The Tobacco Lords Trilogy

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  23

  MISTRESS KITTY said,

  ‘I do wish we could afford a house in town, a house in town, Regina. So many of the planters do have houses here. It must be so much pleasanter, so much pleasanter than having to reside at a tavern. I do declare the taverns are so crowded, they’ll burst at the seams one of these days. They’ll surely burst at the seams.’

  The Raleigh Tavern would have been a pleasant enough place had there not been such a crush. It was a long white-gabled building with many windows now streaming with candlelight. A lead bust of Sir Walter Raleigh stood above the door and on benches under the taproom windows gossiping people crowded. In front too were hitching-bars where saddle horses with drooping heads waited for their owners.

  Normally the rooms were elegant and comfortable especially the Apollo room with its long, highly polished table and its half-panelled walls. Over the fireplace the wood panels covered the walls up to the ceiling and beside the fireplace deep cushioned chairs invited the visitor to relax. Or, if they preferred, they could sit at the spinet where music was always propped ready on the stand and vases of flowers and a candlestick graced the top of the instrument. But now the parlour, the public bar, the dining-room and even the ballroom were far too packed with visitors to afford any proper relaxation and the smell of liquor and food and sweat was almost too much to bear.

  Regina was glad when Mistress Kitty and herself were able to retire and leave Mr Harding to carouse with his friends. Mistress Kitty and she had to share a tiny room and Regina thought the older woman would never stop chattering and go to sleep. All Mistress Kitty could think of and talk of was the grand impression they were going to make at the ball.

  ‘My dear Regina, I do declare I can hardly wait till they see you, hardly wait till they see you. They will be impressed with our beautiful little protégée. They will be so impressed. Yes, all the ladies and all the gentlemen. And Robert will be so pleased and proud. Oh, Regina, I do so long to do something to please him and make him happy. Dear Robert, he really has been very patient and good with me, and he has been forced to suffer so much. So much. Poor Robert’s life had been ruined because of me.’

  At last her chatter stopped and she sunk into an exhausted sleep. Regina listened for a time to her snoring before going over to the window and gazing out at the broad Duke of Gloucester Street. Lights flickered warmly from every house. Carriages jingled past with lanterns aglow and fireflies flitted tirelessly under the shadows of the trees.

  She was impressed with the thoroughfare and its houses and shops as she was with the whole of Williamsburg. The town was laid out in parallel streets which were intersected by others at right angles. She liked its handsome square in the centre and the public buildings at either end of the main street, the college and the capitol.

  The public buildings and the Governor’s Palace were made of red brick. Most of the other houses were of wood covered with shingles, but all had a handsome appearance and some of the gardens were very beautiful indeed.

  She imprinted everything firmly on her memory so that she could tell Gav in accurate detail when next she saw him. One day they would have a town house here. She would tell him that too. Thinking of him made her contract inside with pain. The ball, the grand houses, the town, meant nothing compared with her longing to see him again and make sure that he was all right. Sometimes she had fearful premonitions that something was going to happen to him and she would never see him again. She suffered one now but immediately crushed it and turned away from the window, her face hard, her mouth twisted down.

  Damn the stupid woman and her infernal snoring. Even in sleep she couldn’t keep quiet. It was all she could do to prevent herself from snatching at a pillow and thumping it over Mistress Harding’s face. She lay resenting the woman for most of the night and next day listened to her happy, excited chatter in a dour silence that barely concealed her distaste. What did she care about entertainments and balls, or the stupid fops and the proud and haughty dames that attended them. They could all sink and drown in the James River for all she cared.

  She dressed without enthusiasm in the open gown Mistress Kitty had chosen for her. It had very wide rustling skirts and frills of lace at the elbows.

  ‘I do declare, I do declare, Regina, that taffeta is as vivid and glossy a green as your eyes.’ Mistress Kitty was in raptures. ‘And the golden yellow of the petticoat is such a beautiful contrast and the lace trimming is very fine, very fine. Now your fan, my dear. Oh, oh, I do declare, I have never seen anyone look so beautiful, so beautiful.’

  Harding made no comment when he saw her. It was as if she were a blind spot in his eye or a blank in the horizon. As they sat in the carriage together they seemed miles apart both in attention and appearance. Yet people could have been forgiven for mistaking her for his daughter. There was something of the same hard-eyed look about them both.

  ‘We usually arrive much earlier than this, much earlier than this,’ Mistress Kitty prattled on, ‘but this time I am glad we are late. I do declare it is much better that we are late, much better that we are late. Robert dear, will you please lead us in one on each hand? I on one hand and dear, dear Regina on the other.’

  Both Harding and Regina ignored her. Regina was annoyed that they were late. She had no desire to make an exhibition of herself and have all eyes turned on her. Mistress Harding would be embarrassment enough in her too large plumed wig, and gown patterned with giant blue flowers and crowds of green leaves.

  The ballroom was full of people when they entered but it was the glittering chandeliers and rich furnishings that impressed Regina and caught her attention. She was hardly aware of the coloured flunkey strutting forward in readiness to chant our their names.

  In the middle of the ballroom Annabella was dancing a minuet with Mr Carter Cunningham. By this time she had learned that he was one of the wealthiest planters in Virginia. He was also stunningly handsome and his courteous attentions and obvious admiration were floating to her head like champagne. Never since she had known her dear Jean-Paul Lavelle had she felt so light in spirits, although at the same time, her secret sadness stretched fingers of pain through her frivolous spirits to tug at her heart. As usual, she hastily ignored these disturbing twinges. She closed her mind to them. It was such a beautiful dance, such a splendid occasion.

  Over in the far corner a sheaf of black-coated, white neckerchiefed fiddlers accompanied by a gentleman on the harpsichord were giving a stately rendering of a minuet. The rest of the room was a dream of rustling, swishing colour. Ornaments and plumes and loops of beads swayed and sparkled against high powdered wigs. Jewels flashed at ears, throats, wrists and fingers. Enormous skirted, low-fronted gowns of gold and silver and purple and blue and pink and amber and flame floated along in graceful time to the music.

  Then, suddenly, the dream changed to a nightmare. From quite near a footman chanted out:

  ‘Mr Robert Harding, Mistress Kitty Harding, and Mistress Regina Chisholm.’

  Annabella felt faint and sick. Colour drained from her face. Her feet faltered. She couldn’t see the grand ballroom any more. The candles snuffed out. She was left in frightening darkness and from the darkness came Jean-Paul’s tortured face. She heard his screams mingle with her own. She smelled the burning flesh of him. She cradled him in her arms not knowing what to do to stop the horror of his suffering.

  And all the time she knew that the girl Regina Chisholm had been the cause of his torment, had told the dragoons where she had hidden him. She could see her now, a barefooted, pale-faced filthy urchin with long tangled hair and tattered clothes.

  With a moan of distress, Annabella stumbled towards her, then hit out with all the strength of pent-up years of horror and grief too terrible to be endured. Again and again, her nails tore and clutched and jerked.

  Then, suddenly, Robert Harding pulled the girl away and Annabella became aware once more of the candlelit ballroom and the rainbow of ladies’ gowns and gentlemen’s coats. Only now the
ladies and gentlemen were no longer stepping a stately minuet. Everything was confusion with ladies screaming or hiding shocked faces behind fans and gentlemen waving lace-edge handkerchiefs in efforts to revive them and calling out words of comfort and concern in loud and harassed tones.

  Robert Harding’s voice thundered over all the rest making them fall silent and listen intently.

  ‘Madam, I realise that Mistress Chisholm must have done you much harm to have forced a lady of your quality to such an extremity. I will see that Mistress Chisholm is soundly whipped.’

  In a low voice Annabella said,

  ‘You are a fine one to talk about someone harming me. Remove your hand from my arm and step out of my way.’ Then in a louder tone for everyone to hear, ‘There is no need for you to whip the wretch. I have done my own whipping. Anyway, nothing will ever bring back the gentleman whose death she caused. Pox on her. She no longer concerns me.’

  Regina clutched her torn dress over her breasts. It was spotted with blood from scratch marks on her face and neck. Her hair powder had been mostly shaken off and her hair looked fiery-red against the remaining streaks of white. She pushed her way through the crowd to the entrance hall. There an excited flunkey told her that Mistress Harding had been taken ill and he had helped her into a side room. Regina ordered him to fetch their carriage and then to return and assist her to get Mistress Harding into it.

  Regina took it for granted that Mistress Kitty had either fainted or taken one of her breathless turns. As soon as she saw her, however, she realised that this time she had suffered a different kind of seizure. She was lying on a sofa with her eyes closed and one side of her face was contorted as if it was made of wax and someone had squashed it up. One side of her body too was twisted out of shape, shoulder hunched, arm bent, hand raised, fingers splayed.

  ‘Mistress Kitty?’ Regina said without going over.

  There was no reply. Turning, Regina went back into the hall. The coloured footman met her.

  ‘The carriage is at the door, Miss Chisholm.’

  ‘Hurry into the ballroom and tell Mr Harding his wife has taken ill.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Chisholm.’

  He scuttled off and in no time breathlessly returned again.

  ‘Master Harding he say she always taking ill and for you to attend to her, Miss Chisholm.’

  ‘Damn the pig!’ Regina thought. ‘May he burn in hell!’

  ‘You carry her out then.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  At the Raleigh Tavern, the slave driving the carriage carried the still unconscious woman inside and upstairs to the bedroom.

  ‘Go and fetch a doctor,’ Regina told him.

  She lit candles, then stood looking down at Mistress Harding. She wondered if she were dead, and if it would be worthwhile undressing her and making her comfortable in bed. As it was, she lay on top of the coverlets and no doubt was tightly laced in her stays. She was still standing debating the question in her head when the doctor arrived.

  The first thing he did was to bleed Mistress Kitty. Then he burned shavings of hartshorn under her nose. And when she eventually showed signs of life, he forced a stimulant between her twisted lips. Some of it overflowed from her mouth and trickled down her chin and neck. Her eyes, open now, stared tragically up at Regina.

  The doctor said:

  ‘See that she’s undressed and comfortably settled. I will make another potion and call again in the morning to administer it.’

  Regina nodded, then after he’d left she began the awkward task of getting her out of her hooped gown, petticoats and stays. And all the time the eyes stared and not a word was said.

  Regina pulled the bed clothes up round Mistress Harding’s chin. Then she went over to gaze out the window. It was only then, in the stillness of the room, that she began to realise she felt far from well herself. The scratches on her face and neck stung, she ached from head to toe with bruises and her temples throbbed.

  The memory of suddenly being confronted with Mistress Annabella made her feel sick. The shock of the unexpected sight kept crashing across her like cold waves. She shivered violently. Clutching tightly at herself she tried to control the shaking of her body and the chattering of her teeth. But it was no use. Stumbling over to the bed, she jerked off the top coverlet and wrapped it around herself. Hunched inside it and still agitating like a devil possessed, she returned to the window and collapsed into a chair.

  She remembered the way Harding had grabbed her and flung her aside and she hated him until she thought her head would burst. She remembered his voice when he addressed Mistress Annabella. She remembered the way his hands had sought to comfort Annabella. She remembered what he had said. His words echoed and re-echoed in the dark chambers of her mind.

  ‘I shall see that Mistress Chisholm is soundly whipped.’

  Whip her, would he? She would remember that. And she would remember the expression in his eyes when he looked upon Mistress Annabella. Mr Harding had a weakness. Yes, she would remember that.

  24

  WILLIAMSBURG was aflame with gossip and excitement. Everyone, from the highest Lord and Lady and wealthiest of planters down to the lowliest of slaves, was chattering breathlessly about what had happened at the ball.

  The minister’s wife … yes, the minister’s wife, of all people, had actually, would you believe it? … had actually pounced upon another guest, had attacked her, had struggled, had hustled about, had fought like a mad thing. It was unheard of. It was wicked. It was shocking.

  The speculation about the reason or reasons for the attack snowballed around the town gathering impetus as it scurried from mouth to mouth. Everyone was eager to see if Annabella would have the nerve to turn up at the church in full view of everyone. Also, they were impatient to discover how the minister was taking his wife’s dreadful behaviour and what his reaction would be. As a result, on the Sunday immediately following the ball, the church was packed to overflowing. People were crushed so tightly together that once they had pushed and jostled their way inside the building, they found it impossible to raise an arm or shuffle a cramped foot.

  Annabella was well aware of the stir she had caused and had lost no time in telling Mr Blackadder of what happened. Better that the news should come from her than from anyone else, she decided.

  ‘You knew of what happened to my Frenchman who was fighting with the Highland army,’ she said.

  ‘Uh-huh. Aye. I heard something of it,’ Mr Blackadder replied cautiously.

  ‘I followed him to the Highlands.’

  ‘Aye. It was a very foolish and dangerous thing for any lassie to do. You might verra easily have been killed at one of his battles.’

  ‘I followed him because I loved him and I cared nothing for the danger. And after he was wounded at Culloden and the Duke of Cumberland’s men were after him, I hid him in a deserted farmhouse. A party of dragoons arrived on the doorstep but I was successfully getting rid of them and my Jean-Paul would have been safe. Then that girl, that red-haired wretch with the eyes like a cat, suddenly spoke up and betrayed him. I went on my knees to her. I begged her to have mercy and spare him but she did not. For no reason at all she told the dragoons who he was and where he was.’ Annabella took a deep breath. ‘As a result Jean-Paul Lavelle died a most horrible death.’

  ‘Uh-huh, aye, weel. I can’t see the point in going over all that now.’

  ‘The point is, Mr Blackadder, I saw that wicked fiend of a girl at the ball. Suddenly her name was announced and she was standing there as calm and cold as she had been that last time I’d seen her. It brought it all back to me, sir, and I set upon her, I do not mind admitting it. Nor do I have any regrets. I have vented my feelings. That is my way. Now I care no more about the wretch.’

  ‘You attacked her, you mean?’ Mr Blackadder paled. ‘With your bare hands? In front of everyone?’

  ‘I did.’ She tossed her curls. ‘I pulled her hair and scratched her face and tore her dress and with prodigious energy I
kicked and punched her all over.’

  Mr Blackadder groaned and rolled his eyes.

  ‘You’ll be the talk o’ the toon!’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed. I am well aware of that, sir. I dare swear Williamsburg has never made such a wondrous buzz.’

  ‘I don’t know how you have the nerve to face them again.’

  ‘Oh, I have plenty of nerve, sir.’

  ‘Uh-huh, aye, that’s verra true. You’ll be going to church as usual then.’

  ‘I am donning a wondrous new gown especially for the occasion. I will be carrying my best ivory handled fan and wearing my sapphire earrings and bracelet.’

  Mr Blackadder sighed.

  ‘God forgive you, Annabella. You’re an awful lassie.’

  When the time came Annabella swished into the church with fan flicking and gown and jewels sparkling like a blue sun. Right to the front to the minister’s pew she went and bounced down onto the seat in a shimmering cloud of hooped silk. The people who had been outside the church waiting to see her arrive, all began crushing and pushing to squeeze inside the building until it was so jam-packed they could not close the doors. The beadle and the precentor tried their best, struggling and puffing and cursing and getting crimson-faced. Eventually they gave up and left them open.

  There was a hush as the Reverend Blackadder climbed the high pulpit. A tremor of feverish expectation rippled from wall to wall as he gripped the edge of the pulpit and leaned forward to fix the congregation with a beady eye.

  Suddenly he roared out:

  ‘Gossip! Aye, gossip! That’s what the sermon’s aboot today. That insidious tool of the devil, the loose tongue. Aye, and do you know what it says in the Good Book? Do you know what the Lord God says aboot it?’

  Mr Blackadder paused meaningfully, accusingly and the congregation visibly shrank in their seats.

  ‘Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth! And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity. So is the tongue among our members, that it defileth the whole body, and setteth on fire the course of nature; and it is set on fire of hell.