A Heart for the Taking (42 page)

The next time she woke it was late afternoon, and with pleasure she spied a tray with a china pot, steam still rising from its spout, sitting on the table under the window. Stifling a mighty yawn, she slipped from the bed and sat in one of the chairs near the window, sipping her coffee appreciatively and gazing outside.

The sky was sullen with dark clouds. Faintly in the distance Fancy heard the boom of thunder. But her mind wasn’t on the coming storm; she was mulling over last night’s confrontation with Chance. Her lips twisted. A confrontation that had accomplished little. Except, she decided sourly, Chance now knew that she was aware of his scheme to hit back at Jonathan—and that he had used her to do so. She might have preferred to delude herself otherwise, but she didn’t doubt that this was the reason why Chance had married her. That he wanted her, that she pleased him in bed, only made the revenge against Jonathan all the sweeter.

Her problem was that her knowledge about his perfidious actions did not change a thing. Not the situation, or the turmoil in her breast. In spite of everything, she loved Chance Walker. While she could agree that loving him, knowing what she did about him, was the act of a foolish, utterly be
sotted goose, it didn’t make any difference to what was in her heart.

Sighing, she put down the china cup and gazed blankly off into space. If only Chance would be honest with her, she thought mournfully. They couldn’t change the past; she couldn’t change the reasons he had married her. But those reasons, painful and humiliating though they were, could be acknowledged and then put behind them. There was much to be gained from their marriage. They may have started out badly, but they could start afresh and over time build a good marriage. But not as long as Chance refused to be open and honest with her. His unwillingness to trust her with the truth opened a huge chasm between them. She vowed fiercely, as she stood up and rang for Charity, that she would make no attempt to bridge it. He had created it. Let him be the one to cross it.

*     *     *

As August slid into September, the heat and debilitating humidity seemed to press down upon the land, animals and humans alike moving more slowly, frequently seeking shady spots to escape the punishing force of the sun. All the while, watermelons ripened, black-eyed peas made their first appearance on the table, Indian corn was finally ready for eating, and the leaves of the tobacco plants began to droop and turn faintly yellow—sure signs that harvesttime was imminent.

Despite the discord between the newlyweds, the passing days had not been unpleasant. On the surface, in front of the others, she and Chance seemed to rub along together tolerably well, able to converse mundanely about the day’s accomplishments. It was only when they were alone that the stiffness and constraint between them was obvious. They had little of a personal nature to say to one another when the doors to their rooms shut behind them each night, and Fancy grew to dread the falling of darkness. She continued to sleep in his bed, as she had agreed to do, and while there were times when his arms would unconsciously slide around her and he would pull her close, or mornings when Fancy woke
to find herself snuggled confidingly against his broad chest, there were no attempts to change the terms of their bargain.

Fancy couldn’t claim that it didn’t disturb her to lie night after night in such intimate proximity with a man she tried to tell herself she despised. It did disturb her—a great deal—yet he was also a man she loved, a man whose very look could make her dizzy with longing. But she fought stoutly against his magnetic pull, reminding herself of his trickery whenever she was in danger of weakening.

Fortunately, Fancy’s days were full and she had little time to brood over the situation between herself and Chance. Chance was gone from the house for several hours at a time, overseeing the various projects that needed his attention as everyone worked steadily in the shortening daylight hours in preparation for winter, so she was spared his mocking presence for much of the day.

Life at Devil’s Own was a stunning revelation to Fancy. Until she had married Spencer, she had lived simply, often helping with ordinary tasks, picking eggs for Cook and even, upon one memorial occasion, milking their cow. But she still hadn’t been quite prepared for life on a large plantation in the middle of the wilderness. Devil’s Own was almost entirely self-sufficient. They did need raw supplies, sugar, salt and some spices, and other items that they did not make or grow themselves, and these were brought in sporadically from the small outlying towns. Twice yearly there were trips to Richmond or Williamsburg for major restocking. As the owner’s wife, she discovered that it was up to her to oversee all things connected with the running of the domestic side of the plantation, from the sowing and harvesting of food for everyone, to the care and feeding of the chickens, pigs, and cows. As the wife of a baron in England, she had been able merely to give her orders for the day to the servants and think no more about it, but at Devil’s Own she was expected to take a much more active part, from helping weed the extensive gardens to sowing the winter vegetable crop.

To her great alarm, she found herself pressed into duty as
teacher to the children of the plantation workers and, upon occasion, physician and midwife. There was very little connected with the smooth running of the various households that did not require some intervention on her part, even if she did not do all the backbreaking work involved. It was, she told Ellen one morning, rather like being responsible for the total well-being of a small, isolated village.

There was much for Fancy to absorb. With Annie’s gentle guidance and ably assisted by Martha and Jed, she and Ellen quickly learned the art of making candles and soap and even a simple paint that might be needed for some hasty repair. The sisters mastered the methods for pickling and preserving the various fruits and vegetables (Fancy was especially proud of her plum brandy, though it would be six weeks before they actually tasted it) and the steps necessary for the smoking and corning of various meats, including the making of the renowned Virginia hams.

Winter was not many months away, and this was one of the busiest times of year. Fancy and Ellen both were occupied nearly every moment of every day, either helping, overseeing, or learning some new task. There were still vegetables in the garden that at the proper time would be harvested and placed in the huge root cellars: potatoes, turnips, onions, garlic, beans, pumpkins, and squashes. Martha showed them how to properly store the foods, explaining, with a twinkle in her eyes, “If things rot and you are reduced to eating nothing but cabbage and salt pork until spring, you will never again carelessly heap your harvest in some damp and moldy corner of the root cellar.”

At night when she fell into bed, Fancy’s head was full of what she had learned that day, including recipes for everything from preserving fresh cream to making vinegar and even cement and pink dye.

But despite the fullness of her days, she was uncomfortably aware of the swift passage of time. Her month of married chastity was approaching its end, and nothing of any importance had been resolved between herself and Chance. She couldn’t pretend that she hadn’t learned something
more of his nature during this time. They did speak, mostly about the workings of the plantation, but she was able to observe him with the others and realized that he was an able and respected taskmaster. He was also, she admitted glumly, kind, intelligent, thoughtful, considerate, and generous— traits she would not have connected with a man who had acted so dastardly. Chance Walker was a mystery, one she was determined to solve.

*     *     *

Fancy was not alone in wanting to solve the mystery of Chance Walker. Sam Walker would have given everything he owned and more to know the truth about the events surrounding the night of Chance’s birth. He implicitly believed Morely’s story of finding the abandoned infant on the bluff. It was too outrageous a tale not to be true. And with all his wild ways as a youth, Morely had never been given to telling lies. Having a lifetime of knowledge of the man, Sam knew that if Morely said he had simply found the newborn infant squalling on the bluff overlooking the river, that’s exactly what happened.

No, the mystery wasn’t in Morely’s incredible tale. The mystery was in what had happened
prior
to Morely’s discovery of Chance.

For hours at a time, in the days and weeks that had followed Morely’s confession, Sam would catch himself staring blindly off into space, his keen mind exploring ways to unravel the tangled skeins that time had woven. Constance, of course, would deny everything, even if he were mad enough to question her or dared to hint at his suspicions. Annie Clemmons was Constance’s creature, and therefore whatever she said would be suspect. Besides, at the moment Annie was out of reach at Chance’s plantation. The only other person who could throw light on that night was his own dear, beloved Letty.

With every fiber of his being, Sam shrank from bringing up the subject to Letty. He did not want to arouse painful memories, remembering her dangerously fragile state all those years before when he had returned home to learn the
crushing news that she had been delivered of a stillborn son. It had been years before she could even return to the place where their infant child had been buried. How much worse it would be for her if he were to give her the hope that a young man she had long loved was actually her own son— only to have to snatch it away later. It could very well destroy her, and Sam was not willing to run that risk, at least not yet.

But he
had
to talk to her about that night. He had to know what she remembered. Standing in his office, staring broodingly at the glinting ribbon of river in the distance one afternoon, Sam sighed. Here it was, the middle of September, and he had been unable to discover anything that would lend credence to the wild supposition that Chance Walker was his son. Morely and Pru had remained at Walker Ridge for a week after Chance and Fancy left for Devil’s Own, and every moment he and Morely had been alone, they had speculated on that decades-old night. By the time Morely and Pru had left, the two men had grimly decided that if they were to prove Chance’s ancestry, they would have to take certain events as fact.

The most obvious event that they had agreed upon was that Letty had to have given birth to twins that fateful night and that one of the twins was born dead, the other alive. The next most glaringly evident occurrence had to have been that Constance had determined instantly that the surviving twin was to disappear. There was no doubt in their minds that she would have delegated that highly risky deed to Anne Clemmons.

Sam frowned, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. All that was well and good, as far as it went, but why didn’t Letty realize that she had given birth to a second child? Surely a woman would know such a thing?

Those rare times she had been willing to talk with him about that night, it was obvious that she remembered clearly the birth of their stillborn son. Not only how perfect he had been, but every physical aspect of his dear little form, right
down to the identifying six toes. But never a word or a hint of a twin.

Sam took an agitated step around the room, painful memories and emotions roiling within him. Was he deluding himself? Grasping wildly at straws? Was he simply being an old fool to conceive, even for a moment, that Chance was his and Letty’s own flesh and blood? That Letty had unknowingly given birth to a second child, a strong and lusty one, and that Constance had swiftly attempted to get rid of it? That only Morely’s chance encounter had saved the infant’s life?

It was incredible, he couldn’t deny it. Yet it seemed highly likely. No other explanation for Morely’s finding of the infant fit the situation quite as well, he admitted as he sat down and began to leaf idly through the old ledgers on his desk. Ledgers he had combed diligently for any clue that might shed light on that event.

As much to disprove as to prove the truth of the matter, in the intervening weeks Sam had pored over any record of that time that he could lay his hands on. He had torn through the contents of dusty, long forgotten trunks in the back of the storerooms and attics to search out what letters and snippets of information he had from those painful days. Reading those accounts made his heart ache and brought back all the terrible anguish of that time. Reviewing his accounts of expenditures and receipts revealed little, except he discovered that he had made no note of any other children being born at Walker Ridge during that critical time. And he had always, he reminded himself slowly as he continued to turn the fragile, yellowed pages, been meticulous about such things. He had kept excellent records of nearly every event on the plantation, from planting and harvest dates to the weather, the births and deaths of slaves and others who worked for him, and even the birth of a litter of puppies by his favorite hunting dog. If another child had been born anywhere near the time Morely had found Chance, wouldn’t he have made note of it?

Thoughtfully he stared at a notation that leaped from the page in front of him. It was dated March 21, 1740.

Missy, a sixteen-year-old slave I purchased two years ago in Williamsburg, gave birth today to a fine healthy daughter this afternoon after a long, hard labor. We feared we would lose them both, but all ended well and mother and daughter, even as I write this, are sleeping soundly. ’Tis Missy’s first child and she has named her Ginnybell.

The next child to be born at Walker Ridge, God willing, will be mine and Letty’s. I count the days until that joyous event.

His own words mocked him, and with a savage motion, he threw the leather-bound ledger to the floor. With his head buried in his hands, Sam cursed Morely for ever having told him about finding Chance. He had dealt with the knowledge that he and Letty would die leaving no heirs of their own bodies, and he had long ago sadly accepted that fact as God’s judgment. But now! Morely’s words danced dizzyingly in his brain, and joy such as he had not known since Letty had first shyly told him of their impending parenthood raced through his veins whenever he considered the stunning possibility that Chance Walker might well be his and Letty’s own son.