by Laura Frantz
“Shall we?” he asked her, extending an arm.
She rested her fingers on his coat sleeve, and they took a bricked path past a dry fountain whose basin was filled with colorful autumn leaves. Beyond this stretched the part of the garden that was the most beautiful in late fall and nearest to the river.
“So tell me, what have you found to your liking in Virginia?” he asked.
“Other than sweet potatoes and hoecake?” At his amusement, she said, “Virginia’s jasmine I find intoxicating, and the tuberoses are the largest I’ve ever seen, particularly the apothecary rose.”
“You’ve not yet witnessed the flowering dogwood and redbud in spring.”
“Nay. I’ve only just arrived, sir, in September.”
“Please, call me Trevor.” He paused to examine a daylily. “And I would dispense with Miss MacDougall as well.”
She swallowed. Was an exchange of first names so soon a colonial custom? “Then ye may call me Lark.”
“Lark?” His eyes met hers with unabashed pleasure. “You belong in a garden then. I am wearied of so many Marthas and Janes and Theodosias.”
Theodosia cast a look over her shoulder at his teasing. “Don’t think I am deaf and cannot hear you, Trevor. Your time in England did not take away your roguishness, I see.”
“Nay,” he said. “Those staid London courtrooms only amplified it.”
“Beware, Lark,” Theodosia said. “Trevor is quite a charmer.”
“I shall set Royal Hundred’s bees upon him if he grows too knavish,” Lark returned with a smile, gesturing to the skeps.
“Bees?” His eyes found hers again. “Surely you jest. Mistress of the stillroom and the swarms too? I intend to have bee boles at my new property on South England Street in Williamsburg. Perhaps I can have a swarm of yours to start.”
“Not all survived the crossing. There was a frightful storm—several of the bee skeps were lost,” she lamented. “A good many plants perished. But yer welcome to take cuttings and such come spring, if Mistress Flowerdew permits.”
“If you’d like to tour the orangery, sir,” Mr. Munro said, “Miss MacDougall and I can show you what did survive. Fruit scions might be of particular interest to you in regard to your future orchard.”
Mr. Munro led them down another path bordered by a neatly trimmed yew hedge leading to the glass house. The orangery door was open, beckoning. ’Twas a favorite place of hers, smelling fresh, even exotic, and hosting the estate’s most prized and delicate botanicals.
Delight took the edge off Lark’s awkwardness. She held back while Mr. Munro began the tour, Mr. Ramsay—Trevor—rapt.
“Come, ladies, let us go to the arbor while the men speak their Latin and conspire,” the housekeeper said. “We must catch up on any unmasculine gossip.”
Lark heard a cry and started toward the stillroom, only to see Sally dart in and whisk the wide-awake Larkin away. To the kitchen, likely, to have milk and gingerbread, a favorite. Lark felt more at home in Royal Hundred’s humble kitchen than in the waiting elegant bower smothered with trumpet honeysuckle and wisteria. Thankfully, tea with Mistress Flowerdew had become so commonplace she’d learned the etiquette well enough, though ’twas a far cry from Granny and the croft with its cracked treenware. What would her grandmother think of her now? If Virginia’s colonial governor began life as a humble Scots merchant, why shouldn’t she be comfortable at this refined tea table?
Beyond the arbor’s deep shade, the southern sun mimicked summer. Indian summer, Mistress Flowerdew called it. ’Twas four o’clock in the afternoon.
Lark watched as Mistress Flowerdew poured steaming water into a silver teapot and let the tea leaves steep for the customary three minutes.
“I’m growing quite fond of cups with handles,” Theodosia said. “No more burning one’s hands and spilling tea on one’s skirts. I’ve ordered an entire set of Wedgwood from England and expect it any day now.”
Mistress Flowerdew smiled. “What news do you bring from Williamsburg?”
“The very best.” Theodosia looked to Lark. “There’s to be a fete in the governor’s new ballroom the first of December.”
“A winter’s ball?” Lark mused, envisioning it. Mistress Flowerdew had taken her past the Governor’s Palace earlier, as the royal residence was just down the street.
“No doubt the governor will be happy to meet a fellow Scot. A variety of guests shall attend, including the emperor of the Cherokee Nation with his empress and their son the young prince. Governor Dinwiddie even asked my husband about the laird. He remembers him from the Mount Brilliant ball. I explained he was in the sugar islands.” She took a sip of tea. “I suppose you’ve heard from him?”
“Nay.” Lark read the questions in her eyes, ones she herself couldn’t answer. Fighting melancholy, she changed course, suspecting Theodosia enjoyed talk of fashion. “What shall ye wear to the ball?”
“Something in blue, the very hue of your gown. The milliner is already at work. You must come into town and see her progress when I have a fitting.”
“I’d love to.” Summoning enthusiasm wasn’t hard, though would she herself even attend? “Kerrera Castle—the laird’s ancestral home—hosted many a ball.” As a child, she’d simply pressed her nose to a glass window of the Great Hall while sitting atop her father’s shoulders. But once she’d come of age, she’d been a guest, if only in the shadows.
“A Scottish fete!” Theodosia came alive. “I suppose the castle is ancient and majestic.”
“Ages auld, and majestic indeed.” Lark felt a wistful pleasure take hold. “All the ladies wore their finery, and many a tiara and gemstone were seen.”
“I can only imagine it, having never been outside these colonies. But you have had the good fortune of being both places. I wonder what you’ll think of this colonial ball?”
“I’m sure she’ll find it most agreeable,” Mistress Flowerdew said with her usual enthusiasm. “A chance to meet more of Williamsburg’s residents. A shame the laird can’t join us.”
“Perhaps the Osbournes will host a fete when they return to Royal Hundred. To become reacquainted with society all at once instead of a chance meeting in town or at church.”
“A splendid idea! I shall write Mistress Osbourne and inquire. The great parlor is being redone in verdigris at her request. ’Tis large enough for dancing.”
“Have you heard the minuet might be going out of fashion?” Theodosia asked as the housekeeper poured more tea.
Their chatter died down when Trevor reappeared, stooping a bit as he stepped beneath the arbor. He took a seat beside Theodosia across from Lark, eyeing the now tepid teakettle.
“It matters not whether it’s warm or cold,” he said at Mistress Flowerdew’s insistence the water be reheated. “I’m not a fussy sort.”
Lark smiled. He had an endearing way about him, an easy grace she found in few men. Theodosia was right. Trevor Ramsay was charming.
“So,” he began, holding a teacup that looked ridiculously small in his large hands, “I thought I overheard talk of a ball. Will you attend?”
The question was meant for Lark. She met his eyes, a bit unnerved by the intensity of his gaze. “I never thought to be invited to a royal governor’s ball.”
“I plan to,” he replied, taking a drink, “if only to reacquaint myself with town life. I’ve been away for so long I don’t know who’s who in Williamsburg of late.”
They turned to other subjects, circling round once again to a place rarely out of Lark’s thoughts. The sugar islands. Theodosia’s kinfolk had just returned from there.
“Your ailing brother found them utterly forgettable, and of no help to his condition,” Trevor said. “The Caribbean gives the appearance of unspoiled beauty. A pretty gloss covering the ills of slavery.”
“Now, Trevor,” Theodosia interjected, setting down her cup, “there are nearly thirty souls enslaved at Ramsay House. No doubt there are nearly as many laboring to build your fine townhouse. Don’t
bore our hosts with any double-minded talk.”
“What of Miss MacDougall?” he said, looking again at Lark. “What are your Scots feelings on the subject? I know of enslaved Africans in Scotland, though not so many as here.”
“None on the Isle of Kerrera,” she said quietly. “I stand on Scripture. Does the New Testament not say that God ‘hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth, and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation’? Can it be any clearer?”
They lapsed into a thoughtful silence till Mistress Flowerdew asked Trevor, “What is in store for you now that you’ve returned from London’s Inns of Court?”
“Rumor has it that I’ll be appointed to a post by the royal governor. But for the moment I’m most interested in ground being broken for my home and the garden and orchard that need planting.”
“Perhaps you can borrow Mr. Blair’s Williamsburg gardener as we did,” Theodosia told him. “I highly recommend him.”
“Mayhap.” He leaned back, done with his tea. “I’m pondering what to call the place. There’s only one Ramsay House, after all.”
“And now there shall be two,” his sister-in-law said as a cool breeze lifted the lace edges of her kerchief. “We’ll lodge you as long as you like, though thankfully you’ll only be moving across town once you do go.” She looked at the timepiece attached to her bodice, bringing an end to a memorable tea. “How quickly time passes in the company of friends. Thank you for the lovely afternoon.”
“Till the Sabbath,” Trevor said, putting on his cocked hat. “I bid you gracious ladies good day.”
33
Be slow in choosing a friend, but slower in changing him.
Scottish proverb
By the Sabbath the weather took an abrupt turn, closing the curtain on a colorful fall. Snow began swirling down—huge, white flakes that reminded Lark of lace. By the time they reached Bruton Parish Church, all of Williamsburg was dressed in white. The bells pealed in the snowy stillness and were heard for miles.
Mistress Flowerdew had given Lark a cloak in dove gray, cape trimmed with ribbon, the muff of the same. When Lark had protested such finery, she’d received a fine scolding. “You shan’t go to church and freeze to death!”
Larkin had remained home with Sally, snug by the fire.
Now Lark huddled beside Mistress Flowerdew near the back of the church, noting the Osbournes’ box pew was conspicuously empty. The Ramsays sat at the front, Trevor’s broad shoulders a striking counterpoint to Theodosia’s slender, sloping carriage and Prentice’s fleshed-out form. The widow Ramsay sat between her sons, her graying head covered in a large calash.
Though the church was beautiful, hallowed, ’twas cold as a tomb, their combined breaths pluming like white feathers. The brazier of coals beneath her feet warmed only those. Yet she was glad of the cold. How weary she’d grown of the oppressive Virginia heat.
She took a discreet look about. These Anglicans were a far cry from her Scots-Presbyterian roots. How did Magnus worship in the islands? Was it not the Sabbath everywhere? Lark took a childish, whimsical comfort in the fact they shared the Sabbath, at least. On Kerrera they honored the day quietly. No telling what these Virginians did. Till now she’d spent the Sabbath simply reading Scripture at Royal Hundred, till Mistress Flowerdew begged her company today.
Her gaze lifted to the rosette windows letting in snow-glaring light. Governor Dinwiddie arrived to sit on his canopied chair at the front. Next came the government officials, mostly burgesses, Mistress Flowerdew whispered to her. They took their assigned places and the service began, the beadle casting a wary eye over the congregants, especially the William and Mary students in the gallery.
Lark followed Mistress Flowerdew’s lead, reading from the prayer book after the minister. In two hours the sermon was done. Her extremities were numb, and the ancient woman in the pew ahead of them snored softly. A benediction was said, and all filed past the liveried footman at the entry.
“Your cheeks are red as the Hawthorn berries by the church’s tower door,” said a voice behind her. Trevor Ramsay.
She stepped into a corner of the vestibule, firming her chin to keep her teeth from chattering, and buried her hands deeper in the borrowed muff. “Good morning, sir.”
“Sir? Didn’t we dispense with that at Royal Hundred? Must I call you Miss MacDougall? Lark is far more fetching.”
“As ye wish, Trevor.” She smiled up at him, admiring his handsome fulled cloak while people pressed past.
Theodosia came down the flagstone aisle at last. “Come with us, Lark. You and Mistress Flowerdew must warm up before riding home.”
Trevor winked. “My sister-in-law wants to parade her latest acquisition from London before you.”
“Nay, I do not,” Theodosia protested. “I am not proud, Trevor. Just cold.” She looked about for Prentice, who was deep in conversation with several burgesses. “My husband seems determined to turn me into an ice sculpture.”
“Let us go, then,” Trevor said, escorting them to a waiting coach. He stepped aside to help his mother and Mistress Flowerdew into the Osbourne conveyance. “My brother can walk. Heaven knows some exercise will do him good.”
Lark nearly laughed. Truly, the ponderous Prentice could benefit from a brisk if brief walk. Ramsay House was not far.
Down Palace Street they went, going slowly in the slippery snow. In a quarter of an hour they alighted and were escorted up the slick steps and into the foyer like before, the enormous window on the landing framing a leaden sky. To their right was the dining room, door open.
“And what is your pleasure, Lark?” Theodosia asked as a servant removed her wraps. “Tea or cocoa?”
“Coal,” Trevor said with a wry smile. He took Lark’s elbow and guided her into the dining room toward a papered, paneled wall.
Lark blinked. Tried to puzzle out the odd contraption before her, though the delicious heat emanating from it gave a telling clue.
“’Tis a warming machine,” he told her. “Designed by a clever Londoner named Buzaglo.”
Taking her gloved hand, he placed it lightly on the stove’s ceramic face. Her fingers thawed. She smiled, taking in the embellishments and scrolling design, an artistic marvel from tip to top. “’Tis like an enormous three-tiered cake.”
“Aye, ‘one of the most elegant warming machines that ever was seen in this or any other kingdom,’ says the papers. I’m considering ordering one for the orangery I hope to have built.”
“Complete with lemon trees like Royal Hundred’s? Mr. Munro said you are especially fond of those.”
“Don’t forget the oranges.” He let go of her hand as Theodosia invited them toward a cluster of chairs.
“Where is Mistress Flowerdew?” Lark asked. “And Mistress Ramsay?”
“In the small parlor,” she replied, motioning a servant to set down a tray.
“My mother has pronounced the warming machine extravagant,” Trevor told her, taking a chair. “Youthful vanity.”
“Oh?” Lark moved her feet nearer the warmth. “I confess I am quite smitten.”
“As I am,” he said with a wink, holding her gaze. She looked away, rattled, glad for her friend’s presence.
“Have some chocolate, Lark, to further warm you.” Theodosia poured then passed her a delicate cup.
Lark took a careful sip. Never had she sampled cocoa. She tasted vanilla, sugar, and spice. Rich and creamy and satisfying on such a day.
“’Tis new to you,” Trevor said. “Like syllabub.”
“Indeed. And like syllabub, I hope cocoa will be a dear friend.”
He chuckled, taking a drink from his own cup. “’Tis reputed to be a digestive aid and of benefit for lung ailments, especially nourishing for the sick.”
“Mayhap I should keep some in the stillroom. Surely ’tis good for body and soul.”
“At least in the snow and cold.” Trevor balanced his cup and saucer on one k
nee. “Thankfully, Virginia’s winters are brief.”
“Nonsense,” Theodosia said, taking a chair nearest the warming machine. “Two years ago, we didn’t see the ground till April. I felt I was in the arctic. Every gardener in Williamsburg was apoplectic!”
“I was in London, remember,” Trevor said, gaze shifting to Lark. “When the snow melts you’ll have to see the progress of my property. I’d like your opinion of the layout of the physic and bee gardens.”
“Of course.” Lark smiled at him over the rim of her cup.
“Any word on when the Osbournes are due?” Theodosia asked. “I’m anxious to meet the new mistress of Royal Hundred. The former, God rest her, was also a dear friend.”
The lament in her tone tugged at Lark. “Mr. Osbourne’s last letter spoke of a spring sailing.”
“Any news from the laird?” Theodosia asked, pouring more chocolate.
At Lark’s simple nay, Theodosia and Trevor exchanged glances. Instantly she felt a qualm. Did they know something she didn’t?
A noise in the foyer was followed by Prentice Ramsay’s entry. Face reddened with cold, he greeted them heartily and took a cup of cocoa from his wife’s hand.
“’Tis snowing harder,” he remarked, obviously not minding his bracing walk.
Lark’s gaze strayed to the windows clad in heavy brocade and wooden Venetian blinds. All were covered but the one nearest the door, showcasing a blindingly white world.
Her cup was empty. She craved the stillroom’s scent. Her humble hearth. Larkin. “We must be away then.”
“Away? Surely there’s no need to hurry on so stormy a day,” Prentice said. “We have room aplenty should you and Mistress Flowerdew need to stay the night.”
“Kind of ye, but I am missing my wee lad.” The quiet words tumbled out before she’d given them thought. To her knowledge no mention had yet been made of Larkin. “He’s at home in a servant’s keeping.”
All eyes pinned her, their shocked silence begging explanation.
“You have a child?” Theodosia finally said with something more akin to envy than surprise.