Day following the Feast of the Epiphany, January 1776
It is silly, I do not disagree, to begin this entry upon the subject of cake. Cake, after I have been with mother to visit Major Edmund Hewlett at Whitehall. The most powerful man for miles, one of the grandest homes hereabouts. And yet what can I speak of, but tea cakes?
But what cake it was to be had! Light as cloud, and pale as downy white skin. The Judge's Aberdeen must have used three cups of sugar and no less than four eggs in the making of them. Baked so delicately they melted away in my mouth like savoring the best memory of happier times.
These tea cakes were not yesterday's leftovers, not excess from what had been made for celebrating the Feast of the Epiphany. No, they were freshly baked.
Small wonder, Mama said, that Major Hewlett chose Whitehall for his lodging, with sweets such as those on-hand. And a magician such as the Woodhull's Aberdeen to be at his disposal.
On the way home I suggested to Mama that perhaps Aberdeen were courting the Major to free her from Judge Woodhull the magistrate, as the Major had freed the Strong slaves through his order of an attainder placed upon their property.
"Hush!" said Mama sharply.
But of course Major Hewlett will not issue an attainder against Judge Woodhull. For what cause might he do so? They are peas in a pod, and it is clear would walk about from room to room arm-in-arm were the space to allow for it. (Whitehall is impressively spacious.)
The winter weather has been mild, going on a sennight. The lack of snow upon the ground allowed Mama to use our wagon for travel. She did not take Cleopas along to drive us, but took the reins herself-something I cannot recall her doing in recent memory. At the time I thought perhaps she felt him overtaxed in his duties, between waiting upon the lieutenants who make our home their billet, and my father's frequent indisposition.
I even thought at the time that perhaps she wished to make a point to my father (who did not travel with us) that she desired another servant, a young boy, perhaps, to effect such tasks for her, to add another elevation to whom we are become among the village.
Our ride there was largely silent, myriad questions washing over my mind, feelings of excitement at finally (for I had never been) being within Whitehall, wonder over what my mother thought to do once we were there. It was not the usual time for making calls. She had received no invitation from the Major to my knowledge (and I would know such a thing-it would be a matter of some Importance).
"Mind yourself, Jenny," she told me as we arrived and one of the soldiers standing guard took the reins to lead the horses and our wagon away. "This is not your father's dinnertable." Which I suppose was to mean I was to keep my opinion on blue coats to myself.
She did not acknowledge the laudable job I had done during the drive here of keeping my thoughts (some of them quite forceful) to myself. One must presume she did not mark it.
It was Judge Woodhull-in truth, Magistrate Richard Woodhull, but 'judge' he is often known as colloquially, although before the soldiers came 'Richard' was generally thought grand enough under most social circumstances-who interrupted the guard my mother was telling-for the second time-her name and that she wished to be shown in to see the Major. We were standing upon the small porch, and I-if not she-was growing dismayed that we were not instantly let in out of the cold.
"Claire!" Judge Woodhull exclaimed as he opened the door and recognized Mama. When his wife was alive, and Whitehall was no stranger to society and entertainments, Mama and Papa attended upon the Woodhulls often enough.
The Judge, with but a nod for me, held the guard at bay by assuring him we were wanted (though we were not invited) and ushered us into the entryway.
Were it not for other happenings of which I feel I must write, be assured I could devote several pages to the glory that is the Woodhull's Whitehall. (When I was a child, I thought their house simply named 'Woodhull' after the family.) It is rich in color and decoration, and yet not at all ostentatious. I do not know who was responsible for the arrangement of it, whether Mrs. Woodhull, or her husband. It may also be true that Abraham's wife (and Bess' acquaintance, Mary) may have left her mark upon it as well.
I think it must be the very epitome of taste and refinement, and it surpasses any splendor that might be found for miles.
It is said there is a hearth in every room, and though I did not have the honor of seeing every room to confirm this, the warmth upon entering from the cold out-of-doors could not be denied.
I studied everything, attempting to memorize each detail in order to recall it later, and perhaps at another time I shall write upon its glories further.
Although the household was clearly surprised at the appearance of Mrs. Outerbridge and her youngest daughter, there was nothing of kerfuffle to be seen or heard in their making ready to receive us.
Major Hewlett, we were told, was finishing breaking his fast, and would sit with us upon his completion. I know Mama well enough to feel her neck stiffen at the notion of a man only now eating his morning meal when we ladies had been up and about for several hours this day. Mama has never cared for men of leisure, no matter their station in life, and the idea that the man tasked with the welfare of all Setauket was so little needed in managing the village's affairs that he could indulge in a lie-in was, even to me, surprising.
Pleasantries were exchanged with Judge Woodhull, and for a few moments Mary Woodhull joined us.
"Have you seen the Loch Lomond, Miss Outerbridge?" she asked me, and I let her know I had never before visited Whitehall.
"Now, I am certain that cannot be true-" the Judge began to protest.
"You are perhaps thinking of our Elisabeth," Mama interjected, smoothly suggesting that he had momentarily mistaken me for Bess in order to save him from the embarrassment of his error. (Though Bess is decidedly French in her looks, and I am fair of hair, as are Papa's people.)
The Judge wisely let the matter drop with a smile and a half-exhale. I do not know if he understood Mama's (far-fetched) deflection of his misplaced notion for the courtesy it was.
Mary Woodhull asked after Bess' health and said a few pleasant things about her company at the sewing circles she held at Whitehall, and encouraged me to remind someone that I should like to see the Loch Lomond before we departed.
When the Major arrived, Mary Woodhull excused herself, perhaps understanding (even as I did not) that this was to be an interview of business with the Major. Judge Woodhull held his place, though I could not shake the feeling that Mama would rather he hadn't.
Major Edmund Hewlett, I found to be a gentlemen impeccably presented. He has a very pronounced jaw, but wears this feature in such a way one might call it elegant. His wig is fine and well-kept-truly no hair out of place. His uniform is not so very differentiated from those of the men who guard Whitehall (and it is, of course, a red coat), but it is beautifully tailored and kept in fine shape. His stockings showed no sag. His buckles and buttons, his gorget, seemed to shine and dazzle even when in shadow.
His mien is stiff, but this appears to be the acceptable standard for men of his military rank.
"Mrs-" it seemed the Major had abruptly misplaced Mama's surname.
Judge Woodhull spoke up. "Mrs. Claire Outerbridge, may I present Major Edmund Hewlett," he introduced them, "and her daughter, Jenny." (Correctly, he present me to the Major as opposed to the other way 'round. I am young and female and hold no particular standing here.) Then he went quickly on to aid the Major in making the connection. "You know Malachi Outerbridge down in the village..."
And so we were delicately and appropriately introduced. Not a pin out of place.
Mama, apparently feeling that her small talk had been accomplished with Judge Woodhull in the previous quarter hour, wasted no time into getting down to the business I had not apprehended we were here to address.
"You must forgive our uninvited intrusion, Major Hewlett," she began,
The Major attempted to wave it away, as though he was regularly pleased to find a duo of ladies interrupting his meals.
Judge Woodhull, probably never a man with a dearth of curiosity, leaned forward in his chair as if not to miss a thing.
Mama did not seem to mark it. "I think you will agree it would be unbecoming and unsuitable for my daughter and I to call upon you at your other-quarters," she said, giving our church now full of his horses a nicer name than it deserves.
"Yes, yes, of course," the Major replied, eager to agree.
How I am glad I was not made to again tread the floors of Reverend's Tallmadge church, now littered with straw and manure. And to attempt to bridle my comments therein.
"I am come to speak with you on Lieutenant Davis," her words were crisp and exact. It was immediately clear to me she had practiced what she meant to say, the impression she meant to make (perhaps even down to driving us here herself), "who late last night, in a display of drunkenness, made certain improprietous overtures to my daughter while she was unchaperoned in our home. I will be brief in my petition, and ask only how soon he might be removed from proximity to my daughter."
Major Hewlett looked as though my mother had withdrawn a fish from her reticule and slapped him upon the cheek with it.
Judge Woodhull began vigorously clearing his throat several times.
Can it be so unthinkable to them that a man could behave thus? Or can it only be that they were, rather, shocked at my mother for telling them of it?
Did it seem unladylike to them? Petite, dark-haired Claire Outerbridge, her public deportment unmatched among (what amounts to) Setauket society, speaking against a soldier of no fortune or family who has forced his attentions upon her daughter. Did they find it immodest? Scandalous?
If so, it is no small task for me to understand how my mother speaking candidly of what occurred last night ought bring with it for her any degree of shame, as she has behaved in ways nothing less than unassailably correct.
"Oh dear," Major Hewlett finally found his voice to exclaim, clearly showing his distress if not revealing its source (the actions of the Lieutenant or my mother's reporting of them). "You are not...injured, I trust?" he addressed me directly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Mama would have preferred his question to come to her.
Injured was the word he chose, but I knew the word behind it. Had I been forced by the Lieutenant? Taken against my will? But no one would say a word such as rape, here.
"I am," I replied, choosing my words with care, knowing they were significant. "As well as ever I was yesterday morn."
Hewlett visibly sighed in relief, and looked to Judge Woodhull. "Richard, what are the-legal implications in such a matter, if any?"
Before giving any answer, the Judge looked to my mother. "Malachi is not coming?"
My mother shook her head.
"It would usually be the father to bring such a charge," he said.
Mama continued to address herself exclusively to the Major. "I have no desire to share this with my husband. I can think of no recourse he might wish to take, save challenging your soldier to a duel of some sort. And I think," she raised her brows to Major Hewlett, "we've neither of us a wish for that."
"No, no. Goodness no!" the Major agreed, but did not continue on speaking, and offered no immediate solution to the problem Mama had presented him. Rather, he sat and looked half-flummoxed (if sternly so).
"Our Elisabeth," I heard her say, "is soon enough to leave us for York City-"
"Ma-m-" I cut in, in surprise at this news, and at hearing it in this way, but Mama kept speaking, her voice rising slightly in volume to cover up my rude interruption.
"...which will give us more space. Her room will be vacant, and for the loss of Lieutenant Davis we may board two officers in his place, and yet keep on Lieutenant Williams."
"Two?" Major Hewlett responded with some surprise, but was clearly pleased. Only Strong Manor housed more British troops.
Mama smiled in a benevolent way she knew well to make use of. (She has used it to great effect with me often in the past.) "I shall trust you may know best which ones will comport themselves as gentlemen when around my daughter," she made it sound of a high compliment, "I cannot, and am confident your discernment in such matters is in harmony with mine, Major: I cannot have my daughters be treated as low women," she spoke as if she and the Major were natural allies, not one stroke to her speech as though they were on opposing sides of the problem at hand. "Drunken soldiers in a house with ladies is an invitation to disaster."
"Yes," he appeared genuinely aggrieved. "Yes, of course."
Throughout this Judge Woodhull looked dismayed, though blandly so.
Mama and the Major continued to discuss the means and manner of picking two-two!-new soldiers to add to our household, to eat our food and create extra work for our servants and crowd us out of our rooms, our pianoforte. (Outerbridges will soon be outnumbered in our own home), while I thought on Bess finally being granted her long-dreamed-for trip to York City, and on me learning of it in this roundabout way.
I felt exhausted between the night before and this very unexpected morning.
The Judge stood and asked if I should like to see the Loch Lomond, it was in Major Hewlett's bedchamber, but he would be happy to accompany me upstairs while Mama and Major Hewlett completed their business.
I accepted without a second thought. Whatever I might have to say to Richard Woodhull could not be as treacherous as the task of minding my deportment around a British Major.
As for the Loch Lomond, the Major's chamber is well-lit, and the painting (of which all Setauket at one time or another had heard) is beautiful to experience.
But Judge Woodhull, who may view it every day anytime (well, nearly anytime) he wishes, was not much interested in the art.
"You have grown, Jenny," he told me as I looked at the painting not being at all attentive to his desire to get me alone. "You are a young woman now, though I can recall you yet as a young little thing when Abraham attended the village school. Are you certain you did nothing-perhaps in ignorance-to convince Lieutenant Davis-?"
I turned and looked at him head-on, though it pained me to turn away from the bright canvas and instead see Richard Woodhull's often-sour face. I have no doubt that my face was transparent with disbelief at this turn of questioning. He went on.
"-That his attentions were wished-for?" He let a pause fall as I continued not to answer. "Were his attentions wished-for?"
And here, Mama would have been proud of me. Nothing but vinegar leapt to my tongue for a reply, but I swallowed it down and found myself considering: ought I burst into tears? Enact other hystronics to convince this man I had done nothing-nothing at all-save take breath and sit in my own home-and treat him civilly-to encourage Lieutenant Davis in his drunken state to accost me so?
Should I deny the Judge's inference strenuously (as I immediately wished to do)?
I did neither. I looked at him and thought of Mama, so cool, so collected as she had told (without ever saying she was telling him) Major Hewlett that Lieutenant Davis was to leave our home without condition and never return there, nor encounter me again during his time in Setauket.
And I spoke words whose genesis I could not even fathom came from within me.
"If by any gesture of civility and respect to the King's Men in Setauket I in any way caused Lieutenant Davis to believe I wished to be so entreated by him, you may know my regret is a profound one. Last night the lieutenant behaved in a way so outrageous and inappropriate I cannot think anyone witnessing it could ever take him for any kind of gentleman, much less a temperate man who ought to spend time among young ladies." And then I allowed myself to go a step further. "I have spent my life among the decent, good men of Setauket. There is no reason, nor desire within me, to cast my net for a soldier. Or throw away my life as a soldier's doxy." (That final word, while effective, was in retrospect possibly not something I ought to say in front of men like Richard Woodhull.)
Perhaps fortunately I heard someone at the door. So did the Judge. (And so I will never know what his response to my speech might have been.)
"Richard, I-I say, weren't you two coming up here to speak about the Loch Lomond?" Major Hewlett (who must have left my mother downstairs) asked. He must have overheard at least some of the nature of our discussion.
Then again, Whitehall may well be a place of many ears, now. All listening, looking for chinks in loyalty, secrets being told. For a moment I realized: life at Whitehall might be quite terrifying.
Judge Woodhull mumbled something (possibly he was appeased-at least he made no more enquires of me, nor suggested that Major Hewlett do so), and clasping his hands behind his back, left us alone together.
"Do you enjoy painting, Miss Outerbridge?" the Major asked me, after some time silently taking in the scene on canvas.
"I think it is likely that I would do so, Sir, yet Setauket has no painting master to employ for instruction," I informed him. "Mama painted as a girl. We have some of her works hanging at our home."
"Oh, yes!" he exclaimed quite suddenly, and with great enthusiasm, though he has never been to call at our house. "Williams mentioned them. Pastoral views-sheep, I seem to recall."
"Yes, that's...right," I replied, taken aback. The Lieutenant has discussed the paintings on our walls with his Major?
"Of course, we did not know their provenance-that they were the handiwork of your mother."
"She has not painted in many years."
"Hmm," he said, and then quickly turned the subject. "I wish you to know that Lieutenant Davis will be formally reprimanded-you needn't worry about the details. He will be placed in another billet, one without young ladies present. You and your family's name will be kept out of the business." An earnest crease divided his forehead. "It is my hope-and I daresay your mother's-that you may go forward as though this business never happened."
I don't know what pulled it out of me (I was not feeling at all beneficent), but I found myself wanting to speak for a moment to the lieutenant's state of mind. "He had just gotten a letter," I told the Major. "His fiancee in England, she has broken their engagement and he had overindulged in last's night's festivities, Major."
The Major tut-tutted. "You are very kind, and tenderhearted to speak so in his defense," (though I did not think it a defense, only an explanation. A man need not be flogged on my account), "but you must think no more on it. All been decided."
Before Mama and I departed, he spoke to me further only about the Loch Lomond.
Chill weather tends to discourage conversation, as it had on our trip to Whitehall, but on our way back to the village I could no longer keep my questions and impressions at bay, and chatted to Mama, happily at first, recalling the Major's keen eye for detail in the Loch Lomond, his understanding of light and shadow, the story he shared of how he had once seen the Loch in person, himself.
And then I recalled Bess.
"Will Bess leave us?" I asked, hoping that the mention of her leaving for York City was somehow just another persuasive tool of Mama's to gather Major Hewlett's support for dismissing Lieutenant Davis from our home.
"Yes," was all she said, her breath cold and visible beside me.
"But the journey is perilous-and the city-is it safe? How can she go?" I spoke not as someone jealous of a sister taking on an adventure without her, but as a concerned sister-which I was.
"Yes. Bess will go. Bess must go. You are too young to recall,Jenny, but York City was never a safe place. If she minds herself, and keeps to your aunt's neighborhood, she will be fine. She will be fine." She said it a second time as though she were trying to assure herself.
But I heard none of this uncertainty at the time, only words telling me my sister was going far away from us.
I protested; Bess should stay here. We would miss her. And she, us.
"Bess cannot stay here," Mama spoke, an edge to her words. "She is soon twenty and two. What is there for her in Setauket? She must marry and begin a life."
"But-"
"Would you see her wed to a King's Man? Wife to an officer who could be killed, and if not killed, would someday very likely take her back to England? Take her back to the places we left to come here? Who is there left for her to marry at her level or above it in Setauket?" Her manner was half disappointed, half irritation. "The war has taken our young men for both sides, it has disrupted our craftsmen from taking on apprentices. Look around, Jenny. We are a village of old men, married farmers, and boys. Our Bess was not meant for a soldier."
Her words went deep into me. I had never thought of my parents fearing the loss of one (or all) of us back to England, or France, even. Never thought that the journey they had taken to arrive here (first in York City and then Setauket) were steps they had no wish to see re-traced. It is true there is little courting to be done in Setauket. I have so said before. Eligible men of respectable trade and family are few if any. Families such as the Woodhulls have looked far afield for wives, as with Mary Woodhull, first meant for Thomas, and then taken by Abraham. As always, some go for whalers, away for long years trying to make their fortune. The Tallmadge sons have gone for rebel soldiers.
Soldiers.
"Is that why we called on Major Hewlett today?" I asked, trying to keep a tremble from my voice at this declaration. "Because the Misses Outerbridge are not meant for soldiers' wives?"
'Not meant for a soldier'. The words seemed to echo in the air about me. And though I was chilled, chilled me more deeply. Not all soldiers are in the King's Army, Mama, I wanted to say.
I did not speak it.
"Do you imagine Bess wants a soldier for a husband? I should hope not," Mama chid me. "And yet I sit here and listen to you carry on about your meeting with this illustrious Major Hewlett as though you have forgotten who he is-what he has done to us. You think him discerning, you think him a fine conversationalist. You declare you find him refined, civilized. Well-spoken. He discoursed eloquently with you about a painting hanging in the room he has claimed for himself at Whitehall." She threw my shared impressions back at me. "A painting that belongs to Richard Woodhull. Ahouse that is also property of Richard Woodhull. Hewlett is a soldier. You are more foolhardy than I fear if you think he has no blood on his hands, no greater sin of violence on his conscience, than flogging Lieutenant Davis for his behavior toward you."
I am not accustomed to Mama speaking so. It was silence between us from that moment on, though we were not far from the village outskirts when she spoke it, and though it would be unlikely for us to be heard over the wagon's creaking, we dared not risk speaking so forthrightly on such a subject.
Did I let Edmund Hewlett and his well-bred demeanor turn my head? Did I forget for a moment who was speaking to me?
Perhaps. Perhaps I did. In that well-appointed room, richly furnished, cozily warm, the war and the gravestones and the church's desecration, the fate of good men like Selah Strong became distant. And standing there beside him I was able to recall-for a moment, a small, pristine moment-that afternoon you told me about your tutor's father's house in New Haven. The painting of that boy's sister that hung in their drawing room. The way you described how perfectly the fabric of her gown was rendered in the paint. The flick of a smile at the corner of her mouth, as perfectly captured as you had once seen it when dancing with her.
Perhaps I should have had the presence of mind to feel jealousy that you could so ruminate on the portrait of another woman. But I did not. I only drunk it in, imagining vividly what I would never see-much less see at your side. The lilt of your hands, their long fingers lithely detailing the color of the landscape hanging in that distant home's dining room. Had your face been beatific, or have I overwritten onto it the expression of the cherubs you described adorning yet another canvas?
Perhaps I am foolhardy. I know Edmund Hewlett to be a man whose actions-whose alliances-I cannot endorse-no matter the kind gentility of his manner. But I cannot agree to entertain the notion that a man who might speak so movingly, who might be so touched by the artistry of a painter, has been turned by acts of war into an unsalvageable beast unfit for love or marriage.
I dream some nights of those paintings hanging in that house in New Haven. Those paintings that I have never seen. That house I shall never enter. They are no doubt more glorious, more transporting in my mind's-eye than they ever could be in-person. I pray that you dream of them, too. I pray that some of their beauty, some of what so touched you about them, finds purchase in your memory and nests in your soul beside the memorized Scripture of your father.
Bess will leave us. I shall room in with Sally B. The war drags on, and Washington is said to be finished. Two officers more shall now be billeted here.
But Outerbridges are not meant for soldiers. I shall need such memories of you, myself, to continue to endure.