Taking a deep breath as he listened for her footfall, Ewing waved away both Roger and Weymouth.
Weymouth, who shaved Ewing daily, noticed a small spot he’d missed at the older man’s jawline. He hoped his father didn’t notice or he’d hear about it.
Catherine swept into the well-proportioned office, a fire crackling in the fireplace keeping the room warm on a cold January day, too cold, really.
He smacked the letter on his desk. “Connecticut has raised its tariff on tobacco. Our agent up there has written to inform me that this will decrease our profit by two percent.”
“Father, it’s a long time before we cure tobacco and send it to Connecticut. By that time perhaps they will repeal the tariff.”
He settled in his seat a bit. “Never. Once an agency raises a tax they never reduce it. This is designed to weaken Virginia. They have always been jealous of us. Is it my fault their soil is poor? Well,” he thought for a moment, “most of it.”
“You were wise, Father, to sell early at a fixed price so they know your prices won’t jump. You won’t lose business, you’ll lose a bit of profit. Actually, I’m surprised they aren’t charging more. Connecticut is still moaning about its war debt.”
Ewing waved his left hand, a large signet ring on his third finger. “One hundred fourteen million dollars. The total for all thirteen states. I know the debt amount but I am weary of Connecticut citing the sum as though this is all their own problem.” He inhaled deeply. “Actually, my dear, I don’t know how any state can recover from this. We don’t recover by trying to slap extra taxes on out-of-state goods. It’s madness.”
Catherine pulled up a light wooden chair with back slats to sit next to her father. He handed her the Connecticut letter.
Reading it, she shook her head. “You’re right but you usually are. The only thing I can see that will help each state climb out of this terrible hole is increased trade with England and France or any European nation. We aren’t going to clear this hurdle by stealing from one another.”
How like her mother she was, Ewing thought to himself. Clear, a good head for business, and logical. Catherine was not given to excessive emotion.
“Add to this, now the states are printing too much money just as the Continental Congress did. Worthless paper. Worthless.” His voice fell.
“Perhaps someone could use the old bills for wallpaper.” She laughed.
That made him smile. “You’ll enjoy this.” He handed her North Carolina currency. “They have a printer at last. No more North Carolina script. However, what is a North Carolina dollar worth compared to a Virginia dollar or a Connecticut dollar, since that state seems determined to get all our money?”
“Father, do you fear the war was for nothing?”
He sat bolt upright. “No, I do not. We had to get rid of the king. But this, this is chaos. You know, dear, this is one of the few times I would like to talk to Francisco Selisse.” He mentioned the wealthy, disliked, late Francisco. A man accused of sharp business practices.
“I can’t say that I share your feeling.” Catherine had hated him.
“He came from the Caribbean, he understood their banking procedures, was familiar with her ports, both free and encumbered. I tell you there is no such thing as a poor Caribbean banker.” He smiled slightly. “Helps that they do business with pirates. I think, my dear, the solution to this crisis must come from someone who has prospered in business elsewhere. As it now stands, I don’t know if I would trust any plan arriving from the resident of another state. I think each man will favor his own home, so to speak.”
“Possibly.” She rose to throw another log on the fire.
“Roger or Weymouth can do that. No need for you to trouble yourself.”
“I wanted to stand up.” She picked up another log, a light one, examining it. “Sleeping bugs. I can’t throw them in the fire. I’ll tuck them lower on the pile here.”
“My dear.” He smiled. “I’m not sure the bugs will thank you. Sooner or later they’ll be in the fire.”
“I’ll watch that log. I want to see them when they awaken.”
“April,” he simply stated.
“John hears from men with whom he served. He mentioned last night that Light Horse Harry Lee is speculating on hundreds, maybe thousands of acres of land. Everyone is giving him credit. They’re running over themselves to give him money.”
“A man can be a great general but a poor businessman. Now is not the time to buy land.” Ewing picked up the North Carolina ten-dollar bill. “I don’t know what it is time to do.”
“Our holdings are secure.”
“Yes, but holdings are not gold or silver. One must make money, must create profit.” He threw up his hands. “I apologize. Some days are darker than others. Before I forget, when Jarvis Hoffman brought the mail he told me that another of Maureen Selisse’s slaves had run away.”
Catherine sat down. “I would not be surprised if one day she wakes up and there is not a soul at Big Rawly other than her new husband and Sheba.”
Ewing laughed out loud. “Quite so. But this time it was a woman who Sheba says was stealing jewelry. Jarvis says the report is she was stealing enough to buy her way to Vermont, where she would be free.”
“That makes a good story, but Vermont is a long, long way off.”
“And cold.”
“That, too.”
“They never did find the two slaves who were accused of killing Francisco,” Ewing said. “They simply disappeared. Unusual.”
“Yes, it is, but the world is full of mysteries. Did Louis the Fourteenth have a twin? People love to imagine things.” She picked up more papers from her father’s desk, reaching across him. “Did Jarvis give the slave’s name?”
“Mignon. I don’t recall her, do you?”
“Bitty woman.”
He shook his head as he couldn’t picture her. “I do recall Ailee, the beautiful woman who fled, the one accused of helping to kill Francisco. I often wonder why more women, regardless of station, don’t kill men who abuse them. I’d kill.”
“Father, women are taught to endure.” She let out a peal of silvery laughter. “After all, Mother endured you.”
“My angel. There were times when I tried her patience.”
Catherine gently touched her father’s hand. “Now that I am married and a mother, I have ample occasion to think of what you and Mother endured from Rachel and me. And I confess there are days when I look at John and I could just throttle him.”
“Marriage forces one, if one truly loves his or her mate, to try and see the world through another’s eyes. I learned more from your mother than from any other person in my life, including my own parents. Perhaps if we can remember those lessons we can, the states, I mean, find a way through this morass. I hope so.” Then he handed her the ten-dollar bill. “For your wallpaper.”
November 1, 2016 Tuesday
“Every time I came into the shop I was mesmerized by the color, the shape. Fabulous. To think it’s stolen.”
Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tee Tucker sat on a bench against the wall while Harry listened to MaryJo.
“It was extraordinary,” Liz quietly replied, wondering if MaryJo would be nosy, ask insurance questions.
Liz changed the subject. “MaryJo, given your investment business, with the market all over the map, I don’t know how you have the time to do all the research for our wildlife group. You’ve done so much just on the Chesapeake Bay alone.”
Nodding, the soft light in the store enhancing her youthful look, MaryJo drummed her fingers on the counter. “Well, the biggest problem is the death of bald eagles. Yes, it is better than it once was, especially during the Reagan years. All that pesticide being used by farmers along the bay, along the James River, well, all the pastures and croplands by our rivers because that is the best soil. Anyway, furidan, now illegal, isn’t used anymore. The problem is, it can be stored, just not used. So we must remain vigilant.”
“Didn’t Virgini
a use stuff like that in our schools?” Harry inquired.
MaryJo, happy to be the repository for facts, quickly replied, “Schools and public buildings used chlordane. You needed a license to buy the stuff but not a license to use it, and it does kill germs. So janitors, who couldn’t read the labels, used chlordane in our schools. The stuff seeped through walls. Kids suffered from chronic ear and sinus infections.”
“And this stuff kills wildlife?” Liz’s eyebrows lifted upward.
“If it gets into the soil, but nothing is as bad as derivatives of nerve gas, which so much of the old stuff was. Makes a box turtle’s head swell. If humans are exposed, it throws off judgment, makes some people appear drunk. And even though we now have safeguards thanks to Governor Baliles when he was in office, there is a ton of stuff out there, stored.”
“Well, MaryJo, that is not comforting.” Harry smiled slightly.
“Can’t the State Pharmacy Board do anything?”
“First, they have to find it. Second, they must find who is using this awful stuff.” MaryJo’s voice grew louder.
“Better living through chemistry,” Liz sarcastically added. “People worry about oxycodone, heroin, it seems to me we are awash in rivers of bad stuff.”
“Well.” MaryJo drew herself up to her full height, about five-eight. “That’s why, Liz, you don’t want anything in this shop that could be mistaken for contraband or part of an animal killed, whenever, by something like furidan.”
“MaryJo.” Liz swept her arm toward the items in the case. “Why would anyone even think that? I’m a lot more concerned about whoever disarmed my security system and made off with the most expensive things. How they disarmed the security, bizarre.”
MaryJo paused dramatically. “Bizarre?”
“Is bizarre,” Liz corrected her. “So bizarre, so clean and neat, that I wonder how long before he comes back or some other electronic wizard, to disarm my security system and clean out the cash register before I take the cash to the bank. I take my proceeds to the bank every day now but it’s time consuming.” She slapped her hand on the counter. “I don’t want to live like this.”
“Smart. Who can sit around in a shop all day?” Tucker observed.
“Depends on what’s in it,” Pewter remarked. “What about PetSmart? Or another pet store full of treats and toys. Not so bad.”
“Still, you’re inside.” The dog was ready to go home and chase some squirrels.
“Panto is happy to help you if you need him to give you a figure for insurance, value, rarity,” MaryJo offered, forgetting Liz’s husband owned an insurance agency. “He knows so much. He travels all over the country for meetings, powwows. As he himself is Native, people trust him.”
“You’ve gone out west with him?” Liz asked.
“Bruce and I traveled with him last year to Arizona. We met with southwestern tribes. We did go off eventually by ourselves to see the Grand Canyon. Spectacular,” MaryJo enthused. “The Apaches are spectacular, too. They know and transmit their traditions.”
“Are you thinking about closing the shop?” Harry registered Liz’s frustration.
“I am. It will make Andy happy. He complains he never sees me. I always thought I’d like retail and I do. Trying to figure out what people will buy, staying just ahead of the curve. It’s a challenge,” Liz honestly told her. “I need to think about all this a bit more, more calmly. I don’t know why that robbery shocked me so much but it did. And I think what really got to me was what was taken. And what wasn’t. There’s something about it that makes me wonder. The Sioux dress, the beadwork bracelets, short deerskin shirts, museum quality. You see stuff like that at the powwows, the dancers. Everything modern was untouched. The chits stolen…I had them next to the bracelets. I expect the thieves will toss them, as they aren’t that valuable compared to the other stuff.” She inhaled. “And Christmas shopping is starting. I’d like to clean out my merchandise. Oh, I should shut up, I’m dispirited.”
“Liz, that makes perfect sense.” Harry consoled her. “Maybe you should bring Sugar to work with you. She’s big, if anyone has a funny idea, I think Sugar will dissuade them.”
Sugar was Liz’s majestic German shepherd.
“That’s why I have always left her at home. I didn’t want her to frighten anyone. People are afraid of shepherds and Dobermans.”
MaryJo stepped in. “Harry is right. Bring Sugar.”
“Well—”
“Liz, until you know what you’re going to do, make it easy on yourself,” MaryJo advised.
“I can smell old feathers,” Tucker idly mentioned.
“On the stolen deerskin, shoulders.” Mrs. Murphy, half asleep, woke up, as she noticed anything connected to birds.
MaryJo and Harry left together, the three animals on leashes with Harry. As the day proved cool, she wasn’t worried about the hot asphalt of the parking lot, so she brought them along. Finally, it was feeling a bit like fall.
“You know, contraband animal parts or animals themselves are a business of billions of dollars. People will kill for money, animals, even other people,” MaryJo forcefully said.
“I don’t think it has anything to do with Liz. She would never willingly support anything like that.” Harry stuck up for Liz, whom she much liked.
“No, I didn’t mean to imply that. I just wanted her to be aware of how people think today. Maybe whoever took the old dress felt it belonged back with the tribe that created it. When you think of some of the clothing created between 1870 and 1900 you realize how well made it is, how unique. Those jackets, tight, made out of skins with the fur left on, extraordinary. I can picture a brave wearing one.”
Harry smiled. “Me, too. Fur is warmer than cloth or the so-called new fabrics. Fur is perfect. Why do animals grow it and we don’t? You know, I can’t bring myself to wear a man-made fabric knowing it’s made from an old soda bottle.”
MaryJo responded, “That stuff always rustles.” She then added, “Still better than killing and skinning animals.”
“I read somewhere that chow chow owners save the fur they comb out of those thick coats, wash it, card it, and spin it into sweaters,” Harry said.
“Pewter, you’ve got enough fur for a sweater.” Tucker’s tongue hung out a little bit.
“Very funny. People don’t save cat fur.” She reached Harry’s Volvo, stood on her hind legs to paw the door with her front legs, claws unleashed.
“Because you lick it off, then throw up hairballs.” The dog let Harry pick her up when she opened the door.
Pewter shot in behind the corgi to attack her.
Screams followed as Mrs. Murphy crawled into the front seat to avoid them. More screams, bits of fur floating through the air.
“Harry, that really is a dangerous cat,” MaryJo said.
“She’s my guard cat.” Harry laughed.
January 31, 1786 Tuesday
Being tiny allowed Mignon to hide, squeezing herself behind barrels and hay bales in barns. She followed deer trails when she could, fearing exposure on roads. She knew if she boarded a boat anywhere, that would be it. A description of her was posted in stores in Virginia emphasizing that she was tiny, early thirties, upturned nose, attractive, skilled as a cook’s assistant.
The cold nights, especially cruel, tested her. She’d curl up inside a shed, a barn, anything to escape the wind, but the cold seeped through cracks. Sometimes she’d find an old unused horse blanket in a barn. She’d tell herself to awaken at dawn and she would, and move on.
She’d hitched a ride with a free black man who told her to wrap a bandana around a hat he had, tie it under her chin. She posed as his wife, finally making it into Richmond. She wanted to get out of Virginia, but she needed money for that. That man took her home to his wife, who allowed her to wash up. Mignon gratefully took an old skirt and a sweater from the wife. They suggested she see if she could find work at Georgina’s.
They didn’t mention that Georgina’s was a house of ill repute with a tav
ern of excellent food serving as a cover, but everyone knew. Mignon figured it out quickly enough when she was interviewed. Georgina, a white lady of some girth, needed help, and anyone who could cook was welcome. The lady, perhaps forties, did not inquire about Mignon’s background.
The reward for a runaway slave would be a pittance against one Saturday’s profits, and part of those profits included seeing that men had good food and good drink. Georgina prided herself on running an elegant establishment, which she did. If she had seen a sheet advertising a runaway slave, Georgina paid no attention. There were too many of them anyway.
Mignon kept to her duties, not showing her face in the main parlor.
Georgina’s girls were white and colored, as she called them. However these women came to her, the madam kept to herself. All were young, beautiful, eager for profits.
The head cook, Eudes, a free black, bossed Mignon around, but once he determined she knew what she was doing—which only took one night—he shut up and they worked side by side.
Tuesdays were slow but a steady trickle of well-dressed men did arrive, sitting in the parlor, talking to the girls. The parlor, with English furniture, allowed the men to watch the ladies as they offered them wine or stronger spirits.
Georgina bustled back in the kitchen. “Mr. Billiart would like mulled wine. He said he took a chill walking here.”
“He’s rich enough to have a carriage,” Eudes grumbled.
“Indeed he is, Eudes. And half of Richmond would know exactly where he is. Most especially his wife. This is her sewing circle night.” Georgina turned on her heel to leave, calling over her shoulder, “Not too much spice. He likes his mulled wine mild.”
“I know what he likes.” Eudes turned to Mignon. “You haven’t worked here Friday and Saturday nights, but most of Richmond’s finest are here. And they’re all in church on Sundays with their wives.”
Mignon said nothing.
Abby, young, gorgeous, sailed in, picked up a tray, placing it in front of Eudes, who put an entire decanter of mulled wine on it along with some crystal glasses.
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