“It has been a great benefit having thee here, Friend,” she said, as they walked toward the field where dull orange pumpkins peeked from their browning vines.
He grunted. “Your father has a command of botanical remedies that exceeds my own. And he was over the worst before we arrived.”
“Perhaps he needed your reassurance, then.”
“Leave your father blameless in this.”
“Blameless?”
“He did not write that letter of urgent summons.”
“Prescott Lyman assures me that my father had not the strength—”
“To conspire with your courting farmer, your Meeting’s overseers, to bring you back?”
“Friend, thee disputes that thee has been the instrument of—?”
“I have been the instrument of your return. Judith, look around you. Your congregation desired you out of the clutches of the Randolphs before winter. They wished you comfortably set up at a widower’s farm, and embroiled in mediating their latest petty debate.”
Judith stopped, and widened her stance. She would not allow him to reduce the turmoil that was rending the fabric of her beliefs to petty debate. Even if he was from Boston, and didn’t know better. “Has our Meeting treated thee unkindly, Friend?”
His smile was cold. “Not at all. You are experts in kindness. Killing kindness. I leave for Windover at first light.” He turned to the house. “Good evening.”
“Jordan, you cannot!”
He turned. “‘You’?” he repeated. “Did thee say ‘you’? Am I now legion in number, like the Devil, Quakeress?”
“
Thou
cannot,” she amended quickly. “By which I mean only that the coach has returned to Windover.”
“I’m not taking the coach. I’ve bought a horse. A fast, stout Morgan. I hope the strength of her legs matches my purpose.”
“But surely the Randolphs did not stipend enough money for—”
“The Devil take the Randolphs and their stipend! I no longer need their charity to care for my … my charge. Damnation! Will you take those blasted eyes off me, Judith Mercer?”
The scent, the one he shared with Ethan, permeated the warm Pennsylvania summer night. Judith stepped back. “Ethan will keep his word,” she stated quietly. “He will not impede his own recovery. There is no purpose for thy fear.”
She felt his fingers on her arm. It was so dark. They were alone, far from the house, with only stars for company. Was it her fear or his own she was feeling now?
“Judith, please forgive me,” Dr. Foster said in a hoarse whisper. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done.”
She raised her head. “What have I done, Jordan Foster?”
He smiled. “Thrown my ordered, solitary life into confusion.”
“I must share that honor with thy charge at Windover.”
“Will you share his life, when he asks that of you?”
“Friend Jordan, thou must not—”
“I know I must not! But I’ve crossed every other boundary. I know the kind of love Ethan has for you, Judith. It will not fade, or forget. Do not marry this farmer to seek out contentment, I warn you. One cold winter’s night you will be sitting by the fire with your grandchildren all around. Then a story, a scent, a breath of Virginia air will cause a piercing at your heart as strong as the one you felt in our coach at parting.”
Tears welled behind her eyes. How did he know? How did he know so exactly?
“Judith?” She heard her father’s soft call, then saw his shawled form approaching them. She turned away from Jordan Foster’s intense eyes.
“Ah, there. Thee is with our good doctor for company,” Eli said, laughing. “Exactly what I told Prescott—‘She’s hardly stumbled into a wolves’ den,’ I told him! Poor Prescott is not used to thy wandering nature, Judith, or thy love for the heavens. Are they not a glorious manifestation of creation tonight? Do they not put thee in mind of our nights on board the
Standard
?”
Judith did not have to wait to become a grandmother to feel the stab.
E
than caught the scent of a well-lathered horse. It was more ripe than the fastest of the Virginia post riders. Next came the metal clang of
spurs. How did the rider get past the servants and his mother with spurs on? A deadweight landed on his chest. His eyes sprang open.
“Wake up. I haven’t slept in the last thirty-six hours. You’re not getting naptime today. Many happy returns of your day, three-and-twenty. Here are Judith Mercer’s latest letters. Delivered.”
The mud-splattered man had Jordan Foster’s voice. Ethan glanced down at the leather packet lying on his chest, then at his mother, standing breathless and glowing with happiness in the doorway. She wore Betsy and Alice gripped to her skirts like ornaments. All were still dusted with Indian meal from the pudding portion of his birthday supper.
“Anything else I can do for you, you miserable Randolph brat?” Jordan demanded.
Ethan felt his own slow grin enraging the doctor further. “Yes,” he answered. “Stay the winter. Help me to walk.”
Ethan saw the children first, waving red, white, and blue handkerchiefs
from the dock. The river schooner pitched, sending Anne Randolph into his arms. Ethan widened his stance, maintaining balance for both of them.
Jordan Foster frowned. “Use your walking stick.”
“On land, perhaps,” Ethan conceded, catching the chestnut stick with one hand. “But the sea is my home,
n’est-ce pas?”
“Speak English, you confounded brat,” Jordan Foster replied.
Anne Randolph giggled against Ethan’s shoulder. She was leaning on him, he realized. And she was the lightest of burdens. When had she gotten so light? Would she someday float away? Foolish notion. “Our bickering disturbs my mother, sir,” he said.
The doctor flushed. “Mrs. Randolph, I had no wish—”
“Ethan’s teasing you, Jordan.”
Their welcoming party was still searching for them along the schooner’s deck. Impatient, Ethan let out a shrill whistle. His sister cocked her head, lifting her baby higher.
When they found Ethan, his nieces’ colors flurried faster. But his sister’s handkerchief fell from her hand.
“Sally?” Ethan whispered.
“She’ll be all right, darling.” His mother squeezed his arm.
“She looks away from us. What’s wrong with her, Mother?”
“Nothing,” she soothed.
Disembarking, he was astonished by the difference in his nieces since they’d gone home at Christmas. It was only early spring and each appeared inches taller. The baby squirmed until Sally set her down between her sisters. Charlotte took faltering steps toward him.
Ethan dropped to his good knee.
“Incroyable!
Little Gull, have we learned to walk together?” he asked as she toddled into his arms. Her faltering steps were much like his own had been, buoyed by his doctor’s skill, his nieces’ confidence, his mother’s love.
Ethan was so absorbed by the baby’s changing beauty, he didn’t notice the tears staining his sister’s cheeks until he stood.
“Why, Sally, what’s the matter?”
“Matter? Matter? You’re … so tall!”
“I have gained a few inches on you since last we danced, sister dear,” he conceded with a smile. “Mother has been teaching me the latest steps, Sally. I can—”
“Poor Judith!” she wailed now.
“Poor?”
“I knew of your progress through our letters, and look at me—a fountain overflowing! You are very cruel, not to have told her.”
“But I asked your advice. You wrote that you thought it would be a fine surprise.”
“That was before I s-saw you!”
He placed his hat on little Alice’s head. “I’m going to help them disembark my horse.
Petites jeunes filles
,” he instructed his charges firmly, “have your mother talking sense before I return.”
“Oui, mon oncle.”
Both sisters gave him a smart salute.
Weeping women. Ethan would never understand them. He attached the lead rope to Lark’s bridle. Even his horse was female, and touchy after the schooner trip upriver to Richmond. He breathed into her flaring nostrils, then clucked soothing words at her ear. He led her slowly through the cobblestone path where the women and Dr. Foster waited beside the coach.
Ethan was depending on his sister. Sally must keep his fragile mother from changing her mind about allowing him to travel on to Pennsylvania. He had no wish to fight her, too.
It had been hard enough doing battle with his father, although Winthrop the second and his own stupidity had helped Ethan in winning the old man’s blessing.
He should have known better than to be lured into the barn loft when he was barely walking, Ethan realized now. Why weren’t his defenses up against his brother’s false comradeship, the smell of bourbon on his breath, his clothes? Did he want to believe so badly that Winthrop actually had what he’d offered—something Ethan needed to court Judith?
It was only once up in the barn loft, trapped, that he saw what his brother thought he needed, a leering look at Phoebe and Paris as they climbed to their secret trysting place. When Ethan called out, his brother had locked his arm behind his back and slammed his head into the floor.
The lovers weren’t running, as Ethan had hoped they would be at his warning, but staring in silence at him under his brother’s hold.
“Let them go,” Ethan demanded between his teeth.
“Go? Where do you think you are, little brother? Gentle Windover, with Mother giving you dancing lessons and the great bull protecting you? This is my place, where my people do as they’re bid.”
“Phoebe is—”
“Of Windover, yes. But Phoebe is being very naughty, fornicating with my coachman, without permission. Shall I whip her soundly before I send her home? Or shall I order they continue so you’ll know what to do with that icy Quaker for whom you have such fondness?”
“No.”
“No? What’s to be done, then, now that you’ve spoiled my little gift? Ah, perhaps you’d like a more direct approach, man of action that you are? Shall I leave you with Phoebe, now that my Paris has begun to unwrap her for you?”
“Yes.”
Ethan felt his brother’s knee grind into his back. “Yes, what? from our most polite and grateful hero?”
“Yes, please.” Ethan spat onto the floorboards.
His brother finally released his arm. “Paris, remove my brother’s boots. He would like to sleep with your wife.”
The man’s eyes burned hatred for both of them, Ethan surmised, as he approached. But he followed his master’s orders. His brother threw his boots into the hay below. “Now, let’s leave them some privacy, shall we?”
Paris gave a moment’s hesitation, during which a small sob, a plea, escaped Phoebe. Then he climbed down the ladder, followed by Winthrop, chuckling. “Yes, this will work even better.”
Ethan stood slowly, then stared after them from the loft, ignoring his throbbing head and arm, his crippled stance, so consumed by his anger that he even forgot about Phoebe’s presence until she clutched his arm.
“We are married sir, Paris and me—the preacher from Southampton wed us, and I know it was wrong but we asked permission three times over and, Master Ethan, my daddy tells us you be a different sort than your brothers and, oh, please, don’t do this, sir!”
He looked down at her tear-stained face, stunned. “Do?” he whispered.
She bowed her head, clutching at her homespun gown. Cowering, he finally realized. Good God. Brave, sprightly Phoebe was cowering. Finally the words Jordan Foster had used to ease his own terror came to him. “Phoebe. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
His father had ranted at him that night behind the closed door of his study. “Keep your hands off Aaron’s children! There are plenty of the others willing—”
“Willing?”
“Of course willing, privileged to be favored by you, though the children will be as stained black as—”
“As Aaron?”
“Damnation, you know? And you still—”
“Took my niece? No, Father. Your source for that information is incorrect.” He turned to the harvest gatherers in the old tapestry and folded his arms.
“I—I see. I thought the story preposterous, of course, after all that devotion to Miss Mercer and your preaching to us with those absurd notions about servants. But, what in hell went on at your brother’s? If Winthrop didn’t have to pull you off her, how did your face … Ethan Blair, you can barely stand!” he accused.
“I’m tired, that’s all. Might I go?”
“Yes. I think you’d best go to Pennsylvania and fetch your lady home, son.”
That moment was as close to the difficult old man as he’d ever remembered feeling, Ethan thought as his eyes now swept the busy city’s streets. Richmond—Virginia’s capital, home to ten thousand. He was here. His sister’s house. No father, no brothers. First step to Judith. He grinned, realizing that he, like his brother-in-law Barton, was now rich in dancing women. They would help him win the one who didn’t dance.
A
lice fit the cushioned stool under his leg as Betsy pulled off the boot. It was their ritual from the winter, after Jordan Foster’s cage came off his leg. Ethan welcomed the feel of the small ministering hands, but didn’t like being without Aaron’s boots. He would have worn them to bed, if they’d let him.
His mother had instructed him well in social graces over the winter at Windover. Tonight she had nodded to him from across the room if she’d taught him the dance, so it was safe to ask a lady. None refused him. Dancing had been so important to him when a child. Now he was pleased to have managed not to step on any glittering slippers in the course of the evening.
But he’d needed the walking stick on Richmond’s hills, and between the dances. The walking stick made him a cripple still. Walking sticks were going out of fashion. Old men and lawyers, politicians, and a few pompous merchants still used them to traverse city streets. Younger men walked with a sprightly, free American air that Ethan envied.
Ethan was paying for the dancing, his brother-in-law’s tour of his surveyor’s office and city streets. Pain rode from his knee to his hip as he reached over to kiss his fresh-faced nieces good-night before Anne and Sally led them away upstairs. Jordan Foster saw the pain, Ethan knew, from his frown. He’d seen many versions of that frown over the course of his stay at Windover. But the doctor said nothing as he handed him a steaming cup of tea. Perhaps distraction would save him from a scolding. And he knew the subject that had the best chance.
“My mother is different here, isn’t she, Dr. Foster?”
“How?”
“Happy, free. Even her walk is different. Taller, more sure, less cowering.”
“Cowering?”
“To my brothers, my father. Was it always this way, sir? Back in the time you were in your position at Windover, was she this way then?”
“Drink your tea.”
“Mother should visit Sally more often, don’t you think?”
“I think you should take some laudanum.” He brought a small vial from his waistcoat pocket.
“Why?”
“To kill the pain.”
“Pain, sir?”
“Ethan,” Jordan Foster warned.
Ethan stared at the half-empty vial. “Laudanum. Source: opium. Flower, poppy. China.”
“That’s right.”
“What else does it kill, Dr. Foster? Confusion? Doubt? Will? Laudanum enslaves, I think.”
“I am not in the slave trade!”
“I was not saying that. My English is not clear.”
“It’s clear enough.” The doctor’s hand touched his shoulder. “You have known laudanum addicts while on board the
Standard?”
“Two of our surgeon’s assistants.” Ethan put his cup on its saucer. “One killed the first mate in an argument, the other threw himself overboard.” He returned the cup of tea to the doctor’s hands. It felt too heavy to hold. What was this weakness? “The pain. It’s my own fault, I walked too far with Barton, I danced too long.”
“True enough.”
“So it has a purpose, this pain.”
“You’re not a Quaker yet.”
“Eli and Judith would never give me laudanum.”
“What would they do?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
Ethan watched the doctor shake his head, replace the vial to his pocket.
He finds me such a sorry student,
he thought,
how can I convince him otherwise? Quaker purpose. Not these dulled senses.
He put the teacup on the small table, closed his eyes. He felt the man’s hands on his brow. Soothing, like Fayette’s hands.
“Dr. Foster?” he whispered.
“What troubles you besides the leg?”
“My father rips the sewing from my hands, calls it woman’s work. He stuffs my head with numbers, plantation accounts that I can’t make come out any differently—owing, unprofitable. Tired land, not tobacco land anymore, why can’t he see that?”
“Numbers. Everything is still numbers to that man,” the doctor said bitterly.
“My brothers breed slaves on their plantations instead, then sell them to the cotton and rice and indigo plantations farther south. This must not happen at Windover. To Aaron, to his family, not to any under our care. I promised. But what can I do? Only a third son, an afterthought, returned from the dead, with no place.”
“Rest from it all now. Until Midwatch. Then find your bed.”
The pain was allowing it, yes. “Where are my boots?”
“Here. Beside your chair.”
The boots were his freedom, they and the walking stick with the brass lion handle that Micah had made for him. Micah had forged a fine double-blade knife, too, which Aaron had sewn into a pouch in his right boot. It stayed, invisibly sheathed against his calf. Fayette had already taught him how to use a knife with accuracy and skill.