The Steeplechase

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “George?” The two men barely knew one another.

  “Andrée keeps him on a tight leash, but George knew what he was getting into.”

  Stephen’s eyes locked on his. “Didn’t she, now? Still, it’s a shame.” Sorrow tinged his even features.

  “What’s a shame?” The two hadn’t been able to conceive. That must be what this conversation was about and definitely not something Phillip needed to discuss.

  His friend’s broad hands shot up defensively, as they had at school when Stephen didn’t care to answer a question.

  Phillip waved his hand through the air as though dismissing the previous question. “You should come ride with me. It’s been too long.

  A tentative smile tugged to life on the physician’s face. “I’d like that. I’ve been encouraged by your father to spend a little more time in the saddle.”

  “My father?” When did those two last see one another?

  “Yes. Perhaps I should indeed sit for a moment.” Stephen twisted the hat. “I’m forming a men’s club you may be interested in joining.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, and I’ve been tasked to approach our peers.”

  “Men of their late twenties and early thirties?”

  Stephen pulled back the heavy chair adjacent to where Phillip sat. After he pushed aside his coat tails, he sat, his light eyes hooded. “Surely even you must understand the need for preparation. For eventualities…”

  Unlike his peers, Phillip didn’t enjoy hearing tales of war nor did he enter into bombastic arguments about the British and how they believed America was yet their colony. His father and his many friends yet bore the scars and results of that war. He drew in a deep breath, thinking of the boys at Yorkview academy. Who would protect them should war erupt?

  He clenched his fists. “Tell me.”

  Many hours and a boat journey later, Phillip arrived at the wharf of his palatial manor-style home—an imitation of Uncle Dodd’s manor home in Gloucester. But unlike Uncle Dodd’s abode, across the York River, the servants had not been enslaved. Nor were their workers brought across the ocean on filthy deathtraps that often arrived with less than the “passengers” alive. Instead, Father had hired freedmen and women from across the Commonwealth to work for him.

  Phillip mounted the front stairs two at a time and entered the three story columned house. He continued to the dark alcove outside the double doors that opened into the dining room. The brackish scent of the river clung to Phillip’s jacket. He’d have it aired and brushed before school on the morrow.

  “Massah Phillip, you goin’ inside?” Malachi slipped beside him so silently that Phillip jumped. “Sorry, sir, didden mean to startle you.”

  There must be plantation owners within, visiting with Father, for Malachi to address Phillip as master. “Any reason I shouldn’t?”

  “They all havin’ a meetin’, sir.”

  “Who?”

  “Too many to name, sir.”

  Suddenly, from within, male voices rose, singing the tune of that debauched song “The Anachreon.” It was the men’s society. All had been together during the war. He strained to hear the words, which his father and his cronies had adapted during the Revolution to reflect their own fight. They’d turned the London gent’s drinking song into something inspiring with the new lyrics.

  A chill worked its way down his bare neck and to the base of his spine. His friend Stephen had cautioned him, encouraging Phillip to begin a riding club, the young bucks of Williamsburg were going to have their own racing event, and now his father’s cronies were gathered in a meeting. And so many young men disappearing from the shores of the Commonwealth. Not only Virginia, but many states along the coast. All seemed connected and Stephen’s intimation that peace in their lifetimes might be ending soon sent a chill through him that coursed up his entire body.

  Nausea rose up in him. Father and his friends had already seen war in their lifetimes. Please, Lord…Yet, Thy will be done and prepare me. Those boys. Martha and her family. They must be protected if Stephen’s and others’ fears were true.

  As the singing ceased, Phillip nodded at the servant, who opened the door. Brushing a strand of hair from his brow, Phillip took three paces forward. Had he been a visitor, and not son, Malachi would have announced him, but he stood aside and then disappeared into the shadows. Striding forward, past the jutting wall that boxed-in the entrance, Phillip sucked in his breath—encircling the table sat almost every patriarch of the plantation owners along the Tidewater peninsular rivers. His heartbeat ratcheted upward. The one exclusion was Tarleton, a longtime British sympathizer married to a beautiful English woman, daughter of a prominent aristocrat.

  This gathering could not bode well. Had there already been an invasion somewhere? His gut clenched. “Gentlemen?”

  His father nodded to him, his face grim. His leonine silver hair, swept back into a long queue, gleamed in the light of the full onslaught of a half dozen multi-tiered chandeliers.

  “Mason?” Father’s friend, Mr. Randolph glared at him.

  “It’s all right. Perhaps it is time my son understood what we are facing.”

  Prickles of fear chased up his linen sleeves beneath his waistcoat, but he shook them off and strode toward the chair Father indicated, at the far end of the table. As he passed, each man displayed his own unique gesture of irritation or concern—Carter fussing with his napkin, Tyler pulling at his moustache, and so on. By the time he reached his seat, Phillip’s nerves were on razor edge. He’d known these men all his life.

  To Father’s left sat former governor of Virginia, United States Representative, and American Revolutionary War General Lighthorse Harry Lee.

  Phillip had the urge to embrace the man, whom he’d known throughout his childhood, but instead he stood stiffly. “Good to see you, General.”

  “Phillip.” Lee nodded, his eyes half-closed.

  Compassion coursed through Phillip to see the proud man, brought low and now restored, having recently been released from Debtor’s Prison in another county. “Congratulations on your book, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Very well written—gave me insight into the war that I didn’t get while listening to you and playing with lead soldiers underneath this very table!”

  The two older men exchanged an amused glance and lifted their goblets of wine to their lips.

  Other men around them continued in conversations. Phillip overheard the words horses and river as well as profane references to the British.

  He ran his tongue over his dry lips.

  “Have you come all the way from Alexandria, then?” The Carters had given him and his wife, Anne, a new home there.

  “No.” Lee again looked to Father and back to Phillip. “My wife and I visited with her family in Charles City.”

  To Father’s right, Edward Colie, a prominent shipbuilder from Maryland, swiveled around. He pushed his spectacles up on his nose and eyed Phillip with suspicion.

  Servants began to stream into the room from the doors on the opposite wall from where he had entered. But before they could remove the remnants of the meal, Father cleared his throat and raised one hand. “Hold on a minute. Although he wasn’t invited, my son deserves a meal, too, eh, gentlemen?”

  To his surprise, the older men laughed and a few banged approval with their fists, causing the silver to clatter against the china plates and Mother’s French crystal goblets to bounce.

  “Sit down, Phillip!” Father gestured to the far end of the table, where one seat sat empty.

  “Yes, sir.” He offered a brief bow to the senior men and then crossed the fine wool carpet, one of mother’s favorites from her home in France. He pulled out the heavy Chippendale chair and sat.

  A servant slipped in alongside him, removed Phillip’s Limoges floral china dinner plate and soon returned with chicken slathered with gravy, a biscuit, greens that had been treated with vinegar if their scent was any clue, and mashed yams.

  Ke
eping his head low, over his plate, Phillip feigned a deep interest in his food and listened as the men resumed their conversations.

  “Do you think it’s true?” Nearby, Randolph asked Smythe.

  “I do. And we’re so undermanned it could be over in the wink of an eye if this…” he let out a string of profanity, “government of ours…”

  “I agree. And with their Canadian lackeys to the north, who knows how far and how fast things could go with the British?”

  “Quite true.” Mr. Randolph’s craggy features bunched into a frown.

  Just beyond Randolph and Smythe sat Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Williams of Charles City’s fine plantations and also governor Tyler’s brother. First Families of Virginia. Many of these men’s sons were premier students at school, the Smythe boy professing, as George once had, that he would be “a man of education, a teacher and not a planter.”

  “No dessert tonight, Gentlemen, but Mariah has made sweet bread for you to tote home with you.” Father stood and waved toward the sideboard.

  “Hear! Hear!” Again, the men became rowdy.

  Normal conversation resumed, with the servants slipping in to refill cups and carry off dirty dishes. Phillip relaxed slightly, glad no imminent danger was discussed. For surely they’d have torn into that topic posthaste, had there been.

  He leaned back in his chair. The fifteen foot long Chippendale table, its soiled linen tablecloth now removed, seemed to stretch forever, but in actuality seated only twenty, and every seat was occupied. Where was George? Why wasn’t he there? Stephen’s words, spoken as a physician, hinted that something other than fatherhood was amiss with George. For a moment, with the men’s jovial voices still ringing, it almost seemed as though the former soldiers were in an encampment of sorts. Taking a quick tally, he counted a dozen who’d served during the Revolution and his heart began to hammer. They do truly fear an invasion. This was why Stephen hemmed and hawed and discussed horses at such great length, and why men needed to retain a good seat and horsemanship skills, and why they must rouse up a good club of riders.

  He pushed his seat back as the other men began to rise and leave. Several shook his hand, and he stood, still a little dazed. No wonder so many militiamen had ensured their mounts were the very best.

  “Got a one-year-old for my younger brother, Phillip?” Mr. Williams leaned in and shook Phillip’s hand.

  “Every yearling but one has already been earmarked for an owner. And won’t be sent off until they are fully trained, which is closer to two.”

  Williams leaned in and whispered, “My brother wishes to meet you tomorrow at the Heron.”

  “The Nesting Heron?” Phillip arched an eyebrow at the man. “You jest.”

  “No, I do not.” Williams pushed free from the table and stood.

  “He’s rather young to be in such rough company as he’ll find at the Heron.”

  The plantation owner waved at Phillip dismissively. “Don’t disappoint him. He’ll be accompanied by some friends whom your father will discuss with you. We need your help.”

  Sweat trickled down Phillip’s brow and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “I’ll see what I can do.” He unkinked his frame and stood to his full height.

  Narrowing his eyes, Williams looked up at him. “We see a great many gentlemen from Washington City gathering at our home in Charles City, and we are now of one accord. Carter will apprise you of our plans.”

  Phillip nodded curtly and Williams returned the gesture then turned to leave.

  The rest of the gentlemen streamed from the room, the older former militiamen clapping their hands on Father’s shoulder as they went.

  Only Lee remained and Hamilton. A chill moved through Phillip again. The Williams family had access to many ships as did Colie. The British could arrive only by sea.

  “Would you join us, Son?” Father tapped his pocket—the telltale sign he was hoping to smoke his pipe soon. “We’ve much we wish to share with you.”

  How could it be that just as he was on the verge of spending more time with a woman who could convert any house into a home, Phillip now must consider the prospects his old friend warned of? Horses and war. And here he’d considered his livelihood a peaceful countryside existence. No more.

  Chapter 6

  In the distance, beneath thick-as-pudding clouds that hovered over Queen’s Creek inlet, Uncle Lightfoot’s dock loomed. At least with the mandatory visit with young Williams, Phillip had been able to use this as the excuse he needed to return to Williamsburg and bring the little Osborne boy for a visit.

  Johnny squeezed Phillip’s hand. “Are we almost home?”

  An arrow of pity pierced his heart. “Remember what I cautioned, for you shall not remain at home.”

  The child’s full lower lip quivered and a tear trickled down his pale cheek. He sniffed and pushed back a stray strand of hair. “Yes, sir.”

  On impulse, Phillip bent and lifted the boy up into his arms, surprised at how light he was—definitely not the sturdy little fellow who’d been deposited with them several months earlier. With one hand he clutched the rail and the other he held the boy to his chest. What would it be like to have his own children? A child with reddish hair like his mother’s? He’d not been able to keep an image of Martha from flashing in his mind. Who was he fooling? He wasn’t bringing the child here simply to assuage her concerns. Nor to dissuade her from any aspirations of racing with those young men whose exercise was in reality the beginning of training for possible future invasion by the British. No, he was here for a much more selfish reason. He, like this boy, needed to see her again. To see her light green eyes fixed upon his own.

  “Do you think she could tell me a story before I go?”

  The schooner shifted suddenly and Phillip held tight, flexing his knees as the crew began the process of securing them to the dock. Mates called out and a horn sounded. When silence, save for the lapping of the water, resumed, he set Christopher down. “I imagine she might.”

  “Marty’s stories are almost as good as yours.”

  “Marty?”

  “That’s what I call her.”

  “I see. I used to call my brother…” He caught himself before revealing his brother’s nickname. It wouldn’t do for the boy to slip and refer to his headmaster as Old Sneezy.

  A gray-haired man ran up the docks, his muscular form leaving no doubt that this was Jefferson Lightfoot.

  “Uncle!” Phillip waved.

  “Who’ve you got with you, lad?” His uncle shaded his eyes and squinted at Johnny.

  Mussing the boy’s wavy hair, Phillip called out, “One of Williamsburg’s brightest young scholars!”

  The child gazed up at him, blinking. “Am I?”

  “Of course. Or you wouldn’t be at our academy.”

  The six–year-old straightened his shoulders and stood taller, as the crew set the plank down for them to climb down.

  “Need to speak with you, Nephew!” From below, Phillip’s uncle scowled up.

  Soon they had disembarked and joined Uncle Lightfoot on the wharf. He handed Johnny a coin and pointed to a cart piled with buns. “Go get one, Son.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  As the child ran off, Phillip extended his hand. “How are you and Auntie?”

  “Good, good.” As usual, his uncle delivered his bone-crunching grip and Phillip fought the urge to wince.

  “What did you wish to speak of?”

  He passed his broad chapped hand over his wide jawline. “I need to speak of the boy’s brother—Christopher.”

  Phillip stiffened as his relative’s harsh tone. “What is it?”

  “I don’t trust those other young men racing against him.”

  He exhaled a loud breath. “I feel the same, sir.”

  “Especially with rumors about his mother.”

  “Agreed.” His father and his cronies had explained who, and what, they believed Letitia Osborne to truly be. And if the boy’s mother was a British spy, as
they believed, the entire family may be in danger.

  Johnny paid the proprietor of the cart and was racing back toward them, happily munching on his bun.

  Uncle leaned in. “Also, I know some things even your father isn’t privy to. Please make plans to stay the evening.”

  “I cannot tonight, sir, but perhaps in a fortnight.”

  “No, you must take time this evening. I will send word.”

  “I…” He’d finish this argument later, when they returned. Phillip had obligations to keep at Yorkview Academy even if Father and Uncle both thought they could commandeer his time.

  A woman’s voice faintly carried on the breeze. From beyond the wharf, a figure, cloaked in a pale muslin day dress, hurried toward the docks, long pink ribbons from her straw hat bouncing against her lacy shawl-covered chest. Martha.

  Johnny spun and ran to her and threw himself into his sister’s arms.

  A lump formed in Phillip’s throat and a bit of river spray seemed to have found his eyes.

  Uncle swiveled to follow Phillip’s gaze and then turned back to grin up at him. “Taken a fancy to a certain young lady, I see?”

  Before Phillip could protest, his uncle laughed and squeezed his arm. “Bring her to dinner. I’d welcome an opportunity to know Letitia’s stepdaughter better. And you’d best learn what she knows, as well.”

  His conspiratorial tone sped a chill up Phillip’s jacketed arm as the man released his grip. If Martha Osborne did know…what then?

  Looking at the beautiful young woman as she embraced her brother, he couldn’t imagine her being anything other than goodness and light—and the lady he wished to know much better. Just not in the way his uncle implied.

  Since she’d received the message from the Lightfoots that Phillip Paulson should be arriving that day, Martha had worried herself silly. First was the realization that he was a member of one of the wealthiest families in the Commonwealth. Why did he convey the impression that he was Johnny’s instructor, then? But he’d never actually mentioned his surname and she’d not asked.