by Nat Burns
When she returned to her side, Catherine was grinning from ear to ear. “Master Fidelia, she said I may have him if I take proper care. Isn’t it wonderful of her?”
Foxy, a bit nonplussed by the strange juxtaposition of her name, nodded and stooped to scratch the purring feline’s ear. “Thank you, Mistress Mama. He shall be well taken care of, I’m sure.”
She stood and turned, to find Catherine staring at her, her eyes shining with gratitude and something else she could not define. She gently took the kitten from her hands and handed her the dress. “You’d better put that on. It wouldn’t do at all for you to appear half naked at my side,” she said quietly, turning her face away so Catherine could don it with some privacy.
Catherine slipped the dress over her head and pulled the waist tight. “Do we have to go back so soon, Fidelia. It’s so lovely here.”
“Yes, I’m afraid we do. You have many things to catch up on and the sooner you start the better.”
Her pretty features grew worried and she queried tremulously. “You won’t tell, will you? I could not bear the shame if Mama and Papa found out.”
Foxy handed the kitten back and with an arm about her shoulders, smiled down at her. “That’s not my place, Catherine. It is for you to do in your own time. My lips are sealed. The child you are carrying will soon become evident though, so you need to make some decisions quickly.”
Catherine’s big eyes clouded with tears. “So, there is a babe then? Truly?”
“Yes,” Foxy nodded slowly. “And you must love this child for he or she is half yours. Every new life is a joy for it can be taken away too quickly, too fleeting. You must allow yourself to heal fully so that you may be a good mother to this innocent one you carry.”
Tears spilled from Catherine’s eyes, but she nodded her assent and Foxy felt as though the girl had taken her words to heart.
Catherine lifted her gaze then and their eyes locked. Foxy saw Catherine’s eyes widen as they obviously mirrored the feelings she herself was feeling deep within. There was a stirring there, deep beneath her heart, a type of joy that buoyed her into an unbidden dance of emotion. She felt as though she might cry, or laugh, or sweep Catherine into her arms and shower her with kisses.
Nothing seemed feasible, however, and this new dance would never come to fruition. Quickly, she lowered her gaze even as sorrow swamped her.
How could she love and lose another? How could this woman, who thought her a man, accept the fact of her gender? How could Foxy make any advance to this wonderful but wounded woman who had so many life decisions to make?
She took in a deep breath and motioned for Catherine to precede her.
Chapter Thirty-one
MARGARET STOOD IN the yard, twisting the front of her dress in nervous fingers. Foxy gone and no sign of Catherine. She wondered if she’d offended her last night by not sending out searchers for the girl. Her horse was still here and her travelling slave still in the stable, so she couldn’t have gone far.
It was then that she saw them emerge from the forest. She stared in wonder. Foxy was wearing the funniest clothes and both looked the worse for wear. A dirty suspicious thought crossed her mind, but she quickly shoved it away. She was a good God-fearing woman and knew not to judge on appearance’s sake. She trotted toward them, relief smoothing her features, and upon reaching them, took her daughter’s face in her hands.
“Catherine, sweetness. Are you all right?” She searched her face anxiously. Then the shock of all shocks, she heard something she never thought she’d hear again. Catherine’s sweet voice rang out in the morning air. “Yes, Mother, I am fine.”
Margaret threw her hands heavenward. “Oh, thank you, God! A miracle! Oh, my sweet baby!” She took Catherine in her arms and hugged her so tightly that the kitten let out on agonized squall which caused Margaret to jump back in alarm.
Foxy laughed at the astonished expression she wore.
“Mother,” Catherine said. “This is my new kitten. Do you like him? May I keep him?”
Margaret was crying now, so she only nodded and waved her hand. Foxy put her arm about her shoulder on one side and Catherine wrapped her arm about her mother’s waist on the other side. Gently, they led her into the parlor.
Catherine went upstairs to change into fresh clothing, thus leaving Foxy and Margaret alone. Margaret held Foxy’s hand until the crying ceased and she could speak. “What did you do? Are you a miracle worker?”
Foxy gave her a lopsided grin. “Well, the Indians thought I was sent from the gods but a miracle worker? I think not. Better you should look to your daughter. The miracle came from herself. She was able to shed the fear that has kept her silent.”
Margaret looked confused. “What fear? Did she fear something that we know nothing of? What was it?”
Foxy frowned. “She will tell you when she is ready. Please don’t push her, she still needs time to heal.” She looked around. “Where is Charles? ”
She put her hand to her lips. “Oh, dear Lord, Charles must know!”
She jumped up and Foxy followed. Outside, Margaret did something she had never done before. The privies were set well back from the house in an enclosed building. She strode purposely to the door and knocked loudly. “Charles, you must come quickly! I have a surprise. Wonderful news.”
From inside came a muffled voice. “Confound it, woman! Can’t a man have any peace or privacy?” Nevertheless, he appeared but a moment later, still buttoning his breeches. “Well, what is it?”
As Margaret caught him by the hand, he caught sight of Foxy in her native attire and, squinting his eyes, began to speak but was pulled along by his wife so quickly that he didn’t have time
Inside, Catherine was coming down the long hall, searching for someone, anyone, as though she thought she’d been deserted. She laughed as her mother burst through the door with her harried looking father in tow. “Mother, whatever are...?”
Margaret stopped abruptly and crowed. “There! Did you hear that?”
Charles, pulling himself up and still straightening his clothes, said irritably. “Hear what? Damn it, have you taken leave of your senses?”
His wife just laughed. “Catherine can talk again, you old fool! Listen to her pretty voice.”
Charles was struck dumb. He stood mouth agape, then turned to Foxy. “Is she jesting? Could it be true?”
Catherine took over then with a gracefulness that had been born in her. She hugged her father close and spoke low in his ear. “I love you, Papa.”
Father and daughter clung together for a long time, both crying like babies and laughing like fools.
TWO DAYS LATER, after much celebration and many late evening conversations in which she got to know Catherine ever better, Foxy decided it was time to go home. Her attraction to Catherine was growing by leaps and she knew she had to escape before she allowed that affection to grow into yet another broken heart. Besides, though she trusted her slaves, she knew that work would suffer because she was not there. So, she came downstairs that morning to breakfast with her satchel slung over her shoulder.
At the morning meal, she broke the news and it was received badly.
“It’s not my wish,” she explained. “But it’s my duty as a farmer. I must get back. The tobacco harvest is under way and I fear it needs my supervision.” She stole a quick glance at Catherine and noted the look of dismay that crossed her pleasant features. As she watched, it morphed into a shocked, hurt expression.
Margaret sat silent, gaze in her lap, but her lower lip was quivering and Charles looked downright angry. “Damnit, Fidelia,” he cried, finally. “Surely you don’t have to go back so soon. You haven’t even stayed a full fortnight!”
Foxy was sad and it showed in her voice. “I’m sorry, Charles. You, of all, should realize how pressing these things can be. I simply must get back. It’s my livelihood.”
She spent the morning walking around Finley, inhaling the sweet scent of it, once again fixing it all in memory, knowing
for sure there would be no coming back. The siren call of Catherine would be too hard to resist. At midday, after another round of goodbyes, she fetched her satchel and her horses. She helped her manservant load up and then swung herself onto her mount. As she turned to make her way down the drive, she took one last look back. They were there, all three of them, watching her ride away. Sadly, she lifted her hand to say one more farewell and they did likewise.
Foxy thought deeply all the way down the road for several miles and then reigned in her horse to think some more. She was a fool, denying herself that which she wanted, no, needed! Quickly, she wheeled her mount around and with a shout of “Come on, Jim”, to her boy, rode like the wind back to Finley, back to her love.
Chapter Thirty-two
CATHERINE WAS WAITING for Foxy alongside the lane, shivering in the chilling afternoon air. She carried a small satchel and a woven basket holding the bundled-up kitten whom she had named Epiphany.
When Foxy saw her, she reigned in her horse and dismounted. She stood silently, facing Catherine, unsure of what to say.
“I knew you’d be back for me,” Catherine said quietly, smiling gently in the late afternoon light.
Foxy frowned. “But your parents—don’t we...”
“I’ve told them I’m leaving with you,” she replied. “You never told me you were a girl like me, a woman,” she added. “Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t think it mattered—hoped it didn’t,” she answered truthfully. “I don’t often think about it anymore. I’ve lived as a man a long, long time.”
Catherine nodded sagely. “I suppose you are right. It really doesn’t matter. And your secret is safe with me.”
Foxy moved closer until her face was very close to Catherine’s. “You’re a confident cuss.”
The connection was still there. Looking into Catherine’s eyes, Foxy felt submerged, yet felt she could do anything as long as this beautiful woman was at her side. She pulled her close and kissed her for the first time, happier then she could remember being in a very long time. Catherine returned the kiss easily and Foxy knew that Catherine’s—and her own— healing had begun.
Jim rode up then, breaking the spell and Foxy signaled him back the way they’d come. Leading her horse, they walked hand in hand away from Finley and toward their new life together.
“Hand your things to Jim and then we’ll ride to Savannah together. There we can get a coach, so you won’t have to ride horseback across the territories.”
Catherine nodded and handed the valise and the cat up to Foxy’s manservant. “You know,” she mused. “I’ve always wondered, why do you walk with a limp?”
Foxy chuckled and sighed loudly. “It’s a long story, love, and we will have years for me to tell you about it. I have so much to tell you!”
“Good!” Catherine said playfully. “I always was a good listener.”
Their laughter carried across the plantation and it was a happy sound.
IT WAS AN unusually hot March when Catherine felt the first pangs of labor. She was terribly frightened, after all this was her first and only birth, but holding tight to her love’s hand she felt secure enough to laugh at her fears. How desperately she wanted to give her love this child, a child brought about by tragedy but welcomed into this home by love. This thought sustained her every time the pains wracked her tiny swollen body.
Foxy held her hand and comforted her gently while the slave women bustled about readying the birthing items. Finally, she was forced downstairs, but the sight of Catherine’s tortured face remained etched in her mind. She drank so heavily, trying to drown out the cries echoing throughout the big house that when their son was brought down by a beaming Sara, she barely acknowledged the child before falling into a drunken stupor.
The next morning found a very pale Foxy and a highly amused Catherine cooing over their new baby.
“I almost hurt myself last night from laughing when Sara told me about you passing out from drink—and in front of your son, too!” She was trying very hard not to laugh aloud at Foxy’s discomfort but was unsuccessful. A small giggle escaped her and Foxy turned a jaundiced eye her way.
“And you, madam, for laughing at your elders, will get a sound spanking as soon as your—ah—bottom heals sufficiently.”
She smiled, playing the coquette. “Is that all I am to receive for giving you this handsome, healthy boy?”
Foxy lightly traced a finger across the top of one full breast and gave her a comical leer. “Oh no, my love. We’ll see about your payment a little later.”
Foxy sobered and scrutinized the babe who was cuddled tight against his mother, one tiny hand flat against the flesh of her chest. When she spoke, her voice was soft and thoughtful. “He is a handsome lad. What shall we name him?”
Catherine looked up, startled. “Why, Foxy, he shall carry on your father’s name, of course. Whatever are you thinking?”
Foxy stood impatiently and limped across the room toward the window. “No. There will not be another Giles. It pains me too much. It’s too confusing.”
Catherine nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I understand that. But couldn’t we call him by the middle name, Thomas, to perhaps ease the confusion?”
Foxy still shook her head doubtfully. Suddenly, she stopped pacing and her face brightened. She limped to Catherine and clasped her hand in hers. “I’ve got it, sweet! If you have no objections, I’d like to name him after a good friend I had when I first came to this land. François Germain. We called him Franc.”
“Ah, the dear friend buried here on the plantation.” She repeated the name a few times, testing it on her tongue. Foxy waited anxiously, knowing she was deliberately teasing her.
Catherine sighed finally. “Agreed. But I don’t know, Foxy. I’ve always fancied the name Randolph.”
Foxy was puzzled. “Randolph? Who the devil is Randolph? An old swain who perhaps stole your heart?”
“No, you goose.” She laughed. “I just like the way it sounds. Try it. I think it’s rather pretty.”
Foxy scowled good naturedly and repeated the name. “Well, I suppose it will do. Does François Randolph Nelson meet with your approval, madam?”
She smiled warmly and lifted her face for a kiss. “Yes, dear, it’s lovely.”
Chapter Thirty-three
June 1791
IN ORDER TO celebrate the birth of their son, Catherine and Foxy decided to throw a huge party, the first at Trapper’s Folly. Preparations went under way immediately. Catherine, still confined to her bed, set herself to making lists, sending invitations and compiling menus which she then gave to Sara to carry out.
Rosa, the new cook Catherine had added, spent many a long hour working with Sara together in the kitchens, planning and preparing for the feast. Frequent and fiery were the arguments that floated up from the basement kitchen. Sara and Rosa got along well when doing their separate duties but when they had to combine their efforts, the family were fearful of the house coming down upon their heads. Finally, three months later, all was ready.
Catherine was up and about, almost her old self again. The baby, who they would call Rand, was dressed in an elaborate blue gown and placed in his new cradle. The cradle had been especially made for the occasion by the plantation carpenters. It was lined in sapphire blue satin with white netting and a beautiful blue heron had been emblazoned on the white satin headboard. It was set up in a place of honor against one wall of the drawing room so guests could admire the new addition.
Early the day of the ball, hours before the first of the guests were scheduled to arrive, outliers ran to the house along the wide dirt lane and announced the arrival of a coach. Foxy went to greet it and was thrilled to see the child’s maternal grandparents, Charles and Margaret. She directed the coachmen and Finley servants to the new butler, Silas, who would settle them into guest rooms, then led Charles and Margaret into the study.
Catherine immediately broke down into tears of joy upon seeing her parents. She clasped her mot
her to her and they sobbed out their happiness over the reunion on one another’s shoulders.
“Here, here. What’s this? Certainly not tears, Catherine?” Foxy grinned at the two women and as if embarrassed, they broke apart.
Catherine straightened her skirts and sniffed disdainfully in Foxy’s direction. “Well, it has been a long time since I’ve seen them and it certainly doesn’t behoove you to be poking fun.”
Foxy laughed and laid a hand on Charles’ back. “Charles, what say you and I share a bourbon on this joyous occasion and leave these beautiful ladies to their tears?”
They entered the drawing room and Foxy led Catherine’s father over to the cradle. Charles peered at the babe in silence for a moment, then spoke softly. “May I touch him, Foxy? My eyes are worse than ever.”
“Of course,” Foxy said and drew the coverlet back. “He is not a fractious babe, I don’t think he will mind.”
Charles reached down gingerly and ran his fingertips across the sleeping child’s face and then slowly down each limb. He chuckled gently as Rand, still sleeping, closed one tiny fist about his finger.
“Fidelia, he is a wonderful lad, as I knew he would be. His hair, what color is his hair?”
“I think he will be dark, like his mother.”
“And his eyes, Foxy?
“Blue as the sky, like his mother’s. Though Catherine tells me that may change as he gets older.”
After a short silence, Foxy grinned, breaking the sentimental moment. “We may decide to bring more children into our home. Nothing for certain as yet, but we have vowed to look into it.”
Charles drew back so Foxy could tuck the coverlet around the child and smiled. “I hope you will. I know our dear Maggie would have wished that for the two of you.” He licked his lips. “Now, where is that whiskey? I’d say we are overdue for a celebration.”
