by Laura Frantz
He took back his letter to Lark and strode past the onlookers, out of the offices, and toward Trelawny Hall. Once there, he called the houseboy to him. The lad appeared in the doorway of Magnus’s study, head down, clearly suspecting something amiss.
“I’ve no quarrel with ye,” Magnus told him gently. “I ken ye simply did as ye were told by the man.”
“That I did, sir.” His dark eyes filled with tears. “He told me to bring him your every post, that he would see them mailed and to think no more of it.”
“Aye, we’ll now think no more of it. Go back to yer tasks. And if, in future, something seems amiss, come to me first.”
He penned another letter to Lark, stuffed the money within, and set out to Montego Bay himself to assure the letter was posted without delay.
God help her, he could do but little so far away.
Lark smiled tentatively at the churchwarden, glad Trevor was near. Larkin sat on her lap, the picture of health and contentment. Or so she hoped. In the churchwarden’s hands was the letter of complaint against her filed by Granger. Neglect of duties. Preoccupation with the child, whom he called a word Lark would not utter. Then in an odd about-face, Granger cast a cloud on the truth of her story, saying she attempted to pass off the child as an orphan when he was indeed her own. The proof was in their shared coloring, their red hair.
“Truly remarkable, the resemblance,” the churchwarden said. “Sadly, if this child was born of you ’twould be easier to have him remain with you. Given he’s an orphan who fell into your hands quite by accident makes him more a case for the parish poorhouse.”
Lark nearly cringed. “I dinna believe in accidents, Mr. Wellinghurst. More divine instance. The Almighty cares very much for children. I believe He delivers the poor and fatherless and them that have none to help them, as Scripture says.”
“Indeed. And amen,” he replied, perusing the paper.
Reaching up, Larkin touched her cheek with a wee hand. She smiled down at him, caressing a lock of hair that covered one brilliantly blue eye.
“Each case is unique,” Trevor said. “The law is not as inflexible as it would seem. I have a written statement here from Royal Hundred’s housekeeper, who is the aunt of Richard Osbourne’s deceased wife.”
“Mistress Flowerdew?” The churchwarden took the paper and read it silently. “What begs weighing is Richard Osbourne’s opinion.”
“Osbourne took Miss MacDougall on board the Bonaventure knowing the babe was in her care. That must speak to the surety of her indenture.”
“’Tis an unusual arrangement, indeed. Children are usually bound out in such cases, apprenticed to masters when they come of age, once the poorhouse releases them.”
“If they live long enough to reach their majority,” Trevor replied. “I know the state of the parish poorhouses in Virginia. Many have shut down because of inadequacies and outright failure. They’re no place for a young child, given they’re overrun with vagrants and criminals, more like gaol.”
“Aye, mostly because of Publick Times when the general assembly meets and the town turns into a fair attracting all manner of indigent and idle. But what else do we have as a remedy? Those destitute cannot become the care of his majesty’s government.”
“In Miss MacDougall’s case, I ask you to make an exception. Allow her to remain at Royal Hundred per the terms of her contract and continue as the caregiver of her adopted son. Wait till Osbourne arrives and resolves the matter himself.”
Lark listened, softening toward Trevor for his defense of her. She was yet unsure what to make of the churchwarden. Sally said Granger had him in his pocket, whatever that meant.
At his silence, Trevor pressed the matter. “If you cannot ensure that this happens, I have no choice but to appeal to a higher power and take the matter to court.”
The churchwarden frowned and studied Lark. “You could place the babe with a family in town. Such has been done before. Then at the age of seven or so, the child is apprenticed.”
Apprenticed? At so young an age? At seven she had been running free on the moors and beaches of Kerrera. Would Larkin’s earliest memories be of work?
“What if I became the child’s godparent or guardian?” Trevor said with a confidence born of authority. “Take it upon myself to ensure he has a proper education when the time comes at the Grammar School, avoiding apprenticeship altogether. I’m certainly capable of maintaining him prior to that.”
“There is still the matter of his caregiver.”
“What if he was adopted?”
Lark’s brows arched. The churchwarden asked the question she couldn’t. “By whom?”
“Someone who is childless. Able to give an orphan all that an indentured caretaker cannot.”
Theodosia?
Though Trevor didn’t look at her or name a particular person, Lark knew. She vehemently wished his words back. Suddenly she was cast in the role of one who would hold on to Larkin selfishly when faced with giving him up to a childless, more financially capable friend. Her heart, so sore over Magnus, wrung all over again at this latest complication.
Larkin began fretting and Lark dug in her indispensable for something to amuse him. In the flurry of the morning she’d left his toy in the coach. She began to bounce him gently on her knees in an effort to distract him.
“Let us have time away to think on the matter further,” the churchwarden said. “We shall meet again once I’ve looked into it more thoroughly.”
Trevor nodded, shaking hands with the man amicably. To Lark, he said quietly, “Let’s retire to Nicholson Street. My sister-in-law will be quite contrary if I don’t bring you to see her for a brief visit, at least.”
They exchanged the drafty Bruton Parish Church for the coal-stoked warmth of Ramsay House. Lark’s spirits lifted at Theodosia’s delighted greeting, and then her mind veered to Trevor’s proposal. Would Theodosia be a fitting mother for Larkin? She gave him over to Theodosia’s open arms with a sudden reluctance.
“Ah, Master Larkin, you are looking especially fine this winter’s morn,” Theodosia said, peeking at him admiringly beneath his cap. “Did you make his garments yourself, Lark? If so, they are well-wrought indeed.”
“I am a passable seamstress at best, though Mistress Flowerdew kindly gave over the lace for trimming.” Lark forced a smile as a servant took her cape and bonnet. “’Tis cold of late. I aim to keep him as cozy as I can.”
Larkin smiled coyly at Theodosia’s adoring glances, sporting a new tooth. How he’d fussed till it poked through his tender gum. No amount of clove oil seemed to relieve him, only her rocking him all night.
“You must have tea. Warm up before returning to Royal Hundred,” their hostess said as Trevor ushered them into the usual chamber.
The mantel was bedecked with greenery, a festive medley of holly, ivy, mountain laurel, and mistletoe adorned with bright scarlet ribbon. Noticing Lark’s admiration, Theodosia said, “You shall take part in ‘the sticking of the church,’ as we call it. Decorating it from the altar to the galleries and beyond. Reverend Dawson is even composing a special Christmas hymn for us to sing.”
Distracted by all that had happened with the churchwarden, Lark said nothing as she took a seat near the stove.
“Come now, Lark, don’t be so dull,” Theodosia scolded good-naturedly. “Surely you Scots celebrate Christmas. Or are you as dour as those poker-faced New Englanders who frown on such?”
“Christmas is rather a quiet affair in Scotland, having been outlawed. But we on Kerrera celebrate in quiet ways.”
“Then a lavish Virginia Christmas you shall have.” Theodosia took a chair, trying to amuse Larkin, who had tired of being toted about. Screwing his face into a scowl, he let out a howl that snuffed their conversation. Theodosia reached to the right and pulled on a bell cord with a graceful move. A servant appeared, her dark face expressionless, eyes down.
“Come take him, Evie. We shall have a quiet hour.”
Larkin howled louder
as he left the room, his protests reaching a crescendo in the echoing entry hall. Would Evie take him to the far kitchen down the long servants’ hall out back? Weary, Lark watched him go, craving the serenity and simple lines of their quarters. Nothing seemed better than their own crackling hearth’s fire, just the two of them, if only for her to sort through the morning’s events.
Trevor was watching her as if weighing her thoughts. But she always seemed to be his focus of late, especially with their case in his lap. Would he mention giving over Larkin to Theodosia here and now? She prayed not.
“Any word from the laird?” he asked, taking a sip from his steaming cup. At the shake of her head, he said, “A friend of mine is set to sail to Jamaica on business soon. I thought, if you liked, he might stop in at Trelawny Hall and inquire.”
All weariness vanished. “How very thoughtful. Might ye ask yer friend to hand deliver a letter for me? I’m unsure of the post. I’ve heard nothing from the laird and wonder if my letters even reach him.”
“Of course. I’m sure he’ll not mind in the least.” He looked to Theodosia. “What’s this I hear about carol singing on Saturday next?”
“Lark must come too. Perhaps you can escort her. We were so disappointed you didn’t join us at the governor’s holiday ball.” She smiled at Lark invitingly. “We’d be happy to have you as our guest. I’ve just redecorated an upstairs bedchamber in painted chintz with new Axminster carpets. The carol singing goes quite late as we serenade all of Williamsburg. Then we make a bonfire on Palace Green. Last year it snowed and was quite magical.”
“Rivers of punch and minced pies make me happiest,” Trevor said. “But I’m not against some carol singing too.”
“Mistress Flowerdew is invited also. And Master Larkin will be well tended by our servants.”
Lark simply nodded in agreement, mind pinned to Magnus and the man soon en route from Virginia to Jamaica. How soon would she know about the laird’s well-being? Time had slowed, and every delay was harder to take.
“What do you make of all this snow this winter, Lark?” Theodosia inquired. “Does Old Man Winter blow white in Scotland?”
At this Lark smiled. “I am not so deprived as all that. The sea in a swirling snow is a sight to behold.”
Trevor chuckled and extended his cup for more tea. “Not one snowfall did we have in London while I was studying law there. Good to know you northerners weren’t so needy.”
“’Tis a date, then,” Theodosia exclaimed. “I shall ready the new bedchamber for your arrival, Lark. What a merry Christmastide we shall have!”
37
And fare thee weel, my only love, and fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my love, though it were ten thousand mile.
Robert Burns
Christmas was the farthest thing from Lark’s mind. The next meeting with the churchwarden was foremost. But being a guest of the Ramsays came first. They bundled up and took the coach to Williamsburg—she, Larkin, and Mistress Flowerdew. A voluminous letter to Magnus was now sealed and tucked in her baggage, to be handed to the Jamaica-bound friend Trevor had mentioned. She prayed it would reach its destination. Or that some word was forthcoming from Jamaica.
As they pulled past Royal Hundred’s scrolled wrought-iron gates, she looked back, chilled once more by the sight of Granger on his horse, watching them depart. A return of gout had kept him abed of late. His wife had gone to the apothecary in town this time instead of darkening Lark’s door for a remedy. It must have helped, for today Granger was back on his feet, making the rounds on the plantation.
Had the runaways been caught? She rarely thought of Rory. Apart from Scotland, minus the Merry Lass, he had simply faded from her thoughts. Back then she’d been a naïve girl, enamored of the sea and the danger and a braw sea captain. But Isla’s untimely death, the long ocean voyage and indenture, and Magnus’s fate had turned her into a wary woman. She longed to recapture a bit of the childish spirit she found in Larkin. ’Twould make her a better mother. A better wife, if it came to that.
For the time being, she was ensconced in a bedchamber that resembled a silken garden with its fine floral fabrics and wallpaper and costly furnishings. Who would have imagined she’d sit to the right of Prentice at supper, arguably the most important man in Virginia Colony, second only to the royal governor himself? Who would have dreamed she’d walk about Williamsburg caroling, chilled to the bone? And quite pink-cheeked, throat tingling from singing, on the arm of Virginia’s rising star, as the Gazette called him—the honorable Trevor Ramsay?
She mustn’t let it go to her head.
Here on Palace Green they were amid a great many carolers, their breaths pluming in the crystalline winter air. Mulled cider was being passed about, merry faces illuminated by the leaping flames as the singers circled the bonfire. Trevor’s fair features were ruddy from the cold, a woolen scarf wrapped round his neck. Lark’s own fur muff was put to good use, and more than one lady remarked on her lovely matching cape and bonnet. Of pale mint silk trimmed with Canadian fox fur, it seemed fit for Queen Anne. Glad she was to be clad in the early Christmas gift Mistress Flowerdew had given her. Trevor said it went remarkably well with her bright hair. Truly, he’d not stopped looking at her all evening.
She peered down the street toward Ramsay House as people began to disperse. The big dwelling seemed to slumber. Somewhere within were a great many servants and Larkin. The truth was she missed him. Missed his damp, pearl-toothed grin. His sweet, lavender scent after a bath. The curls that wisped like red silk through her fingers. His sleepy weight as he lay in her lap. His gurgling laugh.
“You missed a note, Lark,” Trevor teased as the caroling ended, obviously sensing her distraction.
“I’m wondering where wee Larkin is.”
He smiled, extending ungloved hands toward the fire’s heat. “He’s tucked upstairs in your bedchamber, a servant watching over him. I warned Theodosia not to take him any farther.”
She cast a glance about and found they were alone, the rest of the carolers slipping away to their homes. Silence reigned save for the crackle and snap of the now dwindling bonfire.
“Have ye any word from the churchwarden?” she asked tentatively, hating to spoil the festive evening with worrisome matters.
“Shush, Lark.” He softened the rebuke with a smile. “We shall hear from him soon enough. What do your Scriptures say? ‘Take no thought for tomorrow’?”
“My Scriptures, Trevor? Are they not yers too?”
He shrugged lightly in that familiar way she was coming to know. “I save Scripture for the Sabbath. For church, mostly. I’ve found the Bible to have little bearing on practical life.”
“Oh?” Lark watched a burst of sparks swirl away into the night. “Because ye keep it so confined, mayhap.”
“Confined? The Bible? I suppose so. Do you challenge me, Lark?”
“Do I?” She turned back to him. “As a native Scot, I would try to better understand ye native Virginians.”
Again he gave that maddening shrug. “As my cousin Thomas Jefferson once said, question with boldness even the existence of a God, because, if there be one, He must approve more the homage of reason than that of blindfolded fear.”
“Yet I do fear Him. He is holy and I am not. I am a sinner saved by grace. And I believe in Him with all my heart.”
“As Creator of the universe, perhaps. Not as a personal, intimate being, surely.”
“If He isna personal, He is worth very little to me,” she said with more vehemence than the late hour called for. “Would a God give up His own beloved Son if He was impersonal and indifferent?”
“A pretty speech, to be sure.” He turned toward her. “Let’s not waste time with futile arguments and that which matters little. Not with the night on the wane.”
Their little disagreement rolled past, his indifference unsettling. What he spoke of was beyond her ken. A highly trained mind he had, far beyond the reach of a stillroom maid, however well educated at K
errera Castle. He was, after all, Anglican and American. She was Scots-Presbyterian born and bred. Matters of faith had always been heartfelt. The great Reformation had seen to that. Should she expect Trevor, raised in the faith of the Church of England, to be like her? Did his aloof faith truly matter?
He reached out a hand and touched a wisp of her hair that had slipped free of its pins. After a night of wind and caroling, she must look a fright. “I would speak of more important things.”
What could possibly be more important than one’s faith? She kept the thought close, wishing for a different sort of evening with a different sort of suitor.
“I’m preoccupied with the New Year. What it will bring.”
For him, all seemed pleasantries.
“Yer thinking of the completion of Ramsay Manor. Planting yer gardens and orchards. Perhaps another appointment by the royal governor.”
“All well and good, but not foremost in my mind nor my heart.” He offered her an arm and they began a slow walk down Nicholson Street. “I want to be about the business of courting you, Lark. I would ask your father . . .”
“My father was lost at sea long ago.”
“So Mistress Flowerdew told me. I have written to Osbourne instead, asking for his permission not only to court you but to wed you, if you are willing.”
She turned her face toward him, the darkness denying her a look into his eyes. She regarded him, her thoughts and emotions in such a tangle she could not summon a single coherent word.
“I hope this means you are speechless with delight,” he said, teasing in his tone.