JoAnn Wendt (29 page)

By the time Mr. Byng returned home from the Greshams’, Flavia had Neddy entrenched in the kitchen for the winter. His pallet and blankets visibly occupied a corner. Mr. Byng scowled when he saw the makeshift bed, but he was forced to say nothing, for the weather had turned bitter cold. Only a barbarian would make a human being sleep out in it.

She felt an immense, trembly relief in having Neddy near. Neddy’s presence was her shield.

* * * *

The November sky over St. Paul’s Chestertown Church was a rare bright blue. The sun shone, and from the northwest came a crisp, chill wind. The Chesapeake Bay air smelled fresh and clean, like new beginnings. Flavia hoped it was a good omen for bride and groom, Betsy Simm and Ira Gresham.

Closing her cloak against the wind, she took Dennis Finny’s arm and turned to watch the bridal carriage. It was an open carriage, and the bride stood tall in it, fairly dancing with excitement.

“Get ready!” the bride shouted gaily to a group of about twenty horsemen whose mounts were shying nervously.

“One!

“Two!

“Three—ride for the bottle!”

The ground vibrated under Flavia’s feet as horse hooves thundered away from the church. Whooping and yelling like Indians, the score of horsemen tore off for the Gresham plantation. The wedding was over. The traditional wedding game of Ride-for-the-Bottle had begun. The winner would be the first rider to reach the white-pillared veranda of the Gresham mansion. Scooping up the waiting bottle of rum, the winner would gallop back to the approaching wedding procession and claim his prize: a kiss from the bride.

“I pray Jimmy Barlow does not win,” Dennis Finny murmured.

Flavia met his concerned eyes and smiled.

“So do I. That could only lead to trouble.”

But a glance at the wedding carriage convinced her the bride prayed quite the opposite. Elizabeth Simm Gresham danced on tiptoe, tossing her shining black mane in excitement as she watched the riders go. She was lovely in a gown of ivory satin with a red velvet cardinal cloak tossed carelessly back from her shoulders. At her side sat Mr. Gresham. He tugged at her cloak, silently bidding her sit. Elizabeth absently brushed at his annoying hand and continued to stand. She didn’t sit until Jimmy Barlow’s horse galloped out of sight. Then she dropped into the cushions with a pleased sigh that reached even the rear of the entourage where Flavia and Dennis stood.

Flavia glanced at Dennis. He shook his head.

Mr. Gresham signaled and the wedding procession moved forward. It was as awkward an assortment of wedding guests as Flavia had ever seen, bondservants on foot, tavernkeepers on their mules, well-dressed gentry in landaus, in chariots, on handsomely saddled horses or carried in Negro-borne sedan chairs. The retinue surged forward, tight-lipped and ill at ease.

Flavia had to smile ruefully at Betsy Simm’s stubborn loyalty. Betsy would not marry, she’d told Mr. Gresham, unless she could marry in St. Paul's and invite her friends to the celebration. Mr. Gresham had given in, and Flavia suspected the gentry would never forgive Betsy for this untidy mix of guests. They would have forgiven her for marrying into their ranks if she’d done so quietly and with decorum. She was, after all, the daughter of an earl and titled by birthright.

For some twenty minutes they sauntered along in the chill November sunshine, chaises rattling ahead, an occasional wheel squeaking. Finally Flavia heard the distant sound of pounding hooves. Riders broke over the crest in the road. Flavia’s hand tightened on Dennis’s arm.

“Is it Jimmy?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Shouting to the carriage driver to stop, Betsy jumped up, squealing in excitement, her hands clapped to her mouth. The winning rider came charging like thunder, bottle hoisted high in one hand, the bottle’s gay ribbons streaming in the wind like the gold and scarlet banner of an ancient knight.

“Jimmy!” Betsy squealed.

Thundering up to the retinue, Jimmy Barlow jerked his horse to a halt, leaped down and pushed his way through the crowd to the wedding carriage.

He grinned, his white teeth flashing.

“My prize, Mrs. Gresham?

Betsy giggled. She stooped to give him a chaste kiss on the mouth. But he’d tossed the beribboned bottle to a friend, and with a quick unexpected movement, he grabbed Betsy round the waist and swung her up and out of the carriage. Betsy shrieked in shock, and the crowd gasped its astonishment.

Mr. Gresham jumped up.

“Here, now. Stop, I say. Stop!” the elderly bridegroom stormed as his young wife’s petticoats went flying and a silk-stockinged leg flashed.

From atop his horse,
Mr. Byng joined in.

“Mongrel! Cur. Stop, we say. What God hath joined together —”

Jimmy Barlow paid no attention. He set Betsy on her feet. He drew her into his arms. He kissed her soundly and with obvious enjoyment as a shocked buzzing rippled through the crowd. It was a long kiss, and when they parted, the moistness of their young lips attested to the intimacy of it. Flavia swallowed hard, her eyes misting. The kiss had been sweet and fervent, carrying her back to what she’d shared with Garth. She remembered his strong warm arms sheltering her. She remembered his thrilling kisses, his tongue seeking hers.

Without meaning to, Flavia clutched Dennis’s arm. He looked down at her. But whatever he saw in her misty eyes must have given him pain, for he looked quickly away.

In the carriage, Mr. Gresham stood stiffly, his face red with rage under his white powdered wig.

“Elizabeth! Get into the carriage at once.”

Apoplectic, Ira Gresham tore at the carriage door latch, finally flinging the door back with a loud bang that shied the horses and rocked the carriage. “Get in!” he repeated.

As Flavia watched, the soft joyous happiness faded from Betsy’s face. She jerked herself from Jimmy’s arms, put a hard bright smile on her face and jumped up into the carriage.

The incident provided more grist for the gossip mill, and the mill eagerly began to grind. Trailing along in the dusty rear of the party, Flavia unhappily caught bits of it.

“Indecent. Everyone knows what she’s been to that oaf, Jimmy Barlow!”

“How could Ira Gresham wed such a tramp?”

“They say his grown children are livid. Imagine burying a mother one-week and greeting a stepmother the next!”

“Mind you, there’s always a reason for haste. But I think
I
can count to ‘nine’ as well as anyone else in Kent County.”

“Is it true that now we must call her
Lady
Elizabeth?”

Angrily, Flavia shut her ears to the sniping. Her loyalty lay with Betsy. And even with Jimmy Barlow. Crude ruffian that he was, he’d done his bit to cover Mary Wooster’s escape.

Within the carved and paneled splendor of Gresham Manor, the bride’s receiving party proved to be as awkward and stiff as Flavia had feared. Guests gathered in two camps, a large no-man’s-land of polished ballroom floor between them. Hostility bristled from each camp.

In deference to the scarcely departed Mrs. Gresham, there was no music, no dancing. But buffet tables sent out tantalizing aromas of plum pudding, buttered smoked oysters and all manner of delicacies. Wine, ale and rum toddy bowls abounded.

While most of the lower class huddled like sheep, scared to sample food or drink lest they spill, the upper class began to celebrate with haughty confidence. Begrudgingly, they paid their respects to the bride, and Betsy’s clear gay voice rose above the rest.

“It is
Lady
Elizabeth,” she said with crisp maliciousness, correcting a guest who’d addressed her merely as “Mrs. Gresham.”

Flavia and Dennis exchanged looks of amusement. Across the ballroom Betsy clung demurely to the velvet-jacketed arm of her haughty bridegroom. But with each sip of wine, her glance flew more boldly across the room to Jimmy Barlow, who stood amused and drinking at the rum toddy bowl.

Betsy’s hand pulled from the velvet sleeve. Her heels clicked over the empty expanse of no-man’s-land. Rich satin swooshed against Flavia’s green lutestring silk gown as Betsy linked arms with her.

“Stroll with me, Jane,” she commanded, disguising her intent. Flavia demurred, but she was drawn along. By a circuitous route Betsy made her way toward the laughter at the toddy bowl. Jimmy Barlow’s laughter died as Betsy suddenly stood before him, a ravishing dark-eyed gypsy, her lovely bosom rising and falling as she looked up at him.

He stared at her and she at him. Flavia could almost feel the regret that flowed between them. They were unsuited and yet they loved each other.
Her
heart melted with sympathy. To know love and then to lose it—wasn’t that life’s greatest sorrow?

As though he could stand no more, Jimmy Barlow rudely turned his back on Betsy and flirted with the tavernkeeper’s daughter. Betsy’s lips trembled, but immediately she gave her dark glossy curls a toss. With a forced gay laugh, Betsy tugged at Flavia’s arm, drawing her across the polished ballroom floor toward the gentry.

“No, Betsy—please!”

But it was useless, and she was suddenly very glad she’d cut material from the deep hem of the green lutestring gown, fashioning silk rosettes to cover the patches Raven McNeil had so made fan of the night of the Tate ball. She knew she needn’t be ashamed of her appearance. With Mrs. Byng still gone to her sister, she’d managed a tub bath, washing her hair and brushing it dry before Mrs. Byng’s mirror. Her hair was shiny and clean, its color a deep wine red that spilled to her shoulders and framed her bosom. Her cheeks and lips felt rosy from the long walk in nippy air. Glances from the gentry confirmed what she knew. She looked pretty. Only Mr. Byng’s glance was not an admiring one. He scowled, throwing a look that commanded her to stay on the other side of the room with the bondslaves. But she couldn’t. Betsy grasped her arm firmly, drawing her along.

She endured Betsy’s introductions, feeling comfortable only when she met the Tates. The large Tate family was as friendly and unpretentious as Dennis had described them. She was delighted to meet Maryann Tate. The eighteen-year-old wasn’t a beauty, but she had a sweet eager manner. She would make Raven a good wife. And, she thought with sadness, Maryann would make Garth a sweet, kind sister-in-law.

The eldest Tate son, a young man just returned from studies at Oxford, invited Flavia to stroll the ballroom. She couldn’t refuse. As she drifted off on William Tate’s arm, Mr. Byng glared at her disapprovingly.

Following in the wake of other couples, she and the young man politely reviewed the ballroom portraits, admired the marble mantelpieces and viewed the distant vista of the Chester River from each of the tall front windows. Conversation went naturally to Maryann’s wedding, and Flavia plucked up her courage to inquire, tremulously, if Captain Garth McNeil would attend the wedding. He would, William Tate assured her. Flavia’s knees grew wobbly,

“You are highborn,” he said suddenly. “Like Betsy Gresham.” Flavia jerked, startled.

“No! No, sir. I—I—once served as maid in a duke’s house.”

“Where?” he asked, smiling in mild curiosity.

She’d not expected him to press. Her mind whirled. Glasses tinkled against wine bottles, voices rose in the ballroom as wine and rum toddy did their work, loosening tongues. Her hesitation had brought a quizzical look to his face. “Tewksbury Hall,” she blurted, her mind a sudden blank.

He smiled, nodding.

“I’ve been there.”

She felt faint. He drew her along to the next window and considered the sheep-cropped lawn that rolled gently down to the Chester River. He was done with the subject of Tewksbury, jumping in about this year’s tobacco harvest. She hardly listened. Trembling with eagerness, she knew she should leave the subject of Tewksbury closed. But she
had
to know. Had to find out.

“Then you’ve met His Grace?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“What?” He swung an odd look at her, as though they occupied separate worlds. “What? Oh, the duke of Tewksbury? Yes. And I have met Her Grace.”

“Her Grace?”

Shock exploded in her brain like wood splinters flying from the woodcutter’s ax.

He smiled pleasantly. “I believe the duke’s last wife died of some ghastly disease. Smallpox, if you will. His Grace married his late wife’s sister, Valentina.”

“Oh!”

It was an utter shock. She stared at the floor, trying to take it in. Valentina! She felt a surge of terror for her sister.
Oh, Valentina, be careful!
But relief galloped in on terror’s heels. If the duke had married Valentina, then her family was still safe, well provided for. Her younger sisters were assured a good future. Mother and Papa were secure. She drew a steadying breath. Valentina had been a doting, loving aunt to Robert. She would mother him, love him.

“See here, are you ill, Bondslave Brown? If you’re ill I will escort you to a chair.”

Flavia jerked her head up.

“Oh. Oh, no. I’m not ill.”

He smiled in relief, drew her along and plunged into a discourse on tobacco. They’d almost circled the room. Circle completed, courtesy would demand they part, and William Tate would invite another young female guest to stroll. She dragged her feet. Her opportunity to ask more, to ask about her baby, was fast vanishing. She gulped air to steady herself.

“The duke’s son,” she uttered softly, unable to say more without losing control.

“What? Oh, yes. A pity, wasn’t it?” He veered from the subject. “I should consider it an honor if you will allow me to call upon you at the Byngs.”

He waited for her answer. She stared up at him, frozen dumb. A pity? Robert? Raw fear coursed through her. Her hands turned to ice. She was terrified to know.
More
terrified
not
to know.

Her lips were wood. “The marquis?”

William Tate blinked his bewilderment.

“Oh, that. Yes. A tragedy. The child was sent to live in Germany. He drowned in the Rhine River in August.” He smiled sympathetically. “May I call on Tuesday next, Miss Brown?”

She stared at him. Not comprehending, then fighting comprehension, she shook her head.

“No. No!”

He smiled uncertainly.