Chapter 25: Over the Horizon
A packet was sailing for England the very next day. Obviously, they were not traveling on it, for there was much to be done before his family could leave. However, Tavington had a duty he had shamefully neglected. He forced himself to sit down at his writing desk and compose the letter that should have been sent over a year ago. If he wrote at once and sent the letter by the packet, it should arrive before he was back in England.
June 20, 1781
Charlestown
My dearest mother,
I am well, Madam, and hope that you are in equally good health. I received your last, and thank you most earnestly for your maternal solicitude. The situation is exactly what I would wish, for many, many reasons.
Entre nous, the war is not going well. Cornwallis rashly stripped this colony of his army and has ventured north on a fool's errand. I am glad to be out of it. The year has been spent in hard campaigning in the wilderness among the rudest and most barbarous of rebels. Forgive my dilatory correspondence: I have just returned to Charlestown after a long exile in the Carolina "backcountry," as it is known. I was far from any civilized place for much of the time, and I suffered serious wounds at the Battle of the Cowpens early this year. My convalescence was of many months, and only since May have I been able to leave my bed entirely and resume my duties. Do not be alarmed for me: I am perfectly recovered and you will not find me lamed, crippled, or blinded on my return. I am indeed more fortunate than many of my comrades.
Much has happened in the past year, and not all of it unpleasant. Wish me joy, my dearest Mother. I am married since last year to a most amiable and accomplished lady. Miss Rutledge made me the happiest of men when she consented to be my wife. She is the daughter of Ashbury Rutledge, one of the so-called Rice Kings of South Carolina: one of the chief gentlemen of the colony, and one who has never soiled himself with rebellion. My wife is his favorite daughter, and the mistress of twenty thousand pounds.
If her wealth and education were not already enough, my dear Jane has other claims that have bound me to her inexpressibly. Indeed it is no exaggeration to say that I owe her my life.
Yes--had she not braved every danger and hardship a land at war affords, and come to me as I lay wounded, I do not scruple to say that your son would never have lived to return to his home. I regret to cause you pain by telling you this, but it is past, and no longer to be feared. I was indeed at Death's door when she arrived. Never a lady more an Angel of Mercy than she!
She arrived, and thus I was spared to you and to my dear sisters. And there is more. A child was born to us this May past: a son we have named William Francis, partly after myself and partly after our good friend, Francis, Lord Rawdon, who is the child's godfather. The little boy is thriving under his mother's tender care.
So you see, dearest Mother, I shall not be returning to you empty-handed, but rich in both material wealth and family affection. In addition to my dear wife and precious son, we shall be accompanied by my wife's half-sister, Miss Laeticia Rutledge—nay, I must remember to call her Miss Rutledge now, for she is her father's only unmarried daughter, since I have stolen away his Jane. While she does not equal her sister in fortune (for Jane's inheritance was from her mother's family), she is a remarkably pretty girl—beautiful, even—and very gentle and good. She accompanied her sister on her errand of mercy, and I am indebted to her as well for her care when I lay wounded.When I have set my affairs here in order, dear Mother—which shall be as expeditious a process as possible--I shall take ship for home. Accept my most affectionate, grateful, and filial sentiments; and convey my fondest greetings to my brother and my sisters. I shall soon be amongst you all again! It has been far too long.
I remain, Madam, your most dutiful and loving son,
Wm. TavingtonIt was done, at last, and then Tavington carefully made a fair copy that was fit to be sent, free of the scratches and blots that had accompanied his thoughts. He had girded his loins to write this letter, and was relieved to have it done at last. The lies in it were not the sort Mamma would ever penetrate. Jane was her father's favorite daughter, when one compared her situation with Letty's! The letter implied that Jane was older than Letty, but Tavington decided that was for the best. Letty could easily pass for twenty, and the sordid details of her birth need never be discussed. He would suggest that Letty admit to no more than one and twenty: her marital prospects would be improved. The father's marriage to a young wife on whom he doted, and the changing of his will in favor of heirs male would satisfy the curious as to Letty's lack of fortune. He could not deny she was a natural daughter, if asked, but many people would be too civil to pry. He sighed. It was unlikely that Mamma would be one of the civil ones. Jane and Letty must be carefully prepared prior to their first encounter with Lady Cecily Tavington. That was yet another duty that he had avoided. There would be sufficient time on shipboard to see to it.
In the meantime, it was vital to present Jane and his marriage in the most positive light, if Mamma were ever to accept the situation. Since he had paper and ink before him, he wrote Lucy a letter as well, a straightforward, affectionate letter, free of the high-flown language that Mamma demanded. Lucy had been informed of his marriage last year, but he had not written to her since. Much of what he had written to Mamma he could use in Lucy's letter as well. From what he had last heard from his sister, it was unlikely that either would be showing the other her correspondence.
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Traveling was always an expensive business. Jane set to outfitting her party with a will. First there was her own clothing to inventory, and then the box from Aunt Alice to examine in detail, now that Moll had laundered what she could of the contents. And she must consider her companions.
Moll's worldly goods amounted to little: her old musket, powderhorn, and patchbox were her most valuable possessions. She had a good clasp knife, a tinderbox and a sewing housewife in one pocket. Most prized was her eating ware: a little fork and spoon of silver, hinged together at the top, which she polished each day with loving care and kept in her other pocket, along with her sole handkerchief and her comb. Her clothing was what she stood up in. Aside from an old cap she fancied, and a carefully cleaned cambric fichu, she was obviously too big to wear any castoffs of Jane's, so she would need new things.
A neat russet shortgown was chosen, to be worn over a good brown petticoat. It might be summer, but they were going to England, so Jane ordered Moll a warm cloak to be made by a mantua maker recommended by Mrs. Todd. With that good woman's help, Moll would be well provided for with three shifts, three handkerchiefs, two aprons, two new caps, two pockets, two underpetticoats, a fresh and pretty straw hat large enough for Moll's head, and five pairs of stockings. Moll was whimsical in her choice of stockings: green clocked with yellow, and blue clocked with red as well as the modest black and white. Her shoes were a disgrace, and a cobbler was set to work on a stout new pair, as was a staymaker to sew Moll a set of jumps and a new set of stays. Mrs. Todd and her apprentice would be hard put to get Moll's clothes ready in time, but they were well paid for their efforts.
Letty was not much taller than Jane, but fuller in the bust and hips, even though Jane's figure had been considerably enhanced by her confinement. Still, as always, Letty could use quite a bit of Jane's clothing. There were so many things. Jane began making a pile for herself, and then, very consciously, for Letty, dividing up the clothes from the box as evenly as possible. Two very nice shifts would go to Letty, a bed gown, a lace-trimmed cap. The cap delighted Letty, but Jane felt a little guilty. She had never liked that cap, and knew she was not making any sacrifice by giving it to—her sister. There was a heavily quilted petticoat in an odd shade of maize yellow that did not appear to go with anything. Jane found it incredibly ugly, and could not understand why she had bought such an item, but Letty seized upon it, saying that it would be warm in the winter, and would look very good with a brown polonaise.
Letty acquired more things. There were handkerchiefs (two trimmed with lace), more caps, a fichu, and an underpetticoat: all of which were pronounced suitable even for a newly-made lady, after Moll's Herculean labors with soap and water and iron. A pretty and simple gown of blue linen damask could be altered to fit her, and would do for wear at home. They would all be sewing until the day they left—and after.
The box was full of all sorts of clothes, and Jane and Letty puzzled over them. With a funereal rustle, an old black mourning gown and an assortment of black ribbons were drawn from the box. Jane had worn mourning a few years back when a great uncle had died. An old periwinkle blue gown recalled a visit from Jane's elderly Cousin Louisa Cotesworth, who had made Jane hold her horrible little lapdog. The stain was still visible.
"I don't know why I kept it," Jane wondered. "It's too small to fit me now, anyway, and it would never have fit you."
"It's good silk, though," said Letty. "This whole back here is as good as new. We could cut it up and make the baby a fancy quilt."
"Not today, but sometime," Jane agreed.
Jane found an old pair of dancing slippers, and looked at Letty to see if she wanted them.
"I don't reckon so, honey." Letty shook her head, and blushed. "Your shoes don't fit me."
"Well," Jane replied, without the slightest suspicion. "We must see to that, too."
There were other odd items, among them an evening manteau of creamy satin. Jane placed it on Letty's pile immediately. Jane had two others, but this was a very nice garment, she reflected, suitable for the most refined parties. She added a pair of embroidered pockets that she had forgotten she even owned.
She took a breath. There was something else she wanted to give Letty: something that would make it clear that she considered Letty truly her sister.
"I'll be back directly."
Her jewelry box was fairly large. At every birthday, from the time she turned twelve until the birthday a few months before she had married Tavington, her father had given her a piece of jewelry. Mostly, she now understood, because it was easy. He did not worry about consulting her taste. They were expensive baubles he could buy and give her as a perfectly suitable present for a young lady. He had never given Letty anything for her birthday at all. Jane had usually given her some castoff clothing, or a little money.
She opened the box, fingering the array before her. Jane was fond of her jewelry, and did not like the thought of parting with any of it. However, she was going to do this thing properly. Box in hand, she marched back to the sitting room.
"If you are going to have nice clothes, Letty, you must have some jewelry to wear."
Letty fought down the impulse to refuse and simply looked astonished. Jane sat down beside her. "I have more jewelry than I can possibly use. It's ridiculous how much Papa gave me. Some of it should be yours. What do you like?"
It was terribly embarrassing for them both. Letty liked jewelry too, but did not want to be greedy. At length, with many protestations and deferrals, Letty was persuaded to accept a little garnet cross on a gold chain, and a pair of garnet earrings that Jane had never worn (Letty knew that Jane did not like garnets, but Letty thought them very pretty). Jane also gave her a string of good pearls, and a pair of pearl drop earrings to match. Jane had three sets of pearls. One year her father had not remembered that Jane already had her mother's pearls, which included necklace, bracelets, ring, earrings, and an elaborate corsage-style brooch. A few years later, he forgot that he had already given her pearls and gave her yet another set. It was absurd that Jane have so much, and Letty have nothing, even though all of the pearls were a little different, and pretty and desirable in their own way.
Letty grew quite teary-eyed over the jewelry, and Jane kissed her, feeling rather weepy herself. "We must find you a pretty trinket box for your treasures."
Letty put on the cross at once, and spent the rest of the day singing about the house. It took more than material goods, however, to convince her that she was now to be a lady. Tavington taken time, over the past few days, to remind her what she now was, and how to act the lady he considered her to be by blood.
"You must not call your sister 'Miss Jane,' any longer, Letty. You are not her servant."
"Oh, sir, I can't call her by her Christian name!"
"There is no need to do so," he agreed. "'Mrs. Tavington' is perfectly correct. Any unmarried woman would address her married sister thus. From now on, I wish you always to say 'Mrs. Tavington.' Both you and she need to become accustomed to it. And further, you need to become accustomed to hearing me speak of you in public as 'Miss Rutledge."
He had decided that she must take tea with them, and practice. It was terribly, terribly awkward at first—almost agonizingly so, as she sat with her sister and her sister's husband, dressed in a clean sprigged dress, wearing her garnet jewelry, being waited on by a grinning Moll. She could hardly speak, and was terrified that she would drop her cup. Miss—no—Mrs. Tavington, her sister—was patient and kind, though she seemed awkward and embarrassed at first, too. This great change was not one that could happen overnight, but working together for the journey seemed to help.
Some things they could not make for themselves, even had there been time. Jane had a quiet word with Mlle. Renaud, and was promised discretion and, indeed, every attention. Letty had the joyful surprise of her life, when on their visit to the modiste the next day, she was the one to be measured and consulted for a new wardrobe: her first new clothes of her very own—the clothes that Miss Rutledge would wear on her journey to England.
In fact, she would have preferred to have been told before, and not to be surprised, for it took a few minutes to compose herself enough to think about how to make the best of this indulgence. Miss Jane---no, she told herself—her sister--wanted to outfit her from top to toe. Some tradesmen who knew them would not want to accommodate Letty. They would have to go elsewhere, perhaps, for shoes or stays. Mlle. Renaud, however, had no such qualms, as long as it was not talked of openly.
And so they had a splendid try-on of fabrics and patterns. Jane had written out a little list, based on an inventory of her own clothing. They would certainly want to buy many things in England, where the fashions might have changed; but the voyage would last at least two months, and Letty must have decent apparel to uphold her status as a gentlewoman.
"'A traveling habit—broadcloth.'" Jane read off.
"A light broadcloth," Mlle. Renaud advised. "It is summer. And if I may suggest, Madame—when you arrive in England, you may need something to wear that you have not worn every day for two or three months."
"That's a consideration, indeed," Jane agreed, shuddering at the thought of meeting the undoubtedly elegant Lady Cecily when Jane herself was dirty and reeking. "Two apiece, then, one of which is to be packed against our arrival. I must have new traveling clothes myself. My old habit is quite-- worn out." And it is hopelessly stained with Biddy's blood. She rallied, and said, with a little laugh, "We ought not to wear the same color: we should look odd. What do you think?"
"Dark colors, that will not be easily soiled," Letty considered.
Sensible colors were proposed: Royal Blue, Moss Green, Oxblood, Cedar, Cypress, a clear purple that Mlle. Renaud described as English Violet. Letty loved blue, but did not like to put herself forward, in case Miss Jane—her sister—wished to wear it.
But Jane had other ideas. "Do you think this brown—"
"Cypress—" corrected Mlle. Renaud, under her breath.
"Do you think it is too dull? Does it make me look the same all over?"
"Yes—" replied Letty in a firm voice, forcing herself to remember their new relationship. "You know that I think you look better in strong colors, Mrs. Tavington—" She pulled out a fabric that pleased her. "This dark red—"
"Claret—"
"—Would be better on you—or wait—" This might do. "This green here—"
"Moss—"
"—brings out the color of your eyes."
It was a very pretty shade of green, Jane allowed. "Yes, the green, Letty, and that—claret--for England." She found some narrow braid that would trim her habits handsomely, and gave Mlle. Renaud a nod. "That will do very well. And now, what is it that you like, Letty?"
"Oh—the blue, please." She would have liked to ask that they both be blue, but she knew that she would be glad of a change later. So she would have the blue to change into when they arrived in England, and after some thought she chose violet for the voyage. It was a rich and vibrant color, and she had never had anything in that shade before. There was a private reason for the color, too, which she did not tell Miss Jane for fear of upsetting her.
Quality folk like the Rutledges always wore mourning for relations who had died. Black, usually; but there were other colors suitable for mourning, like gray and purple. People did not wear mourning for slaves, and it had not occurred to Jane to buy Letty mourning clothes for her mother, much as she had loved her. Letty did not like to ask Colonel Tavington about it, but she guessed that a natural daughter, raised away from her mother, probably did not wear mourning for such a mother, either—if she even knew what had become of her. So Letty chose the violet as a kind of mourning for Mama. She would wear it on the ship and think of her, and only Mama and she would know the truth of it.
And so the traveling habits were ordered. Trimmings were debated and determined. Jane was concerned about the weather in England, so a darker blue that would harmonize with the royal blue habit was chosen in heavier wool to make Letty a warm and handsome cloak. It was lined with silver-grey silk. Letty had attained perfect bliss.
Jane had hardly begun. "You need other things, too, Letty. 'A fine shift, seven pair silk stockings, garters'—and an evening dress, of course."
"But—"
"Colonel Tavington says that we are certain to be dining every night with the captain. I have any number of dresses to wear—I favor the peacock for this, or perhaps the emerald—but you must have a proper gown as well."
A new search through silk and satin, and another gabble of absurd colors: Topaz, Poison, Verdigris, Camellia—
"Oh, I like this!" Jane cried. "How handsome it would look on you!"
"Brown?" Letty asked, a little disappointed.
"Madeira—" Mlle. Renaud admonished.
It was a rich reddish-brown watered silk. Taken by itself, Letty would have thought it dull, but then, with the vision of someone with a natural gift for style, she could see what a gown it would make. Miss Jane spoke of some of the fine lace, left over still, that would be just enough to make ruffles at the sleeves. Some beautiful ivory satin ribbon was found, that would be ruched and applied to the neckline, sleeves and skirt. Letty asked that the bodice be embroidered with ivory and yellow and peach flowers, flowing from a knot of pale green stems. The color of the gown would make her skin paler by contrast, and the cloth would never show the dirt of travel. Her heart pounded with the glory of it. The petticoat, it was decided, would be of the same silk. More items were bought, handkerchiefs and ribbons and caps and gloves, and a pretty painted fan.
They left the modiste, exhausted and exhilarated. But disappointment met them at home, when they were unable to tell Tavington the whole story. He smiled agreeably enough when they told him of the visit to the modiste to order Letty's clothes, but then protested when they went on too long about it, and begged them to spare him the details.
"It is enough that I shall see the results, I think!" He told them that he had ordered a new uniform to go home in himself, bought a Pennsylvania-style rife for his brother's gun collection, and had spent the entire afternoon with Jane's lawyer, making the necessary financial arrangements. Once at home in London, her fortune would be prudently invested in the five per cents. When Jane heard this, she felt reassured, but a little wistful. Tavington had not even asked for her presence. Two more payments had been made to her account during her absence: one for March and the latest for June, but her husband, not she, had collected the money. Tavington had given her a generous sum to help her prepare for the journey. Someday she might tell him about her little tin box, which held nearly six hundred pounds.
But not yet: there was still so much to do, and she did not want to account to him for every expenditure. Mlle. Renaud had recommended a good cobbler, a German, whom Jane did not know, and more importantly, who was unlikely to know Jane and Letty by sight. She and Letty went there the next day to order Letty travelling boots, plain black shoes, and a pair of dainty high-heeled slippers that would be covered in ecru grosgrain silk. Jane considered ordering shoes for herself, but decided that what she had would do well enough, after Moll polished them. She could get new shoes in England. It was an exciting thought.
A large trunk was bought, and sent on to their lodgings, to hold all of Letty's new acquisitions. Then, Jane stopped at the shop of her favorite silversmith.
She had thought about meeting Tavington's family, and was a little anxious about it. She did not want them to be unkind to Letty, or for the servants of household (whom Jane was secretly also very uneasy about) to sneer at her as a former slave and current poor relation. Letty must have things that no one could despise. So she found and bought a silver vanity set: silver backed brush and silver and ivory comb, elaborate hand mirror, powder box, and a little trinket box for the new jewels. Laid out on a dressing table, the items would proclaim Letty's status to any disdainful housemaid.
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Lord Rawdon, Tavington told Jane, was leaving South Carolina, too. The past few weeks had been stressful for their friend. There had been a tremendous outcry over the fate of a rebel, one Colonel Hayne, who had been caught spying for the enemy. Bad as it was, it was made unforgivable by the fact that the man had previously been captured and had given his parole. Now it was discovered that he had been gathering intelligence and trying to spread rebellion in Charlestown. He was found guilty of his crimes and had been hanged, despite pleas from a number of Charlestown ladies. Rebel papers were denouncing Rawdon as a tyrant and a murderer-- not mentioning the similar case of the brave Major André , whom the rebels had hanged with what Tavington considered far less cause.
"He's quite ill, Jane: the climate has never agreed with him. With the summer heat coming on, he's not likely to last much longer if he remains here. I asked if we could come to call tomorrow to bid him farewell. I don't suppose you could be ready to leave for England by the end of the week?"
Jane looked at him with such alarm and horror that Tavington gave up the idea of traveling with Rawdon at once. It had been an impulse of the moment. He liked Rawdon, but it was plainly not to be. Besides, if the poor fellow died in the course of his voyage, it would spoil the adventure for Jane.
"All right, then: it was merely a suggestion. I have found us a ship that departs in less than a fortnight: a frigate of the Royal Navy, no less, that has been ordered to Portsmouth. It will be a fairly convenient port--better than having to make the journey from Liverpool to London, certainly. Captain Ballantine seems a decent sort, and the accommodations on the Artemisia are adequate. A good captain, and a swift ship: we should be sitting down to dinner at Number 12, Mortimer Square by the first of September, with any luck."
"I am very sorry his lordship in unwell. He's been a good friend to us."
"True. It will be a brief visit, of course, and around three tomorrow. He wants us to bring the boy, as well."
Jane glowed. Anyone who liked her son was obviously a person of great good sense. "How nice that Lord Rawdon remembers his godson."
Lord Rawdon remembered him well indeed. The young man was feverish and thinner than ever, but took the child on his lap and admired him even to Jane's satisfaction. "Born in the midst of battle, Tavington. Destined to be a soldier, I've no doubt." Luckily, little William Francis was an amiable mood, and granted his godfather a crooked grin. "Ah! See that! He agrees with me."
The good-byes were cheerful enough, with the Tavingtons wishing Rawdon a quick return to very good health.
"The voyage will set you up, no doubt, my lord."
Rawdon grumbled good-naturedly. "Perhaps, perhaps. Kill or cure, more like. Pity I can't stay to deal with the rebels, but—" he glanced at Tavington in a way the other man clearly understood—"I tend to think it's all 'too little, too late' anyway."
"It may be so."
"Well, it's a great pity. It's bad enough that Cornwallis had taken his army with him, but now Sir Henry has demanded that 17th Light Dragoons join him in New York. It's clear we shall be left with nothing. I would like to think that heads will roll, but I daresay that's too much to hope for. Probably rewarded for their idiocy. 'Tis a very Vanity Fair at Court."
"One must take the world as it is, my lord," smiled Tavington, "not as we would wish it to be."
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Mary Laurens heard of Jane's departure from Jane herself; and found it very hard to conceal her disappointment.
"Well, my dear Jane," she said in a falsely bright voice, "it has always been your wish to travel. I wish you a safe and pleasant voyage."
"You are very kind, Cousin."
"You must dine with me before you leave. Would Saturday suit? I shall have a large dinner, I think, and have the Cotesworths join us. You must give me the name of some good friends of the Colonel's, and I shall invite them, so he has men to converse with him. I have met Colonel Balfour. I shall invite him, and I need two others to make the table right. Would it be too dreadful if I were to invite your father and Selina?
"I suppose it would be very generous of you, but I do not see that you are obliged to do so in any way."
"Let me put it to you this way: do you wish to see them before you go?"
"No, not particularly. The Colonel and I called on them a few weeks ago, and that was a farewell of sorts."
"Then I shall not invite them. We shall have a very pleasant, select party, with both cards and music to entertain us! However, my dear, as your elder I must tell you that you ought to send your father a note informing him of your departure. He ought then to invite you—"
"—but I shall not expect it too much."
"Very sensible of you." The older woman felt real sadness, and burst out, "Oh, Jane, indeed I am very sorry to see you go. I shall miss you very much. You are the most amiable of your generation: only Eleanor is the least like you."
"Well, then, you must make a good friend of Eleanor. She admires you greatly. And it is not as if we shall never hear from each other. I promise to write you as soon as I arrive in England."
"Will you? That is a pleasant idea. We shall have a regular correspondence! Do write nice, long letters, Jane. I want to know all about this Lady Cecily and about the English fashions."
The dinner party went rather well. Both Cousin Mary and Tavington were on their best behavior. True to her word, Jane's cousin had invited only the nicest of Jane's relations. Out of gratitude for his kindness, and a little curiosity, Jane suggested that Cousin Mary ask Lieutenant Nettles, who would be gone himself in a few days. Captain Bordon was pleased to be invited to dine, and delighted his hostess with his well-bred interest in fine porcelain.
"Such a gentleman!" whispered Cousin Mary to Jane behind her fan. "Most men have no feeling for pretty, delicate things. It is hard to credit that he is a soldier."
Jane smiled. "Captain Bordon plans to join the clergy after the war is over."
"I am so glad to hear it. A much more civilized occupation."
Jane was relieved that Tavington and Bordon did not hear the exchange, as they sat together at the card table, playing whist with Mrs. Cotesworth and the charming Eleanor. Captain Bordon might be trusted to maintain his polite exterior, but her husband would certainly have rolled his eyes. She took herself off to Cousin Mary's harpsichord, playing a light-hearted air by Mr. John Christian Bach. Cousin Mary engaged Colonel Balfour in debating the virtues of Carolina versus Scottish cuisine. Jane sighed, feeling a little too full. She was maintaining her weight with conscientious effort, and must continue to do so in order to fit into her beautiful new clothes.
Harry Nettles took the chair beside her with a smile, offering to turn pages.
"It has been a strange adventure, here in South Carolina. My men will be happy to miss the rest of the summer, but I know not what awaits us in New York."
The piece was easy enough that Jane could converse, with occasional attention to the music. She gave a little shrug. "I know not what awaits me in England."
"We are all in the hand of Providence, Mrs. Tavington. I most sincerely wish you happiness in your future life. Is your son well?"
She was always happy to hear Will spoken of, and after a page, was able to reply. "Oh, yes! How kind of you to ask. He is very well and strong, and grows almost as I watch."
The piece ended, and Nettles said, "That is good news, indeed. I sometimes wish—"
What he had wished, Jane would never know. Cousin Mary called her to order, with a suggestion that the four of them form a second table for whist. Jane knew her duty. She gave Nettles a little rueful smile. They settled down to the card games that Jane hated but politely pretended to enjoy; and any possibility of private conversation between them ended forever.
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Jane dreamed of the big coach and the journey through the backcountry. She had had this dream before, at least once a week since returning to Charlestown. It would come back whenever she thought of traveling. The unhappiness of it sometimes seeped into her waking hours, for she dreamed of the hot misery of her labor, her utter helplessness, and the half hour of sheer terror as anonymous men tried to force their way through a flimsy door. Biddy spun around, covered with blood, and died, and died. Sometimes the attackers burst through the door and other terrible things happened. Once she had awakened, trembling, from the shock of a musket butt smashing her tiny son.
Jane was dreaming again, just before dawn. She was in the coach--not just the big coach as it had existed, but an exaggerated version, with seats as big as sofas. Moll was traveling with them, musket in hand, looking out the windows, alert to any movement. Jane must have already have had the baby, for Letty was holding Little Will on her lap. Biddy was knitting calmly, and looked up to say, "I reckon they'll be coming soon, now."
"Oh, Mamma!" cried Letty. "What's going to happen? What's going to happen?"
The door rattled. "You women come on out!"
Moll called out, "Don't think so!"
Jane shivered. She wanted to get up and run, but her hands were icy with fear and she could not stir. The door rattled again, and a dark shape outside peered through the windows. Jane tried to call for help. "Oh, please—"
Moll lifted her musket to her shoulder in a swift, fluid motion, and fired. A howl, and a dark shape fluttered away. Moll raised her brows and remarked, "Menfolk ain't always there to protect the womenfolk."
Jane was still frightened. "What if they come back?"
Moll reached into her pocket for a pistol, and handed it to Jane. "Then you'll be ready."
The door rattled. Jane fired.
"That's right, ma'am," Moll nodded. "Women may be the weaker sex, but a good pistol evens the odds."
Jane rolled over, and began to slowly wake, still partly in the dream. As her rational mind asserted itself, the more absurd features of the dream faded into the background. The dream became a kind of drama, in which she could rearrange events to her liking. She did not have to be completely helpless if she planned very carefully.
That day, with Moll's advice, she purchased a pocket pistol of good quality in its own neat wooden box, and listened carefully while Moll explained how to use it.
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The day—the last day—dawned bright and hot. The trunks were packed, the spinet dismantled, the cradle and writing desks and other impedimenta were ready, and all was loaded into a hired dray to be carried to the docks. Jane had settled with Mrs. Todd for all her work two days ago, and for their lodgings the night before. Moll was dressed in her fresh clean clothes, the very picture of a model servant. Her ruddy face shone with the pleasure of them, her red hair seemed on fire against the pure white of her new cap, the clean straw of her hat. Taking Little Will up in her arms for a kiss, she dimpled hugely, and then gave him to Letty. Moll would go with the draymen, and keep an eye on the Tavingtons' possessions. Tavington with his two ladies would travel for the last time in the chariot, squeezing in rather cordially. Seth was proudly perched in the driver's seat. Papers in his pocket declared him a free man, and the carriage and team his very own, to do with as he liked.
Tavington had already bid farewell to the last remnants of the men he had commanded. It had troubled him a little, to think how much they had borne, and how meanly they were likely to be rewarded. He would try to speak for them and others like them when he was home. Ironically, at this point he probably could do them more good in London than he could here.
He and Jane had been invited to a round of dinners for the past week, and had made their good-byes yesterday to those closest to them: to old Silas, now failing fast; to Cousin Mary, pink-cheeked and rather damp with unaccustomed emotion; to Bordon, who had called on them, sturdily enduring his maimed arm, more and more a clergyman in demeanor.
Once settled in the carriage, Jane took the baby in her arms. She was smiling, but a little nostalgic. Her whole life history flashed before her in these streets that she was unlikely to see ever again. The bold market women, the cries of the black laborers, a half-heard fiddle tune, that put her painfully in mind of Silas—they were fading away behind her, fading into the distant, dead, inaccessible past. She glanced up at Tavington's handsome profile. He seemed lost in pleasant anticipation, no doubt thinking of that home and family and England that he knew intimately, and she not at all. Letty, on her other side, seemed as uneasy as Jane herself, but oh, how pretty she looked! Jane had always longed for a sister, and now she discovered that she had always had one near at hand.
For her part, Letty was trembling a little; hardly knowing herself in her smart violet habit, wondering if she would be found out and scorned at the docks. The Colonel would protect her, she hoped.
And then the docks were before them, and there was Moll, high on the wagon, beaming at the sight of them. Jane smiled back. There would be two women with her in England that she knew, thank God!
Moll did not seem uneasy, as she jumped down to run to the chariot and take Little Will from them. Letty could have told Jane, however, that Moll had cried herself to sleep the night before: weeping for her husband and child, for her father and mother. The tears were contagious: Letty had cried for Mama, hoping that she knew Letty was safe and free and cared for, and going to England to be a lady, never to be a slave ever again.
A blessed bustle distracted the women. Jane reminded the teamsters, one last time, of what she wanted put in the cabin, and that the spinet was not to be stored in the hold. William had told her that their cabin was large enough to hold the tiny spinet, and that it would be a needed diversion on a long voyage.
Letty had her own troubles, insisting not only on keeping her own large trunk, but a little one as well. She had passed her own small trunk on to Moll, but this other trunk had been her mother's, and was still as her mother had left it. When unlocked, Letty could catch a fugitive scent from it of Mama: herbs and old linen and love. No one had challenged her possession of it: no one even knew what it was, but it was Letty's, a private treasure she would not even share with—her mind whispered stubbornly—Miss Jane. But Miss Jane hardly existed herself, any more than Mama. Miss Jane had become Mrs. Tavington, a significantly different person. Miss Jane was part of her past. Mrs. Tavington was part of her life, and her future.
An officer was coming to greet them, smiling and bowing to them all as they were introduced. He looked at Letty the longest, admiring, as the Colonel said, "—our sister, Miss Rutledge—" She smiled back, and gave him a shy nod, hardly hearing his hearty speech with the Colonel about the weather, and when they should leave the harbor, and when they should make sail. Beside her, she heard her sister's sudden hissing breath, and turned to see what had alarmed her.
A big carriage had rumbled to a stop behind them: a carriage they all knew well. Letty felt she might faint. The Colonel turned at the noise, and took his wife's arm. Letty slipped a little behind him, wanting him between her and what was coming.
Tavington's voice, blessedly cool, spoke into the tension. "Excuse us, Paget. We would like a private word with my wife's father."
-----As his carriage arrived at the docks, Ashbury Rutledge congratulated himself on his family feeling. He had received Jane's note, informing him of her departure. It was all working out for the best. The British were going to lose the war, he was convinced, and now was the time to snip the last of his ties to them.
Jane's elopement had done most of the work for him. Many men would understand his coldness to an undutiful daughter. A few of his relations, however—especially the soppy, vexing, female relations--had raised eyebrows when it became manifest that he did not intend to host a farewell dinner for his eldest child and her husband. Well, he had business near the docks today, and could spare the time for a goodbye to Jane. Selina had shown some willingness to accompany him, but she was a mother, and her duty was at home. It would be quicker and easier to go alone, find the Artemisia's berth, and bid a brisk farewell that would appear forgiving and magnanimous when related to his cousins.
Tavington's red coat stood out brilliantly in the late June sun. Swallowing the taste of bile at the sight of that man, Rutledge sneered. Go back to England and stay there, you preening bully. The loss of Jane's fortune rankled. It would have been a tidy nest egg for Thomas, but now it was to be wasted on this adventurer and his puny brat. Briefly, Rutledge speculated on how many years it would take for a wastrel like Tavington to fritter the money away. No matter what straits Jane was brought to, she would never be welcome in his house again. It would be very satisfying, though, when she crawled home and begged for mercy. He smiled, the scene vivid in his imagination.
Jane was dressed in an expensive-looking green traveling habit and an elaborate plumed hat, attempting to hide her plain little face from the unforgiving sun. She and Tavington were talking with a naval officer and another lady, who was dressed in an attractive if sober shade of violet. Perhaps the officer's wife. A pretty woman, her face shaded by a hat similar to Jane's: wide-brimmed, trimmed with plumes and a big violet satin bow that matched her dress. He could not spare his attention to admire her, however, for Jane had seen him, and was looking his way, her face gone still and hard. Rutledge snorted. What? Was the worm turning? Did she dare harbor a grudge at his neglect, when it was so entirely deserved? He would bid her farewell, and think no more of her. Were she impudent with him, he could give back better than he got.
His coach stopped, and the slave opened the door and let down the stairs. Rutledge emerged with unhurried dignity, assuming a beneficent air as he approached his daughter and son-in-law. The lady in violet hung behind them, and the naval officer moved away to supervise the loading of the Tavingtons' possessions.
"Jane, my dear child."
Tavington suppressed a sneer at the man's tone. Rutledge's drawling Carolina voice was honeyed with insincere sentiment. Jane felt stiff as a waxen image, pressed against his side. Behind him, Letty's breathing was quick and shallow. They must know that they need fear nothing. If they had survived Martin, they would certainly survive this self-important provincial, who could do nothing to harm them now.
Or could he? He was their father, after all, and his words might still have the power to wound. Tavington bowed politely, but fixed the man with a steady, warning stare.
Jane, beside him, curtsied, her thoughts a jumble. Should I not be feeling more regret, at bidding my father farewell, probably forever? Am I an unfeeling daughter? Perhaps so, perhaps so… She was sorry to see him, and that was the truth. She did not want to hear his paternal posturings, the sententious words barely concealing his contempt. She did not want him to notice Letty… Oh, dear! Letty!
"Papa." Her voice shook only a little.
Her father was looking down at her, his face creased into something resembling a kindly smile. "Selina sends her fondest regards. She was much too busy with our children to come herself, you understand."
"Perfectly," Tavington replied, still fixing his father-in-law with a withering stare.
"Is that your servant there?" Rutledge gestured at Moll. "Have her bring the boy over so I can have a last look at him."
Moll, disliking the man at first sight, came forward quickly and bobbed a perfunctory curtsey. She had overheard the Colonel and his wife often enough; and Letty had confided much to her. He was the baby's grandfather, nonetheless, and might have a gift for him. He looked rich enough. She held out little William Francis for his inspection, on the watch for any carelessness, and confident in her greater strength and height to prevent it.
"Such a tiny creature. Jane was always undersized too. Perhaps he'll improve, if he lives."
All right, that's enough. Tavington stepped forward impetuously and very nearly knocked the man down. "He's doing exceedingly well. It was good of you to take the trouble, but we must be on our way. My compliments to your lady." With tremendous effort, he refrained from snarling the last two words. He must do nothing to endanger his other son, the one whom he must leave behind with this man.
Jane shook herself, lifting her chin and glaring at her father. "Yes. Goodbye, Papa. I'm sure we'll will all be quite well, now that we are leaving."
"Where are the slaves?" Rutledge asked abruptly. "I hear you've freed the men. Just what this colony needs: more puffed-up freedmen spoiling the Negroes for hard work." His voice slowed, and stopped abruptly, as he stared beyond them. He took an angry breath, and with a voice curdled with loathing, he asked, "And what is that wench doing, got up like that?"
Jane could hardly swallow, and clung to her husband's arm, wanting to run. Tavington, however, ignored her fright and Letty's soft whimper. "Miss Rutledge is dressed as she ought to be—as a gentleman's daughter. At least, you have the name of being a gentleman, though I've never quite discerned anything particularly gentlemanly about you. However, Miss Rutledge is my wife's sister, and will be treated as she deserves."
"Ha!" Rutledge grimaced and spat. He eyed Jane with utter disdain. "So you've pandered Letty off to your redcoat, have you? Think you'll keep him at home, if he has a high-yellow whore—"
Tavington started toward Rutledge with a growl. A faint, pained cry from Letty pushed Jane over the edge. She stepped in front of her husband, and narrowed her eyes at her father.
"You horrible man! You don't know what you're talking about! You think everyone is as bad as you are! How I despise you! There! I've said it!"
Tavington drew her away. "Yes, my dear, you've said quite enough. We're leaving now. There's no reason to care what some brutish slave driver thinks. Take Letty and Moll and go. I'll deal with your father."
Rutledge exploded. "You're no daughter of mine!"
Jane could not resist. She caught at Letty's hand and asked pertly, "Which one of us do you mean?"
Her father appeared in danger of another stroke. Jane hissed, overjoyed at the opportunity. "What are you going to do, Papa? Disinherit me? Oh, but you already have!" She tossed her head back, her plumes nodding triumphantly. "Come, sister. Let us shake the dust of South Carolina from our feet. We are for England!"
Letty took a last look back at the man who had begotten her, but had never been more to her than a slave master. Red-faced and engorged with hate, he was nothing for her to regret leaving. She breathed a sigh, and took her part in the procession to the gangplank.
A few of the workmen had approached, curious about the raised voices. Mr. Paget, closer still, had heard the words, "--no daughter of mine!—" and pitied the ladies, especially Miss Rutledge, the shy, pretty one. The old man must be drunk. His face was red enough. Then he gave all his attention to helping the ladies escape the ugly situation and board the ship.
As the women departed, Tavington turned to his father-in-law, smirk firmly in place. There was no longer any reason to treat this man with any consideration. "Be off with you. You've said quite enough yourself. Jane and her sister will have a good life in England amongst people fit for them." He cocked his head, and softly admonished the older man. "Come, Rutledge. What are you going to do? Spread the news of Miss Rutledge's new life abroad to the rest of your—and her—kin?"
Rutledge's red face began to purple. "Damn you," he choked hoarsely. "Bloody thieving redcoat."
Tavington studied him with new curiosity. "Is that what this has been about all along? Jane's fortune? You were hoping to get your hands on it?" He laughed, a clear laugh born of all his fresh hopes. "Why, man, you'll be dead long before she is. What would her fortune be to you then? You're a shabby sort of man, Rutledge: small and shabby and mean-spirited, and no doubt time will have it revenge upon you. As for me, I think you not worth my spite."
With an ironic bow, he turned and followed his wife to the ship, leaving Ashbury Rutledge on the dock, sputtering like wet gunpowder.
-----
The tide had turned: the sky was darkening into the clear deep blue of evening. Jane and Letty stood together at the rail of the ship, looking back as South Carolina sank beyond the dim horizon. Only the low line of Charlestown Harbor remained, punctuated with the stone bulk of the Exchange and the white spire of St. Michael's, catching the sun's fading rays.
"That's the last of America," Jane whispered. A seagull winged overhead, headed toward the distant shore, its mournful farewell cry already carried away by the night breeze. Jane had so looked forward to the journey, but now she was a little afraid. The gurgle and splash of the water against the sides of the ship; the disorienting sway of the deck beneath her feet; it was everything and nothing like her dreams. The reality of the unplumbed depths beneath her, already inky in the twilight, filled her with awe and dread. Beneath them swam Leviathans vast beyond imagination, their immensity taking no note of the little dot of wood and metal skimming over the merest surface of their watery domain. She had felt small in the wild backcountry, surrounded by hostile men. Now she felt microscopic: an insignificant speck at the mercy of indifferent Nature.
She linked Letty's arm in hers, glad that she was not alone. Those few familiar faces remaining to her would be her anchor. Moll, sturdy Moll, was in the warm light of her cabin below, seeing to the baby. She could hear William talking with Captain Ballantine about fox hunting, of all things; both men as calm as if they had just taken dinner at a comfortable country house. The officers dining with them had been very kind: happy to know that Mrs. Tavington had brought a spinet and that she and her sister would give them an entertainment, now and then. Little Mr. Pevensey, a rosy-cheeked midshipman of eleven, had even made bold to suggest a ball!
Her sister's sweet voice broke into her thoughts. "The stars are coming out."
Letty was dressed in her new silk gown, hair dressed high, long curls teasing her left shoulder. She looked above, to the great glittering dome of heaven. Jane would look up too, in a moment, when the last white flash of Charlestown was gone.
-----
End Part 1
And so you see, dear readers, the story does not end here. Life goes on, sometimes even in fiction. I shall take a short break before embarking on the second part of Tavington's Heiress. Thank you to all my loyal reviewers, who have given me such support. And thanks as well to those of you who have simply stopped by to read.
Next—Chapter 26: Sea of Promise, Sea of Storms