Regina was wrong about a lot of things. She thought they were both looking forward to living on some lonely piece of land deep in the forest when his indenture was finished. But he viewed the prospect with nothing but horror. It wasn’t the task of clearing the land and building a log cabin that worried him. He wasn’t afraid of hard work. He’d grown into a strong, hefty lad and could fell a tree and saw wood with the best of them. No, it was the loneliness he had no stomach for. Regina was different from him. She liked to be on her own. She seemed to shrink away from people all the time. Whereas he was always reaching out to them. Often he thought of giving up the idea of having land and just continuing to work at the store after his indenture was finished. But it worried him to disappoint Regina.
‘You can’t think of her all the time,’ Abigail Hershy, the blacksmith’s daughter, told him. Abigail was the same age as him. She had fair hair tied in a knot on top of her head with a few wispy tendrils escaping around her face.
‘Yes, I can,’ he protested. ‘She’s my sister. We’ve only got each other.’
Abigail fixed him with one of her earnest unblinking stares.
‘People get married, you know.’
Gav had never thought of that. He thought of it now. Then he shook his head.
‘Not Regina. She hates men.’
‘Lots of girls say that. They don’t really mean it. She’s bound to get married. All girls do.’
Gav didn’t look convinced but he didn’t say anything and eventually Abigail said,
‘You’ll get married too.’
He had never thought of that either. He stared at Abigail and was surprised to see her face become crimson. It was quite an interesting face really. Serious brown eyes contrasted with a cute little turned-up nose and dimpled chin. He liked Abigail and they had become firm friends. He liked her father too and sometimes helped him in the forge.
‘I suppose I will,’ he said at last, ‘but any land I take and any house I build will be here in the settlement.’
‘A man needs a wife,’ said Abigail, who had an honest and practical nature, despite her weakness for blushing.
‘That’s true,’ Gav agreed. ‘Especially in a country like this.’
‘And plenty of sons to help with the work. My poor father was unlucky. He only had me.’
‘Now you’re being silly,’ Gav said. ‘How could anyone be unlucky who had you?’
Her blush deepened but she looked pleased. He was pleased too. No, more than pleased. Happiness warmed up inside him and soothed through his veins. He felt ten feet tall.
He smiled at her and, after a minute of gazing earnestly, searchingly into his eyes, she smiled too.
26
ANNABELLA thought a lot about Harding’s visit. She found him a bore and a coarse one at that. She liked pretty manners and speeches and elegant dress. She admired lightness and brightness and a quickness of mind as well as of tongue and Harding possessed none of these things. All he had to commend him was a certain animal attraction, a sexual magnetism, something very basic and physical.
Did she want a sexual relationship with Harding just for its own sake? She decided not. She had an active enough sex life with Mr Blackadder. No, it was not sex alone she craved from life. Sex was only acceptable to her as an integral part of a relationship that contained many other more important things. It was part of a delightful game. It was the reward, generously and warmly given, for elegant and chivalrous behaviour, for witty repartee and tender phrases, for sweeping bows and gentle kissing of hands, for beautifully worded declarations of devotion.
Try as she might, she could not fit Harding into this picture of an affaire de coeur. If he contacted her again, she would have to be ready with a good excuse to avoid him. As it happened, an excuse came in the form of Mr Blackadder who took a fever and needed nursing attention. So the next time Harding was in Williamsburg and called on her, she made sure that Mr Blackadder was in the drawing-room along with them. He hadn’t fully recovered and was lantern-jawed and too weak to walk more than a few steps unaided. Nancy and she had half-carried him downstairs and propped him onto one of the chairs. Then, while Harding was in, she fussed around Mr Blackadder with wifely concern, tucking a rug over his legs and another around his shoulders.
‘She’s an awful lassie, this, Mr Harding.’ Mr Blackadder tutted and shook his head. ‘She just canny seem to keep her hands off me. Aye fussing around.’
‘I envy you, sir.’
‘Aye, weel,’ Mr Blackadder reluctantly conceded. ‘I suppose we should count oor blessings.’ A light flared up in his gaunt, colourless face. ‘We’ve a son, you know. A real sturdy wee lad.’
Harding looked surprised.
‘No, I did not know.’
‘Aye, he’s called Mungo. Annabella, tell Nancy to bring him through so that Mr Harding can see for himself.’
‘Some other time, Mr Blackadder. I’ve already instructed Nancy to take him out for a walk.’
She had no intention of ever allowing Harding and his son to come together. Her only worry was that someone might see the resemblance the child had to the man. Already Mungo was developing Harding’s sturdy build, rather than Mr Blackadder’s lean one. Already there was a look of Harding about the child’s face, especially when Mungo was glowering in displeasure or when he was in a temper. But Harding normally only came to Williamsburg twice a year at the Public Times and seemed to have few friends. She was sure he would soon tire of pursuing her, especially when she made matters as difficult as possible by sticking like a leech to Mr Blackadder’s side.
‘Shall I fetch you a dish of gruel?’ she asked her husband now, plucking his rug closer round him and whisking back a few stray locks of hair from his forehead.
‘You ken fine I’m sick and tired of the stuff.’
‘But it’s wondrously strengthening with some whisky in it.’
‘The whisky’ll be strengthening enough without the gruel.’
Immediately she hastened across the room to pour a glass and then back to hold it eagerly to Mr Blackadder’s lips. But in her eagerness she tipped it too fast and he spluttered and nearly choked.
‘Damn it, Annabella,’ he protested, managing to fight off her comforting hands and rise from his chair. ‘Can you no’ leave me in peace?’ Turning, hunched up like an old man, rigid with irritation at the intensity of her devotion, he addressed Mr Harding,
‘You’ll have to excuse me, sir. I’m no’ myself these days. I’m away upstairs for a wee nap.’
‘I’ll help you,’ Annabella said.
‘No, you will not.’
‘But you’ll never manage the stairs.’
‘Then I’ll go through to the settee in the dining-room.’
‘But, Mr Blackadder …’
‘You just haud your tongue and attend to our guest,’ he snapped and shuffled determinedly from the room, banging the door shut behind him.
Annabella had no choice but to stay with Harding. She went over to gaze out of the window. Eventually he said,
‘You don’t belong here. You belong in my house, with me.’
‘Losh and lovenendie. I cannot think why you say such things. I do assure you, you are monstrously mistaken. I belong here, with Mr Blackadder.’
‘You cannot mean that.’
Impatiently she began flicking her fan. He was such an arrogant boor. Why should she not mean what she said?
‘Mr Harding, can I offer you a glass of whisky? My husband would be most upset if I did not obey his instructions, and I am sure you do not wish me to cause him any distress.’
‘I don’t care a damn for your husband. He can sink into hell for all I care.’
Annabella flushed with annoyance.
‘I can see that you do not care, sir. But I do.’
‘My God, how beautiful you look,’ Harding groaned. ‘I could kill you for looking so beautiful and tormenting me like this.’
She rolled her eyes.
‘Gracious heavens, I cannot
compliment you on a pretty turn of speech, Mr Harding. It is obviously something you have no talent for.’
‘I’m no bloody sugary-mouthed fop.’
‘Never let it be said!’
‘Now you are laughing at me, damn you.’
‘Laughing? Laughing, sir? My lips have never betrayed a quiver.’
‘I can see the laughter in your eyes.’
‘Ah, I cannot help what you see in my eyes.’
‘Nor can I help the love you see in mine.’
‘Not love, sir, lust.’
Suddenly he roared at her.
‘That is not true!’
She turned away, her fan agitating. There was such a terrible emotion in his voice she regretted her words and realised for the first time that in his own way Mr Harding did love her. The thought was more than a little frightening. Surely she had done nothing to encourage such an emotion.
‘You should not have come here, Mr Harding,’ she managed eventually, ‘and I am sorry if I have caused you distress.’
‘I wanted to come.’
‘That may be so, but the fact remains you should not have come. No purpose can be served by such visits.’
‘Annabella!’
His voice acquired a husky, animal-like urgency and she felt revolted by its coarseness. Then the memory of the time he had raped her ruffled her with panic. She fought to discipline her unruly fears.
Damn the man! She would not allow him to make her so afraid of him.
‘Well, sir,’ she said, with an impertinent arch of her brow. ‘If you do not wish to accept a glass of whisky, you might as well go. That is all the hospitality I can offer you.’
He glowered at her and she stared back at him with all the impudence she could muster.
‘Goodbye, Mr Harding. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my husband to attend to.’
And with that she swept from the room. Safely through in the dining-room beside Mr Blackadder, she listened anxiously for sounds of the other man leaving before helping her husband upstairs to bed.
Mr Blackadder did not feel as well as he’d thought. But when the time came for the reading that evening, he told Annabella to summon Nancy and Betsy.
‘What you need is a rest, not a reading,’ Annabella said crossly.
But he perched in bed with the book on his lap, leafing through its gossamer pages. Annabella flounced to the door shouting:
‘Nancy, Betsy. It’s time for the reading.’
They stood round the bed and Mr Blackadder began,
‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the saviour of the body …’
Annabella rolled her eyes but fortunately Mr Blackadder did not notice, so intent was he in tracing the words with a long bony finger. It was all Annabella could do to prevent her toe from tapping with impatience. She thought he was never going to stop droning on. Mr Blackadder could be such a bore at times. It was really quite painful. The room was stuffy because the windows had to be kept shut to prevent the dust from outside making him cough and the air stank of the linseed oil with which she had rubbed his chest. She yawned with the heat and was greatly relieved when at last she could escape from the room.
Yet there was nothing very diverting downstairs. With a sigh she left the house to wander round the garden in order to pass a little time. Other households she knew of had bookshelves with novels to make pleasant reading, but Mr Blackadder would allow none of those in his establishment. Nor did he allow a gaming room. In every other house she knew there was a billiard table and tables for playing cards. She kept telling him that billiards and cards were perfectly proper games for ladies and gentlemen but Mr Blackadder’s caustic reply was:
‘They’re no’ mentioned in the Bible.’
Round and round the garden she went, her high-heeled shoes and the edges of her gown becoming more and more dusty.
During Williamsburg’s quiet or sleeping times, as they were called, the town was like a cemetery with only the occasional afternoon visiting or small dinner party to enliven the empty hours. Carter Cunningham had been at the last dinner party she had attended at the house of Lord and Lady Butler. He had just returned from a visit to far-off London and she had been enchanted when he had presented her with a ‘fashion-baby’ that he had bought there. It was a doll dressed in the latest style in every detail and she could hardly wait to have copies made of its clothes. It was so clever of Mr Cunningham to have thought of such a gift.
A tall man with laughing eyes, he was popular with the gentlemen as well as the ladies. He was not only elegant and charming but an enthusiastic gambler and he enjoyed gaming with the men. Even she had been shocked when she had heard of the amount of money he could lose. But apparently he was so wealthy, the money didn’t matter. His plantation was self-sufficient, a complete town in miniature. He had an army of servants and slaves working every sort of trade and supplying his every need, and he had been heard to say:
‘I do not require money. I have not a bill to pay. A coin can rest undisturbed in my pocket for many moons. I am completely independent.’
He had been to Glasgow too and brought letters and news from her father and friends.
‘There is now a stagecoach running from Glasgow to Edinburgh twice a week,’ he told her.
She was thrilled and incredulous.
‘A stagecoach from Glasgow to Edinburgh, Mr Cunningham? Why, sir, you’ll be telling me there’s transport from Glasgow to London next!’
Phemy had produced a daughter, and a son had been born to Griselle. Annabella felt a pang of homesickness at the thought of Phemy and Griselle. She missed their company. Yet she had met plenty of amusing people in Williamsburg and she had no real regrets about coming to Virginia. It was a new and exciting country. It suddenly occurred to her that it didn’t really matter where she was—in Glasgow or Virginia. She would still feel depressed at times. Living with Mr Blackadder this could not be altogether avoided. She would just have to make the best of it and be of good cheer where and when she could.
She was just gathering up her skirts to step indoors again when a familiar voice cried:
‘Mistress Blackadder!’
She swung round to see Mr Cunningham standing at the garden gate.
‘I was strolling along Francis Street on my way to meet a friend,’ he said. ‘And I was admiring the flowers in the gardens when I caught sight of the most beautiful flower of all.’
She flicked out her fan and went over to him twinkling with delight.
‘Mr Cunningham, can I tempt you to step inside for a glass of whisky?’
‘You are always a temptation, mistress.’ He picked up her hand and tenderly kissed it. ‘But, alas, for the moment I must resist. I am expected elsewhere, and I am unforgivably late already.’
She pouted prettily.
‘And tomorrow you return to your plantation.’
‘I shall be back for the Public Time. I look forward to seeing much of you then.’ His eyes narrowed roguishly, then suddenly he made a deep, sweeping bow. ‘Mistress Blackadder.’
Arms stretched wide, she sunk into a low curtsy.
‘Mr Cunningham.’
With joy in her heart and wings on her feet, she sped into the house. In the living-room Nancy was putting some linen away in one of the drawers of the highboy. She turned when Annabella burst into the room.
‘I’ve put Mungo to bed but he refused to sleep until you go and say goodnight to him.’ Then suddenly noticing Annabella’s flushed face and dancing eyes she asked: ‘What’s happened? Where have you been?’
Annabella laughed.
‘It’s none of your damned business where I’ve been. But as a matter of fact I’ve been taking a stroll round the garden.’
Nancy arched a brow.
‘It seems to have done you a power of good.’
‘Indeed yes, I feel in uncommonly good spirits.’ She pirouetted ar
ound. ‘Now I’ll run and kiss Mungo goodnight before going to chat with Mr Blackadder. Bring me a cup of chocolate to the bedroom.’
In Mungo’s back bedroom with its carved and painted furniture in red and white oak and sycamore, the child added to her pleasure by hanging round her neck, gazing at her with obvious love and pride and saying:
‘You’re such a pretty mummy.’
She blew a shower of kisses from the doorway before leaving him and pattering along to the main bedroom. The room was shadowy and had an immediate depressing effect on her. The stuffiness and the smell of linseed oil was so dense, it could almost be touched. Mr Blackadder, a slight figure in the big four poster bed, had dozed off to sleep with the Bible still open on his lap. His head hung down and slightly to one side. His mouth sagged and he was gently snoring. She removed the Bible and put it over on the table. Then she tucked the clothes around him and smoothed back a lock of hair that had slid over his face. It was grey at the temples, she noticed. Mr Blackadder looked quite elderly. Of course he was old enough to be her father.
She sighed and went over to sit at the window. Behind her the shadows gathered and the grandfather clock monotonously tick-tocked. With her fair ringlet curls, her rose petal skin and neat little figure in low-necked, wide-skirted gown, she looked like the fashion baby Mr Cunningham had given her. Balancing her elbows on the window ledge and her chin on the back of her clasped hands, she fluttered her mind over the latest fashions and the gowns she would like to make or have made and the gay parties she would like to have and to attend.
Her mouth curved into a smile as she imagined herself stepping the minuet, jigging merrily around in country dances, and having sparkling jewel-bright conversations. At the same time she was surprised by tears springing to her eyes. Immediately she flicked them away and jumped to her feet, protesting out loud.
‘Pox on that lazy strumpet, Nancy. Is she never bringing my chocolate?’
A lump tightened in her throat as she went downstairs and out to the small kitchen building at the back of the house. Low voices could be heard coming from inside and when she entered, Nancy and a man jerked apart.
The Tobacco Lords Trilogy Page 54