by Dina Sleiman
“I shall make a wee bit of tea to celebrate!” Grammy announced, creaking out of her rocker and toward the kitchen.
Well, that settled it.
Robbie ran his own plantation, inherited from his late father. She could think of no reason to suspect he might live with the Beaumonts. He had spent much of his youth being educated in New England, and he had traveled often when she knew him five years ago. She might not see him at all. And if she did…She surveyed the hopeful faces in the room again.
For their sakes she’d find the courage to get through it. Constance Cavendish no longer succumbed to the fickle whims of her heart or to the heated passion of her emotions. Constance Cavendish made reasonable decisions and acted upon them with determination and decorum.
“I heard at the mercantile that many young men are touring Europe these days.” Patience, no doubt, wished to be helpful.
Yes, of course. Constance struggled to convince herself. He might reside an ocean away. She attempted to steady her breathing and rub a bit of color back into her cheeks.
Mother picked up her needlework again. “True. They dashed off once the war finished. Mother England beckons to us still, does she not?”
“Too bad Constance doesn’t have some sort of British accent. That would secure her the position for certain. Or better yet, French like Monsieur Molyneux.” Patience inflected his name with a perfect mimicry of his exaggerated accent.
Constance chuckled despite her churning emotions. Patience always knew how to cheer her. “I could never manage a French accent as bad as his.”
“But you can do Yorkshire,” Felicity said. “We’ve all been imitating Grammy for years.”
“Perfect.” Patience patted the tops of her thighs. “She can go incognito as a seventy-year-old shepherdess. That would impress them for certain.”
“I hate to say it.” Mother raised a brow. Her own speech still held a touch of Yorkshire accent, although more refined than Grammy’s. “But I do recall Mrs. Beaumont missing England terribly. She loved all things British and said my speech reminded her of home. Perhaps you should turn on the accent a wee bit if you meet her. I’ll be sure to mention in the letter that you spent part of your childhood in England.”
“Part of my childhood?” Constance stared at her mother in wonder. “Are you referring to the summer we went to fetch Grammy?”
Patience waved away the objection. “No need to nitpick. Everyone expects a dance instructor to come from Europe. Dressmakers. Artists. Dancers. For all Americans fought for our independence, we’re still slaves to European fashion. It might not hurt to give the accent a try. Everyone does so. Practice for us.”
Constance grimaced at her.
“Nay, of course not.” Mother tipped her head. “It was a preposterous suggestion. Nevertheless, I’ll work on that letter first thing in the morning.”
“Trader Jack is heading down Three Notch’d Road tomorrow on his way to Jarman’s Gap,” Patience said. “He’ll go right past Charlottesville. We could send it with him. It would be quicker and more dependable than the standard post.”
“Excellent idea. I do believe White Willow Hall is directly off the main road. We’ll send two letters to be safe—one with him and one with the usual post.” Mother yawned. “Goodness, I’m tired tonight.”
“Speaking of which, go to bed, Mother.” Constance stood and sidled around the tea table to reach her. She removed the lilac fabric from her mother’s hands. “You look exhausted. And you too, Felicity. Patience and I can finish up.”
Mother snatched back her sewing. “You two worked all day as well—Patience at the store and you with your dance and the house.”
“I don’t work so hard, and Patience looks fine.” Constance pried the fabric away again and walked it to the mantle out of her mother’s reach. “Ten hours of lessons a week hardly amount to strenuous labor.”
Mother covered her yawn. “Give that sewing back to me, and we’ll all work until Grammy serves the tea. Then Felicity and I shall head to bed. Patience, play us a song.”
Constance complied as Patience leapt from the couch. The poor girl hated sewing and was ever pricking her fingers—fingers that should spend their days playing the fortepiano, not packing purchases and collecting coins at the mercantile. She launched into a Mozart sonata with her expressive styling.
“Imagine,” Mother said with a hint of wistfulness, “if this succeeds and you begin to find clients, we can open that wee school just as I always dreamed. Perhaps Mrs. Beaumont will recommend you to her friends in Richmond. This time next year, I could be teaching needlework rather than slaving over it night and day.”
“Do you think I’m old enough to teach painting, Mother?” Felicity looked up eagerly. Nothing put a glimmer in her eye like talk of art. Of late she’d been fixated on the Romantic Movement. For tonight she contented herself embroidering butterflies.
“To the younger ones at the very least,” Mother said. “Why, the city of Richmond should be honored to have the accomplished Cavendish females instructing their young ladies. They simply don’t know it.”
Constance sank back into the settee, the lump that earlier blocked her throat now settled in her belly. Everything depended on her success in this endeavor. She wondered if Richmond could ever accept the Cavendish family, but she wouldn’t bring up the more probable scenario.
At least not yet.
* * *
Patience blew out the candle on the bedside table, leaving the small room she shared with Constance to the full moon’s illumination. Midnight had come and gone before they finished the sewing, and 8 a.m. would arrive all too soon, when she’d be due at the mercantile. “I’m too tired to sleep,” she whispered.
The bedclothes next to her rustled as Constance rolled over and propped herself on an elbow. “What do you think, Patience? Dare I wait for a letter?”
“Dare you risk running into Robbie Montgomery? Oh Constance, I know you love us and would do anything for us, but that is simply too much to ask. You should tell Mother the truth. She would understand.”
“You saw their faces. I can do this. I will find the strength. I always do.”
Only Patience had seen the pain Constance endured at Robbie’s hand. They’d all been through so much. But his rejection had been one blow too many. For months Constance moved through life in a haze, going through the motions as a shell of her former self. Mother had been too distraught over Papa’s death and desperate to save the plantation to notice anything particularly amiss with Constance. Grammy had stayed busy keeping Mother sane. Felicity had been too young to understand.
No, only Patience knew what this job would cost Constance.
“Really, I can do it.” Constance tapped the nightstand.
Of course she could. This stoic Constance who had emerged from the ashes of their former life felt little and expressed less. How Patience missed her vibrant, fiery sister. Had she been a bit spoiled and selfish, headstrong and temperamental? Of course she had, but it was all part of her infamous charm. “I know you can. But I wish you would consider your own needs for once.”
“I am considering myself. I want out of this life as much as any of them.”
Patience sighed. “So do I.” Her feet ached from standing at the mercantile all day, and now her fingers throbbed from numerous pricks as well. Hence, she did not stay home and sew. Patience required people and action, not needles and thread—although the idea of a little school appealed to her.
“I don’t think I should wait on a letter,” Constance said. “I think I should go myself.”
“Much as I hate to admit it, I agree. If you mean to do this thing, then you must do it right. I’ll talk to Trader Jack first thing tomorrow. I think he plans to leave around noon.” Patience would miss her sister.
“I can’t travel with him alone.”
“He always has that Indian wife of his along, although he doesn’t advertise her about town. I don’t blame him for hiding her. We Cavendishes know bette
r than anyone how Richmond society can gossip. Anyway, you’ll be safe enough with the two of them.”
They lay in silence for a moment.
“I’ll do it.”
Of course she would. Constance always did right without a word of complaint. Patience couldn’t help thinking about what “Gingersnap” Cavendish would have been like at this age. Married. A mother. Mellowed to be certain, but still full of fire and spunk. She needed some joy back in her life. They all did.
“And be sure to use your Yorkshire accent.” Patience giggled. “Plenty of thees and thous and thys.”
Constance giggled along with her. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? It would be fun. You may as well make it as pleasant as you can.”
“I always find pleasure in dancing,” Constance sighed.
Poor girl, once the belle of the ball, now reduced to teaching dance as a trade. While she did indeed seem to enjoy it, Patience never saw the bliss on her face she had witnessed while peeking through the banister to spy on Gingersnap twirling across the marble floor of their grand foyer in Prince George County.
But those days had passed. They must seize the moment. “Try that again with a Yorkshire accent. Broaden those vowels. Remember, it’s dancing with a clear ‘a’ sound, not ‘doncing’ as so many pronounce it. Say, ‘I always find pleasure in dancing,’” Patience demonstrated.
Constance repeated in a reasonable facsimile of their mother’s speech.
“’ey up! I think thou ’ave it. Aye, with t’ wee practice. In’t that so?” Patience tossed out more Yorkshire dialect.
“I ‘wun’t’ take it that far, or she’d think me a shepherdess for certain.”
The room grew quiet.
“Patience.” Constance’s voice fell to a whisper.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think we’ll ever succeed in Richmond.”
“I know. I’ve thought that as well.”
Constance lay back against her pillow. “Could we ever convince Mama to move?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if we found friends elsewhere. Goodness knows we have few enough here.” Aunt Serena made sure they didn’t starve, but she did no more. She invited them to dinner once a month but never with anyone else present and never ever on a holiday.
“I hope so. I hope I can do this, Patience. I fear it’s our last chance for any sort of normal life.”
Patience could picture the expression on Constance’s face, even in the dark. The twisted, pinched countenance that said the weight of the family pressed upon her slender shoulders like lead. Almost as if she blamed herself. She’d never said as much, but Patience held her suspicions.
Why? She had no idea. The slaves had been the ones to revolt and run away, causing Papa to collapse of apoplexy on the front steps. By the time the women returned from the river the next morning, it had been too late. And Papa had been the one to cheat and swindle the entire county to cover his gaming debts, leaving them nothing but a poor reputation and a disaster they could never repair.
Constance had nothing to do with any of it. Perhaps she thought they should have left a note, that if Papa had at least known they were safe and alive when he returned in the predawn hours, then that would have made a difference. But any of them could have done as much, and none of them did. The haunted look in Sissy’s eyes had driven them away in a panic. Perhaps the other slaves had threatened to kill them if they interfered.
They would never know for sure. Perhaps the system itself was at fault. Or even the God who supposedly created this botched-up world. That night had been horrible, the worst night of their lives.
But Constance deserved no blame.
Constance shifted toward Patience again and snickered. “At least we’ll always have Mr. Franklin as a friend. Mr. Franklin and his cow eyes.” Then she burst into laughter.
“Shh!” Patience threw a feather pillow at her sister’s head, glad she could still joke. “Cow eyes, indeed.”
CHAPTER 3
Constance held her valise out the window of the bedroom Mother shared with Felicity. She dared not drop it from her own bedchamber above the parlor. Letting go, she held her breath and uttered a quick prayer as it landed with a thump upon the back lawn. She tiptoed to the top of the stairs and bent down to see if anyone had noticed the disturbance, but Mother and Felicity still sat stitching. Grammy snored nearby in her rocker.
Returning to her bedroom, Constance took one last glimpse in the mirror and caught sight of her plain brown eyes gazing back. For years she had longed for Felicity’s cornflower blue, or even Patience’s amber hue. Growing up on a plantation surrounded by nearly a hundred dark-eyed servants, hers had always seemed so…common. Once upon a time she masked them beneath her long, fluttering lashes. But she had since come to grips with them, and they fit her new image—as did her hair pulled into its tight chignon with not a wisp out of place. One might almost miss its fiery glow.
She ran a hand over the skirt of her sage green dress. The garment was outdated and a bit worn at the edges, as was all their Cavendish clothing, but still pretty and respectable. The sturdy cotton walking dress would have to do, for she could not risk a traveling costume. In her contraband valise she had packed three muslin day dresses and a butter-yellow evening gown with matching shoes. She couldn’t bear to bring the rose silk she had worn the night her life changed forever, although it remained in the best repair. Those dresses and a few necessities were all she dared sneak from the house.
Hopefully, Mother would not notice the riding boots worn in place of her usual soft leather slippers. Boots, however, were worth the risk, for she would not under any circumstances lug a pair of ugly iron pattens along. How fashionable society could condone such horrid contrivances, she would never understand.
She arranged her hat, donned her gloves, and wrapped a creamy cashmere shawl about her shoulders, although wild Gingersnap would have shunned them all once upon a time. Shoes would be abandoned as well, if the weather permitted. Peering closer into the mirror, Constance inspected her face to make sure it showed no hint of her nervous excitement. Color normal. Brow relaxed. Eyes blank. Lips bland.
Perfect.
Approaching the stairs at a normal gait this time, she descended. “Mother, is the letter ready? I shall deliver it to Trader Jack as Patience suggested.”
“On the stand by the door, darling. And drop the other at the postal office. But are you sure we shouldn’t wait for your Aunt Serena to add another letter?”
“We can’t afford the delay. You know how busy she is.”
“True.”
Constance gathered the envelopes into her reticule, reached for the front door, and then paused. “You didn’t mention Mrs. Beaumont’s son in the letter, did you? I’m not certain he’d even remember me.” She clenched her teeth as she listened for the reply.
“No. I didn’t want her to wait for a recommendation if he is abroad as we suspect he may be.”
“Good.” She’d never admit how good it was. Realizing she might not see her family for months, Constance dashed to the parlor and dropped a quick kiss on each of their cheeks. She hurried out the door before they could pause to question why or take note of her footwear.
At the end of the block, Constance turned and scurried around the house to collect her valise and then go out the back gate to take a circular route. Once safely away, she released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Patience would explain everything later, and when she did, Constance had no doubt they’d be relieved to have the decision taken from their hands.
The mercantile was only a few blocks away through the row of elegant, narrow townhouses made of brick. She might have bothered to worry about the neighbors gossiping to Mother concerning her traveling bag, except no one spoke to the Cavendishes. Indeed, no one she passed offered more than a civil nod, and others looked away as though she didn’t exist. By the time someone would talk to Aunt Serena and Aunt Serena would deign to visit Mother, Constance
would be long gone.
Down the lane, Constance spied Mrs. Jane Wellington, premier matron of Richmond society and a close friend to her aunt. The ample lady with her voluptuous figure and soaring gray hair waddled toward Constance with a retinue of servants in tow. If anyone might be kind to her, if anyone might offer her one last chance to remain in town, it could only be Mrs. Jane Wellington.
Constance truly had no desire to run off alone and face Robert Montgomery days from civilization. In that moment, she decided that if Mrs. Wellington would be kind to her in any small way, give her even the briefest acknowledgement, she would stay.
As they strode toward one another, Constance could not bear the suspense. She began counting steps. One, two, three…her palms began to sweat…five, six…her face went cold…seven, eight…she’d reach her by twelve…nine, ten…
At last Mrs. Wellington seemed to notice her presence. The two women were almost shoulder to shoulder now. For a fraction of a second Mrs. Wellington caught Constance’s eye, then swung her head away and turned up her nose, cutting Constance deliberately and entirely.
Mrs. Wellington began to chat in a loud voice about the weather with her maid. So the matter was final. Constance would indeed leave today.
Setting aside thoughts of rude neighbors, she drew in the fresh spring air. She should be accustomed to such treatment by now. The sweet scent of early blossoms offered hope of new life, precisely what she needed on this fine day. She had once lived for springtime on the plantation—the beginning of picnics and parties, running through the woods, and splashing in the creek with Sissy.
The memory made her smile for a moment, until all the others came crashing upon her. She focused again on the relaxing scent of daffodils, pulling the air deep into her lungs. Today she would not look back. She would look ahead and hope.
* * *
Constance clutched tight to the side of Trader Jack’s wagon as they jostled their way along Three Notch’d Road. They’d left Richmond behind hours ago and now traveled through the rolling countryside past plantations and farmsteads. So different from the flat landscape she’d grown up with in Prince George. A cow mooed from a field to her left and continued chomping a mouthful of grass as they bumped past. She attempted yet again to find a more comfortable position perched atop the sacks of flour and sugar.