by Laura Frantz
“Mistress MacDougall?” The resonant voice rang out of the woods, and then the preacher-blacksmith stood between them. Josiah turned his back on her and faced Granger, a muscular, dark wall. “I beg ye, sir, to leave be!”
Granger tensed with renewed rage. Immediately Lark’s fear for herself shifted. Defying a white man was a fatal offense. Granger raised his whip again and his face purpled, distorting his already grotesque features. This time his ire was for Josiah.
The whip came down again, but with a callused hand, the blacksmith grabbed the tail end like a child might a firefly, wrenching the whip from Granger’s grasp.
“You filthy upstart—” Granger spat the words, spittle whitening his mouth. And then, in slow motion, he stiffened and clutched his own collar, as if the neck was too tight.
Stunned, Lark watched as the factor fell from his horse with a decided thud on the damp ground. For a long moment, neither she nor Josiah moved. Then, kneeling, Josiah carefully rolled the factor over, the abandoned whip on the thawing ground. Granger’s wide, unseeing eyes stared upwards. Josiah tried to return him, shaking his shoulders and then his wide, jutting jaw as if to awaken him from a profound sleep.
“He’s gone,” Lark said, the sting of her injury helping her focus. “Ye can do no more here. If found like this ye might well be blamed for his demise. Please, return to yer work. I’ll go to the mansion house and tell Mistress Flowerdew.”
He stood and stepped back. Bowing his head, he said a silent prayer. She waited till he’d left them before she sent up a prayer herself. For protection. Peace. Granger’s widow needed telling and the body laid out for burial.
Lark ran all the way back to the house on quavering legs. The riverfront door was open wide, housemaids beating and airing the rugs just outside. They saw her coming, eyes wide, attention drawn to her bloodied face and bodice. One ran to summon the housekeeper with a surprised exclamation that carried on the rising wind.
Lark waited on the back step, woozy. Sally had come out of the kitchen house, Larkin on her hip, her own eyes sharp. Amid her own revulsion, Lark felt a profound relief. No more Granger. No more lies. No more threats to Larkin or herself.
Oh Lord, let it be.
And yet, what if someone blamed her? Like they had at Isla’s death? What if someone had seen her in the woods with Granger and accused her of lending to his collapse?
Mistress Flowerdew came with haste from the laundry, fairly flying across the service courtyard. “Merciful days . . .”
With gentle hands, she led Lark inside the mansion foyer to the safety and privacy of her sitting room. There the housekeeper examined her chin where the whip had cut deep. She went to a locked cupboard and opened it with a key from her chatelaine. The softest cloths and ointment were on hand, and a basin of warm water was soon brought.
“Tell me what has happened. I fear it involves Mr. Granger.”
Lark spilled the tale, leaving out the blacksmith’s part. He was but a passerby come to help her. No good would come of his involvement if told. “Mr. Granger struck me when I stood up to him. I fear ’twas the death of him.”
“And he has none to blame but himself,” the housekeeper replied resolutely.
Lark took a breath, her next words framed with disbelief. “What’s more, he said the indentured runaway, the captain, was caught and hung.”
Mistress Flowerdew nodded, her expression sorrowful. “I wanted to spare you that. I learnt of it a few days ago. Now, let us have no more trouble on account of that unhinged man.”
No more was said. Chin salved and bandaged, Lark watched as Mistress Flowerdew went to fetch someone to summon the physic and authorities as well as stand watch over Granger himself. “But first his widow must be told.” She returned to Lark. “’Twill leave a scar, I fear. Mar your lovely face.”
What was so small a scar? She’d seen ugly marks across the backs of Africans—and brands. Even her hardy Scots sensibilities were shaken by that. “I have little to complain of, truly.”
“I urge you to rest here in my sitting room the remainder of the day. Let Sally tend to Larkin.”
“Thank ye, but nay. Work keeps my mind from the worst.”
She sought the solace of the bee garden the rest of the afternoon, attempting to return to her usual duties and quell any fears over being blamed for the factor’s death. The news he’d brought about Rory wore a hole of sorrow in her. As she worked, or tried to, the sun broke through the clouds as if the Almighty Himself was trying to raise her limping spirits.
At six o’clock Trevor Ramsay rode up. A stable hand met him and led his horse away. Lark saw the familiar mount being taken to the stables. So the news had reached Williamsburg. Let Mistress Flowerdew tell their guest the particulars. Lark had no words. With a sigh, she dismissed a qualm about her unsightly chin, Larkin in arm. Though she was glad to see her friend, her whole being cried for word of Magnus. For Magnus himself.
Trevor opened the gate of the freshly painted white fence that hemmed in the bee garden. His face was drawn, even angry. Their eyes met over the slowly awakening beds of yarrow and hyssop, coneflower and asters.
“Lark, for heaven’s sake . . .” His focus strayed to her throbbing chin, the bandage in place. “Thank God no worse harm came to you. If Granger was not bound for a coffin I’d call him out.”
“The trouble with him is o’er, I hope.”
“Most certainly. I’ll meet with the churchwardens and burgesses and close the case tomorrow.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I am sorry for his widow. But glad for the quarters and the people, all who came under his ill-trickit influence.”
He grimaced, hat in hand. “Hell is made worse for his being there, if there is such a place.”
She pondered that, the evening’s chill overtaking them. Once Trevor had closed the distance between them, Larkin reached up and tugged at his waistcoat.
“You clever lad. ’Tis my pocket watch you’re after, aye?”
Lark smiled. “Come inside and we shall have something warm to drink.”
“’Tis precisely what Mistress Flowerdew said when I arrived. Shall we?”
Together they walked arm in arm to the mansion house, Larkin held by Trevor and dangling the gleaming watch. The aroma of Darjeeling met them. But the housekeeper was absent, the maid said, called out to resolve a matter in the dairy.
They sat by the fire, Larkin on the settee between them, his bare toes peeking out from beneath his gown. Distracted by the events of the day, she’d changed his clout but forgotten to fully dress him. But the parlor was warm, her own color high.
“Tell me what happened after Granger collapsed,” Trevor said once the maid had left the room.
She shared the details she’d been told. Of the sheriff’s arrival and the body being taken away. The distress of Widow Granger. The lack of management left by the factor’s absence.
“A new factor will be assigned in his stead.” Trevor reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a post. “A bit of glad news amid the bad.”
He opened the letter slowly. From Magnus by way of Trevor’s friend who’d gone there? Nay. Osbourne’s writing hand. Trevor’s half smile seemed to confirm so. “Your contract holder states, ‘I am not surprised that you have taken notice of Miss MacDougall’s charms. I myself was not unaware of them when the laird introduced her to me in Glasgow. She is no common maid. This induced me to offer the indenture terms to begin with at the behest of Magnus MacLeish. And as such, she has my blessing should she agree to be courted by you or even wed, at which time you would redeem her contract and end the agreement between us. Legalities aside, am I to deny a Ramsay? I sense you would bar me from Virginia Colony, if so.’”
She smiled at the humor within. The way had been made. Permission granted.
If she was willing.
Trevor returned the letter to his pocket. “So now the courting can begin in earnest, perhaps.”
Larkin let out a screech as if punctuating his words. They
laughed, paying little attention to their tea. But for her stinging chin, she would have felt a glimmer of happiness, honored that such a man would count her worthy.
“Trevor, I am honored by your attentions. But they are misplaced.” Gently, she tried to remind him of the truth of their situation, not wanting to lose his friendship, just remove any of his false hopes.
“I shall go slowly,” he said. “I’ll be away in Norfolk for a time, overseeing a shipment of stone for Ramsay Manor, as you call it. ’Twill give you time to recover. Consider my suit. Let any unsavory matters regarding Granger rest.”
So, he would not give up despite her distancing words. Must she be more adamant?
“There’s something else I must say before ye go away,” Lark said. “Though ’tis hard for me to speak of such, I feel ’tis only fair. Ye see—” She grappled for the right words, her throat so constricted with emotion she felt she would choke. “My heart was captured long ago. I’ve only lately come to realize it. When I was a girl I didna ken what it was I felt, but now, as a woman . . .”
“You’re thinking of the laird.” Trevor looked at her a bit impatiently, like one who was about to correct a wayward child. “Lark, I doubt the laird lives. Perhaps ’tis only a childish hope that keeps him alive in your heart and thoughts.”
Was that it? If so, she could hardly bear it. “I canna deny the way I feel. Mayhap one day my affections will turn or fade altogether if he is truly gone.”
“That is my hope. Grieve for the laird but do not love him, for I truly believe he is no more.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it as if to solace her. As if he knew Magnus was gone for good. “Soon Osbourne and his family will dock, and Royal Hundred will return to life the way it was before tragedy struck and he left. ’Twill be a new beginning for many of us. A wedding would be a fine celebration for Tidewater Virginia.”
39
Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most delicate and frail.
Ben Jonson
Was anything as lovely as a river ride in spring?
Lark sat in the shallop with Theodosia, two oarsmen in livery propelling them through the James current, which was smooth as blue glass in spring. She’d longed to bring Larkin out, but fear of a spill kept her from it. He remained on the bank with Mistress Flowerdew, crawling on the quilt she’d spread out. The housekeeper had declared the lovely March afternoon a holiday, something sorely needed, busy as they’d been. With Granger buried, Royal Hundred seemed and felt different. Or was it mostly because of spring and its many changes?
“I suppose you went out on the ocean often, given you lived on an island,” Theodosia said, trailing her fingers through the cold water.
“Nay. When my father passed, I shunned the sea. Ever since I’ve been more content on shore. And far safer. The Atlantic is nothing like this river.”
“I understand. When my father and sisters were struck down, I feared storms and would go into my bedchamber, shut the door, and hide till they boomed and tore at the skies no longer.” Beneath Theodosia’s elaborate hat, her eyes glittered with emotion. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of the loss. But you must be the same.”
Lark nodded, moved by the sadness in her friend’s face. She missed them all unendingly. Granny. Her dear mother and father. Other kindred still living. And Magnus, always Magnus, whether living or dead. Would her every thought of him always be so tender? “’Tis only right we remember those beloved.”
She leaned over and peered at her own reflection in the water. A month had passed since Granger’s death. Her chin was slow to heal. The water’s dark surface reflected none of the redness nor what would soon be a scarlet scar. A lasting reminder of a disturbed man.
“Trevor was sorry he could not join us. The construction keeps him so preoccupied of late. I half expect to find him laying bricks himself in his zeal to finish. I suspect that is why he has been overtaken by a terrible, ongoing fever and cough since Christmas.”
“I pray he soon mends.” Lark had sent several remedies to Ramsay House to help in his recuperation but had not visited him. She wouldn’t play the doting miss, especially after stating her true feelings. “Since the incident, we’ve kept to Royal Hundred ourselves.”
“Yes, the incident.” Theodosia grimaced. “A new factor has already come in Mr. Granger’s stead, or so word is winging about Williamsburg.”
“Oh aye, Mr. Murray hails from the northeast of Scotland and speaks Doric. But we converse well enough.”
“Royal Hundred is becoming a Scots stronghold.” Her smile returning, Theodosia gave a playful splash to the water with a mitted hand. “I may have to learn Gaelic.”
“I’ll gladly teach ye. I long to hear it spoken.”
“Say a few memorable words.”
Lark pursed her lips in thought. “Triùir a thig gun iarraidh—gaol, eud, is eagal.”
Theodosia crossed her eyes comically. “I have absolutely no inkling what you just said.”
“Indeed.” Lark’s laugh rippled over the water. “Three things come unbidden—love, jealousy, and fear.”
Theodosia echoed it, mangling but a word or two.
“Well done,” Lark said with a smile.
They quieted, each lost in thought, till a commotion on shore gave them pause. Lark looked back over her shoulder toward the oak where Larkin and Mistress Flowerdew were. The housekeeper had gotten to her feet and was waving something almost frantically in hand while Larkin crawled away in the grass, momentarily forgotten.
Lark’s heart and stomach somersaulted. What was that she held? A paper? A post . . .
A letter.
The housekeeper’s genteel English voice carried a beat of elation as it wafted to the drifting shallop. Even the oarsmen stopped their rowing. Was she dreaming? Or did her shouting—so unlike Mistress Flowerdew—mean Lark’s long wait was over? She heard but a few words, yet they made her whole soul sing.
“Letter . . . Laird . . . Here.”
Joy poured through her, so overwhelming she shot up like a jack-in-the-box. The shallop rocked. Theodosia shrieked. The oarsmen snickered. In seconds, Lark lost her footing and went overboard with a resounding splash.
When she came up, Theodosia was laughing hysterically, motioning to Lark’s straw hat that floated atop the water. Sputtering, treading water, Lark grabbed for it but it sailed out of her reach, borne on a warm Virginia wind. No matter. She turned toward shore, hope and fear waging for top place inside her. All her hopes and dreams were wrapped up in that letter. To have word that Magnus was dead or alive. At long last.
She fought her way to the sandy shore, encumbered by her heavy dress. But she hardly felt the cold that sent shivers over her in all directions, even forgetting to make her way up the bank at a ladylike pace. She all but seized the letter from the housekeeper’s hands. As she looked down, dripping water onto the outer paper, Magnus’s writing hand seemed to reach out to her in reassurance. She broke the seal and devoured the letter.
Dearest Lark,
I fear you must think me dead and gone due to my lack of letters. In truth, the post has been waylaid by someone bent on mischief.
I am as alive and hearty as ever, God be praised. Night and day I have asked the Lord to intervene, to hedge you behind and before and place His hand of blessing on your head and Larkin’s.
I asked that He cast down any evil raised against you. I trust that He has done so, for He is a merciful, mighty Savior, our ever-present defense . . .
Suddenly weak-kneed, she sank down into the sand, all but kissing the paper she held. Tears streamed down her face alongside rivulets of river water. Bethankit. Overcome, she choked out a few words to Mistress Flowerdew, who hovered anxiously.
“The laird lives.” Her heart was beating so loudly it caused a rush in her ears. A breathlessness. “His letters have simply miscarried.”
Mistress Flowerdew closed her eyes in quiet thanks. Lark read on silently, hearing the slap of the paddles as t
he shallop neared the dock behind them.
I am pleased to tell you I will soon be on my way to Virginia. I am counting the hours till I behold your lovely face again. I long to take Larkin in my arms too. I will do all within my power to stay near you. Never again, Lord willing, shall we be parted.
Yours entire,
Magnus
“Why, Lark!” Behind her, on solid ground now, Theodosia observed her with a shrewd eye. “You have given away the state of your heart.”
Slowly Lark turned, the letter dangling from her fingertips. “Glad I am to find the laird alive—and on his way back to us.”
“Bethankit, indeed!” Mistress Flowerdew exclaimed. “When will he arrive?”
Lark looked back at the letter, missing that all-important detail. “He didna say.”
“We in Williamsburg shall welcome him warmly whenever he makes an appearance, then,” Theodosia said with a gracious smile. “’Twill be interesting indeed to see what comes of his visit here.”
“I pray ’twill be more than a visit,” the housekeeper said. Her voice held subtle dismay and disgust whenever she mentioned the West Indies. “Perhaps Mr. Osbourne will see fit to keep him on hand here and not return him to Jamaica.”
Lark folded the letter up. Heart overfull, she barely paid attention to the scene around her as one of the oarsmen handed over her limp hat. She took it, smiling wryly at its soaked state but hardly caring, equally unmindful of her thoroughly wet garments.
All that mattered was that Magnus was alive. His letter she would read and reread till it fell apart. As for his prayers for her, had they helped keep her safe that day in the woods when Granger had struck her and then fallen?
She and Theodosia began a slow walk to the house, Mistress Flowerdew and Larkin following. The skirt of her wet gown dragged across the grass and oyster-shell paths. She squinted at the sun, trying to remember the date when she’d last seen Magnus. Was he much changed?