Just Jane (23 page)

Jane was insistent. “I'd be pleased to have you come with me, Cousin Hugh. But if not, I shall go alone.”

Lydia gave her husband some advice. “Remember, love, this is the same young lady who walked all the way from Rosewall in the middle of the night. You might as well give in.”

So Hugh hired a carriage and accompanied Jane on these trips. Luckily, the worst they encountered was frequent questioning by British patrols and rude stares from others on the road.

 

From her first day in Charlestown, Jane had been enchanted by the sunny disposition of the sweet-natured Harriet Ainsley, who had always been a source of comfort and kindness to all who knew her. Now Harriet welcomed her visitors to Goose Creek with her usual warmth, Hugh no less than Jane. And, of course, Jane was delighted to see Mrs. Morley again.
Nevertheless, the Dudley house seemed unbearably gloomy. Except for Mrs. Dudley's upstairs apartment, and the rooms occupied by Harriet and Mrs. Morley, the old mansion gathered dust, silent and largely deserted. Harriet, with her husband banished to some far-off place and her soldier-son able to visit only occasionally, spent her time dreaming of the glorious day when her family would be together again. Meanwhile, her sunny nature remained hidden under a shadow. It was painful for Jane to see her this way.

On one occasion, Harriet confided to Jane that she and Brandon had quarreled on his most recent visit. “And the quarrel was about you, dear.”

“Me?” Jane was taken aback. “Good Lord, what did I do?”

“It was your running away from Rosewall. Brandon was infuriated when he heard about it. And with me, because I said I admired what you'd done.”

Jane sighed. “No doubt I shall receive my own good scolding in time.”

 

Arriving one day in August, as the first anniversary of Arthur's banishment approached, the visitors found Harriet radiant with exciting news.

“Dr. Jeffers was in Charlestown last week and met a very high ranking British officer who talked of a general prisoner exchange. Arthur may be coming home soon! Needless to say, I'm floating on air!”

Jane privately wondered about the accuracy of this report but pronounced it wonderful news, and Hugh politely agreed.

“Just wait till Brandon hears!” Harriet glowed with renewed hope. “I've always known Robert lured him away from us. But I'm sure that once Arthur is home, Brandon will return to us, and we'll be a family once again!”

On their way home after this visit, Jane and Hugh remarked sadly on Harriet's unrealistic dream of a reunited family. And Jane wondered aloud about the prospects of a prisoner exchange.

“I've heard such talk before,” Hugh told her. “It has never happened, and I see no reason to think it will now. And even if it did happen, my dear, it wouldn't include Simon. Arthur Ainsley was sent away on mere suspicion, but Simon was tried and convicted of treason. Don't hold false hopes—it will only bring you heartache, as it surely will poor Harriet. You'd best put the whole idea out of your mind.”

Jane lapsed into silence, thinking of how easily hope could be raised, then cruelly dashed—not only for Aunt Harriet, but for herself as well. There was heartache enough for both.

 

One afternoon a week or two later, Jane returned from the city market to find Hugh and Lydia sitting glumly at the kitchen table.

“What's happened?” she asked, suddenly uneasy. “Is it Peter?”

It was Lydia who answered. “No, not Peter. Marianne, his wife. And the baby they were expecting in October.”

Hugh added a few details. “Marianne has been living with her parents up near Georgetown, waiting for her baby to come. Last week, Loyalist thugs raided the farm, terrorizing the family. Everyone survived—or almost everyone. Marianne lost the baby.”

Jane went tight-lipped. “Where's Peter?”

“Over at the Lion's Head, trying to drown his sorrows,” Hugh told her.

Jane dropped her parcels on the table and headed for the door.

 

The Lion's Head Tavern was only a few blocks away, on the waterfront. Peter Quincy sat at a small corner table, staring morosely into a pint of ale. His once-strapping frame was lean and muscular, his weather-beaten face deeply lined. He did not look up when Jane approached.

“Hello, Peter,” she said softly. “Remember me?”

He was slow to lift his eyes and, when he did, offered no hint of a smile. “Of course. Lady Jane Prentice. Sit down. Have a glass of flip.”

“No drink, thank you. But I'll sit with you a spell, if I may.”

“I heard how you left Rosewall and came to live here,” he said after a moment. “Bully for you, Jane. It's good to have you on our side. And I suppose you've heard my happy news?”

“I'm so very sorry, Peter. Would you tell me what happened?”

“I'm sure I'll spend the rest of my life telling people.” Staring into his glass again, he seemed to have difficulty beginning. “They weren't British, you know. They were blackhearted American Tories, in the pay of the damnable English king. Broke open a barrel of rum at the Wendells' and went on a drunken spree. Cuffed Marianne's father about, ransacked the house, threatened the family with swords. Marianne panicked and ran, but she stumbled and fell down a ravine. She wasn't hurt, but the baby—” Peter drained his glass and lurched to his feet. “I need another drink.”

Jane stopped him gently. “Why don't we go walk by the harbor, instead? The air will do you good.”

He grudgingly agreed, and they walked along the seawall, Peter staring at the ground. “It was a boy, you know. Seven months along—not far to go. But when he was born the next morning, he was—he was dead. We were going to name him Timothy, after my father. But they murdered him. Murdered him in the name of King George of England!”

“Don't, Peter!” Jane pleaded. “King George didn't kill your son, and neither did his troops. Those raiders were scoundrels, and there are plenty on both sides, as surely as there are victims on both sides.”

“Victims?” Peter was outraged. “My son was a victim! Those damned yellow-livered American Tories are the scum of the earth, and I hate 'em all!”

Jane winced at his ferocious rage but remained calm. “Let me tell you about the Loyalist refugee camp Hugh and I see every time we go up to Goose Creek to visit Mrs. Ainsley. It's the most horrifying sight imaginable—hundreds of miserable people whose only sin was trying to remain loyal to their king. Whenever the British leave an area, good Patriots rise up thirsting for revenge. Those poor people had to run or be tom to pieces by their neighbors. Can you honestly say you hate them?”

“Yes, I hate 'em! They've gotten what they deserve. And one of these days, your high and mighty uncle Robert and his fancy wife will get what they deserve, too!”

After a strained silence, Jane began again, still calmly and patiently. “Please don't give in to blind hatred, Peter. It will destroy you. It's the madness of war you should hate. It doesn't care what side anyone's on. Soldiers, citizens, people of all ages—even the unborn—and every one a tragedy. But this hatred between Americans and other Americans is deadly. It could poison life in this country forever.”

Peter snorted loudly and trudged on, but Jane could sense his anger cooling a bit. At last he spoke more calmly. “I'm too far gone to think clearly anymore, but I guess what you say makes some sense. Anyway, you're a tonic, Lady Jane. If Simon Cordwyn ever comes back here and makes you his wife, he'll be one lucky man.”

“Well, thank you, Peter. And speaking of luck—I actually found a bit of meat in the market today, and I'll bet Lydia already has it on the fire.”

He nodded. “Come to think of it, I could do with a bite.”

“I'm sure you could.” Jane tugged at his arm. “Tonight we'll make you a feast. Oh, and by the way—” Now she gave him a playful smile. “You're not supposed to call me Lady Jane. Just Jane, please, remember?”

At last he mustered a weak smile of his own. “Sorry, pretty lass, no offense intended. But to me you'll always be Lady Jane—as fine a lady as I ever hope to meet.”

Jane hugged his arm as they walked on, pleased that she could help him enjoy at least a fleeting moment of cheer. But oh, the heartache!
Dear Lord
, she prayed silently,
let this be the last of it
.

As summer dragged to a close, excitement filled the air in Charlestown. Hugh's friends often gathered in his workshop in the evenings to discuss reports from the North. Combined American and French forces were moving toward Virginia, where Cornwallis was holed up in the coastal village of Yorktown. No longer the mighty conqueror, the harried British general was now just trying to survive. Jane, hearing all this, could sense Patriot optimism growing. Hugh had warned her against false hope, but he was no longer following his own advice. The smell of American victory was in the air.

 

One day the stable boy from Goose Creek, Luther, appeared at Hugh's door, frantically looking for Jane. This time the sight of him made her go pale. “Oh no—what's happened, Luther? Is it more bad news?”

“Sorry, ma'am. It's Lieutenant Ainsley. He done got wounded.”

“Oh, dear God!” Jane gasped. “Is it very bad?”

“Pretty bad, I reckon, ma'am. Doc Jeffers want to know can you come, young mahster keep askin' for you.”

“Me?” Jane was taken aback.
Why wouldn't he ask for Lucinda Dunning at a time like this?
“Are you sure it's me he's asking for, Luther?”

“Oh, yes'm. Doc Jeffers say he keep callin' your name, over an' over. Doc got his hands full with young mahster's mama, too, kind o' goin' out o' her head, seem like.”

Though momentarily stunned, Jane quickly focused on what she saw as her own duty. “I must go at once,” she told Hugh, who had followed her to the door. A storm was brewing, but this time Hugh did not hesitate.

“I'll get us a carriage,” he said quietly.

 

They arrived in late afternoon, in a driving rain that had turned the narrow dirt road into a river of mud. Harriet's elderly maid, Molly, met them at the front door, but her expressionless face told them nothing.

“Mahster Brandon restin' fairly easy this evenin',” she said. “You all come on in. I tell Doc Jeffers you here.”

Dr. Jeffers soon joined the visitors in the parlor. A heavyset man in his early sixties, with gray hair and a quiet dignity, he lived nearby and had been the Dudley family doctor since Harriet was a girl.

“Thank God you've come, Jane,” he declared in fervent greeting, then shook hands with Hugh, whom he knew from Hugh's previous visits with Jane.

“To be brief, Brandon took a musket ball in the midsection,” Dr. Jeffers told them. “It went clear through, which is good in a way—it means there's nothing inside to be probed for. He's in the morning room, heavily sedated. In every waking moment he asks for you, Jane. Gets very agitated, and that's not a good thing. That's why I'm so glad you came.”

“And I'm glad you sent for me, Doctor,” Jane replied, and forced herself to ask a dreaded question. “What are his chances, do you think?”

He shrugged. “I've seen men recover from worse. I've seen them die from less. We do what we can, and hope for the best.”

“Mrs. Ainsley and the other ladies—where are they?” “I've taken Mrs. Dudley and Mrs. Morley to my home, where they can be looked after. But Harriet—” The doctor shook his head. “She won't go. She sits with Brandon for hours on end, waiting for him to wake up. This morning he did, but he didn't recognize her. She was so angry she smashed a porcelain vase out in the foyer, cursing Robert Prentice all the while. In her mind, this is all his fault.”

Jane cringed at the thought of kind Aunt Harriet so sadly transformed. “I know how she feels about Uncle Robert,” she said. “But he must be informed, and immediately! He and Brandon are very close.”

“Like father and son, I've heard. That's just the problem. Harriet positively forbids me to send for him. Says she won't let him in the house.”

“I'll talk to her. But first, may I see Brandon for a minute?”

“He's not a pretty sight,” Jeffers warned her as he led the way.

Bare-chested, his midsection encased in a bloodstained bandage, Brandon lay on a narrow bed in what must once have been a pleasant room, opening onto a garden. His face was ashen, his eyes closed. The only sign of life was his labored breathing. Old Molly was in attendance.

“He ain't hardly moved for hours now,” she said. “We jes' try to keep him comfortable.”

Jane stared, for the first time grasping the full horror of what had happened. Leaning down, she spoke Brandon's name. There was no response.

“Thank you, Molly,” she whispered, and went out.

Starting upstairs, she met Harriet, who was on her way down.

“Hello, Aunt Harriet.” She tried to muster a smile. “I was just coming to tell you Cousin Hugh and I are here to offer what aid and comfort we can.”

“Oh.” Harriet blinked rapidly, as if confused. “You mean about Brandon. What do you think, Jane? He won't die, will he?”

“Goodness, no! He's young and strong, and Dr. Jeffers says he's seen people survive worse. I'm sure he'll recover.”

“Well, thank you, dear. It was good of you and Hugh to come. I'm exceedingly grateful to you both.”

“Not at all.” Encouraged by Harriet's serene mood, Jane moved on to the subject she wanted to discuss. “Aunt Harriet, I really think Uncle Robert ought to be—”

“Hush!” Harriet hissed with sudden fury. “That man's name is not to be spoken in this house!”

“But he ought to be told! We mustn't keep him ignorant of what's hap—”

Without warning, Harriet struck, the blow glancing off Jane's hastily upraised arm and grazing the side of her face. Jane gasped and stepped back, her cheek aflame not from injury but from disbelief.