Somerset (8 page)

I
have no idea where your son has gotten himself off to,” Eunice said to Carson at breakfast. “He's been gone all night. Elfie will be so disappointed if her nephew is not here to greet her when she arrives.”

“He's out with the Night Riders,” her husband remarked, intent on reading his newspaper. “He's determined to catch the culprit stealing from us.”

“It was only two hams,” Jessica said, uneasy at the thought of her brother and his lackeys out and about the countryside when she drove Sarah and their cargo to Charleston.

Carson glanced at her. “How do you know it was two hams?”

Jessica thought quickly. Willie May had told her, but just as well her father did not know the source of her information. He would no longer take Willie May into his confidence. “It's no secret about the theft, Papa. Everybody in the Yard knows it.”

“Tippy, carrying tales again.” Her father harrumphed.

“You have to admit, Carson, that the girl has outdone herself with the decorations this year. I can't wait for Elfie to see them.”

Carson harrumphed again, but there was no denying that Tippy had created amazing holiday wonders from ribbons, pinecones, evergreen branches, mistletoe, candles, colored paper, wooden ornaments, popcorn balls, fruits, nuts, gingerbread, and glass balls from Germany. Eunice had been so pleased that she had rescinded her husband's order committing Tippy to work in the weavers' cabin, where the smoke from the fireplace was not good for her lung.

“It's a waste of her talents, Carson,” Eunice had stated in a tone declaring she would not budge on the matter. “The girl belongs in the sewing room. Jessica and I are both in need of new frocks for Silas and Lettie's nuptials.”

Her husband never shrank from a battle unless in those rare instances prudence trumped valor. With the exception of Willowshire, his wife was the love of his life, and he would do nothing to jeopardize his demonstration of it at night in their bedroom. He gave in gracefully, conceding, “You're right. We must put her where we get the most value.”

Jessica said, her heart beginning to hammer, “Papa, have you ordered the carriage around? Sarah's ship departs at three o'clock, about the time Aunt Elfie's arrives, and I want to get us there in plenty of time.”

Carson looked up from his newspaper. “Yes, but I wish you'd wait a little longer for your brother to drive you. I don't trust the weather this time of year, and the almanac says to expect snow sometime this week. Your aunt's trunks might be a problem for the two of you to manage.”

“I'll get a porter to help us,” Jessica said, folding her napkin and beckoning a servant to draw out her chair.

“But how will you get Sarah Conklin's luggage into the carriage?” her father persisted.

“We'll manage,” Jessica said, hoping with all her heart that Michael did not appear. “Now, if you'll excuse me…”

“They want to be alone for girl talk, dear,” she heard her mother explain as she hurried from the room.

“In that case, I'd think Jessica would be taking Tippy along since the girls think she's one of them,” Carson said with a snap of his paper.

Jessica snatched up her bonnet and cloak and was out the door and onto the carriage seat before her father got the idea to send the coachman with her. Daniel could be trusted, but she would not involve him in her perilous mission.

“Thank you, Daniel,” she said, “but no need to fuss with that. I'm in a bit of a hurry,” she said when he attempted to spread a blanket over her knees. She must get away before Michael rode up and insisted on going with her. He would not miss an opportunity to have the captive company of Sarah Conklin.

Jessica realized that her arms and shoulders were aching from tension by the time she'd made the five-mile trip into Willow Grove and turned down the lane of the church property to Sarah's front door. She let out a long frosty breath as she drew the carriage to a stop and forced herself to relax. The most stressful part of the journey was behind her. No one was about to see their cargo loaded, and in two shakes of a lamb's tail she and Sarah would be on their way to their destination unobstructed on this bright winter afternoon six days before Christmas. There would be time in Charleston to enjoy a last cup of tea together before Sarah embarked. Jessica would miss her brave friend, but oh, how much Sarah was looking forward to a reunion with her little nephew and rest of her family. Jessica shared Lettie's concern. Would Sarah want to come back to them after being home for the holidays?

She had raised her hand to knock on the door when from around each side of the house quietly emerged a cordon of men on horseback. Some she did not know, but others she recognized as a local gin operator, tanner, tavern owner, and a few farmers. All stared at her in disbelieving silence, their taut expressions dismayed. For a moment she couldn't think. What were the Night Riders doing here? She heard a familiar whinny and turned to see Michael's black Arabian tossing its beautifully arched neck in greeting and switching its high-carried tail. The saddle was empty, the reins held by one of the men. Fear froze her brain. Her whole body stiffened. Michael opened the door. He stared at her, his jaw slowly dropping.

“No, no, I can't believe it,” he said. “Not you, Jessie. It can't be you.…Tell me it isn't you. You're only here to pick up Sarah.…”

She could have lied, but all she could think of was Sarah. Blood rushed to her head. “What have you done with Sarah? Where is she?”

“Oh, God. You're the pickup, aren't you?” her brother said in a voice thick with anguish. His face had gone as pale as a bleached headstone. Even his deep, metal-gray eyes had lost their glint. Shock and incredulity had lightened them to the color of brackish ice. “We couldn't get her to tell us who was coming for the boy. We had to wait and see.…”

Jessica pushed by the robust figure. “Sarah!” she cried, rushing through the parlor, into the kitchen, glancing into the open door of the storage room.

Michael seized her arm, stopping her. “She's in the bedroom,” he said roughly, his face mottling with anger. “Go tend her. I've sent for liniment and bandages. Pack her things and get her dressed and into the carriage. Miss Conklin will not be returning to Willow Grove. I will escort you to the harbor in Charleston. We will bring our aunt home, and then I will deliver you to our father.”

Jessica yanked her arm free and ran into the bedroom. “Oh, my God! Sarah!” she cried when she saw the figure on the bed.

Her friend lay facing the wall, her night shift in strips and soaked in blood from the cut of whip lashes across her back. From the other room came a terse exchange of male voices, and Michael entered carrying a wrapped package. Jessica whirled to him. “How could you do this, Michael?” she screamed.

“You ask that question of me, little sister, when it's the one I should ask of you? Believe me, our father will.” Michael threw the package at her. “There. Clean her wounds. My men are loading her trunk into the carriage now. You have thirty minutes to get your little abolitionist friend ready to leave our shores. After that, she's food for the buzzards.” He strode from the room and Jessica tore open the package of gauze and lotion.

“I didn't tell them, Jessie,” Sarah moaned as Jessica hurried to pour water into a basin from a pitcher on the lavatory stand. “They caught the agent and forced him to betray me. He tried to warn me.…I hoped—prayed—that you would not arrive, that something would prevent you from coming and that if you did, you'd think of something to tell your brother.…”

“Sssh, don't talk, Sarah,” Jessie said as she knelt to remove the remnants of her friend's night shift to dress her wounds. “Just lie quietly. Think of your little nephew and that you'll be homeward bound in a few hours. You'll never have to see the likes of my brother or his kind again.”

“They took the fugitive to Willowshire,” Sarah said, as if Jessica's words had not registered. “He'll be returned to his owner. They took him away with a rope around his neck. They made him witness my flogging.”

Jessica thought she was going to be sick. There was a tall magnolia tree behind the cottage. Michael and his ruffians had probably strung her up by one of its sturdy branches, and there was no one around to see or hear the sound of the lashing or Sarah's wails, if she gave them the pleasure, but her friend had not betrayed her involvement. Working quickly over the lacerated back, Jessica pressed her lips tightly together to keep from weeping.

Sarah motioned her to come closer and lowered her voice to a whisper in case someone in the other room might overhear. Careful of her wounds, Jessica leaned forward. “I'm afraid for Willie May.…”

“Oh God. What does Michael know?” Jessica asked.

“The boy told him he'd heard of my safe house, and he came here. He didn't mention Willie May, but if your brother is skeptical and questions him further…tortures him…he could talk.”

Jessica felt the blood plunge from her head.

“I'm afraid for you, too, my brave Southern friend, and for Tippy,” Sarah continued.

Dizzily, feeling as if she were kneeling on the deck of a weaving ship, Jessica swabbed at the cuts. “Don't worry about us,” she said. “I'll think of something to save us all. My father's bark is worse than his bite when it comes to me. He'll be furious with me, but he'll forgive me. I'm his daughter. He has no choice.”

“Oh, Jessica, dear…” Sarah moaned.

A
t breakfast in the Toliver household, as well as at other tables in the manor homes of Plantation Alley, the topic of discussion was the unexpected and disappointing cancellation of Willowshire's annual holiday events. They were the Christmas ball, the tea in honor of the annual visit of Eunice's sister from Boston for the holidays, and the New Year's Eve party to which many dignitaries and luminaries were invited. These social occasions were looked forward to all year by those fortunate enough to be on the invitation list and precipitated much advance planning of frocks and accessories and hairstyles by the ladies.

“Whatever do you suppose is the matter over there?” Elizabeth queried those gathered around her table for ham and grits the morning the festivities were to begin. She thought regretfully of the gown hanging in her wardrobe that she'd now not have the opportunity to show off. This morning, in addition to Lettie and her father, who were frequent overnight guests, her family of two sons and grandson had the pleasure of Jeremy Warwick's company. Afterwards he and Silas were to huddle over the growingly bleak solutions to the problem of Silas and Lettie having to remain behind when the wagon train bound for Texas pulled out in the spring.

“I haven't heard anything,” Jeremy said.

“It's as if a dark veil has fallen over Willowshire,” Lettie commented. “I haven't been able to get in touch with Jessica. When I went to call on her, I was turned away at the door.”

“Same for Michael,” Morris said. “He and I were to go hunting yesterday, but he sent word around that something had come up.”

“Indeed there must be something extraordinary that's happened,” Reverend Sedgewick added. “None of the family attended the Christmas cantata Wednesday evening. Most unusual. Mr. Wyndham always leaves a large donation in the offering plate.”

“Did Miss Conklin get off to Massachusetts all right?” Jeremy asked Lettie. “I understand that Jessica was to take her to the ship in the carriage.”

“We don't know for sure, and we're a bit worried,” Lettie answered. “That's why I called on Jessica. When I went to air out the cemetery house in her absence, I found blood on the bedsheets, and some bloody swabs in the waste bin as well.”

“Most puzzling,” offered Reverend Sedgewick.

“Do you suppose she cut herself?” Silas asked.

“I wish I could speak with Jessica to find out,” Lettie said.

“Perhaps it was due to nature,” Elizabeth suggested, giving Lettie a look that made her color, and changed the subject. “I was so looking forward to seeing Willowshire dressed for the holidays,” she lamented. “That colored girl of the Wyndhams'…what's her name?”

“Tippy,” Silas volunteered.

“Is a marvel with seasonal decorations. It's hard to imagine such ingenuity coming from such an ill-favored strip of a colored girl.”

Morris took a bite of his buttered biscuit and asked with his mouth full, “Are you talking about that monkey-looking maid with the big feet who looks like she could swing from the chandeliers?”

“Yes, dear,” Elizabeth said. “Apparently Jessica dotes on her.”

There was a sudden interruption as Lazarus drew back the double doors to the dining room. He went to Morris's chair and bent close to his ear. “Excuse me, Master, but there is a visitor in the drawing room.”

“This early in the morning, Lazarus? Who in heaven's name is it?”

“Mr. Carson Wyndham, suh.”

To the startled silence of everyone at the table, Morris yanked his napkin from his collar. “I'll go immediately.”

“But he didn't come to see you, suh,” Lazarus explained. “He came to see Mister Silas.”

“My brother?” Morris stared down the table at Silas as if the idea were unthinkable.

“Good heavens,” Elizabeth said with a loss of breath.

Silas folded his napkin and rose. He grinned at Jeremy, winked at Lettie. “Maybe the old boy has changed his mind,” he said.

Morris raised an eyebrow. “And he came here to tell you in person in the midst of the Christmas season? Don't count on it.”

“Find out all you can about what's going on at Willowshire,” Elizabeth whispered loudly behind her hand.

Carson Wyndham stood staring out the Palladian windows of the drawing room with his hands clutched behind his back. Lazarus had taken his hat and the riding crop that he was never without. Silas recognized the stance of a man in deep reflection. He was forced to agree with Morris. Why would the most powerful and richest man in South Carolina deign to call at the breakfast hour to grant his request for a loan this time of year when business had come to a halt?

“Mr. Wyndham, sir?”

Carson turned, and only the force of good manners prevented Silas from uttering his surprise. He recognized a face drawn with severe worry and anxiety. His own was beginning to show signs of such agitation in his mirror each morning. Carson Wyndham's dour expression, the snap gone from his eyes, seemed at odds with the freshly starched, perky ruffles of his fine cravat. “Thank you for seeing me with no notice, Silas,” he said.

“My pleasure, sir,” Silas said with a slight bow.

“I'm not sure you'll think so when you hear why I've come.”

“Then perhaps we should sit down and I'll ring for coffee.”

Carson waved a hand dismissively, the large ruby of a signet ring catching the light from the fireplace. “Don't bother, but maybe you'd best take a chair. I prefer to stand.”

Perplexed, as he sat down in one of his mother's prized Hepplewhites, Silas searched his mind for a possible reason Carson Wyndham stood in his drawing room—Morris's drawing room—on the morning when the social event of the year was to have taken place at Willowshire that evening. He could think of none, but of one matter he was certain: The man had not come to grant him a loan.

His firm conviction was immediately shattered when Carson, standing before him, imperious legs spread, hands clasped behind his back, glowered down at him and said, “What would you say if I told you I'd absolve your loan, pay all your expenses to Texas, give you enough money to start your plantation and build a manor home, and throw in fifty slaves in the bargain?”

Silas gazed at Carson as if the man had suddenly popped the buttons of his finely tailored waistcoat. When he recovered from his shock, he said, “I'd say I was dreaming or that you were in the throes of a nightmare.”

“You're not dreaming, and I'm as awake as an owl at midnight.”

“Forgive me, sir,” Silas said, “but I'm at a loss here.”

“What would you do to get what I just offered?”

Bewildered, but beginning to see a small ray of hope in his confusion, Silas said, “Almost anything short of committing murder or robbing a bank.”

“That's what I thought.” Carson pursed his mouth and mulled over something in silence a moment as if deciding whether to continue. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind and drew a noisy breath through his nostrils. “Well, here it is, Silas. All that I offered is yours if you'll do one thing for me.”

Silas's heartbeat held. The enticements the man tendered danced like sugar plums in his head. To start off to Texas with enough money to make every one of his and Lettie's dreams come true…he would almost make a deal with the devil, but nothing came without conditions—not with Carson Wyndham. “What is it that you want me to do?” he asked.

“Marry my daughter,” his visitor answered.