mother demanded as she’d done every night at dinner for nearly two weeks.
“I have.”
“And what of it?”
“The situation is under the most urgent scrutiny.”
Not quite a lie, but hardly the truth, which Father confided to me some time ago. The Hessians currently sheltering in the old barn at the edge of our property would remain there until further notice. Without permission or even a hint of payment, they’d made themselves at home by felling trees and slaughtering those of our cattle that had strayed too close to their sentries. Father’s protests to their commanders were politely accepted, and he had come to expect them to be just as politely ignored. It looked to be a long winter ahead for us all.
“I want them out of there as soon as possible. We’ll be murdered in our beds and it shall be your fault.”
Thus spoke Mother, and Father had the great good sense not to respond to her statement. Since I was in the next room (trying to read) and alone, I was allowed the luxury of privately making a face and shaking my head.
“Oh, but we are very safe, Marie,” said Mrs. Hardinbrook. “I must confess that until Lord Howe landed I had my worries, but now that his gallent men are all over the Island—”
“Like ants on a corpse,” muttered her more realistic brother. He held to no illusion that the soldiers had only our defense and protection at heart.
“Really, Theophilous! We are eating!”
“My apologies, sister, but in case you haven’t noticed, it is those so-called gallant men who are causing Mrs. Barrett’s distress.”
“Well, of course there are bound to be some soldiers who may behave in a less than honorable manner, but I’m sure their officers keep them in line.”
“I think you’ll find the officers are quite as bad. And as for those Hessian troops—” He broke off as though realizing that a detailed description of their atrocities might prove more offensive than instructive.
“They are foreigners, after all,” said Mrs. Hardinbrook. “What do you expect?”
Like Father, Beldon now chose not to provide an answer.
Mother was quick to step in where he had fallen back. “To be treated with the respect that is due to any loyal subject of the King.”
“Amen to that,” enthused Mrs. Hardinbrook. “Perhaps, Theophilous, you have not had the chance to meet some of the nicer officers, and therefore you’ve gotten a poor impression of our defenders.”
“I’ve met enough to know that being an officer does not mean that the fellow is automatically made a gentleman. My God, Deborah, if you’d seen what had happened to that poor Bradford girl this morning—even the beasts in the wild do not violate their young with such—”
“Dr. Beldon.” My mother’s voice came down like a hammer. “I will not tolerate such talk at my table!”
An awkward silence followed—a frequent occurrence in this house—then came the sound of a chair scraping over the floor as Beldon stood.
“I apologize, Mrs. Barrett. I forgot myself and let my instincts as a physician overcome my manners. You are quite right to remind me.”
It was humbly spoken and apparently enough to appease Mother. Beldon next excused himself, and I heard the dining room door open and close.
“As I was saying, Samuel . . .” she resumed.
But I stopped listening when Beldon walked into the library, his face flushed and hands twitching. He gave a slight jump when he saw me sprawled in my usual spot on the settee, mumbled something about not wishing to intrude and turned to leave.
“No, Doctor, it’s all right, I should greatly appreciate some company if you don’t mind. Perhaps you would like a glass of Madeira to help your digestion?”
I gave him no chance to refuse and was up and pouring the stuff myself, rather than call for a servant. Nonplussed, for I had never encouraged his company before, he accepted the drink and took a seat across from me. “You’re very kind, Mr. Barrett,” he said, cautiously.
I shrugged. “Mother is in one of her more acid tempers tonight.”
“You heard?”
“It was impossible not to.”
Now he had a turn at shrugging and downed a good portion from his glass.
“What’s this about the Bradford girl?” I asked.
Beldon was a gossip, albeit a pleasant one, but this particular subject was not one he was willing to explore. “I’ve no wish to be indelicate, Mr. Barrett.”
“Nor have I. My interest is anything but prurient, I assure you. Will the girl be all right?”
He made a face. “In body, if not in spirit.”
“What happened?”
&
nbsp; “I . . . .” He labored a bit, then finally sighed. “I was taking the air this morning when I saw one of the village midwives hurrying along the creek road. As I’d not heard any of the ladies on the farms in that direction were in an expectant state, I made bold to question the woman about her business. I got a short answer for my trouble, but she didn’t protest when I came with her.
“We got to the Bradford house and found the girl in a much agitated state, but able to tell her story. As soon as we got her calmed down, we both examined her injuries and made careful note of all she said about her outrage. We got an excellent description of her attacker. Before another hour had passed I lodged a most forceful complaint with Lieutenant Nash about the incident. He said—oh, bother it to perdition—he said he’d ‘look into it.’ ” Beldon’s tone implied that he had little faith in Nash’s investigative abilities.
“You’ve spoken to Father about this, I hope?”
“Yes, and he’s also made a protest. I think his may count more with Nash than mine, but whether any of it will count for anything remains to be seen.”
“I think that it was most generous of you to do so much. I have no doubt that redress will soon follow.”
“One can hope. It’s just the girl and her widowed mother, and they’re alone but for a few house servants and field slaves. Their land’s just enough to support them, but little else. When one has no money, one has no power. I just wish I could do more for them.”
“But surely you’ve—”
“I mean that the girl has had more than her honor taken from her. There’s such a thing as innocence. She’s hardly more than fifteen and will likely carry this wretched burden with her the rest of her life. It’s enough to crack a heart of stone.”
“But not, apparently, Lieutenant Nash’s?”
“He’s a self-important little coward hell-bent on avoiding any problem that falls his way. I suppose he thinks that by not dealing with it, and telling his superiors that all is well, he’ll finish out this campaign with a promotion.” Beldon spoke with the weary confidence of a man who has seen much of the ills of the world.
“Coward?”