Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Patriot, but I too have lived in Arcadia.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Epilogue---Ave atque vale!

Sir William Tavington moved through the press of guests, hoping to have a word with his wife before the music began. He had never been the most sociable of men, but his position on the governing council of Nova Scotia made it imperative that he occasionally host these affairs. And then, Elizabeth and Julia enjoyed them so much, that it was worth missing his children's bedtime on occasion. In a few years, the oldest among them could be allowed to join the festivities. Emma already was a charming dancer, and would no doubt be as notable a belle as her Aunt Julia.

Julia still swore she would never leave them, but it was growing more and more difficult to refuse her crowd of suitors. She was, after all, the greatest heiress in Nova Scotia. Her situation made her the object of envy: he had overheard the two older Hopkins girls, Ruby and Sapphira, spitefully criticising her as "turrible proud, riding around on that fine horse of hers like the Queen of Sheba." Tavington wondered if the words had been said to her face. That might explain why Julia had insisted on that particular name for her mare. He smiled to himself. Girls might talk, but their parents, he noticed, encouraged their sons to make themselves agreeable to such a lovely and eligible young lady.

Julia was not without admirers of her own sex, as well. Pearl Hopkins seemed less interested in her sister's complaints, than in the rumours that Miss Wilde had bed curtains of rose velvet, and that she possessed a comb of silver and ivory.

Time had treated them all well, except for the horrible alarm he had had last year, when Elizabeth had nearly died giving birth to their eighth child, little Edward Everleigh Tavington. Sir William was secretly pleased when the physician had informed him that Lady Tavington would certainly not conceive again. A family of eight children was a very fine family, and he was happy to have Elizabeth well and safe, and not always worn out with endless childbearing.

He stopped to speak briefly with the Bishop. Back in'87, they had heard that Nova Scotia was to have a bishop of its own. Great was their surprise and pleasure to find that the man appointed was their own Reverend Mr. Inglis, who had married them. On his travels around Nova Scotia, the bishop had visited them, remembered them well, and expressed his interest in all their doings. He had built a summer house in the Annapolis Valley, only a few miles to the east, and they saw him fairly often. Now, of course, he was trying to persuade Sir William to send his sons off to the new school, King's, that he had established over in Windsor. Bordon was talking seriously about sending Hugh next fall, and young Will was anxious to go along with his best friend. If anything could reconcile Tavington to sending a child of his to school, the idea that said child would be in Charles Inglis' good hands could do it. Their second son, John Wilde Tavington, also wanted to go with the others, but although the school would take boys as young as eight, Sir William thought ten was quite young enough to leave home.

Bordon, he noted, was deep in conversation with Duncan Monroe. After the fire at the Legion settlement at Guysborough, a number of their old comrades from the Green Dragoons had drifted up into the valley. The Willett brothers, along with another former officer, Hugh Davis, were settled in nearby Granville. Sir William and his family had attended Samuel Willett's wedding to a local girl, Leah de St.Croix. His brother, Walter Willett, had had a more complicated situation. He had left a wife and seven children in Pennsylvania who had refused to join him in Nova Scotia. He had managed, with considerable difficulty, to obtain a divorce and was now remarried.

Bordon, an elected assemblyman, was a prominent local figure. There had been a brief unpleasantness a few years ago, when a former comrade in his cups had let slip a reference to Mrs. Bordon's past. The Tavingtons and their associates had closed ranks protectively around her, and put paid to the gossip. Tavington had, with trepidation, begun to tell Elizabeth something of the truth, but she had surprised him by seeming to know all about it.

"Really, my dearest, you seem to think that women never talk to one another. Dear Mrs. Bordon told me years ago all about those terrible times, and how she suffered. I will certainly not allow anyone to throw stones at her, whether some feckless soldier, or those Yankees, who understand nothing of what women endured in the War." Tavington, wondering what Polly had said to her, admitted to himself that he did not know much of Polly's early life, or how she had come to be a camp follower. The matter never arose again.

Monroe had not adjusted well at first to civilian life. He had sold his original grant for a pittance, and had appeared one morning, half-naked and dead drunk, on Bordon's doorstep. Tavington had found employment for him in the Surveyor General's office, and Monroe found enough travel and variety to satisfy him there.

Sergeant Davies had also appeared; this time on Tavington's doorstep, but he was a man with a plan. He had been a miller in his life before the war, and convinced Tavington to allow him the use of some of the land at the river's edge to build a gristmill. Davies had done well, and his success had drawn others to the spot. A little village had sprung up, with not only the grist mill, but a sawmill, a store, a tavern, a post office, a smithy, and eventually, with Tavington's donation of land and the Bishop's blessing, their own church, St. John's. When Tavington had been approached about a name for the new town, he did not hesitate to suggest one; and Arcadia, Nova Scotia, was born and was now prospering.

The front door opened briefly, and there was a sudden aroma of cigar smoke. Some of the young men were outside, discussing the situation in France. Tavington could not have been less interested. The French had supported the rebels in their revolution, and were now reaping what they had sown. The cigar smoke reminded him of McKay and Amelia and their tobacco plantation.

They had finally received a letter around the time Emma was born. It had traveled a long time, over mountains and over seas from the unknown country of Kentucky where Amelia lived. The letter was full of affectionate descriptions of her husband and their two wonderful children, but was oddly prosaic for someone who had once lived so entirely through books. As Amelia told it, aside from some temporary difficulties with Indians and river pirates, they were doing extremely well. Their property was vast and rich, their tobacco crops wildly profitable, and they had no idea of leaving what was now their beloved home. It was no great surprise. Elizabeth had sighed over it, and Julia had affected a cold and unconcerned expression.

One line of the letter caught Elizabeth's alarmed attention. Amelia had said "once more, I must express my gratitude to dear Colonel Tavington for my pistol."

"What do you suppose she means?" asked Elizabeth, horrified.

"I imagine she shot somebody again," offered Julia. She was unsympathetic with Elizabeth's distress. "Oh come, Lilabet, you've done it yourself. I suppose it will be my turn someday."

Sir William looked into the parlour, and smiled at the beautiful portrait of Emma Wilde. It still held its place of honour above the mantel, quite undamaged after its many travels. Back in '84, he had been oppressed with a sense of unfulfilled duty to his deceased father-in-law. He had written to John Wilde's old publishers, and asked them if they might be interested in any of his hitherto-unpublished pictures.

The Penroses were indeed interested, and wanted to see what Wilde had created in the last years of his life. The upshot was that Tavington found himself sailing to England, with John Wilde's portfolio and a number of other works that Elizabeth had preserved. At the publisher's request, he also crated and brought the portrait of Mrs. Wilde. The pictures had been examined, admired, and the projected book became a settled thing. The original engraver of the first volume was engaged to work on it, along with his sons. The publishers had requested that Tavington write a brief preface.

Bordon had traveled with him. His friend felt it was a good opportunity to see his family after his long absence, and assure them of his well-doing. Tavington had stayed with them for some time, and found the family pleasant but curiously dull. It was a surprise that someone as adaptable and adventurous as Hugh Bordon had come from such stock.

The publishers liked Tavington's preface very much—so much, in fact, that they approached him about writing something else for them. Thus, he was finally talked into telling his story.

Tavington had done his best to be truthful in his memoirs. He began them that summer in England, with Bordon's assistance in recalling dates and places. He had continued to work on them during the voyage back, and on and off again the following year. He had to return to England the next year, anyway, to have a look at the progress on the new Flora and Fauna, and to be present at the exhibition of Wilde's pictures that would publicise the book. Elizabeth had not been happy to see him off, and implored him not to make a habit of these journeys.

The pictures had made a sensation. Tavington had had to refuse a number of persistent and extravagant offers for the works, above all for the portrait of Emma Wilde. Some very, very distinguished individuals had pressed him hard to name his price, but Tavington wished to be able to live at peace with his wife, and no amount of money was worth risking that. The admirers of the portrait had to content themselves with the engraving that served as the frontispiece of the book. All the originals, the engraved copies now complete, were carefully packed and ready to return home with him.

Tavington found himself feted and petted by society. It would have been a heady experience, had he been younger and more naïve. He knew how transitory celebrity was, and decided to enjoy it for what it was worth. If it lasted a season, that would suffice, for he would be headed home at the end of it anyway. His portrait was painted, he was made much of at balls, and he was even approached by his odious Fitzroy-Hughes cousins, now hoping to ingratiate themselves with one they had previously despised. He turned them away with cool and formal politeness, much to their chagrin; for his next invitation---no, it must be called a command—was to appear at Court.

He was old enough to see the absurdity of all the protocol, but also old enough to know the value of such recognition. It had climaxed in a knighthood, and Tavington hid his real pleasure behind a mask of arrogant calm. He had always longed to be valued and praised, and this was a consummation of all such desires. He knew that there was a political motivation behind it: there always was. Relations with the fledgling United States of America were particularly frigid at the moment, and a knighthood for a famous enemy of theirs, such as Tavington, was a way of putting the King's former subjects in their place. Tavington knew he was being made use of, but did not care. It was something wonderful to give Elizabeth, who had contributed so much to their prosperity. He was delighted to have the knighthood, and took it home to her proudly, along with the other things he had collected on the journey: the books, the music, the climbing roses. He left England behind, with no particular desire ever to set foot there again.

It was just as well that he was gone from England by the time his memoirs were out, for they proved controversial, if popular. He had been truthful, but selective in his truths. There were things he did not want the public to read, former comrades to read, or Elizabeth to read. Time and fatherhood had changed his views in a number of ways; and while it was useless to wish certain things undone, he took no pride in them. The full details of his romance and his courtship of his wife were no one else's business, but bowing to Julia's pleas, he had included their meeting and something of their difficulties. He still received letters about the book, from argumentative old soldiers and from silly women.

He had been appointed, immediately upon his return home, to the King's Commission overseeing restitution for the Loyalists' lost property. He had resisted serving until Elizabeth's claim was settled. She had documented her case well, and received a comparatively generous award. Though forty-two hundred-odd pounds was a ridiculous sum for an estate like Arcadia, it was more than most received. It was divided with Julia, of course. Though the sum was inadequate, Elizabeth and Julia agreed that they would rather have twenty-one hundred pounds apiece than not.

The tall and handsome clock in the entry hall chimed the hour. It was a remarkable Dutch piece and one of the few objects Tavington had brought home from his journey to Jamaica in 1790. He pulled out his watch to check the time against the clock. His mother smiled up from the watchcase, happy for him.

Elizabeth's uncle had never replied to her letter, and they assumed he did not care to resume the relationship. Great was their surprise when some years later they received correspondence from a solicitor, regarding the last will and testament of the late Edward Everleigh, Esq. That gentleman may not have desired contact or conversation with his niece, but when he died, it was discovered that he had left his entire estate to Elizabeth and Julia, as his only surviving (legitimate) relatives.

Elizabeth was somewhat embarrassed, and confessed to her husband that she had blundered when writing to her uncle.

"I was still so upset about Amelia's defection, that when I wrote I said nothing of her. Uncle Ned must have assumed she had died along with the other children. I know I never told him she was living in Kentucky. We must share this with her—it would be very wrong not to."

Tavington gave her his provisional agreement. It was unclear what the estate was worth. With regret, he concluded that he would have to go to Jamaica himself and resolve the situation. As the husband of one heiress, and the guardian of the other, only he could do it. Even Elizabeth admitted there was no other possible solution.

Taking Strephon with him, he set out on what proved a most curious, exotic, and dangerous adventure. He never told his family much of what occurred, not wishing to alarm them. The rewards had been worth the risks. Edward Everleigh had done very well indeed in the sugar business, and had left a plantation worth fifteen thousand pounds, and a financial estate of over a hundred twenty thousand. Tavington returned home with a fortune, and with some splendid objects, such as the clock, as keepsakes.

They were rich. Julia was rich. And they must, in honour, contact Amelia to arrange for her to receive her rightful share. Posting her a letter of credit was not a reliable option. Elizabeth wrote to her sister, and asked her to come and collect her inheritance.

In the end, it was not Amelia, but David McKay who met Sir William and Lady Tavington in Halifax. Julia refused to go; and while Elizabeth tried to persuade her otherwise, Tavington thought it best not to command her attendance. Tavington would not have known the tall, rangy man, looking far older than his years, if he had met him on the street. McKay was courteous, but reserved; not best pleased at leaving his family for what might have been a fool's errand. Even when the amount of the bequest was proved to him beyond a doubt, McKay had retained the same impassive, hard-bitten demeanour. Tavington wondered if McKay thought them idiots for sharing the money. His replies to Elizabeth's endless questions about Amelia, their children, and their home were short, carefully polite, and not particularly descriptive. Only near the end of his visit did he pull out a sketchbook for Elizabeth to see.

In it, Amelia had drawn her children, her husband, her neighbors, and her house slaves. There were numerous pictures of their handsome home; tall and white, with a pillared veranda. Elizabeth paused over Amelia's self-portrait, touching the face gently, as if trying to trace a resemblance to the girl she had loved in the woman's face. She had asked McKay if she could have the book, but he had refused; he had brought the book for her to see, but it was far too precious to Amelia and to himself to permanently part with.

Tavington was glad when he had gone. The visit had very much sunk Elizabeth's spirits, and he hated to see her distressed, above all when she was with child. When shortly afterward she had had such a painful and perilous labour with their last born, he had felt very bitterly toward the McKays. He and Elizabeth had agreed to name the new little boy after the founder of their much-increased prosperity. Eight children—four boys and four girls—were indeed all the family even a fond father could ask for.

Sometimes more family than I can easily deal with. Naughty, adorable little Celia was hiding behind the rails at the landing, looking down at him with a self-satisfied smile. Her cap had been tossed aside, and her dark wayward curls were everywhere. Bright blue eyes met his, and she gasped, knowing that she was discovered.

"Why are you not in bed where you belong?" he demanded.

"I needed to see you, Papa."

"Well, here I am. Now be off with you!"

"I need to kiss you good night."

"If I give you a kiss, you will next beg a drink of water."

"No, I'll be good. All I need is a kiss."

He climbed the stairs, and swept her up in his arms, kissing her soundly. She laid her head on his shoulder as he carried her back to the nursery. Walking past the room Will and John shared, he heard no sound. If they were up to devilry, they were at least quiet about it.

Keziah was in the nursery, tending to little Edward. She looked up as Tavington entered with Celia, and apologised for letting her get away. Tavington did not blame her: she had plenty of work keeping the nursery in order tonight all by herself. Not only Edward, but three-year-old Margaret and four-year-old James still required a great deal of attention. Those latter were asleep, sprawled with childish abandon in their little beds.

His other children were also sleeping peacefully. Emma, at eight, was a pretty and ladylike child, and six-year-old Sarah Jane was a little angel—completely unlike her namesake. Tavington bent to kiss the delicate, pale face, and batted away Celia's hand as she tried to pull her sister's hair. Out of respect for Miss Everleigh, they had decided early on to name a daughter Sarah, but found calling her Sarah Jane kept everyone from confusing her with the Bordon's elder girl, also Sarah, but called Sally.

Celia had lost interest in tormenting her sister, and stroked her father's face admiringly. "Oh, Papa," she murmured, "You are my hero."

Melting inside, but determined not to let her see it, he laid her in the bed next to Emma, with another kiss, and an admonition to settle down. "If I cannot trust you to stay in bed," he warned, "I cannot let you girls have your own room this summer, as we planned. Or perhaps," he continued, at his most silken, "Emma and Sarah Jane shall share the room, and you will have to stay in the nursery until you behave."

Celia's brows contracted stormily, and Tavington warned her to be quiet with a look. "But Sarah Jane's a baby!" she objected in a whisper. "She's only six, and I'm a great girl of seven!" She saw her father's stern demeanour, and tried another tactic. "If you had kissed me earlier, I wouldn't have needed to get up and find you."

Tavington relented with another quick kiss, and a final goodnight, "Go to sleep at once. I must get back to the guests—and your Aunt Julia will be singing soon. She would be hurt if I missed that."

"Just you wait," muttered Celia, pulling the sheet up to her chin, "Just you wait until I'm a young lady. I'll sing better than anybody. The King will come to hear me, not just the neighbors."

"Hush," he commanded softly, and she shut her eyes. Tavington stood up, and with a nod to Keziah, left the room to go back downstairs.

Julia's admirers were already crowding near the pianoforte. A few years after their arrival in Nova Scotia, about the time Julia turned fifteen, she had surprised them by suddenly becoming an accomplished young lady. It had happened almost overnight, and Elizabeth had been pleased with Julia's new application to her music. She played well, and was acquainted with the newest and best music London publishers could provide. Her high, light voice had matured, under Elizabeth's tutelage, to a very pretty soprano. She was certainly the best young lady musician in their part of Nova Scotia, and was still outstanding when compared with the other young ladies they were in company with in Halifax. She was preparing to sing now, with a rather naughty look in her eye.

"Let Bucks and let bloods to praise London agree

Oh, the joys of the country my jewel for me.

Where sweet is the flower that the May bush adorns,

And how charming to gather it----but for the thorns.


Where we walk o'er the mountains with health our cheeks glowing

As warm as toast honey ----when it is not snowing,

Where nature to smile when the joyful inclines

And the sun charms us all the year round—-when it shines.


There twelve hours on a stretch we in Angling delight,

As patient as Jobs, though we get ne'er a bite,

There we pop at the wild ducks, and frighten the crows

While so lovely the icicles hang to our clothes.

There with aunts' and with cousins' and grandmother's talking,

We are caught in the rain as we're all out a -walking,

While the muslins and gauzes cling round each fair she

That we look all like Venuses sprung from the sea.


Oh, the mountains, and valleys and bushes,

The Pigs and the screech owls and Thrushes,

Let Bucks and let bloods to praise London agree,

Oh, the joys of the country my Jewel for me!"

Sir William caught his wife's eye, and they exchanged an amused glance. In private, they shared the hope that Julia would find someone who would understand and appreciate the liveliness of her mind. Sometimes, Elizabeth despaired. The local swains were certainly not up to her mark, and Julia enjoyed mocking them as much as she enjoyed flirting with them. Sometimes she managed both at once.

Perhaps dancing with a prince had made her too fastidious. On two occasions, Sir William had encountered Prince William Henry, the Duke of Clarence, now captain of his own ship, the Andromeda, when the prince had put in at Halifax. Sir William's family had been with him on the last occasion, shortly after he had been appointed to the Governing Council, and they had attended a ball given in the prince's honour. Though Sir William had heard that the prince's taste ran more to mature and sophisticated women, the prince had nonetheless asked Julia to dance with him. He really was not the handsomest, nor the cleverest of men, but he was indeed a prince, and Julia was duly flattered. Sir William was gratified by the prince's polite gesture, but less so when the prince asked Lady Tavington for the next two dances, and was known to have asked some friends about the state of the Tavingtons' marriage. He had evidently received an unsatisfactory answer; for he had afterwards devoted himself to John Wentworth's wife, Frances, to Tavington's great relief.

Eventually the guests were on their way, courteously sped by the good wishes of their hosts.

"I thought they'd never leave," growled Tavington.

His wife smiled up at him. "I thought they wouldn't, either."

Tavington turned to Julia. "Rob Carlisle was attentive, as usual."

"Hope springs eternal," Elizabeth observed.

Julia laughed derisively, "False hope springs eternal. He's such a milksop. He nearly fainted when I showed him the dog picture." Yawning hugely, she made her way back into the house, and up the stairs to her beautiful chamber.

Elizabeth was silent a moment, considering. "We shall have to go to Halifax again, and look over the newly arrived officers of the garrison. Julia needs dash along with the devotion."

"There is always the possibility that she might indeed find herself an officer. That officer, however, might have a home in England and would carry her off."

Elizabeth looked sad and rested her head on his shoulder. "It would hurt me horribly to lose her companionship; but I would not be so selfish as to deny her any chance for happiness."

Tavington felt that losing Julia would hurt him horribly as well, and ventured, "Perhaps she would really be happier with us."

"Who can say? But it must be her choice." She looked up at the stars and smiled to herself. "Hercules: at home in the sky, after all his labours."

It was a clear night, and the breeze made Elizabeth shiver in her thin dress. Pretty as the hand-painted silk was, Sir William thought woman's fashions were growing skimpier and more revealing every year. He put his arm around her and pulled her warmly to him. "We can see the stars just as well from the window of our bedchamber. Let us go in."

Strephon was already moving through the rooms: extinguishing the lights, damping down the fires, preparing the house for the night. The parlour was still lit, and Elizabeth stopped there to shut the pianoforte. She set aside Julia's music, with a soft laugh.

Tavington found a candle for himself, and offered Elizabeth his arm. As they ascended the stairs, he noted as he had many times, the extraordinary shadows they cast about them. They turned at the landing, reached the top of the stairs and went down the hall: past the room where Will and John whispered their plans for fortune and glory; past the nursery where the little ones dreamed of ballrooms, of battles, of adoring audiences, of loving families, and of Heaven. Sir William and Lady Tavington entered their bedchamber and shut the door behind them.

Ave atque vale, Tavington! Hail and farewell! One never knows when a life has attained its perfect moment. For while there is love and hope, the respect of one's fellows, and the lavish bounty of the earth, death also is always in Arcadia. Whether now or not for decades, it must come; separation must come, and the end of happily ever after. There is always a last time for everything: a last word, a last kiss, a last note from the pianoforte.

But for now, Colonel Sir William Tavington, late of the Green Dragoons and once Butcher of the Carolinas, lies close in his lady's arms, and cares neither for past nor future.

So uncertain are mortal judgements, the same person most infamous, and most famous, and neither justly.-----Sir Philip Sidney, Arcadia

When a tree dies, plant another in its place----Carolus Linnaeus

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Author's new note: 07/07/06- If you have taken the trouble to read this to the end, please take just a moment to leave a comment. This story has received thousands of hits in the last few months, with hardly a peep. I really do consider reader input in planning new stories.

Author's notes: Tarleton received a knighthood, and thus Tavington must have one as well, in order to keep the parallel universes in balance.

The song is "The Joys of the Country," by Charles Dibdin (1745-1814). You may hear it on the CD "Jane's Hand: the Jane Austen Songbooks," from Vox .

There is, in fact, an Arcadia, Nova Scotia, but it is not my fictional village.

A final thanks to my loyal reviewers: Zubeneschamali, Slytherin Dragoon, Foodie, Kirixchi, ladymarytavington, Catherine Tavington, Kontara, AnchovyEater1, katres. Prophetic Fire, Lintasare, JaneyQ, and Carmen Sandiego. You've all done a great deal to make this a memorable experience.