Riding Shotgun

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Let’s see the table.”

  He offered her his arm and they made their way into the long room. Moving through the crowd, people nodded, called out and held up their glasses in toast. Pryor recognized some of them from hunting but many were new faces to her. They bubbled for she was escorted by Patrick Fitzroy.

  The massive table overflowed with turkey, capon, venison, bear, an entire suckling pig, succotash, sweet potatoes, white potatoes, cornbread, dark bread, mountains of sweet butter and jellies and jams, pickled corn as well as pies made from every fruit grown in the colony, a five-layered moist chocolate cake, and bread and rice puddings, Cig’s favorite.

  Servants carved the meats, releasing the rich aroma into the room.

  Cig smiled at Fitz as he dutifully worked his way around the table. She pointed to the turkey, the venison, whatever suited her, and he put the food on a fine white-and-blue china plate. She felt silly but all she could do was smile.

  He found her a seat, returning to fill his own plate. Daniel Boothrod paraded by, the buckles on his shoes gleaming.

  “’Pon my soul, the man is a Mercury, a veritable Mercury for I would have served you myself.” The intricate lace on his sleeve swayed slightly when he spoke and the snowy white lace at his throat was handiwork of exquisite delicacy.

  “Daniel.” A shrill voice pierced the room.

  Fitz concealed a grin. “Your angel, Daniel.”

  “Ah, yes, my bride, my bride,” Daniel mumbled, then bowed to Cig and ambled in Amelie’s direction with a singular lack of enthusiasm.

  “Daniel, you know more about shipping than the rest of us.” Francis Eppes spoke as Daniel passed. “I say it’s time we had a proper shipyard in Virginia.”

  Soon half a dozen men gathered around Daniel as he discussed how to raise capital for such a venture, how much tonnage Virginia could be expected to send over to England, France, and whoever else wanted Virginia’s crops.

  Cig, overhearing, said, “It’s exciting. I feel as though all things are possible.”

  Fitz smiled and started to say something but a bass voice interrupted.

  “Pryor, you are radiant.” Lionel bowed to her. “I told Samuel to inform me the moment you arrived but he was too slow and,” he paused, “this huntsman is too fast.”

  “I would have found you but,” she pointed to her plate, “I’m famished.”

  “As soon as you are ready, mademoiselle, I wish the honor of the first dance.”

  “I’m a terrible dancer,” she blushed, “but I will try.”

  Lionel bowed again. Glaring at Fitzroy, he withdrew.

  Really nervous now, Cig concentrated on watching the people.

  The coats of the men, cream, sky blue, deep plum, rich navy, contrasted with their brocaded waistcoats. Accustomed to seeing men in drab clothing at formal occasions, Cig was entranced by this swirl of peacocks.

  Another new sensation caught her ears, the rustle of women’s skirts as they moved. The silk fabrics, like the men’s clothing, abounded in luscious colors, each carefully chosen to complement the lady’s complexion.

  The visceral appeal of color, sound, and candlelight made Cig spontaneously smile despite her apprehensions. She no longer felt awkward in Pryor’s ball gown, a warm melon with burgundy ribbons, cut low on the bodice.

  The small orchestra took its place at the end of the main room. Ladies demurely waited, eyes bright. Men preened then plucked up the courage to ask for a dance.

  She noticed Abraham Boothrod bowing to a petite blond woman then saw Lionel heading in her direction. His mother emerged from the next room.

  “Not so fast.”

  Lionel slowed to accompany his mother to the side of the room.

  “Well,” she boomed, large pearls heaving on her bosom and pearl and diamond earrings dangling from her ears, “isn’t anyone going to ask me to dance? I may be old but I’m still vertical.”

  Fitz touched Cig’s elbow, stood up and gracefully bowed to Mrs. deVries. “Madam, may 1?”

  She curtsied smoothly. Cig could see she had an athlete’s grace and thought she looked wonderful for her years.

  As Fitz led Kate onto the polished floor, Lionel claimed Cig. She knew she would trip over her own feet, slam into the lady in front of her, turn right instead of left. Frozen with fear, she stuck in her seat.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  “I think you’ll have to pull me up,” she whispered.

  Margaret noticed and joined them for a moment. “Come on.”

  Lionel held her hand tightly and half-led, half-pulled her onto the floor. “Your hair shines so.”

  “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  Margaret had dressed Cig’s hair in the latest fashion as represented in her new book. She had trimmed it a bit just below shoulder length and curled it. Even Cig had to admit it was pretty.

  She took her place as the music started. Stiff with fear, she found she nonetheless did remember the steps. Then again, she had Margaret behind her whispering to her, “Toe out, hand up. Right turn.”

  Fitz, opposite Kate, lifted her hand with a combination of brio and tenderness.

  A little boy dashed through the line, his mother pursuing him. “Jacob!”

  Jacob ignored her, careened into the dining room and grabbed a handful of cake, stuffing it into his mouth as he sought to escape his mother, a determined but slow lady.

  As the dance ended a crash was heard in a distant room. Jacob bouncing off a wall, Cig assumed.

  Lionel held onto her hand but Fitz, after escorting Kate back to a chair, walked up to Cig. He bowed. “This honor is mine.”

  Lionel smiled tightly, relinquishing Pryor to Fitzroy. He stalked back to his mother.

  “Get that scowl off your face. She may dance with whomever she chooses. And you may dance with me.”

  “Of course.” Lionel bowed to his mother.

  Amelie Boothrod, seething with envy because Kate’s pearls overshadowed her rather muddy sapphires, inclined her head in greeting. Kate did the same.

  The dancers laughed out loud as the tempo increased, the steps growing intricate. Cig tripped but Abraham, holding her hand on that pass, held her up and laughed, too, not at her but for the sheer joy of dancing.

  Francis Eppes, at the end of the dance, clapped and motioned for his servants to bring drinks to the musicians. “Well done, boys!” he shouted. The orchestra took a small bow. “When we step over the threshold of my daughter’s new house I shall have you play again.” He held up a glass to his young daughter and her husband. “To Weston Manor, my dear.”

  “Thank you, Poppa.” She curtsied to her father.

  Tom, amazed, looked at Cig.

  “Bee boxes.” Cig grinned.

  “How’s that?” Fitz, at her side, asked.

  “A bet with my brother. I just won some new bee boxes.”

  Lionel joined them. “We’re buzzing around you with or without bee boxes.” Since a woman’s vagina was referred to as a “honey pot,” Lionel stayed just this side of a double entendre, relishing the raciness of his statement.

  The music started again. Abraham Boothrod hurried over, bowing. “May I?”

  “See ya, fellas,” Cig called over her shoulder before she realized they might not get it. They did. The phrase wasn’t in use but they understood her saucy intention. Fitz laughed. Lionel did not.

  As she danced Cig glanced over at Fitz, partnering Margaret now. Tom partnered Kate. Cig thought Fitz reminded her of another man of Irish stock, a movie star before her time, Errol Flynn. Fitz was blonder, more rugged, but he possessed that same fluid movement, that erotic quality of Flynn.

  Kate, her color high, was at the head of the ladies’ line. She nodded, laughed, and hummed at the gentlemen she passed as they danced down the row. Afterwards, she repaired for a good drink, propelling Cig along with her.

  “You seem happy, at last,” Kate said as they moved over to a window. “It’s snowing again.”

  “So it is. Did I seem un
happy before?”

  “Your mind was far away.”

  Cig wanted to say, “Yes, it was. I miss my children, I miss my friends, and I miss being able to put Bach in the CD player whenever I want.” Instead she said, “I’ve been considering the future.” She smiled. “I think it weighted me down.”

  “Take the world as you find it, as I always say. The future will be here soon enough.”

  “Yes, I know that now.”

  Daniel Boothrod swanned by, lifted a devilish eyebrow but kept moving, a spring to his step. Since Amelie was dancing he was escaping her watchfulness. Ribbons fluttered where his silk pants met his silk hose, just below the knee.

  “Pins, legs like pins.”

  Surprised, Cig responded, “He has good legs.”

  “Fillers.” Kate snapped her mouth shut like a big turtle.

  “No.” Cig couldn’t believe it. “What do the ladies do if, you know—?” She indicated bosoms.

  “Push themselves up with mountains of gauze. Can’t breathe. I always pick out the ones red in the face. A sure sign.” She laughed. “Didn’t your mother teach you such wiles?”

  “My mother didn’t have to.”

  Kate frankly stared at Cig’s bosom. “Quite.”

  Then they both laughed. Kate spoke again. “I did not marry for love, Pryor, and as you know, my union was a good one. If one must engage in matrimony, it’s far better to do so with a rich man than a poor one. Here in Virginia radical notions like marrying for love are current. Of course, we hear about such things in England, too. The world has never been the same since King Charles lost his head. And then the Civil War—my father used to tell me that when I was a child—it all went topsy-turvy. He was right. Not only did parliaments change and heads roll, but men and women changed. People became indulgent.” She waved her hand. “You’ve heard me say all this before. I don’t know why I’m saying it now—except that I wish you would marry my son and something tells me you will not.”

  Cig cast her eyes down then looked into Kate’s slate gray eyes. “I don’t want to marry anyone—not right now.”

  “I understand that. Lionel is impatient. Always was. Always will be. He doesn’t heed my advice on this matter for I tell him to—” She made a motion with her hand meaning to slow down. “There he is now.” She called out to him. “We were just talking about you.”

  “I’ll take my chances anyway.” He joined them.

  “Daniel, Daniel…” Amelie called, stopping before them. “Have you seen my Daniel?”

  “No, we haven’t,” Kate lied with glee.

  Amelie walked on. “Daniel, Daniel…”

  “I fully expect her to arrive at some function with her husband on a chain.”

  Fitzroy also entered the room. “Ladies. Pryor, may I have this dance?”

  “Of course.” She curtsied to Kate deVries and to Lionel, then walked to the dance floor.

  Watching them dance Lionel vowed to his mother, “I’ll thrash that pup.”

  “Leave him alone. Pryor has a unique allure about her, rather like the chaste Artemis, I should think.”

  “She is no chaste huntress.” He smirked.

  “You miss my point, Lionel.”

  “Which is?”

  “She may grant her favors yet remain indifferent. It is her aloofness which attracts men to her.”

  “She doesn’t seem aloof from Patrick Fitzroy.” He glowered.

  Kate observed them. “He entertains her. You don’t.”

  Angry, he left her, striding into the dancing room. Apprehensive, she followed.

  As the dance ended, Fitz lingered with Cig then escorted her back to where Tom and Margaret were visiting with the Hills.

  Lionel stopped in front of Fitz. “Leave this lady in peace. She belongs to me.”

  “The hell I do.” Cig flared up.

  “You will marry me, and the sooner the better.”

  Kate drew next to Margaret. “Lionel—”

  “Stay out of this, Mother.”

  “I believe the lady in question has her own mind, sir,” Fitzroy curtly replied and brushed past Lionel who grabbed him by the left shoulder, twirling him around.

  “I know this woman,” Lionel sneered, implying the old use of the word, as in to know carnally.

  Outraged, Fitz replied, “No gentleman would expose a lady. You don’t know her at all.”

  “And you do, sir?” Lionel was in his face.

  “I would know her heart.”

  “Ha!” Lionel pushed Fitz as the crowd, first hushed, spoke at once.

  “Don’t.” Cig rushed between them but Lionel, with one sweep of his arm, knocked her back.

  “Defend yourself!” Lionel barked.

  “Not in this house!” Francis commanded.

  “Outside then?” Lionel smiled at Fitz.

  “Outside.”

  The two walked out the front door, each picking up his sword as he left. The revelers grabbed their cloaks, wraps and coats, rushing outside.

  Cig turned to Margaret. “Is no one going to stop them?”

  “No one can.” Margaret threw her fur-lined cloak around her shoulders. Tom was already outside. Cig, wrapped in her heavy coat, followed.

  “I will be your second, sir.” Tom bowed his head to Fitz.

  Lionel, too enraged to realize he’d lost Tom by insulting his twin sister, asked Daniel to be his second.

  The seconds inspected the swords, each handing his back to the combatant by resting it over his forearm, hilt to the swordsman. The seconds took off the dress coats of the men, folding them over their arms and then stamped down the snow in a square as best they could.

  “Are you ready?” Lionel asked.

  “I am,” Fitz replied.

  With that Lionel launched at him. Fitz stepped back, the snow crunching underfoot as he parried. Within seconds both men were sweating, the falling snow melting on their faces. Fitz’s dress shirt, open at the throat, revealed curly blond chest hair matted with sweat. On and on, Lionel, the bigger, heavier man, pressed at Fitz, trying to use his weight as an advantage. He slashed, angry at his inability to quickly skewer the nimbler man. He tore Fitz’s shirt from left shoulder to waist. Fitz darted from side to side, thrusting when he could, parrying when he must.

  The flakes fell heavier, the lights from the windows spilling golden shadows onto the snow. The snow packed down by the seconds allowed the men to move back and forth, but when either one strayed from the square he floundered in the two feet of heavy snow. Lionel pushed Fitz into a drift then lunged at him but Fitz rolled away, hair white. As he jumped back into the square the flakes fell from his hair and body, catching the light. Cig thought it looked like golden confetti.

  The onlookers, breathing heavily, sent up clouds of steamy air.

  Lionel closed on Fitz, locking swords at the hilt, then he pushed him away with his knee. Fitz went down and Lionel kicked at him but Fitz again rolled away. This time Lionel jumped after him, rolling on the ground with him. Fitz wriggled free. Lionel, slower, lumbered up, and Fitz hit him hard on the jaw with the hilt of his sword. Lionel rocked back and shook his head, blood running down his chin onto his shirt.

  “You filthy Irish dog!” Lionel bellowed and slashed low with his sword, catching Fitz in the thigh.

  Blood poured down his leg. Fitz backpedaled but his leg wobbled. Lionel aimed for his head but Fitz parried again. Then he got his leg under him, ignoring the screaming pain.

  They battled for twenty more minutes, both caked in sweat and blood. Panting, Lionel stabbed at Fitz’s chest but calling upon a reserve of energy, Fitz stepped aside then with lightning speed twirled his blade around Lionel’s, whose grip was loosened. Fitz then grabbed Lionel’s left hand in his own, moving in with one catlike leap while smashing the hilt of his sword against Lionel’s right hand. Grunting, Lionel involuntarily opened his hand, sending his sword falling onto the ground. Fitz put his boot on it.

  “Do you yield, sir?”

  Daniel Boo
throd and Tom both moved forward. Fitz swayed unsteadily but then so did Lionel.

  Daniel put an end to the duel. He reached down, picking up Lionel’s sword as Fitz lifted his foot for him to do so.

  “Honor is served. Enough.” Daniel put his hand on Lionel’s shoulder; his mother took his right hand even as she turned her blind eye toward him. Shaking with fatigue, Lionel said, “You’re a better man than I gave you credit for, Fitzroy.”

  Fitz put his sword to his face in salute then crumpled into the snow. A brilliant red circle quickly stained the pristine white.

  Tom and Abraham Boothrod carried him into a whitewashed cabin near the big house. A fire warmed the place. An elderly German man rushed in and in broken English indicated they should place Fitzroy on the bed. He quickly cut away the breeches.

  “Not so bad,” he said upon examining the wound.

  Cig quietly opened the door, Margaret at her side. Margaret, without being told, brought water over from a large jar by the fireplace.

  “Dank.” The wizened fellow washed away the congealed blood.

  Fitz tried to prop himself up on his elbows but collapsed.

  Cig knelt by the bed, running her fingers through Fitz’s curly hair. “You’ll be all right.”

  Sweat rolled down his face and chest. Tom propped him up while Cig pulled his shirt over his head. Margaret took a clean rag and began washing him.

  Out of the corner of his eye Fitz watched Dr. Helmut Steinhauser thread a needle. He dreaded being sewn up.

  Margaret heated water over the fire. They’d need it to clean the wound thoroughly.

  Cig knelt down again and held Fitz’s hand.

  “He doesn’t know you at all.” His voice cracked.

  31

  Fitz slept soundly, exhausted by the duel and the stitching. Tom, with a wretched Lionel, took the ferry to Buckingham.

  Cig and Margaret stayed behind to watch over Fitz. Dr. Steinhauser, whom Cig learned was a surgeon from Bonn, requested that Fitz sleep undisturbed. He didn’t even want Francis Eppes to carry him into the big house, for the commotion of guests, music, and servants would disturb the patient. A good night’s rest would promote healing.

  Fitz had suffered a painful wound but he was young and strong. A bit of care and he’d be up and about in no time. The doctor’s chief fear was that the wound would become infected or Fitz would tear his stitches.