by RITA GERLACH
“Miss Juleah, this is Jenny. She's my wife's maid.” Martin dropped his gloves in his hat and set it on a table. “Jenny, find this lady something appropriate to wear for traveling.”
Jenny turned and led Juleah up a winding staircase to a grand bedroom done in white. A large canopy bed sat to one side done up in eyelet lace, cluttered with pillows that had golden tassels. A dressing table and mirror were beneath the window, stocked with brush and comb, powder and ribbon boxes. Jenny opened a clothes cupboard stuffed with gowns, day dresses, riding jackets, and more. She drew out several items and laid them on the bed.
“These are fine clothes.” Jenny shook out the hem of a satin gown. “You can choose whatever you wish. I’ll pack them for you.”
“I can take one,” replied Juleah. “These are Mrs. Martin's clothes.”
Jenny spread the gown over the bed. “Well, she wouldn’t mind. She don’t need them.”
Jenny's comment puzzled Juleah. “Why?”
“She's been gone six months.”
“A long time to have been away. Mr. Martin said she would be returning soon.”
Jenny shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Mrs. Martin died over the winter. Pneumonia. Mr. Martin, he been grievin’ fierce. I think it did something to his mind. He tells folks she's away and coming home soon. I guess it gives him comfort.”
Jenny shut the cupboard door and turned the latch until it clicked. “You need to change out of those awful clothes, miss. The driver will be here any minute.”
“Already?” Juleah pulled loose the ties of her bodice.
“Yes, Miss Juleah.” Jenny walked over to the window and threw open the sashes. The breeze rushed inside. “I heard what happen to you, about the ship sinking and you bein’ in the sea. Good folks they are down on the beach. They’ll take care of anybody needin’ help. I imagine you can’t wait to get back to your folks.”
“Yes, I am lonely for them, especially my husband.”
Jenny poured water from a china pitcher into a washing bowl. The lavender soap smelled heavenly. Juleah ran the silky foam over her skin, through her hair, and inhaled the heady fragrance. “I have taken such things for granted.”
She chose what she believed was the least expensive of Mrs. Martin's clothes. It’d be wrong to take advantage of the situation. It fit her to a tee, a pale blue dress of lawn with modest lace and a linen chemise. Jenny took out of a box a pair of silk opaque stockings with matching shoes.
The moment Juleah had finished dressing she hurried from the room, downstairs to the front door. She wanted to thank Mr. Martin, but he was not in the house. In the distance, she saw him as he walked across his field toward the woods, his hand stretched out as if to clasp another.
The roomy coach and four awaited her.
“Miss Juleah,” said Jenny. “Mr. Martin wanted me to give you this. It is for your journey.” She held out a leather pouch filled with coins.
Tears filled Juleah's eyes. “It is too much.”
Jenny pressed her lips together and stepped back.
“I cannot take it.”
“Would you like to go hungry on the way, miss?”
Juleah hesitated. “Well, thank him for it. One day, I will pay him back.” She boarded the coach, and her heart moved within her. The only payment she could offer she offered in prayer for Mr. Martin.
Lord, be kind to him and ease his grief.
She lifted her hand in farewell to Lucy and Juba, who stood by the side of the lane, Lucy in her faded dress and Juba with his straw hat in his hands.
Seated inside the coach, she closed her eyes. Relief to be leaving filled her. When the coachman's whip cracked above the heads of his steeds, the coach jerked forward and rolled on. It swayed and glided over the sunlit road through the Carolina dust. Locusts shrilled in the trees, and pine groves shaded the road.
Hours later, as the day strengthened, she went to draw down the window shade where the sun was strongest, but paused to see fields of corn wilting in the heat. Hedges of pokeberry and wild sumac mingled with snowy Queen Anne's lace along the road. She pulled off her hat and gloves and laid them on the seat beside her. Then, she raised her skirts up over her calves and kicked off her shoes. The breeze whisked inside, brushed against her skin, and she drifted off to sleep and dreamed of Seth.
Twenty miles from Virginia, they left fields of corn for sunny fields of tobacco. It took several days to go through Carolina and the Commonwealth. Twice they were delayed at tollhouses, but the toll-keepers were at least helpful. They informed the driver what lay ahead the next ten miles, the streams to cross, what bridges were out, and where they would find a modest inn to spend the night.
When the left rear wheel caught in the mud after an evening rainstorm, it took a half-hour for the coachman and his fellow to pull it out. It had been a deep hole and sucked the wheel down within it up to the hub. The horses strained, but soon the coach righted and they were on their way once again.
They crossed the James River by barge near Williamsburg, then the York and the Rappahannock, where the bridges were in good repair despite a heavy winter. Heading east, they traveled along the St. Mary's River, into the town that bore its name. The church steeple loomed above the treetops, and the road that led through the town lay dusty that morn and hard as stone.
Breaking at a roadside inn, Juleah sat alone near a window where daylight poured golden through glass. A plate of food was brought to her, and she glanced at the innkeeper and thanked him with the grateful expression of her eyes.
The window where she sat faced east. The fatigue in her body caused Juleah to set her chin in hand and stare out at the bay and a stormy horizon beyond it. Through the mist that gathered, she saw a tall ship with stark white canvas sail toward the wharf. Had it come from England or some other faraway place? For a brief moment, she observed the passengers that stood at the rail, women in broad hats, men in felt tricorns. Alone at the bow, stood a young man dressed in a dark suit of clothes. She could not make out his face at such a distance, but imagined he was handsome.
For a moment, she dreamed he was Seth.
40
The choppy water, the shoreline that hugged clay bluffs. Forests of spruce and elm, marshlands filled with seabirds and cranes, caused Seth's grave blue eyes to stare on with longing. Sadness seized his heart, for in the majesty of this place, one thing lacked—the company of his wife. Life was empty without her. With a struggle he leaned against the rail under the weight of grief.
Gulls glided in the rigging of the vessel. Snowy clouds mounted the sky. Breathing in the air, the coming rain merged with the scent of the water. The Chesapeake had a certain earthy fragrance, as if the life within it meant to flaunt its abundance to the one who passed over it. The water in the bay turned pallid green in the sunlight. Where it merged with the warmer waters of the river, a deeper blue fingered through the viridian hues like intertwining vines. Here Seth disembarked.
Turning up the collar of his coat, he stepped into the street. The thump of hooves and the churn of wheels made him step back. A coach rumbled down the road toward him. The horses’ manes whipped in the wind, and their nostrils flared. He caught a brief glance of the woman inside as it rolled by. Her profile, the soft curve of her cheek, the shade of her hair as it fell in twists over her shoulder, and the wide-brimmed hat that shadowed her eyes fled past him.
His heart gripped in his chest. Like a hammer, its rhythm pounded, while he strained his eyes to comprehend the face. He stood motionless, shaken, his muscles tense, with his hands flexed.
He whispered, “Juleah?”
He frowned and pressed his lips together against the pang of sorrow. He told himself what he had seen was a mere coincidence. What else could it be? Juleah was dead.
Gathering himself together, he crossed the street and looked up at the shingle outside the inn. He hesitated, not sure about going inside, for his conscience pricked him. Perhaps he should go to Annapolis first before returning home. It wasn’t far, and he could be
there in a few hours if he had a swift horse or could find a boat going up the bay.
He headed back down to the docks. Fishermen lingered on the wharf, smoking clay pipes. “Is there a man among you willing to sail to Annapolis? I’ll pay you well.”
One man stood forward and accepted the offer. When they passed the mouth of the Potomac, the wind increased, billowed the sail, and sent the boat off like a startled deer. Lightning flashed across the horizon, leapt higher, and thunder rolled. Rain fell in misty sheets along the opposite shore. The rain never reached him, but the cool wind brushed against his face.
Soon enough, the town rose along the shoreline. He imagined Mr. Stowefield was enjoying the afterglow of a sabbath's rest. Seth regretted he would bear him bad news, but knew his duty. Perhaps a letter from Henry Chase had arrived by now and would make his meeting with the old gentleman easier.
After he paid the charitable fisherman, he made his way to Stowefield's house. The windows stood open. Curtains flapped in the breeze, while bluebottle flies landed on the broad sills. Partridge stepped outside the front door, broom in hand. She swept the front stoop with vigor, but when Seth approached the bottom step and drew off his hat, she stopped with a start.
“Mr. Braxton!” Her eyes enlarged with disbelief and she gasped. “My word. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to visit your employer.” Seth smiled.
Partridge put her hand on her ample hip. “Hmm. England didn’t work out for you, sir? Well, you know what they say? The grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the hill.”
“You are keen at supposition, ma’am.”
“I’ve been told that before, sir. Come inside if you will.” She opened the door and passed through it before him. “I shouldn’t be sweeping on a Sunday, but some child threw mud at the porch.” She set her broom aside and hurried into Mr. Stowefield's sitting room. He drew off his spectacles when Partridge entered.
“A surprise, Mr. Stowefield. A gentleman of your acquaintance to see you, sir.”
Stowefield closed the pages of his Bible and looked up. He stood as quick as his legs would allow. He’d grown thin, his head of hair white. His hands shook, and his eyes were a misty gray. In the doorway stood Seth.
Shocked, Stowefield threw open his arms. “Seth! What brings you back so soon? You have not been gone a year. Don’t tell me the place was a shambles and heavy with debt.”
“No, sir, but it was not what I counted on.”
“Hmm, it never is. Your sister is well?”
“Yes. She has a son and is happily married.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. And how is my favorite niece?” Stowefield glanced toward the doorway.
Seth could smile no longer. “I married her.”
Stowefield's mouth fell open with a thrill. “Yes, I know. She wrote to me and said she was happy. Ah, the surprise of seeing you pass over my threshold has muddled my brain.”
Seth did not know how to respond; he nodded and tried to smile. He looked upon the older man. How would he break the news to him without breaking his heart? But something else drew his eyes—Juleah's portrait. His heart swelled as he looked into her face. How could he ever forget the soft touch and honey taste of her lips?
Stowefield strode to the door. “You have brought her with you, no doubt. Where is she? Bring her in, Partridge. Juleah, where are you, child?”
Seth rested his hand on Stowefield's shoulder. “Juleah is not with me. There is more to tell and it is not good news. Please sit. I’ll tell you everything.”
At Seth's words, Stowefield's expression fell to worry. “Why? Has something happened?”
Moving him back inside the room to his chair, Seth drew up another in front of Stowefield. He went on to explain, spoke slowly at first, telling him about the fire, how he denied Juleah's death, how it could have cost him his sanity if not his life. He hated this. It caused him to remember the night he went to Henry Chase to tell her parents, the stunned looks on their faces, the scream of agony, the tears. Now he had to tell her uncle, whose face became more and more drawn and distraught as Seth unfolded the series of events.
Stowefield shrank back in his chair and moaned. “Tell me she lives, or that someone took her far away and you seek her. Tell me anything other than she is gone.”
“I wish it were otherwise, sir.” Seth watched the color drain from the old man's face. “If it were so, I would have brought her here to see you, and I would have taken her to Virginia, to my river and mountains. I do not know how I’ll go on living without her… . I’ll grieve a long time.” Seth felt every muscle tighten, tremble, and surge with emotion.
Shaken, Stowefield rose and shuffled to the window. He stared out at an empty street. Seth looked at the floor, gripped his hands together, enraged at the thing that took her from him, that forced his mind to reel with despair and rip into him the reality of her loss, of living without her the rest of his life.
“Poor, child,” Stowefield said, soft and painfully. He lifted his spectacles and wiped his eyes. “The last time I saw her was before the war. So pretty a child was she.” He turned to Seth and let out a ragged breath. “You loved her?”
Seth looked up. “More than my own life.” He ran his hand over his face and hung his head. “I had to leave England. I couldn’t stay any longer.”
“I’m sorry. God knows I am.” He put his hand on Seth's shoulder. “I’ll write to my sister. Oh, how I grieve with her and Henry, though their grief no doubt is far deeper than my own.”
“Lady Anna took it hard.”
Stowefield sighed. “I understand why she has not written, for it must be too painful to put it in a letter. What will you do now?”
“Go back home, build my father's estate, raise horses.” He could not continue. Sadness swept over him in waves.
“Stay with me a few days before you move on,” said Stowefield.
Seth looked over at him. “I would, sir, and I’m grateful for the offer. But I hope you understand the need I have to be alone. I would add to the melancholy of this house.”
“Nonsense. You know you are welcome here. But I do understand. When my Mildred passed on, I, too, wished to be alone, to grieve for her in my own way and in my own time without others chattering on and on about her, filling my ear with their sympathies, no matter how sincere. Is there anything I can do for you before you leave?”
“I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Seth answered. “Shipboard food is not the best, and I find my strength waning.”
Stowefield rose from his chair and called Partridge. She moved into the light of the doorway from the shadows. She’d been listening, her eyes sad and weepy. She brushed away her tears and hurried Seth off to the dining table. She carved and poured for him, then cleared the dishes when he had finished.
They walked together to the front door in silence. Stowefield took a moment to set his hand upon Seth's arm and pull him forward. Seth's own father had never embraced him, and though it seemed awkward, he understood when the old man put his arm around him.
Before he rounded the corner on King George Street, Seth turned and raised his hand in a sober farewell.
Back inside his house, Stowefield went into his parlor and stared at Juleah's portrait for several minutes. He’d give it to Seth. She was his wife after all, and it should go to him. He spent the rest of the evening writing a letter to his sister Anna.
When Partridge inquired about how he was feeling, Stowefield told her he could not shake off the sadness. She brought him a strong evening cup of chamomile and warm milk to help him sleep. After he had drunk it down, he stood to take to his bed. But before he climbed between the sheets, coach wheels passed over the cobblestones and stopped outside his front door.
He peered out the window. Under the glow of the street-lamp stood a boxed-shaped coach, drawn by dappled horses. Curious, he watched the coachman drag the reins through his hands to steady the horses. The footman jumped down from his perch, placed the step down and o
pened the door. From this height, Stowefield spied the top of a lady's hat exiting the coach.
Annoyed, he moaned. “Who could that be at this hour?”
41
Stowefield's house was dark and solitary when Juleah arrived. An amber spray of moonlight brushed over the window glass. The flame in the streetlamp near the door glowed against red lacquer, causing the brass handle to twinkle.
When the footman handed her down from the coach, the mist-laden air stroked her face and the scent of the bay enveloped her in its seductive ambiance. Her knees weakened, and she gazed up for the first time at the two-story house. In an upper room, the glow of a candle passed before the window. She had not seen her uncle in years. Would he recognize her? What would his reaction be to finding her on his doorstep?
Lifting her skirts, she turned and asked the driver to wait. She glided up the stairs, lifted the door knocker, and let it fall. A moment later, the click of the lock, and the door opened. Around its edge, Partridge peered out in her nightcap and robe, with candle in hand. The flame shimmered over her rosy cheeks.
“Yes, what is it?” Partridge looked Juleah up and down, attempting to make out her face in the dark.
“Forgive me for this late intrusion, but is Mr. Stowefield at home?” Juleah said.
“Yes, but he's abed,” Partridge said.
“May I see him please?”
“He opens in the morning for matters of the law, if that's what you wish to see him for. Come back at nine.”
Juleah stepped closer. “Oh, I did not come to see him for that reason. I am his niece, Juleah Braxton.”
Candlelight spread over Juleah's face. All at once, Partridge's knees wobbled and she let out a gasp. “It's a miracle!” With her hands shaking, her expression a mix of confusion and amazement, she threw open the door and fumbled to set the candle on the table next to it.
“Mr. Stowefield!” she shouted in alarm. “Mr. Stowefield, come quick!” She hurried to the stairs, her arms and hands stretched out as if to take hold of him.