by Laura Frantz
Mistress Flowerdew’s voice trailed off wearily.
Long moments passed before Lark said, “No more?”
With a shake of her head, Mistress Flowerdew folded up the letter. The room grew colder and grievously still. Lark herself felt turned to stone.
Nay, Magnus, ye canna leave me yet.
What had he said to her at the last?
Goodbye for noo. See ye efter.
She fixed her gaze on the fire, the anguish of the unknown welling inside her.
“The Lord preserves whom He will,” Mistress Flowerdew murmured before they fell into another sore silence. “We pray the laird is among them.”
So lost was she in the misery of the moment, Lark startled at Trevor’s voice. She’d all but forgotten he was snowbound with them.
“May I intrude?” He filled the doorway, a book in hand, impeccably dressed and no worse for the weather.
“I’m afraid we’ve had rather an unpleasant visit from the factor, Mr. Granger,” Mistress Flowerdew said.
“I overheard something about indentured runaways.”
“Indeed.” She nearly grimaced. “I fear Mr. Granger was shouting and I apologize.”
“No, please. I would have come down sooner but thought I might aggravate the situation further.”
He entered the room and took a chair. They sat in a sort of triangle, Lark and Mistress Flowerdew on a brocade settee across from him.
“Several indentures from Star Farm have gone missing,” Mistress Flowerdew said. “Of course, Mr. Granger is upset about the lack of labor and breaking of covenants, a definite loss to the plantation. Normally he’d send trackers and dogs after them, but with this snow the runaways are likely gone for good.”
“What is this mention of Lark and the runaways?”
At Mistress Flowerdew’s hesitation, Lark briefly explained her tie to Captain MacPherson.
“But that is of small consequence,” the housekeeper said. “Word has come that the laird, Magnus MacLeish, has been gravely ill with yellow fever and might not recover.”
Hearing it again was just as much a trial as the first time. Could it be?
“I’m sorry to learn of this,” Trevor said quietly, staring down at the book he held.
“Is it true what they say,” Lark began with difficulty, “that those who want to die quickly go to the West Indies?”
Their eyes met, and she read his answer before he said a word.
“Few survive the debilitating fevers and diseases and climate, not to mention the dangers.”
“The laird strikes me as a man who isn’t hindered by much,” Mistress Flowerdew rushed to reassure her. “Besides, he’s a man of faith, is he not? I recall what George Whitefield, the great evangelist, once said, that as believers we are invincible until our work is done.”
Mulling this, Lark committed it to memory, praying that even as they spoke Magnus was on his feet, the sickness far behind him.
2 December, 1752
Dearest Lark,
I have heard the sorrowful news about the laird. I so want to cheer you now that the snow has melted and the way to town is clear. Might you come to Ramsay House for tea around our cozy warming machine on your next free day?
And do bundle up the babe and bring him with you. Trevor says he is the most splendid little fellow he’s ever seen.
Yours,
Thea
The prospect of warmth and fine tea wooed her. Weary of the cold stillroom, her mind worn to a melancholy rut over Magnus, Lark was only too glad to flee Royal Hundred. Yet something else marred the day just as she and Larkin pulled away from the service yard in the carriage. Mr. Granger appeared and stared after them as they rumbled over the hard winter’s drive to Williamsburg.
She tried to tuck any dark thoughts away and focus on Larkin. He sat on her lap, amusing himself with a tassel on the window shade. A brazier warmed her feet, but by the time they reached town the coals were tepid at best.
Theodosia was waiting at a front window as a servant hurried out the front door to the mounting block. Would she always feel surprise at being entertained by the likes of Mistress Ramsay? But Theodosia herself was not a society woman, Mistress Flowerdew confided, preferring the comforts of home and a few close friends.
Theodosia embraced her warmly beneath the magnificent stairwell window before taking Larkin from her, her face lit with delight as he smiled shyly then buried his face in her shoulder. Though Theodosia was barren, she hadn’t let it sour her, unlike Isla.
“Dear Trevor did not exaggerate. He’s truly beautiful—or what is it you Scots say?”
“Braw.” Lark smiled. “Bonny.”
“He has a penchant for silver spoons and hat boxes, or so Trevor told me.”
They passed through the dining room door to the warming machine, which was stoked full of an endless supply of coal. Coal was luxuriously warm. Toys decorated the carpet at their feet, so many and so well made that Lark’s eyes went wide.
“These are from Bellhaven, my family’s plantation where I was raised,” Theodosia said. “My little brothers have no use for them now that they’re in Grammar School at the college.”
She set Larkin down on the rug with a grace that reminded Lark that Theodosia was the oldest of ten children. Together they watched as Larkin picked up a toy drum then set it down in favor of a wooden soldier.
“Ye spoil him. Soon he’ll be asking to come visit ye,” Lark teased. “He’s begun saying a few words.”
“No doubt he’ll like our refreshments. I asked Cook to make some almond macaroons.”
The tea service was brought in and set between them on a cherry tea table with a decorative piecrust edge. Theodosia served, leaning down to give Larkin a macaroon. He took it readily, letting go of the toy to examine the tasty offering.
“Say thank ye,” Lark told him with a smile. “Or ‘bethankit’ as we Scots say.”
He babbled a nonsensical word, waving a wee hand and the sweet in his endearing way.
Theodosia returned to her tea with a lingering smile. “How do you manage, Lark? A baby and your duties in the stillroom and garden too?”
“Little is done in the winter but dispensing tonics and readying for spring. Sally—Royal Hundred’s cook—is a blessed help. She is fond of Larkin and sees her grandchildren in the quarters but little.”
“I can only imagine. We have such a busy household even without children of our own.”
“What is yer day made up of? Ye are far more than a pretty gentlewoman, Mistress Flowerdew tells me.”
“Pretty gentlewoman, indeed! I start the day in the kitchen, deciding what recipes to have for dinner and then supper. I measure out sugar and spices that are kept in a locked cupboard. Sadly, some of the servants have been soundly whipped for stealing. I keep a close tally on accounts. Entertaining and social obligations never end. Last year we went through twenty-seven thousand pounds of pork, nineteen beeves, one hundred fifty gallons of brandy, five hundred bushels of wheat, and one hundred pounds of flour for our guests. No doubt Richard Osbourne will do the same when he’s in residence.”
Aghast, Lark stared at her, then remembered the prosperous Ramsays had a great many servants. Still, managing and supervising them and an abundance of guests was no small task. “I’ve heard yer an accomplished embroiderer.”
Theodosia smiled over the rim of her teacup. “’Tis as scandalous for a woman not to know how to use a needle as it is for a man not to know how to use a weapon. Petit point is my specialty, mostly chair seats and fire screens for practical purposes.”
“I was taught the same at the castle,” Lark said, sampling a macaroon. “But mostly linen samplers worked with wool and silk thread, though once I completed a stomacher for a tenants’ ball.”
“Which brings me to the real reason for our meeting. The laird. You’ve received no more word of him, other than secondhand about his illness?”
“Nothing more, nay.” Lark fixed her attention on Larkin’s head, hi
s curls a red halo. “His last letter was some time ago.” And perused so many times it was coming apart at the seams, the ink smudged from one too many emotional readings.
“Once you told me there was naught between you and his lairdship but friendship. I want to make certain of that before I say more.”
Lark leaned back in her chair, a bit overwarm from the hot tea and sitting so close to the warming machine. “I’ve known the laird my whole life. And until recently there’s been no talk of the future.”
“Until recently?” Theodosia leaned forward with interest.
“Before the laird left we spoke of our hopes for the future.” Lark looked to her lap, tripping over her words if only because sharing her treasured feelings seemed to open a door better left closed. Besides, Theodosia was a new friend, the future uncertain. If Magnus succumbed to yellow fever, there would be no future. She focused on Theodosia’s rapt expression, trying to stay atop her fractured feelings.
“I only met him briefly but ’twas enough to make a lasting impression. He’s an uncommon man and I’m truly sorry for his loss. And yours, if so.” Theodosia returned her teacup to its saucer. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your grief but feel ’tis time to mention my brother-in-law.”
Trevor? Lark saw the hesitation in her eyes, the worry of mishandling a fragile situation.
“Trevor has become quite fond of you.” She studied Lark as if gauging her reaction. “There are other young women who look his way, but he seems to have eyes only for you.”
’Twas no surprise. Had she not sensed his interest? Even when she’d been forthcoming about her indenture? Still, she balked, at least in her innermost thoughts. “Surely a man of Trevor Ramsay’s standing wouldna seek a lass such as I, not even in forward-thinking America.”
“’Tis precisely his standing that allows him the freedom to choose. He has no need of any dowry. And he can redeem your contract in a breath. I doubt even Mr. Osbourne would object to the match.”
“But I remain a stillroom mistress. A lowborn Scot.”
Theodosia’s smile was wry. “Say what you will about yourself. Your deportment, fine bearing, civility, and speech belie your humble station. Your family history and schooling alongside the laird makes you not only suitable but far more interesting than these Virginia belles. Not only that, you share Trevor’s interests. Gardens. Beekeeping. Babies.”
At that, she handed Larkin another macaroon. He’d pulled himself up, holding on to Theodosia’s skirt, and was eyeing the tea table.
“He’s quite taken with Master Larkin. Think of the advantages the new attorney general of Virginia Colony could give him as a stepfather.”
Was she serious? Marriage into the powerful Ramsay clan? No more worries or woes over Mr. Granger and what he might do. A new home of her own in Williamsburg, a town as charming and current as Kerrera Island was rustic and remote. But also instant social standing, something she cared nary a fig about. And they were a slave-holding family like so many wealthy Virginians.
Her prolonged silence set Theodosia to talking again, crafting a persuasive case of which her barrister husband would be proud. “You must meet the Gilliams. They arrived on Virginia’s shores as indentures in the seventeenth century, and through a combination of industry and clever marriages now find themselves in the top tier of society here. Their home, Weston Manor, is not far.”
“I should like to meet them,” Lark said, finishing her macaroon and finding it delicious. “Almond with a hint of rosewater?”
“You have a discriminating palate, another fine attribute.”
“Where is Trevor today?”
“At the capital.” Theodosia seemed pleased at the inquiry. “When he’s not there he’s at his property on South England Street supervising construction of his new house. We seldom see him these days.”
Finished with her tea, Lark bent and reached for a jack-in-the-box, showing Larkin how to turn the crank so that a jester popped up.
“You can expect Trevor to come calling soon,” Theodosia announced with a soft, satisfied smile. “He rather enjoyed being snowbound with you at Royal Hundred.”
35
A day to come seems longer than a year that’s gone.
Scottish proverb
“You are doing too much,” the physic warned.
“There is much to be done,” Magnus replied.
His work began at four o’clock in the morn and did not let up till nearly midnight. Already a fortnight had been lost due to illness. The three overseers kept their distance in fear of catching the fever but ’twas simple enough to ken they hoped he wouldn’t recover. The Africans waited to see if he would die or survive as they prepared the fields for planting. He still felt like death, but the needs before him were unrelenting.
Turning his horse away from Trelawny Hall’s colonnaded loggia, he rode toward yet another new windmill that marred the landscape. He finally dismounted and turned loose his horse to graze on the lush Guinea grass the livestock favored. He then took up a hoe while one gang of Ashanti men regarded him with unveiled astonishment. Did they think the fever had burned his brain? He worked with determined intensity alongside them, digging trenches and laying cane end to end. By sunset they’d planted two acres as other gangs fanned out around them and did the same.
“If I am to understand ye—and ken this plantation—then I am to be one of ye,” he explained, knowing that without Rojay the words were lost to them. Yet perhaps they understood simply by his actions. Confusion cleared from their expressions as he finished speaking and took up his implement again.
How else was he to master this unsavory operation if he did not learn it like they did, from planting to harvest, using the broad curved machetes for cutting? Even though he was bleeding from the cane’s sharp edges, back nearly broken from the work, sugar was but one crop in an endless succession of harvests. There was cocoa and coffee and indigo too.
He penned Osbourne a letter that evening from a chair on the loggia, a lap desk on his knees. A cooling coastal wind ruffled the paper’s edges and dried his ink nearly as fast as he formed the words. Weighing his thoughts, he looked out on a series of sandy, turquoise coves shimmering in the setting sun.
Care shall be taken that the Negroes shall have an abundance of food and every other assistance. I consider their preservation and comfort to be the first object on every well-regulated estate, their houses put into repair . . .
Though the overseers had implemented the changes, they grumbled and called him a sorner behind his back.
“What means this, sir?” Rojay had asked, ever faithful.
“Sorner?” The word sat sourly in Magnus’s mouth. “Worthless vagabond. One who shirks work.”
“I think they are that,” Rojay replied before he showed the trio into Magnus’s study for another meeting.
The overseers gave an accounting of the improvements and a report on runaways, which had decreased markedly in Magnus’s short tenure, even with the removal of the mantraps, the slave catchers at the plantation’s edges. Then came a litany of petty grievances.
“There’s no cure for their deceit,” one said, face shiny from the evening’s heat. “Continually the worst of the slaves break tools to retaliate for some perceived slight or another. They even have a system where they sleep or shirk work, using hand signals or speaking their language to warn when we are near.”
“Then bring any sorners to me,” Magnus said, dismissing them.
They’d moved off the porch, a simmering resentment in their wake.
Dismissing the memory, he resumed his letter writing, still weak from the lingering effects of the fever. A dish of freshly cut, sugared lemons and limes were near at hand, a luxury. Beside these were a stack of ledgers to review that he’d gotten from plantation clerks.
He reached for his quill again, inked the tip, and penned the name at the forefront of his every thought.
7 December, 1752
Dearest Lark,
I am on my
feet again, having turned yellow from fever. Such did not set well with my Scots coloring, to be sure. As you were not here to nurse me back to health, my recovery was slow.
But I will not speak to you of hardships. I ken you have your own. I’ll speak to you of the small pleasures to be had even in the midst of Hades. For one, there are butterflies here big as my hand. Swallowtail, they are called. They would do well in your garden alongside your bees. The flowers here are just as large, though I do not know their names. I tried drying one that was red and one yellow to send to you, but they stay limp and damp in this tropical heat.
I am surrounded by a sea of Africans. As many as thirty slave ships arrive daily in Montego Bay, a grievous number, even as we export as many ships overfull of sugar and rum. The Ashanti are a remarkable people of greater faculties than the white men who oversee them. I am of a mind to make managers of them, these Africans, if they are willing.
Lest you think I am starving here, I oft wish I could sit down at table with you. I wonder what you would make of the curious Caribbean fare. There are plantains, not unlike the Virginia sweet potato. And stew peas and rice, even salt fish aplenty. I am partial to the jerked meat cooked over green pimento wood, and bammy, a bread. Alas, nary a bannock in sight.
As I go about this strange country I imagine how you and Larkin are. Those last days in Virginia retain their sweetness. I pray they will stay so till we meet again.
Yours entire,
Magnus
The slave quarters were most brutal in winter. Lark could almost not bear to go and dispense the needed tonics, pushing another cartload of coverlets and stockings besides. A few chimneys puffed smoke, but with Mr. Granger rationing firewood as an unnecessary expense, how warm could the people be? Still they sang, prayed, labored. They died and were born in an endless cycle of poverty and want, though some remained remarkably rich in spirit.