Chapter 63: "And Let Me Sigh for Liberty—"
Too numb and grief-stricken to do much of anything, Jane had never thought time passed so slowly. She needed William to comfort her. Even the lack of Moll was painful. To Jane's relief, the Tavington brothers returned on Friday afternoon safe and well, and in great spirits. Jane hated to give them her news when they both looked so happy. John beamed at her, as if he had never been so glad to see anyone, and then rushed off to find his sisters upstairs.
"I can see that John's proposal was a success."
"Oh, entirely. Mind you, the Clarkes were taken completely by surprise. It never occurred to them that John would actually ask for their daughter—penniless as she is, and with a child to boot. I think Mrs. Clarke had a few regrets—she is a fond grandmother, and Mrs. Martingale's marriage must mean she will see less of the child. They were not favorably disposed for the marriage to take place in May—only half a year since the husband's death. John had to do some convincing, and Mrs. Martingale joined in. She had not seen her husband in years and evidently felt it was absurd to put off the marriage out of regard for one who had so little regard for her."
"Very sensible. She is right---life is too short to heed the gossip of strangers. The Clarkes sound like very good people. I hope John invites them often to town—and even to Wargrave. I should like to know them. A fond grandmother would be a refreshing addition to the family! Did John talk about finding a house in town?"
Tavington laughed. "He nearly talked my ear off on the subject. He knows an agent, and will begin his search directly. Actually, Jane, John was wondering if we could invite Mrs. Martingale for a week or two, so she can look about and give her opinion."
Jane forced herself to smile, though she was near bursting into tears. "What a lovely idea! That will give us all a chance to become acquainted. I wish you had brought her back with you—stay—that would not have been quite—"
"Hardly!" he laughed again. "No doubt John would have enjoyed it. I supposed John can take one of the girls with him when goes to collect her. I hope all of this nonsense will have blown over by then."
"Did anyone trouble you—I mean—"
"Were we ambushed? No. However, we were followed. It was quite obvious on such lonely stretches of roads. I hope the spies found it interesting, since it was clearly nothing to do with my mother. They left us alone after the second day. Have you noticed anyone lounging about the square?'
"No—but I have only been out to Letty's--" At the mention of her sister's name, the suppressed tears burst forth, and Jane fell into the chair, crying in earnest.
"Jane! Are you all right? Is Letty ill?"
"Oh, William! Everything's gone to pieces!"
-----
She was walking on eggshells.
Letty had spent the last two days bewildered and miserable. She knew that Lord Fanshawe did not like her sister—had never liked her sister. He had tolerated her up to a certain point, but he was too accustomed to living exactly as he liked to endure an unwanted irritant in his life forever.
When she had been a slave in South Carolina, Letty had seen it more times than she could count. A slave irritated a master—or mistress. They were too slow understanding, too slow obeying, they were not pretty enough, or too pretty. Their hands were too cold, or the mistress' hair was not arranged right, or their laugh was annoying. Sometimes, they were pushed beyond human endurance and showed defiance. The end was always the same: brutal punishment, and generally the unhappy slave vanished. They were sold away, sold to the rice fields or the indigo manufactories, to the brothels, to the ships that carried them away from their families to Jamaica or Barbados, where they would live out the remainder of their lives cutting sugar cane or boiling it down in the huge vats.
Sometimes they were killed outright. Letty had seen it. If a slave was accused of a crime in Charlestown, his only hope was to confess and plead for mercy. It was useless to plead innocence—masters always took that as proof that you were "hardened." There was nothing to be done if you witnessed another slave's punishment, except to watch in silence as they were whipped to death, or hanged, or disemboweled. If you were not perfectly docile, then masters would start looking at you the way they did at troublemakers: in a way that told you your days were numbered.
And so, Letty had seen Jane swept away and cast out of the house without daring to protest. What good would it do? Her heart was breaking, but she was afraid to show it. Silently, she saw the guests off. Silently, she ate her nice dinner, and answered the guests who spoke to her with careful politeness. She could not think of anything clever or amusing to say. She avoided Lord Fanshawe's eyes, afraid that he would see protest or repining and punish her. Her face must be the same blank mask she had always worn as a slave when with anyone but Jane. He had told her that she was not to see or communicate with her sister in future. Mrs. Tavington had displeased him: she was not the companion for Lady Fanshawe that he desired.
Oh, what did she say to make Lord Fanshawe so angry? I can't recall. If only she would apologize for whatever it was that upset him.
Yes. Surely if Jane apologized to Lord Fanshawe, he would forgive her. She wrote such good letters. If she wrote an apology to Lord Fanshawe, and if he could be prevailed upon to read it, perhaps Letty could see Jane. She had hated Thursday, missing the surroundings of Number Twelve, Mortimer Place, and the women she knew best in England. Instead, Lord Fanshawe had taken her and Harmonia to visit Lady Melbourne, a handsome, cold-eyed woman, who sat by Lord Fanshawe and whispered in his ear for nearly an hour. Letty had sat by Harmonia, neither of them speaking to the other, only speaking when spoken to. Harmonia fidgeted and sulked, but no one paid any attention to her. Letty's stomach roiled with resentment. Harmonia had been self-satisfied at dinner on Wednesday, but her preenings and posturings had trailed off, as they were met by silence from Letty and utter indifference from Lord Fanshawe.
He had briefly related the news contained in a note from Lord Carteret. His lordship, his wife, and his mother were all leaving for the country, where Lady Carteret could be kept from harmful influences and interference. They thought it best that Lady Carteret not excite herself by sending or receiving letters. Letty listened to the news impassively, not daring to allow herself to fully feel the misery of losing this friend, too. Masters could do as they liked, and Lady Carteret was no more free to protect herself than Letty.
She submitted without comment to all the demands Lord Fanshawe made on her those nights. Her maids studied her anxiously. She could not quite manage to smile and talk normally—she was too miserable and frightened. It was all she could do to answer when they asked her for her preferences for hair or jewels. She did not know quite what to say. She was not sure if a slave had any right to such preferences. Later, the odd positions were welcome, as she thought it was best her face was turned away, while Lord Fanshawe took his pleasure from her.
Friday passed, as Letty struggled to keep her countenance. If a letter had come from Jane, Letty did not know of it. She endured fittings for the amazing gown she would wear for Harmonia's ball. She entertained a group of old gentlemen, friends of her husband. Nothing much was required of her, other than to look beautiful and be magnificently dressed, to smile when spoken to, and to nod agreement. So far, her husband's wrath had not fallen on her head. Another dinner, this time at Lord Maldon's. She thought the man a rake and a wastrel, but no hint of her contempt was discernible to an onlooker. At least Harmonia did not yet dine out with them, and so Letty was spared the presence of the one who seemed responsible for the disaster.
Lord Fanshawe did not require her services in his bed that night, which was a blessed relief to Letty. Until he had banished Jane, she had been willing enough to do her duty. Now that he had behaved like any other master, capricious and exacting, she saw no reason to respect him in her heart. She allowed the maids to brush out her hair, and clothe her in her a fresh silk shift for the night, and then she huddled in her bed with a single candle beside her, her worn copy of The Governess her escape from a hostile world.
"…Miss Jenny endeavoured to dry up her tears, and then said, 'Although I cannot but be pleased, my dear companions, at every mark of your affection for me; yet I beg that you would not give me the pain to see that I make so many dear friends unhappy. Let us submit cheerfully to this separation (which, believe me, is as deeply felt by me as any of you) because it is our duty so to do; and let me entreat you to be comforted'… Miss Jenny's friends could not answer her but by sobs and tears; only little Polly Suckling, running to her, clung about her neck, and cried, 'Indeed, indeed, Miss Jenny, you must not go; I shall break my heart, if I lose you: sure we shan't, nor we can't, be half so happy, when you are gone, though our governess was ten times better to us than she is.'
It was with the utmost difficulty, that Miss Jenny refrained from shedding tear for tear with her kind companions; but as it was her constant maxim to partake with her friends all her pleasure, and to confine her sorrows as much as possible within her own bosom, she chose rather to endeavour, by her own cheerfulness and innocent talk, to steal insensibly from the bosoms of her little companions half their sorrow; and they begin to appear tolerably easy…"
She nodded over the book, and then fell into a deep sleep. Julie Maupin peered around the door, and came and gathered up the novel from the satin coverlet, where Letty had dropped it.
Madame was very unhappy. Julie and Veronique discussed it, in the privacy of the little room they shared. Their sweet Madame was in too much awe of Monsieur le Vicomte to say anything, but they had seen the light leave her eyes, and seen her face turn to stone. Monsieur was exigeant, he was not courteous in the way he had driven Madame's plain but clever sister from the house. Such folly over a miserable sandwich! They considered what they could and could not do, and came to no conclusion, other than to stay with Madame, and see what developed. They agreed that they were Madame's servants, not the old Vicomte's, and their loyalty must be to her.
-----
"Sir John Tavington and Colonel Tavington to see you, my lord."
"Show them into my private study, Dunner."
Not an unexpected event. The Tavington brothers were bound to be offended at the treatment of their ladies. No matter. There was nothing they could do about it, as Fanshawe intended to make clear to them.
"Ah, gentlemen," he said breezily, as he entered. The two tall men were standing before that lovely pair of Tanagra figurines, muttering together.
"Fanshawe," answered Sir John, looking rather grim. Tavington said nothing as the two brothers bowed, and merely eyed Fanshawe with frigid menace.
"And how may I serve you?"
"You might explain what caused you to treat Mrs. Tavington and my sisters in such a way!" John answered at once.
"I might," agreed Fanshawe equably, "but I see no need to do so. A man's home is his castle, and one is always free to eject those whose presence is unwelcome."
"It was cowardly, and crude, and unbecoming any man who claims to be a gentleman," Tavington drawled slowly, blue fires still under control.
"And ridiculous, too!" interjected John. "Such a to-do about a woman taking a sandwich! A man shouldn't quarrel over such a petty thing"
"Yes," smiled Fanshawe, "The immediate cause itself was a small matter, perhaps. I do regret not having made myself clearer beforehand. One lets these things go until they are simply intolerable. Mrs. Tavington colluded in a childish trick that disrupted my salon and resulted in the departure of one I consider a friend. Lady Fanshawe, too, is now deprived of a lady I considered a suitable companion. Not satisfied with that, Mrs. Tavington was uncivil to the Dowager Lady Carteret."
John answered hotly, "Old Lady Carteret is a damned fool and a nasty piece of work!"
"Oh my!" laughed Fanshawe. "That was rude. See how easy it is? The dowager, however, is a woman of noble birth, which confers certain privileges of which Mrs. Tavington appears ignorant. It was a distasteful scene, and one I will not permit repeated. It was time for her to go and cease interfering in my domestic life. Obviously, I could not send her away unaccompanied, thus the unfortunate inclusion of your sisters. I do regret any inconvenience to them, but what is done is done, and as far as I am concerned, so ends any connection between our two families."
"Not quite," Tavington growled. He approached Fanshawe and fixed the peer with a long gaze. "You insulted my wife and my sisters. It is always a man's duty to demand satisfaction. In this case, my lord, it would be—a real pleasure."
"Dear me!" cried Lord Fanshawe. "Are you calling me out? How frightening! The famed Colonel Tavington, hero of the American War, the "Butcher of the Carolinas"—I know perhaps more than you are aware of your exploits—is going to challenge a old man of seventy-two? How will that appear to the world? It won't do, Colonel. I will not meet you."
Tavington eyes blazed. "Then I shall name you a coward before all the world!"
"Do that, if it pleases you. What you don't understand, gentlemen, is that I really don't care what the world thinks. You do, however. Consider yourselves fortunate that I am not so stupid as to accept a challenge that would quite possibly destroy your futures. Now, if that is all, I must be at my tailor's in half an hour. Dunner will show you out."
Tavington snarled, and seized Fanshawe by his coat, his fingernails scoring the lush velvet. "I should thrash you like a dog!"
John caught at his brother's hands. "Don't Will. It's what he wants. Let go, old fellow." After a moment, Tavington loosened his grip, and stepped back, glaring at Fanshawe with loathing.
"Thank you, Sir John," replied Fanshawe, smoothing himself back into elegance. "That was very wise of you. I do not doubt, Colonel, that you could best me at fisticuffs—at any sort of brutal, mindless violence--just as I did not doubt that your wife could have shot me down the other day. I believe the thought actually crossed her mind, and it is likely that she was carrying her preferred weapon. Such a bloody-minded pair, the two of you. Not at all the sort of persons fit to associate with Lady Fanshawe. Do go, before this charade escalates, and all of us find ourselves in tiresome difficulties."
"Let's go, Will," John said giving his brother's sleeve a tug. "This is useless."
"If I hear you have harmed Letty," growled Tavington, as a parting shot, deliberately using her Christian name, "I shall hunt you down and kill you, whatever the consequences."
"Indeed, I would thoroughly deserve it," agreed Lord Fanshawe, with a graceful bow. "As that is hardly likely, pray save your breath. Lady Fanshawe is very well, by the way, and has uttered not a word of protest since Mrs. Tavington's abrupt departure."
-----The Tavington brothers went home directly after seeing Fanshawe, to give their ladies the unsatisfactory news. They went out again soon after, telling their friends and associates at their clubs, at the House of Commons, and at Horse Guards about Fanshawe's outrageous behavior.
"It is pointless to keep it quiet, Will." John said, thinking it over. "The insult was so public and egregious that our answer must be equally so. If we don't speak up, people may think that Fanshawe had some sort of justification for his conduct. I'm going to tell everyone I know, and I'm going to mention it at dinner tonight. You'd do well to do the same. Tell all your officer friends that the blackguard refused to meet you. He says he doesn't care what people think, but I can't entirely believe that."
"You're right." Tavington was determined to make the old scoundrel as uncomfortable as possible as he could without doing anything that might injure Letty. Jane was terribly concerned about Letty, and had cried herself to sleep last night. Caro and Pen were humiliated and miserable, but were improving after a perfect storm of notes and visits from well-wishers. The gossip about Lord Fanshawe's disgraceful treatment of the Tavington ladies was in every ear, and the additional news that Colonel Tavington had challenged the peer, and that the challenge had been refused, would soon add fuel to the fire. The two brothers spent a pleasantly angry afternoon, denouncing Fanshawe as a damnable poltroon, and a stupid old villain, jealous of the two sisters' mutual affection.
Opinion was generally against Lord Fanshawe. He had behaved very badly, and some, who had thought his marriage a sign that he intended a more reputable life than had been his wont, decided to quietly withdraw from his acquaintance. A few could not quite blame him for refusing the challenge, on the grounds of the great imbalance of years and skill between the two adversaries. These voices were dismissed by others, who remarked that if Lord Fanshawe did not wish to fight, he ought equally to refrain from insulting ladies.
Rumors branched out from the stem of gossip, more fanciful but more intriguing: the quarrel was really over the beautiful Lady Fanshawe, for whom Colonel Tavington cherished a secret passion; the quarrel concerned Lord Fanshawe's ward, whom some suspected of atendresse for the handsome Tavington. The story was settling into a long run of delightful speculation, and promised to last the Season, or until some juicier scandal were to supercede it.
There was still the dinner to arrange, of course. Jane was in low spirits, but knew that she must not let the rest of the family down because of them. After a hasty consultation on Thursday, the lost Fanshawes had been replaced by some newer acquaintances with literary pretensions, with Sir Joshua Reynolds, with Bellini—to whom Jane wished to show gratitude and attention--and with an acquaintance of Caroline's, Mrs. Montagu, a noted member of the Bluestocking circle. The dinner was ordered, the table decorated, the house made welcoming for the distinguished guests. Jane looked on her work, and it was good, but her heart still ached for her sister.
It really was very trying to attempt to be a cheerful hostess, especially when the guest of honor was putting her off her own dinner. Doctor Johnson, however sublime the words he put to paper, was distressingly coarse in the too, too solid flesh. Rather than dining, he attacked the food, as if fearing it would be snatched from him. He sucked down his soup like a water closet drain. Little gobbets dropped from his moist, full lips. He chewed noisily, his mouth horribly open. Jane took to looking at him only after he had taken a sip from his wineglass. He sat back, hands on his swollen belly, brow knit in thought. She was glad such a great man had dined at her table, if only because he seemed to relish a good meal. Caroline and Penelope, bless them, kept up the flow of talk, encouraging the Doctor to begin again as soon as he fell silent.
"—and then I said, 'Sir, I perceive you are a vile Whig--'"
The table laughed appreciatively. Jane gave her best, most practiced smile, hardly hearing the flow of wit. She saw that the guests were helped to the best of the fish and chicken, to the most curious and delicious of the fruits and puddings, to the finest wines. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, which was as it should be. She was not. She felt herself outside the circle of diners, separated from them by anxiety for her sister. The dinner lasted very nearly forever, and when the ladies withdrew, the men sat long over the wine and talk.
Naturally, the ladies wanted to know first-hand about the outrage at Fanshawe House, now called "The Battle of the Sandwich." Jane let Caroline and Penelope begin the tale, but found that everyone wanted to know what she and Lord Fanshawe had said to one another.
Jane had thought hard about what to say. In the end, she decided that truth was best. She was not going to dismiss his behavior as a mere nothing. She was not going to say that she had not been made very unhappy by her separation from her sister. Instead, she told the story honestly, beginning with her opinion of the dowager Lady Carteret and the quack Malahyde, and their treatment of poor young Lady Carteret.
"Now that she has left London, she is wholly in their power. I fear for her health, but I pray all may be well."
She told them that Lord Fanshawe had never liked her and had been looking for a pretext to separate her from her sister. "'The Battle of the Sandwich,' indeed! It might as well have 'The Battle of the Snuffbox' or 'The Battle of the Toothpick Case.' The cause was a paltry one, and merely the excuse for something long premeditated."
"Well, I am sorry to hear it," commented Mrs. Montagu. "I am told that Lady Fanshawe is very lovely and amiable. I should like to know her."
"Oh, she is!" Jane agreed fervently. "And I hope you do make her acquaintance. Please do not think that because I have quarreled with her husband, I would want my sister deprived of good company!"
She was tired of talking over the sad business, and went to the instrument to play. This was met with admiration, and it appeared that every lady present was musically inclined. It had never occurred before at any evening party Jane had attended, but it was quite interesting for each lady to take a turn at amusing the others. The Tavington sisters played and sang a charming duet, Mrs. Montagu performed upon the harp, very creditably. Mrs. and Miss Paget knew some fresh and lively pieces by a young Italian named Clementi. Jane liked them, and resolved to ask Bellini about the composer.
They were so well entertained that Jane was a little sorry when the men finally joined them and dominated the conversation. She did not feel equal to attempts at wit, and so effaced herself quietly, content to make the tea and see that all her guests were cared for. After a little while, William came over to stand by her.
"You look tired, Jane," he murmured. "Do you need to leave the party?"
"No," she said, smiling brightly for the rest of the room, "I shall last well enough."
-----
The full range of gossip did not spread to Fanshawe House, and Letty was ignorant of most of it. She was too afraid of her husband even to try to pump her servants for information. She dressed, she paid morning calls all afternoon, in the company of her husband and Harmonia. Like Jane, she smiled brightly, and said little. There was little to say. On Sunday, she did not ask Lord Fanshawe's leave, but dressed and went to church as usual. Harmonia appeared as she was leaving, almost galloping down the stairs, demanding her cloak.
"Are you going to church, Lady Fanshawe?"
"Yes, of course."
"I want to go, too! Anything to get out of the house!"
"If you like."
She said nothing else to the girl: nothing in the carriage, nothing in the big, opulent church, nothing during the ride back. She went to her room to have Veronique carefully remove her hat, leaving Harmonia behind. From time to time, she had thought the girl was working herself up to some sort of speech, but Letty looked away, not wanting to hear anything from her.
Instead, she went downstairs to the Painted Parlor, feeling that it was a gilded prison. She looked ruefully at her desk, wishing to write a letter. To whom could she write? Lord Fanshawe had forbidden her to write to her sister, and Lord Carteret did not wish her to write to his wife. Whom did she know worth a letter? The predatory ladies whose company her husband enjoyed were all here in London, and Letty did not like them anyway. Whom else did she know? Everyone else was some connection of the Tavingtons or of her sister. Letty laughed desperately. It was a sorry thing, when she would consider writing a letter to Miss Gilpin, who had never known her as anything but a slave. She could not imagine what she could write to her, anyway. She considered writing to that poor little orphan, Deborah Porter, to whom she had sent some books in January, but she supposed that was forbidden as well, since the child would be regarded as a dependent of the Tavingtons.
Unable to find anything else to do, she studied her Italian until she was sick of it, and then sat down to her music and practiced diligently for an hour and a half.
"Lascia ch'io pianga
mia cruda sorte,
e che sospiri la libertà."
She did not look up until the servant entered, and told her she was wanted in the drawing room for tea.
Surprisingly, only Lord Fanshawe and Harmonia were there. Letty sighed, and then trembled at having so exposed her feelings. Her hands shook as she made the tea. Lord Fanshawe did not appear to notice her anxiety, but took the opportunity to announce his plans for Letty's future lessons.
"Bellini will be here tomorrow. As you seem to learn well with a companion, Harmonia will now share your Italian lesson."
The young blond girl groaned. "I have already studied Italian! I'm too old for lessons!" she objected. "I'm not an ignoramus, like some people!"
Lord Fanshawe rewarded this piece of impertinence with an icy stare until his ward fell into confused and anxious silence. Then he said, "I thank you for your attention. As I said, Bellini comes tomorrow. You will exert yourselves, particularly at the musical portion of the lesson. Bellini is here as a teacher of music and Italian, and not as a gossip or messenger. If I find that he is so used, he will be dismissed, and will not enter this house again. I hope there will be no difficulties."
"No, my lord," Harmonia gulped.
"Lady Fanshawe?"
"No, my lord," replied Letty, head bowed humbly, eyes on the floor. If you looked a master in the eye, he might consider it an insolence, and strike you down.
There was a pause. Fanshawe felt a brief flutter of concern at such utter submission. Was this—fear? He dismissed such an absurd idea, and continued. "I shall apprise Bellini of my terms beforehand. I've no doubt he is a discreet fellow, and knows not to bite the hand that feeds him."
Letty said nothing, and handed him his teacup.
"Ah. Delicious. Well done, my dear Lady Fanshawe, as you do everything."
He chatted a little longer about the upcoming ball, and Letty made him soft, appeasing answers. Harmonia revived a little, hearing about her ball, wishing that she might be allowed to express some opinions about it. She had tried, not a week ago, and her ideas had been dismissed without a hearing. Still, it was a Ball, and she would be Out, and that was something. Then she would be presented at Court, and then perhaps she would find someone as handsome as Colonel Tavington, and he would ask for her hand, and she would be away from this place--
The butler appeared, needing to consult his lordship. Fanshawe excused himself and the door shut behind him, leaving the two young women together. Letty sipped her tea in silence, hating the sight of the plates of bread and butter, the plate of cake, and the horrible, horrible plate of sandwiches. She hated above all the sight of sandwiches. She would like to smash the plate on the floor. It was entertaining, in a frightening way, to imagine grabbing up the plate, the bright, brittle noise, the pieces scattering, the look on Harmonia's face—
She shook her head, and glanced at Harmonia. The girl was slumped in her chair, her mouth wobbling.
Finally, she managed, "'S'notfairShouldn'thavetodolessonss'notfair!"
Letty looked at her and made no answer.
Provoked by her silence, Harmonia screamed out, "It's not fair! I hate it here! I shouldn't have to do lessons! I'm no better than a slave!"
A sharp twang, like a snapped bowstring, galvanized Letty. Instantly, she was on her feet, and dashing at Harmonia. A loudcrack! and her hand stung with the force the slap. Harmonia was gaping up at her, her mouth open in astonishment. Letty stared back disbelieving, and then her rage rose up in her like wings and she hit the girl again. Harmonia shrieked, and slipped from the chair to the floor.
"You stupid little wench!" Letty hissed. "You don't know anything! Think you're a slave, with your fine room and your silks and your school for young ladies? You make me sick with your whining. Has your father sold you off on an auction block to a whorehouse? Has anybody made you work out in the sun, picking worms off tobacco leaves? Do you have to fetch water, chop wood, carry out slops, sew 'til your fingers bleed? What's your father done to you? Made you learn lessons so you can be a fine lady! Did he whip your skin off your back, or put you in the stocks, or give you to his friends to rape? You don't know anything!"
Harmonia cowered, hands lifted to protect her face, "I'll tell! I'll tell him you hit me!"
"You just go and tell him! You just do that, you little tell-tale! That's all you're good for! Whining and tattling, and making life miserable for everybody! Poor Lady Carteret may die because you couldn't keep your blabbing mouth shut! Does that make you feel good? I'll just bet it does! Think you're so smart, Miss Young Ladies' Academy? Will it make you happy if she dies?"
Harmonia's pink face dissolved into tears. "She was doing something she wasn't supposed to! Everybody hates me! Why did you take me out of school? I liked it there! Lord Fanshawe won't let me see my friends, and you hate me, and everything's all wrong!" Her last words were gurgled, barely understandable as she burst out into sobs.
Letty stood over her, still shaking with anger. "I took you out? I never did! That was your father! Don't you blame me! I had my sister and her family, and I was fine until you stuck your turned-up nose where it don't belong! You think everybody hates you? You don't like leaving your friends? Well, too bad! You've done nothing but insult me and my sister since we met you, so don't go crying about people not liking you! You haven't done much to deserve anything else!"
"I'm sorry!" Harmonia sobbed. "Don't hit me again!"
That hurt. Letty suffered a twinge of guilt. She had never struck anyone before. Her eyes burned. Absently, she felt in her pocket for a handkerchief. "Here," she said, feeling terribly tired. "Wipe your face. It's not me you should apologize to. Did you ever think about Lady Carteret? Does she deserve to be starved and bled dry? She never did anything to you."
"Sorry—sorry," Harmonia moaned, clutching gratefully at the handkerchief. "I didn't think! But—the doctor said so—and you have to do what the doctor says—and her mother—"
"And how was it your business to tattle to them?"
Sulkily, Harmonia wiped her nose. "It's what we did at school. Our Headmistress made a special time for each of us so we could tell her what other girls were doing. She gave us hot chocolate in flowered cups and sometimes orange biscuits. I liked being with her. If you told her enough, she let you wear a pink velvet rose that week."
"Well, this is life, not a little girls' school, and what you tell people matters. You go on about being grown-up, but you act like you're about five years old—whining and pouting and nothing being good enough for you—"
"I said I was sorry!" Harmonia wailed. Letty sighed and collapsed into Harmonia's chair. The girl was still on the floor, her petticoats billowing around her. "You don't think Lady Carteret really will die, do you?"
"I don't know. I hope she's all right, but surely you can see that starving her doesn't make any sense! My Mama—"
She stopped. Harmonia was looking at her. "What about your mother?"
"You don't want to hear about my mother."
"Yes, I do. Do you remember your mother? I don't know anything about mine. Was she pretty?"
"She was beautiful and kind and wise," whispered Letty. "She loved me more than anything."
"She sounds nice," sniffled Harmonia, wriggling closer to Letty. "What happened to her?"
"A bad man shot her dead."
Harmonia started back in horror. "She was killed? In the war?"
"Yes. She was killed right in front of me."
"That's—horrible," the girl whispered, wide-eyed. "Was Mrs. Tavington there too?"
"Yes. That's why she has a pistol now."
"Oh." Harmonia shivered. A curtain had been drawn back, and a world—a frightening world—of violence and cruelty had been exposed. "Did Colonel Tavington save you?"
"He came later. He wasn't in time to save Mama."
"I'm sorry." The girl struggled with concepts and events that felt much too big for her. She found something within her grasp. "Do you think she would have liked England?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"What would your mother have said about Lady Carteret? You were about to tell me."
"She would have said that Doctor Malahyde was a quack, and that women need healthy nourishing food to build babies. She didn't hold with bleeding either. She knew all about herbs and raising children, and my sister and I grew up healthy and strong because of her."
"Your father—didn't he protect her –?"
"She was a slave. She belonged to my sister's mother. He raped her, and got me on her, and when he was tired of her, he kept her to be my sister's nurse. She dressed in fustian and home-spun, and he never even asked about her when she didn't come back from the backcountry. She was nothing to him but a slave, so don't you ever compare how your father treats you to what she went through."
Harmonia's jaw dropped further. Here was more of the real world. She could think of nothing clever to say. Now and then, schoolmates had left school, when their fathers had died or when there was no more money for schooling. Harmonia had never considered that her father might just as well left her to be raised by her mother—whoever or whatever she was—and that she could be selling apples in the street or making lace in a cellar. She did now.
"I won't tell," she promised. "I won't tell anyone that your mother was—a slave. But—" she considered, thinking a little longer, "I don't understand. Don't you have to be a Negro to be a slave? How could she be a slave?"
"Actually," Letty told her, "what makes a slave is a bill of sale. But yes, my mother's grandmother on her father's side was African. Her own mother was Cherokee. There are lots of Indian slaves in the Carolinas, captured during raids and battles."
"An Indian! Really! That's very interesting! Do you have any Indian things, like—wampum or beads or feathers?"
Letty looked down at her wearily.
Harmonia blushed. "Did that sound very stupid?"
"Never mind. Of course I don't. Do you think slaves keep their valuables? They've been robbed of their freedom, so naturally the slavers rob them of everything else too. I never knew my grandmother, anyway. It doesn't matter. I don't care if you tell. I'm not ashamed of my good, kind mother. My father was a rich white gentleman, but he was mean and greedy and vicious. If I ashamed of anybody, he's the one."
"But you had to do what he said when you lived with him."
"That's right. Fathers have to obeyed. So do guardians. It doesn't do any good to argue with Lord Fanshawe. You must do as he says without whining and complaining."
"So do you. He is your husband."
"Do I whine and complain?"
"Never," Harmonia admitted, in a very small voice. "But it still isn't fair."
"No, it isn't fair, but it's just the way life is. You can't see your schoolfriends, and I can't see my sister. Do you think that's fair?"
"No. What are we going to do?
We? Letty considered. Harmonia had never said anything before that indicated that she thought the two of them had anything in common. Perhaps they did.
"We are going to have our Italian lesson tomorrow. We will talk with Signor Bellini, who is a kind friend, and smile and do our best, and maybe learn a new song. Those are not such terrible things, Harmonia."
"I suppose not. I'm tired."
"I am, too. Let me look at you." The girl's cheek was still red. "Put some cold water on a cloth and lie down with it on your face. Take a nap before dinner. And then—"
"Then—" the girl quavered.
"Then we just get through every day as it comes."
-----
Sunday dinner was another quiet meal, at least for Letty. There were others at the table: Lord Fanshawe's secretaries, and his old friend Lord Rowley, and a gentleman with whom he was discussing improvements to Salton Park. Letty smiled and nodded through the meal, and was pleased to see that Harmonia was trying to do the same. When the gentleman joined them in the drawing room, they performed obediently, singing and playing, and then conversing—which meant agreeing with what the gentlemen said. Letty was glad to see the last of them, and was even more glad at how nicely Harmonia said goodnight to the two of them
"Well, that was an improvement," remarked Lord Fanshawe. His sources had informed him that Lady Fanshawe had finally had enough of Miss James and had slapped her face, though the witness, regrettably, had heard very little of the ensuing conversation. "I am quite certain that it is you doing, Lady Fanshawe. You have been an excellent influence on the child."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Yes, I have great hopes of your becoming friends at last. I grant I would have preferred if it could have happened 'at first,' but better late than never."
Letty nodded, her eyes on the floor.
"It has not escaped me, dear Lady Fanshawe, that you have not been in the best spirits since the events of last Wednesday. And yet, you have not reproached me or pleaded for me to alter my resolve."
"I thought it would be useless."
"Very astute of you," Fanshawe observed, quite pleased with her. "Useless indeed. In time, I trust, you will understand the necessity of the break. I deem it for the best. It escapes me how you can regret the company of one who must always remind you of your past oppression and servitude. Resentment would be perfectly natural."
"I do not resent my sister," Letty replied, greatly daring. "I love her. She was always sweet to me and protected me."
"Nonetheless, a separation is desirable. You are not her satellite, but a star in your own right. I can see that you are not convinced."
"I miss her, and I am worried about her, especially with so many worries as she has now."
"Oh? What worries?"
Briefly, Letty told him about the search for the mysterious box of ivory and ebony, the missing nurse, and the prying substitute. Lord Fanshawe seemed interested, so she went on, detailing the visit from Sir Edward Claypoole, the search of the lawyer's chambers, and the attempt to locate the missing object. Lord Fanshawe's smile grew as she told her story, and at the end, he burst into a hearty laugh. Letty stared at him, hurt, and then remembered to look away before he could meet her eye. Curiously, her afternoon confrontation with Harmonia gave her the strength to object to his response to her tale.
Softly but feelingly, she said, "It's cruel to laugh at me, my lord. It's cruel to take me from my sister and my friends and then laugh at me."
Fanshawe sat back in his comfortable chair, still very entertained "My dear Lady Fanshawe, calm yourself. I am not so lost to good breeding as to laugh at you. No, I am much amused at the antics of your sister's husband and the rest of the Tavingtons. It is unlikely that they will discover any of Lady Cecily's secrets."
"Really?" Letty sat and thought, and decided to see if he would tell her more. "Why is that?"
Her husband smiled slowly, considering. "You cannot write to your sister about this. I want your word of honor."
Letty sighed. "My word of honor, my lord. I already promised not to write my sister about anything."
"Nor any of the other Tavingtons, nor anyone else who might inform them. In fact, I forbid you to put this information to paper."
"On my word of honor, I will not."
"Very well," said Fanshawe, delighted to be able to tell someone his secret joke. "They will not find the box, because they are looking where Lady Cecily might have hidden it. I know for a fact that said box left her possession in 1765. She may have raved about it in her last illness, but she knew no more than they where it was in reality."
"But then, who has it?"
Fanshawe leaned forward, smiling with malicious delight.
"If anyone could be said to have it, I suppose it would be Mad Jack Tavington himself."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I buried the box with him, the day of his funeral."
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Next: Lost Ladies