JoAnn Wendt (18 page)

“The child is definitely drowned, Captain McNeil,” the fatter of the two aunts summed up. “All facts point to it. The child awoke because of the bright hunter’s moon. He wandered through the house and found his way out while the night steward patrolled. With a child’s natural fascination for water, he wandered down to the river and—” She paused, shuddering. “And disappeared into it.” She shuddered again, as did all of the women.

“Whist?” tried Lord Wetherby.

“La, Captain McNeil, I blame the tragedy on the moon, the bright hunter’s moon.”

Eunice’s gown rustled a bit as she twisted in her chair to gaze up at Garth.

“I fear no one slept well under that moon,” Eunice said, smiling up at him. “Even
you
were up and about, Captain McNeil.”

It was a harsh jolt. His blood began to pump, surging in thick violent thumps. The smile on his face froze to wood. While he waited in dread for Eunice to speak on, he seemed to live out an entire lifetime. His senses drank in every detail in the room; the dark paneled walls, the faded Flemish tapestry of The Last Supper, candlelight catching the silver epergne filled with green grapes, a dot of plum jelly on Lord Wetherby’s collar ruff . . .

Eunice blushed shyly. “Auntie and I couldn’t sleep. So we strolled the garden. We saw your window, Captain McNeil. You were sitting at your writing table, reading by candlelight.”

Relief brought buckets of sweat. He could feel his own juices ooze under the brocade waistcoat, the ruffled Holland shirt. Thank God for Jenkins!

“Ship’s paperwork,” he murmured to Eunice, then turned attention from himself with a quiet, “Bladensburg has suffered a great tragedy.”

“A great
great
tragedy,” the fatter aunt chimed in.

“The
greatest
tragedy.” Second aunt.

“I should faint if the little body came drifting out of the river,” Eunice reiterated.

Eunice’s shadow, her companion, Abigail, echoed, “Indeed, I should faint, also.” Eunice’s shadow.

“If not whist, then, backgammon?” Lord Wetherby said.

Chapter 11

The same hunter’s moon that witnessed the disappearance of the young marquis of Bladensburg witnessed another, humbler event that night in August of 1754.

Dennis Finny proposed.

Had Flavia been listening, had she been giving the earnest young Quaker her full attention as they sat on the Byng steps under the enormous rising moon, she’d have stopped him before he reached the point of declaration. She’d have spared Dennis the humiliation of rejection.

But she hadn’t been listening. Mesmerized by the glorious moon and the fragrance of wild honeysuckle that rambled in the ditch beyond the stone fence, she’d been deeply into her own thoughts. Dennis Finny’s voice drifted to her as a soothing, background lull. His voice blended softly with Neddy’s happy laughter as the boy knelt in the dirt not far from the veranda steps, playing with a new red top the schoolmaster had carved for him.

Immersed in the tranquility of the beautiful night, she was remembering Robert. And Garth. She ached to see her beloved two. Ached to hold each of them in her arms.

So it was with a jolt that Dennis Finny’s words came through to her.

“What I am striving to ask, Mistress Brown— what I am awkwardly attempting to say—is—is— forgive me, but I have lost my heart to thee, Mistress Brown. If thee could foresee any possibility of happiness in union with a lowly schoolmaster, I should find myself the most blessed of the Lord’s creatures.”

“What?”

Flavia turned to him, puzzled.

“Mr. Finny, you are not suggesting—”

She stopped with an incredulous laugh that she quickly bit off, seeing the agony rise in his eyes. A crimson streak burned slowly up his throat. For a moment his face quivered, naked and defenseless under her startled gaze. Then he swallowed and went on bravely.

“Please, Jane, I mean to have my say. Laugh if thee must,” he said softly, “but I will have my say.”

“Mr. Finny, I cannot—” She got up.

“Please, Jane,” he said with firm dignity, “hear me out.”

His eyes shone so naked and vulnerable that she would’ve had to be made of stone to refuse his request. Falling silent, she accommodated him and sat, praying she would find kind, non-wounding words to turn him down.

Distracted by her movements, Neddy looked up and held the top toward her. “Make it go!” the boy demanded, then swung his head to Dennis. “Fix! Dennis, fix!”

With gentle forbearance the young schoolmaster reached for the top, carefully wound the thin leather cord round its rim and returned the top to Neddy, patting the boy’s head. It was a tolerant, merciful gesture and it touched Flavia’s heart. Most men were surly with Neddy, uneasy that such a big strong body should be indwelt by an infantile mind. The more robust Neddy grew, the more townsmen seemed to resent and fear him.

Neddy scrambled down onto the hard-packed dirt to play with his top, and Dennis Finny turned to her, his eyes shining with an adoration that frightened her.

“Mr. Finny, I feel it only fair to warn you that I can never—”

“Jane,” he said softly. “I’ll have my say. Please listen.”

Her shawl had slipped from her shoulder onto the step and lay there, gray and plain in a puddle of bright moonlight. Unaware that he did so, Dennis Finny reached for the fringed edge of it and reverently fingered it as he spoke.

“As thee must know, Mistress Brown, my master has been just and fair to me throughout the whole of my indenture. While I tutor his children in Mr. Tate’s schoolhouse, I am allowed to add town children to my class, at the fee of five shillings monthly. This profit is my own, and I’ve not spent a penny of it. All is invested in tobacco. Returns on that investment have been gratifying.”

Flavia nodded. The young Quaker’s integrity and business sense were highly regarded by both bondslave and citizen.

“God willing, my indenture is satisfied in January, and Mr. Tate will fulfill his part of the contract. Five acres of bottomland will be ceded to myself.”

He glanced up in a quick, shy bid for her approval, and she smiled uncertainly, neither wanting to encourage such confidentiality nor discourage it.

“So I hear,
Mr. Finny,” she offered noncommittally. “With your profits you will build a schoolhouse on the bottomland and take in paying students.”

“That
was
my intention.”

He shot her a quick look, then averted his eyes. Nervously he twisted the fringe of her shawl.

“I propose to give
thee
my savings, Jane. To redeem thy indenture.”

At first she was certain she’d misheard. Then, as the enormity of the gesture sank in, she gasped.

“Dennis, no. I cannot accept your money. I cannot marry you—no—not ever.”

He silenced her outburst with a nod both humble and strangely dignified. Doggedly, he pursued his thesis.

“Thee does not love me. This I understand and have understood from the first. Whether thee will marry me or whether thee will not marry me, I
will
see thee freed from the Byngs. A few pounds is a small price to pay for thy happiness, Jane.”

His voice shook passionately, and she could only stare at him in shocked disbelief. Had ever anyone made a more selfless gesture? His offer made her tremble with selfish longing. Free? Oh, how she longed to be free of the Byngs! But at the expense of a fine young man for whom she could feel nothing stronger than fondness, respect?

No. Impossible.

Abruptly she stood, and the shawl came with her, its fringed edge tugging from his fingers. Startled, he stared at the fringe, then slowly, regretfully opened his hand and released it.

“I’ve insulted thee,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

She moved to retreat into the house, then stopped and turned to him. On impulse, she kissed his hot cheek.

“You’ve not insulted me, Mr. Finny. On the contrary, you’ve honored me. You are a fine man, Dennis Finny. I’m honored to be your friend.”

He winced at the word “friend,” and she grasped for kinder words to use, words that wouldn’t wound this gentle large-hearted Quaker.

Softly she said, “I feel true affection for you, Dennis. But it is not wifely affection, and therefore I cannot marry you. It would be unfair of me. I could never give you the love you deserve.”

He looked up, his eyes dying. One last fiery coal of hope blazed up, lighting those eyes for a moment.

“Marry me, Jane! I shall ask nothing of thee,” he vowed passionately. “All I ask is to sit with you at fireside at day’s end and partake of thy sweet companionship. Nothing more would I force upon thee. I swear it!”

She stared at him, her heart thudding wildly. To be free of her indenture? Free? Oh, think of it! But at what price? To give herself to a man she didn’t love and, ultimately, to cheat both of them of happiness. No. Dennis deserved better. His selfless offer bore testimony to that.

He was holding his breath, waiting for her answer, oblivious to Neddy, who knelt in the dirt pounding the red top against the ground, crying, “Fix! Dennis, fix!”

“Jane?” he whispered, his voice shaking.

She looked into his eyes, then gazed away and shook her head.

“No.”

A small word, only a whisper. Still, it closed the issue as effectively as if it were the massive olivewood doors swinging shut at Tewksbury Hall.

He groaned. It was a soul-burdened groan that ended in a heavy sigh. He seemed to grapple inside of himself, searching for a smile. At last he found one, drew it out and fitted it sadly upon his face.

“I will teach Neddy to use the top,” he said softly. “Then I will be going.”

If she’d assumed that was the end of Dennis Finny, then she’d reckoned without knowing the strength of the quiet young Quaker. For he was back at the Byng house a couple of weeks later, on an afternoon in September. His smile was cheerful. The devotion in his eyes seemed undimmed. He’d brought neighborhood gossip, with which to amuse Flavia. He’d also brought a fresh
Maryland Gazette,
which she seized with a happy cry and perused immediately.

A man of tact, Dennis Finny made no reference to his passionate declaration, and for this Flavia felt grateful. She wanted Dennis as a friend, not a suitor. He seemed to sense this, behaving accordingly.

When he’d arrived, Flavia had been flushed with heat, working on the side veranda, sorting and sizing heaps of cucumbers. She’d been set to the task of pickle-making by Mrs. Byng, who was napping away the sultry afternoon in the house.

Alert to saving her a scolding from Mrs. Byng, Dennis Finny didn’t interrupt her work, but pitched in and helped. As they worked, they talked cheerfully, their conversation ranging far afield, taking in the weather, the Chesapeake sailings, Mr. Byng’s Sabbath Day sermon, the market price of oysters, the Tate boys’ school-house pranks and even the latest cheeky escapade of Betsy Simm and the notorious ne’er-do-well, Jimmy Barlow.

There was friendly ease in working side by side with Dennis Finny. Flavia couldn’t help but notice that he was quick to preempt the heavy tasks, sparing her. Side by side, they scrubbed cucumbers, wrapped each in a washed grape leaf, then packed the wrapped cucumbers into deep crocks and added dill, spices and salt. It was Dennis who carried each heavy crock around the house to the shed where the vinegar barrel stood. He filled each crock with vinegar, clamped the lid down tightly, much more tightly than she could’ve managed, and carried each crock into the Byng’s cold cellar.

When the tedious task was done, they shared cold water from the dipper at the well. Then they sank down to the cool grass under a cottonwood tree. Flavia sighed tiredly, smoothing the damp clinging tendrils of hair from her brow. The day was hot. Hoping for a breeze to cool her head, she drew off her mobcap. As she did so, Dennis Finny’s eyes went to her hair. A wistful look passed over his face. When he caught her studying him, he blushed violently and looked away.

So, Flavia thought. It’s not over. He still hopes. How unhappy for him. She knew she must put him straight. He must waste no more time on her, but look in other directions for a helpmeet. There were many indentured girls who would cherish the security that a sober, industrious schoolmaster could offer.

She sat up and smoothed her muslin apron, thinking what to say. The heat of the day was stifling. Even the slight breeze off the garden carried heat, and in the garden the heat-loving grasshoppers leaped high in some chaotic dance. Faintly, she could hear the dry, burring sound of their wings.

“Mr. Finny, your hours of leisure are precious and few. Those hours might be spent in a better fashion than toiling here at the Byngs’.”

His intelligent gray eyes lifted to hers. A puff of garden-hot air stirred his damp muslin shirt.

“I call it not toil. I call it my heart’s pleasure.”

“Then your heart is ill invested.”

He smiled patiently, as though she were a child.

“A heart is never ill invested when it seeks to love.”

Flavia drew a frustrated breath, then expelled it. To extinguish the hope in those direct eyes, she would have to be blunt.

“Mr. Finny there is no future for you here at the Byngs’.
None.”

A moment passed.

“Then I ask no future, Mistress Brown. I will content myself with the present.”

At his simple but eloquent declaration of where he intended to stand in the matter, she could only stare at him, bewildered.

“Are all Quakers so stubborn, so determined?”

At the utter seriousness of her question, his grave eyes began to twinkle with humor.

“You call us ‘Quakers; we call ourselves Friends.”

“Friends?”

With a slight smile, Dennis leaned back on one elbow, rippling the grass between them with his free hand.

“Let me tell thee about myself, Jane,” he began slowly. “I did not grow up as a Friend. I was born the ninth son of a country squire in Essex. Ninth, I had no hope of inheriting. My father determined I should go into the Anglican clergy. He sent me to Oxford to study. But I wanted no part of the church. I decided to seek my fortune in the New England. I shipped as an indentured schoolmaster.”