Authors: Edward Cline
Hugh turned in his saddle and blessed Stannard with one of his rare smiles,
and did not comment. Stannard, for his part, tentatively smiled in return, but
was not certain why. It occurred to him later, when he was no longer in the
young man’s company, that Mr. Kenrick was up to some kind of mischief, and that
his smile was a point of secret knowledge.
When the party returned to the ground on the eastern side of the plantation,
Hugh took out his pocket watch. “It is nigh four of the clock, Mr. Stannard.
Have we seen all that needs to be seen?”
“Yes, sir. Shall we return to town, or would you like to see the house again?”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Talbot said. “If we are to attend a ball this
evening, Mr. Kenrick and I would like to return to our room to talk among ourselves,
freshen up, and prepare for the festivities.”
“Yes, of course,” said Stannard. He leaned forward in his saddle hopefully.
“Well…what do you think?” His glance moved between his two guests.
Hugh said, “We will have a decision for you and Mr. McRae in the morning.” He
waved his ledger book once and dropped it into a saddlebag. “There is much that
Mr. Talbot and I must discuss.”
The road to the eastern flank of Brougham Hall led through some freehold farms.
As they rode by, Stannard nodded or doffed his hat to men he knew who were working
in the fields.
Hugh asked, “What requirements must a man meet to be appointed a tobacco inspector
by the government here, Mr. Stannard?”
The agent shrugged. “That he be an honest man, and able to judge good leaf from
bad.”
“How does a man acquire such knowledge, except by staining his hands in the
care and worming of his own leaf?”
“By having been a good planter, sir, though the victim of some misfortune.”
“Is Mr. Ivy such a person?”
“No. Mr. Ivy is a distant relation of Mr. Cullis’s wife. Her cousin, I believe.
He was overseer for one of Mr. Cullis’s places on the James. When Mr. Cullis
sold that place some years ago, he nominated Mr. Ivy to succeed old Mr. St.
John, who was ailing at the time.”
“I see.”
Twenty-five minutes later the party was back on Queen Anne Street. When his
guests dismounted and stood on the porch of the boarding house, Stannard took
the reins of their mounts. “I shall ask Mr. Gramatan’s stable to reserve these
mounts for you, sirs,” he said, “and I will call on you here with my wife and
son near six-thirty.”
“We will be ready, Mr. Stannard,” Talbot said. “Thank you for your time. We
look forward to the celebration this evening.”
“The
Amelia
will depart on her return voyage tomorrow afternoon, Mr.
Stannard,” Hugh said. “If we decide in your favor, Mr. Talbot and I would like
to be on it, but only after some business has been settled.”
“Of course,” said the agent. “It will be a bit parky out of doors this evening,
but I believe the company will keep us warm. Until later, sirs.” Stannard tipped
his hat, then rode back up the street with the two mounts in tow.
A while later, in their room, while Talbot shaved himself, Hugh reviewed his
notes in the ledger book. He frowned briefly, and remarked, “It is something
of a paradox, Mr. Talbot, but I had the impression that Mr. Stannard is quite
content to be a creditor, though that status jeopardizes his business.” He turned
to face his friend and mentor. “Had you that impression, too?”
“Yes,” answered the man, wiping his face off with a towel. “But it is no paradox
at all. His status as a creditor gives him a dollop of power.”
Hugh turned this reply over in his mind for a moment, then resumed his studies.
Talbot studied the back of his protégé. “What would you call the place, Mr.
Kenrick?” he asked. “New Danvers, perhaps? Or, Effney Hall — in honor of your
mother? She would be so pleased. Or, simply Kenrick?”
Hugh looked up again. “I had not given the matter thought, Mr. Talbot,” he said.
“No, none of those,” he added, shaking his head. “I am certain, though, that
I should not continue to call it Brougham Hall. It must be a name of my own
choosing…something that would distinguish it from anything in my past….”
T
he seat of Enderly was a residence not quite twice the size of Brougham Hall,
but large enough that its enclosing wings, connected to the main house by roofed
colonnades, formed a spacious brick courtyard. In the center of the courtyard
stood a mature red cedar encircled by crocuses, hollyhocks, and lilacs. Instead
of a wall and an arched gate to complete the square, there were two stands of
tulip trees, through which ran a neatly set road of flagstones salvaged from
the York River and the plantation’s fields. This road, laboriously “paved” and
extended by two generations of the Vishonn family to the common road that led
out of Caxton, was lined with boxwoods, willow oaks, and several varieties of
holly. It was by this road, in the cool October evening, that most of Reece
Vishonn’s guests came by carriage, cart, riding chair, horseback, and on foot,
guided in the growing dusk by cressets placed every one hundred or so feet.
Others arrived by boat on the river, stopping at the plantation wharf that sat
beyond a vast landscaped lawn on the north side of the house.
The cressets were appreciated by the arriving guests. Sitting in iron baskets
atop iron poles, the fires of fatwood hissed and sputtered, and emanated a welcoming
warmth as well as light. The fires would eventually die out, and not be relit.
Except on nights when there was a full, unobstructed moon, occasions such as
the guests were attending were as a rule all-night affairs, for there was no
means for people to easily find their way home in the total darkness that enveloped
the countryside. At dawn, the guests, exhausted, sated, and perhaps a little
woozy from too much tippling of sherry and punch, would thank their host and
drift back down the road to their widely spread homes.
Hugh Kenrick and Otis Talbot rode on either side of the two-wheeled riding
chair occupied by Arthur and Winifred Stannard. The couple’s sixteen-year-old
son, Joseph, sat mounted on the horse that pulled the vehicle. Mr. Stannard,
throughout the journey to Enderly, chatted on about the place, proudly pointing
out landmarks and citing facts as though he owned the plantation. “Mr. Vishonn
has a man whose only job is to keep up this road,” he was saying. “If he finds
a broken flagstone, he must replace it, and regularly sweep the road of dirt,
leaves and stones that might lodge in a horse’s hooves. These cressets were
fashioned in Mr. Vishonn’s own smithy here, from pig brought down from a mine
he owns above the Falls. He’s made a business of selling them around the colony.
Why, he has even sold some in New York, and Boston, and Charleston. I’d even
wager, Mr. Talbot, that some of his cressets light your way home in Philadelphia.”
“Undoubtedly,” Talbot said. “And no doubt he knows that if the Board of Trade
and Plantations heard of his business, he could be sent to jail, or be fined
beyond his means to pay the penalty.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed Stannard. “Those fellows couldn’t prove that
his cressets were
not
made in England! The ironmongers there have already
got a secure market. Why would they begrudge a loyal Briton a handful of iron?
They’ve enough work now, supplying the army and navy!”
“True, sir,” Talbot said. “But, when the war is finished — what then?” The
agent gave the Philadelphian an incredulous glance, then dismissed the question
with a scoff. “You worry the matter over much, sir,” he said. “The Board and
Parliament wink at trade irregularities, as you must well know. They’ll go on
winking. Besides, when the war is finished, the mother country will have her
hands full keeping the peace at home. She’s not going to much mind or take notice
of a few pounds earned behind her back.”
Talbot grinned. “I sincerely hope that our cousins are so benignly distracted,
Mr. Stannard.”
“We will hear some fine music tonight,” ventured Mrs. Stannard, who was bored
with politics and wished to change the subject. “Mr. Vishonn owns a pianoforte,
which his son James will play. He is most accomplished. Apair of fiddlers, Jude
and Will Kenny, will also provide us with the means to dance. They are brothers,
my husband may have told you, who own the first freehold across Hove Creek.”
“But, topping the bill, sirs,” added her husband, “will be ‘Angel’ McRae.”
Hugh Kenrick asked, “Is Mr. McRae musically endowed?”
The agent laughed. “Not by a note, sir! No, it’s his daughter, Etáin. She plays
the harp.”
Hugh remarked, “A harp? I did not think the instrument was known in the colonies.”
Mr. Stannard said, “It’s known here, sir. Some years ago, a relation of Mr.
McRae’s who kept a shop of instruments in Edinburgh, died, and Mr. McRae sailed
there to settle his affairs. He brought back a harp, and a dulcimer. His daughter
is adept on both.”
“His wife’s brother,” said Mrs. Stannard, “Paul Levesque, is a copy clerk employed
by Mr. William Boyce, the composer, in London. He sends his sister all sorts
of music for his niece to play.”
“And,” added her husband, “he plays the harpsichord, and often performs with
other musicians at Vauxhall Gardens. Occasionally, he tutors children of the
best families.” Mr. Stannard paused. “He and Mrs. McRae are Huguenots.”
“Or were,” corrected his wife. “Mrs. McRae frequently accompanies her husband
to the church here. Her brother himself owned a large instrument-making shop
in Paris, once. It was smashed during a Papist riot. Mrs. McRae’s fiancé was
killed by a mob that same day. She and her brother went to London, and found
a place next door to Mr. McRae’s lodgings. He, too, was new to the city. That
is how they met.”
“Mr. McRae and his family have been at Enderly most of the afternoon, sirs,”
volunteered the agent. “That is one reason why he could not accompany us to
Brougham Hall. They have brought Etáin’s harp, at Mr. Vishonn’s request, so
that she could rehearse some songs with James.”
“Who is also an admirable baritone,” remarked Mrs. Stannard. “Those two may
be a match,” she added, “though Mrs. McRae does not encourage the rumor.”
“Nor does Etáin,” said her husband. “Her heart is set on Mr. Frake.”
“Her mother encourages
that
match with her resounding silence on the
possibility, every time the subject is raised.”
Hugh Kenrick asked, “Do you think Mr. Frake will attend tonight?”
Stannard sighed. “Very likely, sir. And, he may bring his own fireworks.”
* * *
By London standards, it was a small assembly; by rural colonial, a large. Some
forty adults arrived at Enderly to celebrate Wolfe’s victory at Quebec, mostly
neighboring planters and their wives, together with some children and a smattering
of adolescents. All were dressed in their best finery: the men in velvet or
wool frock coats, waistcoats, and perukes, the women in hooped taffeta or silk
gowns, and coiffed hair adorned with pearls, plumes and ribbons. Reece Vishonn
had, as usual, arranged to allow his guests to leave their mounts and conveyances
beyond the courtyard, where a liveried slave watched them and tended them with
water and oats. The guests then walked through the cresset-lit courtyard to
the house, where they were greeted in the breezeway by one or another of the
Vishonn family. Reece Vishonn, a large, florid-faced man in green silks and
an immaculate pigtailed wig, welcomed Mr. Stannard’s party with an almost garrulous
flourish. He gave Arthur Stannard barely enough time to introduce his visitors.
“Mr. Talbot…Mr. Kenrick, it is such a pleasure to meet you! Mr. McRae told me
you were looking over the Swart place. Well, it is my earnest hope that there
is a change of ownership! How long will you stay in our fair town?”
Otis Talbot said, “We take the
Amelia
back to Philadelphia tomorrow
afternoon, sir.”
“What a pity! I should like to have had you both over for a private supper.
Has Mr. Stannard told you everything about the property?”
Hugh Kenrick smiled. “What little he may have neglected to tell us, sir, we
have deduced for ourselves. No decision has been made yet concerning a purchase.”
“Well…,” said Mr. Vishonn, wanting to frown in disappointment. “Perhaps this
evening’s jollities will help you to decide! Because so many are expected, my
lady has elected to forgo a formal table and lay out a buffet, which has already
been removed from the kitchen. We will have a bonfire down by the water, and
some fireworks about midnight. And, of course, there will be dancing aplenty,
all night, for as long as the company and musicians can stand!”
More guests appeared at the door, and the host was obliged to break off to greet
them. Mr. Stannard took his guests on a round of introductions, and before half
an hour had passed, everyone knew who the strangers were and their business
in Caxton. And to every query concerning their plans to purchase Brougham Hall,
Hugh and his companion demurred an answer.
Hugh easily fit into the company. Colonial society, though mindful to observe
contemporary rules of polite decorum, was made more enjoyable by the relaxation
of many of those rules. Thus, Hugh was able to converse with married women without
arousing anyone’s suspicions or offending social protocol. Unattached women,
however, remained unapproachable, even for the most innocuous conversation,
except in the company of their parents, guardians, or elders, or during a dance.
A modest and well-bred young lady could not look a man directly in the eye and
not expect to be taken for a libertine extending an invitation to license. It
was a supposition impervious to reason.
The three most brilliantly lit rooms were the ballroom, the supper room, and
the gaming room. Each boasted a score and a half of double sconces, while from
the ballroom and super room ceilings were suspended lustres, or crystal chandeliers,
such as Hugh had seen only in London and Danvers. These, however, each had the
added feature of a silver cupola, filigreed with gold, fixed above the lustre’s
chain to absorb the candles’ heat and soot. And both the ballroom and the supper
room were furnished with Dutch “warming machines,” great, black, ornamented
iron stoves connected to their own chimneys with sealed tin pipes. The gaming
room was warmed by a standard fireplace, and contained a billiard table, a bar,
and several round tables for card and dice games.
Hugh and Otis Talbot toured the rooms with Barbara Vishonn, the host’s wife,
and then, by mutual agreement, separated to find their own company. Hugh returned
to the ballroom and studied the lustre overhead. Ian McRae approached him. They
shook hands again, and the Scotsman apologized for his absence earlier in the
day. Hugh said, gazing up at the crystal, “What a novel idea! I have not seen
its like elsewhere.”
“It was Mr. Vishonn’s innovation,” remarked McRae. “I believe he grew tired
of seeing the ceiling blackened by the smoke.”
“Not only does the crystal magnify the light, but the device above it reflects
and distributes it. Further, the cupola reduces the risk of fire.”
Mr. McRae laughed. “I’m certain that Mr. Vishonn would like to hear it so complimented,
Mr. Kenrick.” He put a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “Come, you’ve not met my wife
and daughter. They’re in the far corner there.”
As they crossed the room, they passed the space where the musicians would play.
On the light blue-papered wall behind the pianoforte, harp, music stands, and
chairs, was a large Great Union, suspended from the bases of two sconces. Hugh
nodded to it and remarked, “And
that
is a decoration I’ve not seen elsewhere
— at least, not in anyone’s residence.”
“It once flew atop the Capitol here,” McRae said, “until it was in tatters.
Mr. Granby’s son, William, who is one of the county’s burgesses, procured it
from the keeper and presented it to Mr. Vishonn, whose wife prettily repaired
it.” In a lower voice, McRae added, “It is said of Mr. Vishonn that he is more
patriotic than Mr. Pitt.” He paused. “Have you met our two burgesses, Granby
and Edgar Cullis?”
“I’ve not yet had the pleasure, sir.”
“A word of advice, then, sir, whether you elect to purchase Brougham Hall or
not: Steer clear of politics with them, unless you agree with them.”
Madeline McRae was an elegant, captivating woman whose dark eyes seemed to sum
up Hugh with approval. Etáin, fifteen years old, was a younger version of her
mother. The woman wore a lavender satin gown and a lace-frilled cap over her
jet-black hair, the girl a green wool riding suit and no cap over her reddish
hair, which Hugh noted, was the only feature she seemed to have inherited from
her father.
“If you move to Brougham Hall,” inquired Mrs. McRae, “won’t you miss all the
distractions afforded you in Philadelphia?”
“Yes, madam,” Hugh said, “but that town only causes me to miss London. For the
time being, I have resigned myself to nostalgia.”
“How many people reside there, Mr. Kenrick?” asked Etáin. She spoke with an
odd but charming amalgam of Scots, French, and English accents.
“They say some forty thousand souls, Miss McRae.”
Ian McRae glanced around and saw Arthur Stannard. He made his excuses and left
Hugh with his wife and daughter.
Madeline McRae asked Hugh more questions, about him and about London. Their
conversation was cordial, but Hugh felt that there was an ulterior motive behind
the woman’s questions. Just when he thought that he had succeeded in concealing
his origins, the woman turned to Etáin. “Do not stare at the gentleman as though
he was a talking statue, dear. It is uncouth.”
The daughter blushed and looked at the floor with a grin. Her mother suddenly
leaned forward to Hugh and brought up her fan to muffle her words: “Your secret
is safe with me, milord Kenrick of Danvers. Have no fear that I will expose
you. But — you are a curiosity. You must call on us some day and tell me more
about yourself.” Before Hugh could reply, the woman folded her fan and drew
back again.
Hugh could only nod in acknowledgment.
“There are only a few thousand souls in all of Queen Anne, Mr. Kenrick,” said
the woman.
“It is a small county, compared with some.”
“What do you miss most about London, Mr. Kenrick?”
“The music…the concerts…the orchestras…the theaters…the galleries… the enterprises…the
shops…the busyness of the city, where almost everything one could want, is at
one’s fingertips, where so much is possible….”
Madeline McRae smiled. “I, too, miss all those things — and Paris.” She frowned
in mock admonishment. “Now you are making me feel…melancholy.”
“That was not my intention, madam,” said Hugh. He hurried to say, “The Moravians,
in Pennsylvania, near Bethlehem, have an orchestra. They play music by Bach,
and Vivaldi, and Boyce, and even by this newcomer, Haydn. I rode there twice
from Philadelphia to hear them. And Charleston, I have read, is a town greatly
enamored of music.”
“I shall play a new tune by Mr. Boyce this evening, Mr. Kenrick,” Etáin said.
“One that no one had ever heard yet, not even in London! And James Vishonn shall
sing the words to it, which were written by David Garrick.”
“What is its name?” asked Hugh.
“‘Hearts of Oak.’ It is a patriotic song, about the navy.”
“Mr. Garrick puts on so much foolishness on the stage,” remarked Mrs. McRae.
“And Mr. Boyce composes so much that is forgettable.”
“I look forward to hearing you play the tune, Miss McRae,” said Hugh. “I shall
also play some pieces Mr. Bach wrote for the harp,” said the girl. “Oh? Which
Bach?”
Etáin laughed. “I can’t remember, just now! There seem to be as many Bachs as
the fingers of one’s hand!”
“This is true,” smiled Hugh.
“Excuse me, Mr. Kenrick,” said Madeline McRae, “but our hostess is waving to
me. I must leave my daughter in your charge.” Without further word, the woman
swept away across the ballroom.
Hugh realized that he had just been paid a compliment by the girl’s mother,
that she trusted him to be alone with her daughter. By the look on the girl’s
face, he knew that she understood this, too. He indicated her attire, and asked,
“You will not dance tonight, Miss McRae?”
“No. I would not be permitted to. My gown and my harp are not compatible, and
so I wear my riding clothes.” In a lower voice, Etáin added, “Many of the ladies
here opine that it is not lady-like to pose as I must to play the instrument.
But my harp will not accommodate my hoops. I shall even be seated behind the
pianoforte, for modesty’s sake.”
“Then those same ladies must not think Britannia lady-like.”
“Britannia?”
“The goddess-like symbol of our country. Here.” Hugh drew a bronze penny from
his coat and showed the girl the relief of the seated figure, whose one arm
was raised to hold a spear, while the other rested on the top of her shield
that was planted upright on the ground.
“Yes!” exclaimed Etáin, studying the figure. “Of course! What a pretty thought!”
Hugh pressed the coin into her palm. “Please, Miss McRae, keep this, as a token
of my esteem, and as a reminder to yourself, the next time you hear someone
complain about your musical pose.”
Etáin beamed with delight. “Thank you, Mr. Kenrick. You are too kind.”
Hugh shook his head. “I am not a kind man, Miss McRae.”
Etáin frowned. “Why do you say that, Mr. Kenrick?”
“Kindness is a sort of forgiveness, or an intentional oversight — or the cowardly
waiver of a wrong. It is — a tolerance for the intolerable, and very often that
is akin to the commission of a heinous crime.”
The girl looked down at the floor. “I meant…that you were generous, Mr. Kenrick.”
“Then, please, forgive me for having misconstrued your meaning, Miss McRae,”
said Hugh with some concern. “I am wiling to be called ‘generous.’”
“Would you think me a coward, if I forgave you?”
“No. I would think you honest,” Hugh said with a smile. “Honesty is nearly an
antonym of kindness.”
“And generosity: What is that nearly the antonym of?”
“Profligacy,” Hugh said, enjoying the exchange. “However, generosity is very
nearly a synonym for justice.”
“You are oddly persuasive, Mr. Kenrick, though I have not heard such notions
before.” Etáin’s glance wandered for a moment, and she noticed that some guests
were staring at them. She bowed her head. “There I go again, staring at you
as though you were a talking statue!”
Hugh turned and scrutinized the curious guests, who averted their glances and
moved to another part of the crowded room. He said to Etáin, “Ancient lore has
it that a dying Amazon would hold her slayer’s eyes, and cause him to fall in
love with her, so that after she was gone, he would pine away in regret. Love
of her was her cruel retribution.”
Etáin looked up at him with curiosity.
Hugh said, “I am merely trying to embellish your lapse from a silly custom,
Miss McRae. Or to attach to it a better justification.”
“It is a strange courtesy you pay me, Mr. Kenrick.” The girl paused. “Has an
Amazon gazed into your eyes?”
After a moment, Hugh said, “I no longer think so. She is not slain, and has
married a Boeotian.” He paused. “It is the stuff of one of Mr. Garrick’s plays.”
“One of his tragedies,” remarked Etáin, saying it before she meant to. “I have
read some of them.”
“For my role in it, yes,” Hugh said, who seemed to have forgotten the girl’s
presence. “For hers, a farce that was not so amusing.” He smiled with bitterness.
“You see, she wrote me a
kind
letter.” Then he remembered where he was
and to whom he was speaking. “My apologies, Miss McRae,” he said, bowing slightly.
“I did not intend to raise tragedy on such a festive occasion.”
“I am sorry to have caused you to have such a sad memory.”
Hugh shook his head. “No, no. Do not feel sorry. The fault was all mine.”
The girl was uncertain whether he was speaking of the present or of the past.