by Laura Frantz
He looked up but didn’t release her. They were so close she could feel the warmth of his breath when he pressed his bewhiskered cheek to hers and whispered in her ear, “Promise me ye’ll wait, Lark . . . or mayhap I’d best ask if waiting is what ye want.”
Her voice wavered with emotion when she answered. “Waiting isna what I want, but wait I will, no matter how long.”
He seemed on the verge of saying something else, something that had her holding her breath, when he let go of her hands and stepped back. “For now, ’tis enough.”
26
A house without a dog, a cat, or a little child is a house without joy or laughter.
Scottish proverb
Mistress Flowerdew pressed a hand to her heart. “A real, living laird?”
“Aye, a banished one,” Magnus said apologetically.
The housekeeper darted a look at Larkin next. “And an infant?” Her rapturous expression bespoke much. “If you but knew the sameness—the mundaneness—of keeping an empty house. All I have for company is a cat!”
Mistress Flowerdew was tiny and well-kept, her ruffled mobcap the biggest thing about her. She peered at Lark expectantly and then at Magnus. “The two of you must be married—and this is your son.”
“Nay,” Lark and Magnus said in unison.
Disappointment covered Mistress Flowerdew like a cloud. She looked at the sealed letter the factor had given her before he’d gone down the lane to what he called the quarters. “Perhaps I should read Mr. Osbourne’s correspondence before leaping to conclusions.”
They stood in the foyer of the grand house, front and back doors open to the drive and river. The housekeeper broke the seal and devoured the contents, seemingly as hungry for news as Lark was for supper. The teasing aroma of baking bread and roast meat made her stomach cramp. Larkin, now awake and fussy, banged an insistent fist on Lark’s bodice, his sign for sustenance.
“Oh my! Mr. Osbourne writes that you’re a personal friend and that I’m to lodge you right here till the ship sails to the Caribbean.” She folded and pocketed the letter. “We shall maintain you in true Virginia fashion then, beginning with your rooms.” Taking hold of a small bell on a side table, she rang it, the merry tinkle calling a young housemaid. “I’ll have refreshments served on the riverfront portico immediately. Dinner is at eight o’clock.”
Magnus nodded and smiled. “I am a personal friend of Richard Osbourne just as Mistress MacDougall is a friend to me. Mayhap we can all dine together, yerself included.”
Appearing flattered and flustered, Mistress Flowerdew curtsied. “As you wish, your lairdship. I’ll even have Cook concoct something special for the babe.”
Magnus had bathed and shaved. The water in the copper hip tub was cool and clear as a loch. Clad in a suit of broadcloth from his bedchamber’s wardrobe, he stood before the second-floor window, Lark’s cottage and attached stillroom below. This bird’s-eye view of the walled and kitchen gardens, the dovecote, and other dependencies was eye-opening, even jolting. Flanking the house were fields as far as the eye could see. Here everything seemed almost new whereas his beloved Alba stood centuries old.
On the voyage to Virginia he’d read from the captain’s small library on American agronomy, riveted by the fact colonial soil was so hospitable when his rocky isle was not. Though the Virginia coast lacked the grandeur and majestic awe of Scotland’s western islands, it had a compelling charm, a lush freshness that surely must have wooed those first settlers a century or more before.
And here Lark would make her home.
He needed to see her at Royal Hundred. Needed to ascertain if she was safe before he left, counting the days till they were reunited.
Osbourne’s vast plantation comprised eight thousand acres, half of which were under cultivation. Magnus’s mind spun. He thought in hectares, not acres, but knew his host’s holdings were vast. Tobacco was king and had made Osbourne a Tobacco Lord, yet he complained of his factor and overseers and the toll tobacco was taking on both his land and slave labor.
Magnus hadn’t yet told Lark that Rory MacPherson was bound to one of Osbourne’s smaller farms a few miles distant to toil as a field hand. Likely she’d find out soon enough.
Lord, if it pleases Ye, let me stay.
He had no wish to see the sugar islands, not as an indenture. Captain Moodie had warned him of both disease and the harsh climate cutting down his fellow countrymen within mere months. He’d not court fear, but it was a concern. Many failed to survive the seasoning, though some eventually thrived. Which would his lot be?
He smoothed a finely tailored coat sleeve then touched the soft linen of his stock. Lark lacked proper clothing. Could he presume on Royal Hundred’s hospitality and secure something suitable for her to wear to supper?
What did he have to lose?
“I realized,” Mistress Flowerdew said, arms full of garments, “that being ship bound for so long, you’re in need of a clean gown and underpinnings.”
Fresh from her bath, Lark felt her remaining weariness wash away. “Bethankit. I brought little with me and all is soiled.”
Taking the offering, Lark noticed Mistress Flowerdew’s perplexed expression. “Pardon, Miss MacDougall, but my English ears have a sore time of it with your Scots speech.”
“’Tis understandable, yer confusion, as I oft speak so fast.”
“Indeed, my dear. I’m a tad deaf besides.” She peered over Lark’s shoulder to Larkin sitting atop the bed. “Might you need a hand with the babe while you’re dressing?”
Lark sensed the older woman’s lonesomeness, the hollowness of being a spinster. “Oh aye,” she replied, setting the garments aside to scoop Larkin up. He smiled his toothy smile, flipping her heart over, and went to Mistress Flowerdew like a lamb.
“We shall walk about the garden, Master Larkin and I. He might enjoy the pineapple fountain.”
Lark almost chuckled at the comical picture they made, he so stout and the housekeeper so tiny. “Careful, he’s a tub,” she warned.
“Indeed. Soon he’ll be toddling about and in need of a pudding cap and leading strings.”
They went out, leaving Lark the luxury of managing her borrowed stays and stockings, shift and petticoats. Where had Mistress Flowerdew gotten such garments on short notice? And the shoes! Calamanco slippers with shiny gilt buckles. She’d only seen the like in Edinburgh’s shop windows or adorning fine ladies like Isla.
She shut her mind to the dark thought and selected one of the prettiest dresses. Made of India printed cotton, it was both colorful and comfortable. She pinned up her damp hair, covering it with a lace-edged pinner and surveying the gaunt woman before the small, cracked oval looking glass.
The Glasgow tolbooth and the ship had remade her. A small woman she was not. Never had she been called dainty. But this was the closest she’d come to turning sideways and disappearing.
Dismayed, she left the cottage and made her way up the shell walk in her slightly cramped shoes, her eyes everywhere at once. They lingered on the bee garden in back of the herb garden near the reflective glass orangery Mistress Flowerdew had pointed out so proudly.
Beyond this was the service yard, the kitchen and laundry, salt house, smokehouse, and scullery, all cleverly concealed behind a high boxwood hedge. Tonight, at least, she felt less like an indenture and more a guest, thanks to Osbourne’s letter of introduction and Mistress Flowerdew’s hospitality.
A maid met her at the riverfront door and led her to the dining room, where the factor and Magnus were already gathered along with the housekeeper. Larkin sat at her feet on a plush carpet, playing with a collection of silver spoons.
Dinner was nothing short of an astonishment. Salted ham, baked shad in pastry, peanut soup, sweet potatoes and sweet corn, turnip greens and creamed celery with pecans. Meringues with cherry sauce were served for dessert, at which Larkin clapped his hands between bites. These Virginians had mastered the culinary arts. Lark was only familiar with the fish. All else wa
s so foreign she felt like an Egyptian. By meal’s end she was as stuffed and drowsy as Larkin, who kept nodding off in her lap.
Coffee was served, and Lark sipped the bracing brew as Magnus and Granger discussed Royal Hundred. The factor was indeed a hard man as Magnus had said. She tried to see past his hardness to the root cause beneath.
“You must be anxious to learn more about the gardens and plantation’s workings,” Mistress Flowerdew told her. “But only after you’ve rested.”
“Tomorrow morn,” Lark said as the lengthy supper came to a blessed end. “Will ye show me about? Or is there someone else?” She prayed it wouldn’t be the factor.
“I shall gladly show you. Sadly, Royal Hundred has seen a spate of ill fortune. We’ve had the usual summer fevers and then a spring scourge of smallpox taking both a housemaid and the gardener.”
“I’m sorry,” Lark murmured as they rose from the table and said good night.
The evening air was cooled by a westerly breeze. Once in her cottage, she put a sleeping Larkin in his box bed and left the door open, sitting just outside on a wooden bench in sore need of paint. There Magnus joined her as the factor rode away and one by one the lights in the mansion went out.
The leaves were stirring in the breeze, and the coo of doves made a sort of haunting night song as the moon rose. She looked toward the river, darkened to deep blue in the gloaming. The enchanting scene matched her mood. Magnus was just a breath away. Would he take her hand again?
For the moment his attention was on something just ahead. Together they stared, transfixed. Between them and the river was a twinkling like countless fallen stars. Tiny winks of white light first here then there, never ending.
“Glowworms?” Magnus said. “Like the ones in Kerrera’s hedge?”
“Nay. These are . . .” She stood and began a slow walk toward the nameless river. “Winged.”
He followed, his low chuckle as much a delight as the magical lights. He’d not been merry in ages.
They came to a stop, surrounded by the otherworldly, blinking creatures who seemed neither aware nor afraid of them. Cupping his hands, Magnus captured one. She peered down as he half opened his fingers. A yellow flash.
“A fanciful insect,” he mused. “A winged beetle.”
“I’ve ne’er seen such.”
He released it and it flashed again in flight. “Peculiar to the colonies, mayhap.”
“’Tis like a flash of lightning,” she marveled as it winged away. “I thought we might be stung.”
He smiled in the gathering darkness. “Like yer bees.”
Side by side now, they looked out over the wide river, shoulders touching.
“What is it named?” she asked in awe.
“The James if yer English,” he answered. “The Powhatan if yer Indian.”
Her eyes rounded. “Are there Indians near?”
“Nay. Not to my knowledge. Once this was their land before they were driven west.”
She couldn’t imagine such. It sounded mournful. Fearsome. Yet hadn’t they themselves just experienced the same? “When will ye leave?”
“By week’s end.”
“Ye could have stayed in Hampton harbor till then.”
“Royal Hundred holds more appeal.” He looked at her intently before turning back to the river. “I wanted to see ye here, make a picture in my mind of where ye’d work and lay yer head.”
“I wish I could do the same. See where ye’ll be in the sugar islands.”
“I’ll pen it in a letter. Tell it to ye in word pictures.”
She narrowed her gaze to the twinkling all around them. “Is it true what the factor said about yer contract? That yer term of service is but two years?”
“That’s the way of it, aye, in the Caribbean. Conditions are harsh. Ye heard Granger at supper. That we outlanders run a frightful risk venturing there.”
The darkness inside her deepened, though she was used to his plain speaking.
“But if not for Osbourne—and Providence—I’d be in Marshalsea by now.”
She shuddered. Marshalsea Prison meant certain death. At least the Caribbean, whatever its dangers, was free of bars.
“Will ye go back to Kerrera? In time?”
He turned toward her, the shadows masking his features but not his beloved scent. Sandalwood. Fresh linen. The taint of the sea was no more. His voice was remarkably even when he said, “There might be precious little to return to. The Crown will seize my holdings and transfer them to someone else. Our headright grants us land here once our service ends. A solid fifty acres.”
She stifled the urge to turn up her nose. Virginia land held little appeal. “And what is fifty acres to a man who once owned an island?”
Her hasty reply wounded him, she knew.
“If I live to see it, ’twill be a bonny beginning.”
His quiet words rebuked her. Tears choked her apology, swelling her throat. All this change, the fierce pull between the old and new, their near parting . . .
“Yer weary, Lark.” He took her by the elbow, his touch on her ruffled sleeve gentle. “A good night’s sleep is what’s needed.”
Her needs went far beyond sleep. She craved Kerrera’s wild coast. The simplicity of porridge and strong tea and bannocks. Granny’s peaceful company. The cry of gulls and the purple haze of heather in the glens. ’Twas worse than a death, this separation. A death was final, complete. The land went on living, always calling them home . . .
Didn’t his longing for Alba go bone deep too? Or, having left Kerrera behind years before in Edinburgh, did he now weather the change better?
“If Virginia is to be our home, I want to embrace it, but—” She trod carefully, trying to sort through the tumult of her feelings. “Betimes it seems traitorous to do so, to take to this new land and new people that have been thrust upon us. Being fond of Virginia makes me feel I’m being unfaithful to Scotland somehow.”
“Yet God has seen us here and promises to turn things in our favor no matter how dark. If He promises to bring good from all this, should we not look for the good too?”
How simply he explained things. And how truthfully. “Aye.”
“And since He has miraculously placed us together, I feel we must make the best of it.” The warmth in his tone lifted her sagging spirits. “With ye by my side, Virginia seems a sort of sanctuary to me, ye ken. Almost paradise. At least this night.”
This night was theirs, aye. Her heart brimmed with a great many things. On the tip of her tongue was the simplest of questions.
Do ye truly still feel the same as of auld?
She wanted to be sure, to tighten the tie between them that distance would soon test. His gentle hold on her arm was telling.
With his free hand he touched her cheek in that beguiling way that left her weak-kneed. “What is in that head and heart of yers, Lark?”
Reaching up, she covered his hand with her own. “Both are full of a place that’s home to us and wee Larkin. Our own abode, one of beauty and peace with a garden and bees and yer sheep. I’ll make oatcakes and tea and ye’ll hang yer hat by the door, and we’ll shut the world away. ’Tis as real to me as if I was standing on the threshold.”
“Hold tight to that then. I’ll do the same. Mayhap the Lord has given ye a vision to weather our time apart.”
She nodded, having thought the same. Cling to it she would.
A sudden cry from the cottage cut through the twilight. With a hasty, reluctant good night, she brushed his clean-shaven cheek with a fleeting kiss before hurrying across the lawn to Larkin, who was no doubt wide awake and wondering about his strange surroundings.
27
No one is without difficulties, whether in high or low life, and every person knows best where their own shoe pinches.
Abigail Adams
The featherbed made a downy nest, soft and warm. A linen sheet was hardly needed. Sometime in the cicada-laden night a smirr of rain chased the heat away. Toward dawn a cock crowed. L
ark lay staring at the cracked plaster ceiling, putting down the urge to kindle a fire and fill the teakettle. Ingrained in her since she was no bigger than a kelpie was this comforting ritual. ’Twas early morn when she most missed Granny and her old life, before the day’s business took hold. Betimes her head still spun with all the changes in her life since summer. It all harkened back to a betrothal announcement, then a bottle left on a shelf . . .
She pushed back the distant past to savor the memory of the night before. And the vision, as Magnus had called it, the secret revelation of her very soul. Not just a home but their home. She couldn’t say if it would be in Virginia or Scotland. But it was home, and it was so vivid and lovely it seemed she could reach out and touch it.
Her stomach gave a low rumble. She’d forgotten to ask the housekeeper about breakfast. She didn’t expect to partake of it in the mansion’s dining room. Her workday was about to begin. Next to her, Larkin made his usual morning noises in his box bed, merry sounds that chased away the worries of a new day. Rolling over, she peered down at him, his wide smile lighting up their odd world. She chattered to him as she dressed, exchanging a nightgown for a plain but bright blue-striped petticoat and jacket that Mistress Flowerdew had given her per the terms of her contract.
She gathered Larkin up in her arms and traced the shell path to the kitchen house in the service area behind the hedge.
“Mornin’, Mistress MacDougall,” a stout woman said, a bright red kerchief wrapped round her ebony head. “You and Master Larkin’s up with the cock’s crow.” She left the hearth where half a dozen items sizzled and simmered, wiping hardened hands on her grease-spackled apron. “I’m Sally, boss o’ the kitchen house. Flowerdew tol’ me ’bout you.”
Flowerdew? No “Mistress”? The omission made Lark smile. “Ye served us a fine supper.”