by Laura Frantz
The Ramsays had no children, Lark remembered. “His aunt placed him in my care before she died. His mother passed away before that. And his father’s whereabouts are unknown.”
“Orphaned, then,” Prentice said. “Like so many, including my dear wife.”
Theodosia’s lovely face darkened. “My mother died of a brief illness when I was a girl. Then the year before Prentice and I were wed, my father and two sisters were taken. Their deaths were such a shock ’tis still talked about in town. They were struck by lightning during a summer storm.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lark murmured, though the words seemed woefully inadequate.
“We’ve helped raise Theodosia’s younger brothers,” Prentice said, moving nearer the stove. “At the moment, they are enrolled at the Grammar School at the College of William and Mary on the outskirts of town.”
“How old is your”—Theodosia mulled the word—“son?”
“Not yet a year.”
“A baby? How delightful! And what is his name?”
“Larkin. It means fierce or warrior in Gaelic. But ye may call him Laurence, the English way, if ye’d rather.”
Theodosia’s eyes widened. “How extraordinary to learn his name mirrors yours.”
“He’s by far the bonniest lad I’ve ever seen,” Lark said, craving his company. “A redheaded handful.”
“Nothing like a child to enliven a home,” Trevor remarked.
“Providence does have a sense of humor,” Prentice said.
They lifted their chocolate cups in a sort of toast to Larkin at Trevor’s invitation. And then the merriment was broken by Mistress Flowerdew’s voice and the click of a door closing.
“Come, Lark,” she called. “’Tis time for us to be away.”
“Only if you’ll let me escort you.” Trevor stood and followed Lark into the foyer. “If your coach should break down or some mishap occur, you’ll need an able hand.”
“Very well.” Mistress Flowerdew stepped toward the door opened by a liveried servant, snow blowing in on a gust of wind. “But you must stay the night at Royal Hundred, Trevor Ramsay. Something tells me the storm is here to stay.”
“Come, my little prince, and meet yer company.” Lark bent over Larkin, who lay on the bed of their cottage as she changed both his clout and his clothes. “Ye must look yer best. And act yer best too.”
He squirmed as she pulled the linen leine over his head, freshly washed and smelling of the dried lavender she’d sewn into the hem. She wished she’d had time to give him a bath. He smelled of wood smoke from the kitchen, though Sally had fed him, his mood content.
He smiled up at her, making his baby noises as she tickled him, calling forth his gurgling laugh. Taking up a blanket, she wrapped him snugly before heading out the door to the mansion, mindful of the slippery walk. Cleve waited just outside the cottage door with a lantern, lighting her way through the still swirling snow. Sally was likely preparing supper even on the Sabbath.
Up the steps into the big house she went, Larkin in arm. What would Trevor think of him? The Ramsays’ shock that afternoon left her feeling she’d been keeping Larkin a secret. But in truth, her short acquaintance with them hadn’t called for sharing so personal a matter.
She’d dressed Larkin as snugly as she could in a knitted cap and stockings yet still fretted he wasn’t warm enough. Her mother’s heart wouldn’t rest, yet she felt all the pride and pleasure of presenting her firstborn to a guest. The fact their guest was Trevor Ramsay, a person she was becoming aware of as a man of some standing at least in Virginia, made the occasion more memorable.
“There you are,” Mistress Flowerdew exclaimed with all the warmth Lark found endearing. “No doubt Master Larkin thought we’d forgotten all about him, spending so long a Sabbath in town.”
Trevor stood by the hearth, hands behind his back, eyes on the lad she carried. Larkin’s hair strayed in bright wisps beyond his cap, and his alert blue eyes fixed on the sole man in the room. Immediately the babe reached out plump arms to him.
Surprised, Lark handed him over. “He doesna always take so kindly to strangers. He was terrified of the sailors aboard ship. But ye, sir,” she added with a pleased smile, “are no sailor.”
“He has a fascination for buttons,” Trevor replied as Larkin began examining his silver-threaded waistcoat. “A stout fellow. And pure Scots from the look of him.” He shot a glance at Lark. “I still find it remarkable he shares your coloring. He could well be your son. And your eyes are the same shade of blue.”
“Remarkable, indeed, though many Scots have such coloring,” Mistress Flowerdew said. “Master Larkin has brought a great deal of joy to this echoing house. And I hope he’ll soon have a playmate once the Osbournes arrive with their young son, Master William.”
“Soon your young man will be ready for Grammar School at William and Mary as I was.” Trevor took a chair, Larkin on one knee. “There are a number of students, even Indian youth, who board there.”
“A few years yet till he’s eight and ready to cut the leading strings.” Mistress Flowerdew took a chair opposite Trevor, leaving the seat nearest him to Lark. “I shan’t like to part with him just yet.”
Lark sat, feet to the crackling wood fire, finding the marble hearth far less cozy than the Ramsays’ coal stove. Seeing Larkin happily settled on Trevor’s lap unleashed an avalanche of memories. Magnus kissing Larkin’s unfurrowed brow. Magnus tickling him and tossing him in the air. Larkin reaching for Magnus at the last. Babies needed fathers. Other than Cleve in the kitchen, Larkin rarely saw another man.
“This makes me think of a family of my own.” Trevor’s candidness turned him grave. “When one considers there are no children at Ramsay House after seven years . . .”
“I still pray for an heir,” Mistress Flowerdew said. “You’ll make a fine father, Trevor, if our stout Scotsman is any indication.”
Truly, Larkin seemed as at ease as Lark had ever seen him, now besotted with the chain that led to Trevor’s timepiece.
“He takes in everything. And I mean everything,” Lark said, remembering the swallowed button. “And he’s quite fond of Royal Hundred’s fare, especially peach preserves and biscuits.”
“He has a healthy appetite then.” Trevor took his timepiece from his pocket and planted it in Larkin’s hand. “No maladies to speak of?”
“A cold and cough soon after we arrived but nothing of consequence.”
“I’ve cautioned Lark to keep away from the quarters this winter,” the housekeeper said. “Fevers and the like spread like wildfire among the servants.”
Trevor nodded knowingly. “’Tis the same at Ramsay House. The doctor is often sent for when Mother and Thea cannot manage on their own.” His eyes found Lark’s. “I suppose your hands are full with tonics and the like in the stillroom.”
“Betimes. I told the overseer any sickness was bound to be reduced if the quarters were improved and the people given ample bedding, clothing, and food.”
“And did he take your recommendations?”
“Nay.” Could he hear the regret in her tone? The frustration? “’Tis especially hard on the wee ones. And there are so many of them. With winter here, I’m especially concerned.”
“Lark has secured a large quantity of osnaburg to make winter garments for the children. And the spinning house is weaving extra coverlets, of which I wholeheartedly approve. Lark has all the makings of a fine plantation mistress.”
“Ye flatter me. ’Tis only what any charitable person would do,” Lark said with a slight smile. Was Mistress Flowerdew trying to do a little matchmaking? Not with one of the most eligible bachelors in all Virginia Colony, surely. And not when her heart was so firmly anchored to Magnus. “I ken I’m better suited to a Scottish island than a Virginia plantation. I miss it with all my heart.”
Tiring of the watch, Larkin struggled to be free. With an ease that surprised her, Trevor stood him on the carpet, holding on to his hands to keep him upright. Apparently p
leased with his newfound accomplishment, Larkin laughed and revealed his latest tooth.
“Will you go back, then?” Though Trevor kept his eyes on Larkin, Lark sensed an undercurrent of dismay. “To Scotland?”
“Did ye not miss Virginia when ye were in London?” she asked gently.
His features relaxed. “Aye. Being native born to America, ’tis my home. Like Scotland is yours.” Leaning forward in his chair, he began to walk Larkin over to Lark.
“Whoever would have thought a barrister could be so good with children?” Mistress Flowerdew commented before leaving the room to see about supper.
The compliment made Trevor seem as proud as Larkin. “We legal men are not all bewigged and dour.”
Once again, Lark’s thoughts cut to Magnus, as much a barrister as Trevor Ramsay. All that was no more. Had his banishment stripped him of his legal standing? Would he ever again don his judicial robes and resume his position in Edinburgh’s Court of Session?
She took Larkin in her arms, softening when he burrowed his face in her bodice then lifted his face and gave her a wet kiss on the chin.
“Ye imp.” She hugged him nearer, aware of Trevor’s eyes on them. “I wonder what sort of future he’ll have here.”
“He’ll be a Virginian, if you stay,” Trevor said. “As his guardian, you have the choice.”
“We’re here for three years hence at least. Mr. Osbourne holds my indenture, ye see.”
Trevor looked less surprised than when he’d learned about Larkin. He merely nodded. “Indentures are coming into the colonies in droves and have for a hundred years or better. Not only from Great Britain but all of Europe.”
She’d lost track of all those indentured aboard the Bonaventure but Magnus and Rory MacPherson. Had the former captain and free trader run? If he was caught, the penalty would be severe. In the hands of Factor Granger, harsher still.
“Let us have supper, shall we?” Mistress Flowerdew reappeared and opened a hall door that led to the dining room.
Once again, Trevor surprised her by plucking Larkin off the carpet, where he’d been hugging Lark’s knees, as if he weighed no more than a feather. Larkin peered over one wide shoulder before Lark went into the dining room ahead of them.
Mistress Flowerdew had spared nothing for their Sabbath supper. The best plates and crystal shone, and the pleasant scent of beeswax bespoke the best light. Lark helped situate Larkin in the walnut infant chair rescued from the attic. When he grabbed at the fine linen tablecloth, she handed him a silver spoon to fist instead.
Trevor took Magnus’s chair. The accompanying pang was so acute it felt almost physical. Would she ever get over missing him? Waiting and wanting to hear from him?
“This is how I envision family life,” Trevor remarked, eyeing the fine papered walls and paneling. “No children shut away in separate rooms but all present and accounted for.”
Lark smiled. Which colonial belle had he set his cap for? Mistress Flowerdew said his arrival back in Virginia had caused quite a stir.
He said grace, and thoughts of Magnus again intruded, his resonant Scots overriding Trevor’s melodious Virginia dialect even in memory.
She looked to a window, the panes blurred by snow. Trevor Ramsay might be snowbound at Royal Hundred for days.
34
The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good.
Samuel Johnson
Around noon the next day came Factor Granger, tromping through snow that nearly reached the ankles of his high black boots. Lark shuddered and turned away from the stillroom window, squinting at the glare, as he passed by the glass and cut across the service yard to the mansion.
Though Royal Hundred’s six chimneys all belched smoke, she’d not seen Mistress Flowerdew nor Trevor this morning. Was he a late riser? After supper, he’d asked use of the Osbournes’ library. Before she’d tucked Larkin into his box bed beside her, she’d taken a last look at the mansion house and saw a sole light upstairs. No doubt their guest had read into the wee small hours.
She dressed Larkin warmly, donned her own scarlet cape, and trudged to the kitchen where Sally and Cleve huddled near the snapping fire. A copper teakettle puffed steam beside a small pot of porridge.
Their glum faces stole Lark’s appetite. Not even Larkin’s merry, nonsensical chatter put a dint in their demeanor, usually as steady as the Virginia sun.
“Sit a spell,” Sally said, taking the kettle from the fire. “I expect you be called to the big house ’fore long.”
Lark sat down hard on a crude chair, Larkin on her lap. “What has happened?”
“Runaways,” Cleve said. “And no way to track ’em in this snow, not even with dogs.”
So Rory had gotten away. Lark sat very still, letting the fact sink in with all its mournful implications. “Why would Granger report runaways to Mistress Flowerdew?”
“For all his high and mighty ways, he can’t read nor write. Least here lately. It’s left to Flowerdew to tell Osbourne. Pen him a letter.”
“It ain’t like he’s never learned,” Cleve explained. “Something in his head gets letters and figures backwards ever since he first took sick.”
“What do ye think ails him?” Lark asked, genuinely interested despite Granger’s harsh reputation.
“Don’t know what to call it.” Sally shook her head and poured tea into cups. “Ever so often he seizes, freezes up. Frightful how it comes on all a sudden and leaves him wrecked. Can’t even walk for a spell after. Then time passes and he gets around again.”
’Twas what Mistress Granger, his wife, had said when seeking out Lark in the stillroom. Pondering it, she fed Larkin spoonfuls of porridge laced with honey. Granger was brusque, argumentative even, and he offended Mistress Flowerdew’s sensibilities. Their infrequent meetings were fraught with peril. Though the housekeeper spoke ill of few, she did complain about the factor.
Cleve began humming a tune as if to cut the tension in the kitchen, reminding Lark of the Watts hymnal she’d found in a stillroom cupboard. She’d given it to the only literate slave she knew, Royal Hundred’s blacksmith, Josiah. As musical as he was skilled at the forge, the industrious Josiah seemed grateful. She’d lost count of all the times the singing from the quarters drew her, the blend of voices like some heavenly choir.
“Ye needn’t any printed music as yers is divine,” she’d told him as she’d offered the hymnal. “But mayhap this will be of use to ye in some way.”
Emotion glazed his dark eyes and he took the gift almost reverently, making her glad she’d offered it. “We want to thank you for the help you give,” he said, eyes on his hands. “The coverlets and stockings you bring. Our children don’t suffer as much from the cold.”
Glad she was to help, though such seemed a tiny golden thread of relief in a dark tapestry of needs. But she’d done what she could.
Sally was studying her as if privy to her thoughts. “I suspect Granger’s goin’ to make trouble for you now that he’s stirred up about the runaways too. Told Cleve just yesterday he don’t like you goin’ to the quarters.”
What could she say to this? Mistress Flowerdew had no qualms about her visits. Yet she knew she acted in a manner no usual indenture would. Should she fear doing what she thought was right? What she felt prompted to do? Would the Lord not hold her accountable if she bowed to fear and ignored His compassionate leading to help where and when she could?
Be mine defense.
She sipped her tea, pondering this news, the hot liquid stealing to the benumbed parts of her. Looking toward the frosted window glass, she envisioned what she wished she could see. Scotland. Spring. Bees and birdsong. A letter from Magnus.
Within a quarter of an hour, a housemaid came to summon Lark. Her terseness betokened something dire. Without a word, Sally reached for Larkin, leaving Lark to walk the just cleared path to the mansion alone, a few snowflakes sifting down.
Raised voices greeted her from Osbourne’s paneled study
off the foyer, Granger’s foremost. No sooner had Lark wiped the soles of her shoes on an entry mat than he stormed past her, the stench of his unwashed garments leaving a sour smell. Her dread eased only a bit at the slamming of the back door behind him.
Mistress Flowerdew stood in the open study doorway, her face a strange mingling of ire and distress.
“Yer upset,” Lark said. “What has happened?”
“I fear Mr. Granger’s illness has scrambled his mind in the extreme. He lays part blame at your door for the latest runaways at Star Farm. Someone saw a Scots indenture, a former sea captain named MacPherson, talking to you not long ago in the garden. This man is one who got away.”
“He said he planned to run, but I wasna sure I believed him. He told me to come to Star Farm by month’s end if I wanted to go with him.”
“Why would you?”
“He’s a fellow islander. From Kerrera. The laird knows him too. But I have no wish to break the covenant with Mr. Osbourne, nor leave Royal Hundred.”
Nodding, Mistress Flowerdew took a steadying breath. “Let us forget the overseer’s outburst. His quarrel with you likely stems from your latest interference, as he calls it, in the quarters, more than this flimsy association with a runaway.” She backtracked into the study, a paper in hand. “Please sit down, my dear. I have other unfortunate news.”
Lark’s heart seemed to skitter to a stop. Magnus. At last?
“Mr. Granger communicates occasionally with an overseer at Trelawny Hall in Jamaica, a distant relation. Since Granger’s illness, I have to pen his replies and manage his correspondence as his wife is not literate.”
Lark waited. Would she not hurry and tell all the rest?
The housekeeper began reading from the Jamaican overseer’s post, voice wavering.
“The Scots laird and factor, Magnus MacLeish, lies gravely ill with yellow fever. He is not expected to recover. I have sent word to Osbourne about a possible replacement, one who is not averse to enslaving Africans and the conditions in which we must keep them. MacLeish has plans in place not only to teach select slaves to read and cipher but to place them in positions of authority here. ’Tis no surprise these chosen Africans warm to his outrageous plan. As they are lords over their own people, I suspect much mayhem to follow. Even so, there is to be a better harvest this year, due to the Scot’s management. MacLeish is a force to be reckoned with, even half-dead. By your receipt of this letter, he will likely be buried . . .”