by Laura Frantz
The woman who nursed him was not Lark. Dark as midnight she was, but oddly blue-eyed. A mulatto? He’d never seen her till now. She’d come in on the heels of the fever. Never had he been so sick. Sick enough to want to die and end the misery of each agonizing moment. Overnight his life had shrunk to sweat-stained bedding, a basin to retch in, and four walls.
But still he dreamed, stabbed by discontent and longing. Lark hovered, nearer than she’d ever been before. He breathed in her sweet, stillroom-laced scent. Felt the brush of her brilliant hair across his bare arm and chest as she cooled him with cloths. The few times he’d forced his eyes open she’d disappeared, the blue-eyed woman in her wake.
But ’twas Lark he wanted.
This strange woman—she chanted over him—put amulets beneath his bed. Once he’d grabbed her wrist in a feeble attempt to ward away more ill. “No witchery,” he spat out through a throat dry as late autumn leaves. “Only Scripture.”
She’d recoiled. Did she even understand his garbled words? After that, Naria and Rojay were at his side.
Time ticked on, he with it. A drenching rain forced stray drops through the ceiling and mosquito netting about his bed. Not chill Scottish rain but hot and unrefreshing. Or was he fancying that too?
Lord, let me die.
He was brought low by more than physical illness. He was sickened by affliction. Starvation. Cruelty. The melee around him. Little difference could be made in so vast a sea of suffering, surely. And he was sickened by separation. Unfulfilled longing. Miscarried dreams. He even missed Nonesuch with a keen ache.
Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.
Scotland seemed like paradise, its superstitions small and harmless. Here, a strange man in a strange land, he was in a fight. For more than his life.
At last a British voice broke through the blackness. “Yellow fever, no doubt. If he’s lived this long it likely won’t kill him. Scots are a hardy breed. Absolute devils in battle. The colonies have become a dumping ground for them . . .”
He was bled. Dosed with something vile. Then he slept. Dreamed. This time ’twas Larkin close at hand, a warm, weighty armful, just like he’d been at the last. How it had twisted his stoic heart to bid them farewell at Royal Hundred. If he saw the lad again, he’d be a babe no longer.
And Lark? Always Lark . . .
31
Wherever you travel . . . your ears are constantly astonished at the number of colonels, majors, and captains that you hear mentioned. . . . The whole country seems a retreat of heroes.
Edward Kimber, English traveler to America, 1745
“Williamsburg has less than two thousand residents, but the crowds swell during Publick Times when the courts are in session,” Mistress Flowerdew said as their handsome carriage glided over leaf-littered dust that was ankle-deep, already earning them curious glances. “’Tis lively as ever today.”
Truly, the streets teemed with people. A fair unfolded on several acres with puppet shows, fiddling contests, foot races, and pig chases playing out before their eyes. Here there were more blacks than whites, of all castes, and a great many men in uniform. Lark stared, transfixed by a copper-skinned people resplendent in furs and feathers beneath a sprawling oak tree.
“Indians. Cherokee, perhaps,” Mistress Flowerdew explained. “Governor Dinwiddie tries to maintain friendly relations. They’re feted at the Governor’s Palace and entertained at the theatre. Soon it will be his majesty’s birthday with fireworks on Palace Street and a ball.”
Never before had Lark seen fireworks. Would they flare like muskets? Like the blue lights the smugglers used in free trading?
Their carriage slowed before what looked to be a tavern, where a line of slaves stood on the steps, heads bowed. A group of well-dressed men gathered, some clutching handbills and newspapers. The auctioneer’s voice overrode the crowd’s raucousness.
Lark tore her gaze away and fixed it on the far more comfortable millinery sign just ahead. Out of the open shop door spilled several young women in head-turning dresses and hats, ribbons aflutter in the Williamsburg wind.
“Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these,” Mistress Flowerdew murmured. “Virginians do love their finery.”
“So I see,” Lark replied, smoothing her striped skirt. She had on her own beribboned straw hat, a posy of tiny violets at the crown to match the purple sash about her waist. Not the first fashion but as pretty and turned out as she could be.
Into the shop next door—labeled “Trevor Greenhow, Merchant”—they went. Its shelves abounded with earthenware, iron skillets, soap, chocolate, coffee, saddletrees, and far more.
“What do you buy?” came the customary merchant’s greeting.
“Seed for spring planting,” Mistress Flowerdew returned. “Royal Hundred’s gardens must look their best, keeping in mind the Osbournes’ arrival and a great many guests to follow.”
They spent a pleasant hour choosing seed. French artichokes. White wonder cucumbers. Lettuces and broad beans. Melons. Around the vegetables would go China pinks, foxgloves, and peonies. The formal garden was another matter entirely. Another gardener had been hired at last and was on his way to Royal Hundred.
They went to the millinery shop next, this one advertising a variety of toys.
“I wonder if Larkin would like a puppet or Bartholomew doll?” Mistress Flowerdew mused. “Or something more befitting a lad?”
Here were rocking horses and rattles, whistles and tin drums, stilts and wooden hoops. Maple fifes. A bowling set. Marbles. They settled on a toy ship complete with miniature captain in blue and a lead anchor. Lark staunched the memory of the Merry Lass.
She smiled as the toy was purchased and packaged, anticipating Larkin’s delight. A visit to the printing office secured sealing wax and paper. She’d pen another letter to Magnus this very night. And one to Granny.
“Now to pay a call to the widow Ramsay, a longtime friend.”
Across Market Square sat a large house the color of a deep red oak leaf. Lark hadn’t seen its equal in all of Williamsburg other than the Governor’s Palace. A liveried servant let them in and led them through a foyer with a sweeping staircase to a rear garden where several ladies gathered.
“Frances, is that you?” A bewigged woman came forward, hands outstretched. “What perfect timing!”
All eyes were on them as introductions were made. Names pelted Lark like raindrops. Only one found purchase, that of Theodosia Ramsay, their hostess’s dark-haired daughter-in-law who looked to be the same age as Lark.
“You must be prepared to hear the name of Ramsay frequently,” Mistress Flowerdew said to feminine laughter. She gestured to Lark with a gloved hand. “And this is Miss MacDougall of the western Scottish isles, born of an ancient, powerful clan.”
Lark stood a bit straighter but was hard-pressed to suppress a smile. Though of little consequence now, her family history did ring true. Had all that been in Richard Osbourne’s letter about her? These Virginians did like their titles.
“Royal Hundred is all the better for her presence,” Mistress Flowerdew finished with a gracious smile.
“You’ll be quite at home when you come to town, then. Our royal governor is a Scot, as are many of Williamsburg’s townspeople,” Theodosia said. “Please join us for refreshments in the garden. Some lemon syllabub, perhaps? Cook has also baked some delicious apple custard tarts.”
They slowly moved toward a linen-clad table, late-season chrysanthemums and bittersweet making a center bouquet. Chairs were scattered about, and Theodosia gestured for Lark to take a seat beside her.
“I’ve seen you before,” the young woman said, studying Lark over the ethereal froth of her syllabub glass. “’Twas at the Mount Brilliant ball. You were with a very handsome Scotsman I assumed to be your husband.”
“The laird Magnus MacLeish.” Another pang. Without thinking, Lark touched the locket now secreted in her pocket and drew Theodosia’s eye. “An islander like myself. And a longtime
friend.”
“I think you are too modest. That very night I said to my husband ’twas clear the laird adores you. Surely there is more to your story. Is he not here?”
“In the West Indies. He is factor for Richard Osbourne at present. He’s also in mourning for his late wife.”
“Oh? My deepest sympathies. Though I must mention that mourning never lasts long, at least here in the colonies.” Her features clouded. “My brother is in the Caribbean—Barbados—in hopes of curing a lung condition.”
“I pray he fares well,” Lark said, surprised consumption was as much a scourge here as in Britain.
“Amen. Let that be our prayer. Do you ride?” Theodosia asked with an arch of dark brows.
“Seldom,” Lark confessed. “Is it true ye Virginians are as fond of horses as dancing?”
Theodosia laughed. “Indeed. When we are not dancing we are on horseback. My husband keeps a fine stable here. Perhaps I shall ride out to Royal Hundred.”
“Then ye shall see the bee garden and orangery.”
“And take tea. Mistress Flowerdew sets a lovely table.”
Lark took a drink of the foamy syllabub. Sweet yet lemony tart. Since the ball she’d wished for more.
“And who have we here?” A masculine voice cut through the feminine chatter. “A fair Virginian I don’t know?”
Smiling, Theodosia set down her syllabub and motioned the gentleman nearer. “You admired Miss MacDougall at the Mount Brilliant ball, along with the laird.”
Lark turned and stood. Could this ponderous, impeccably dressed man be Theodosia’s husband? Lark had no memory of him in the sea of strangers who had swelled the ballroom that night.
“Ah yes.” He kissed her hand. “I am Prentice Ramsay, cousin to Richard Osbourne. And a great-nephew to Mistress Flowerdew.” He gave a wink. “Tarry in Virginia long enough and you’ll soon be related to everyone too.”
His easy manner won her over. She smiled as he spoke with each lady present and then turned back to the house, syllabub in hand.
“My husband wears many hats,” Theodosia said, “but his role as the colony’s attorney general is foremost. He learned the law in London.”
“The laird is also a lawyer,” Lark said, never missing a chance to speak well of him. “Formerly in the Court of Session in Edinburgh.” Not even banishment could change that, could it?
“Oh? Perhaps he might be of service here rather than the West Indies. Virginia has need of a great many qualified men.”
“I shall write to the laird and tell him.” A spark of hope kindled. “Thank ye.”
“Then I shall tell my husband,” Theodosia said. “And please, call me Thea.”
32
Do not anticipate trouble, or worry about what may never happen. Keep in the sunlight.
Benjamin Franklin
Lark moved the candle nearer till golden light spilled onto the page. She paused, gaze lifting from the Bible to Larkin as he lay sleeping in his box bed, clutching a rag doll Sally had made him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest reassuring.
Her eyes returned to the Psalms.
The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit. Many are the afflictions of the righteous; but the LORD delivereth him out of them all. He keepeth all his bones: not one of them is broken.
She had asked the Lord for a special Scripture then landed on this. It seemed a promise, the words rife with hope. Saveth. Delivereth. Keepeth. She prayed that for Magnus. But nary another letter came. The delay chafed and sent her nearly running when the post arrived. Even Mistress Flowerdew began to look disappointed. But the lack of letters did not stop Lark from writing. She penned half a dozen to his one, overflowing with news of Virginia, even Theodosia Ramsay’s inquiry about him.
Now that fall had taken hold, Lark spent more time in the stillroom than the garden. Soon the cupboards were full of more than soap, with tonics aplenty to see them through the coming winter. Her visits to the quarters increased. In turn, the people came to her, seeking this or that for some ailment or another when the factor and overseer weren’t watching. A doctor was sent for if matters turned dire.
She’d not seen Rory again. As the time ticked closer to month’s end, she wondered, Had his plans to flee changed? Would she know if he got safely away? His desire to see the Scots stronghold in North Carolina she understood. But would it improve his lot? Would he not still be bound? An indenture on the run? If he dared return to Scotland he’d run the risk of being caught and put to death.
Betimes she felt almost guilty at Royal Hundred. She was bound, aye, yet treated as more of an equal by Mistress Flowerdew. Even Sally deferred to her, helping care for Larkin as if Lark was a member of the Osbourne household. Kinfolk. Her work seemed almost child’s play compared to a field hand.
Blessings abounded. Plentiful meals. An adequate dwelling. Work she favored. The gardens both here and in Williamsburg were an endless delight. Though she hated to confess it, even the castle’s gardens paled in comparison. Her grudging acceptance of Virginia was giving way. She’d not dwell on the loss of her beloved homeland, her tarnished heritage, or Granny. Nor Magnus. She couldn’t lose Magnus. The heart words he’d spoken before leaving warmed her whenever she pondered them.
The next morning found her cutting flowers for the house. Mistress Flowerdew was fond of fresh bouquets in both the mansion foyer and her personal sitting room. Lark brought the blooms into the stillroom to arrange them in a vase she’d gotten from the pantry. Once finished, she made her way to the house, smiling at Larkin’s chortling as Cleve sat with him beneath a pecan tree.
Mornings held a special joy as the plantation slowly came awake, the day unblemished, the wide river a serene blue. Up the back steps she went, calling a greeting.
Mistress Flowerdew was in the foyer, holding a note. She waved it at Lark, eyes alight. Had Magnus written at last?
“We’re to have afternoon visitors. Theodosia Ramsay and a certain gentleman.”
Lark set the blooms on a foyer table. “Tea, then?”
“Yes, and Mr. Ramsay wants to make the acquaintance of Royal Hundred’s new gardener.”
“Theodosia’s husband?”
“Nay, his barrister brother and an avid horticulturist.”
“The Ramsays have no end.”
The housekeeper laughed, seeming years younger. “I’d best prepare Mr. Munro. As for you . . .” She looked at Lark’s workaday attire. “An afternoon gown might be more suitable. Let’s have a look, shall we?”
They proceeded to an upstairs bedchamber, the only room undisturbed by renovations. Great progress was being made in repainting and wallpapering all around them, but this room remained untouched.
“Before Felicity died she bequeathed her wardrobe to me to do as I wished. I sent most of her garments to the poorhouse. I’ve borrowed a fichu here and a sash there and have remade a few of her gowns to wear. But I daresay her youthful taste suits you far better.”
Soon Lark ran work-worn hands over the skirt of her chintz gown. Celestial blue, the color was called. Her ankle-length white petticoat drew attention to her shoes, also celestial blue, with ivory-colored rosettes. Hardly the stuff of the stillroom.
Her hands gave her away. She wore mitts that Mistress Flowerdew said were in fashion, though Lark refused to powder and pomade her hair, simply coiling it at the nape of her neck and affixing it with pins and fresh flowers.
By afternoon, while Larkin napped, Lark kept busy in the stillroom in anticipation of their guests. A look out the window told her Mr. Munro had tidied himself as well in weskit and breeches, no dirt or leather apron in evidence.
She felt she’d swallowed a swarm of butterflies. But why? Because she felt out of her depth in Virginia society? In Scotland she knew who she was, her place. Here . . .
She went into the garden and spoke with Mr. Munro, whose affable Scots set her at ease. Osbourne had secured the very best. Mr. Munro had been plucked from
a Highland estate near Aberdeen because he’d heard Virginia gardens were the finest in the colonies.
“I had to set my aging eyes on the black-eyed Susans, the goldenrod, and the fall-blooming asters,” he’d said of the American botanicals. “’Tis a privilege to prepare Royal Hundred in advance of the Osbournes’ arrival.”
And not only the Osbournes. At half past two, the decisive clip of horse hooves sounded on the driveway. A merry exchange of voices could be heard in the mansion’s foyer through the open riverfront door. In minutes, Mistress Flowerdew led their guests down the bricked steps and into the formal garden. Though Mr. Munro had only been there a sennight, his capable hand was in evidence everywhere.
Lark’s gladness to see Theodosia again was tempered by the sight of her companion. Behind her came a tall figure in navy broadcloth. His cocked hat was held in his right hand, angled artfully over his heart. He gave a little bow as they made introductions.
Trevor Ramsay was nothing like his brother, Prentice, though nonetheless powerfully built. This man was so tall Lark had to tilt her chin to look up at him.
“My brother-in-law has just returned from London as his legal studies are at an end there,” Theodosia said. “He’s happy to be back home in Williamsburg.”
He was studying Lark, a lively light in his gray eyes. “Have we not met before, Miss MacDougall?”
“Only if ye’ve been to the Isle of Kerrera,” she returned with a smile. “Though I was once in Edinburgh and Glasgow.”
“I’m told you ken, as the Scots say, a great deal about gardening and stillrooms.”
“Not as much as Mr. Munro,” Lark said as the two men shook hands. “And I’ve yet to be thoroughly schooled in yer colonial gardens. They are as different from Scotland’s as homespun and silk.”
“Or bannocks and biscuits,” he said with a wink.
They laughed and began to look about. Theodosia fell into step with Mistress Flowerdew, and Lark expected Trevor Ramsay to partner with Mr. Munro, but he did not.