Just Jane

by William Lavender

  Sleeping well was something she could not do. The rain had stopped for a while, but around midnight it began again, pelting down relentlessly for hours longer. For Jane, the sound of rain had always had a soothing effect, but not this time. Even when she drifted off to sleep near dawn, her troubled mind still found no peace.

  She dreamed of a broad and sunny field. On one side stood Harriet. On the opposite side, Robert. Suddenly a horse came galloping furiously toward her. It was Brandon’s mighty Warrior. Harriet called to the dashing young rider to come to her, but her pleas were matched by Robert’s shouts, urging him to come that way. Instead, the rider bore down on Jane, reining in his steed a few yards in front of her. She crouched, terrified, as the huge beast reared, pawing the air, nostrils flaring. And when the rider pulled off his hat and gave it a flourish, all she saw was a grinning skull.

  She started to scream, but the scream that shattered her dream and brought her bolt upright in bed was not hers. It was Harriet’s, and it came from downstairs. Jane raced out of the room and down the stairs, only to find Dr. Jeffers, his shirt splattered with blood, standing in the doorway of the morning room. Beside him stood Molly, softly whimpering. From inside the room where Brandon lay, Harriet’s wails rose and fell like the cry of a wounded animal.

  Exhausted, Jeffers stared at Jane as if unsure of how to tell her what she already knew. “Internal bleeding,” he said hoarsely. “It came on suddenly and went out of control. There was nothing I could do.”

  Feeling faint, Jane sank down on the stairs, rocking slowly back and forth. Is this another awful dream? she wondered. Hugh appeared from somewhere, slipping a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  “The doctor says he went peacefully, Jane. There was no pain.”

  She was deep in shock, barely able to speak. “That silly lie I told—I actually thought it might save him. How stupid of me!”

  “Not stupid at all,” Hugh assured her. “It was another act of kindness going unrewarded.”

  Jane was no longer showing any sign of hearing Hugh. She was staring across the broad foyer and out the open front door. The sun was rising and the rain clouds had disappeared, bestowing upon the earth a fresh, newly washed day.

  “ ‘What showers arise,’ ” she murmured. “How does it go? ‘What showers arise, blown with the windy tempest of my heart . . .”

  Tenderly Hugh drew her closer. “My dear, I know how hard this is for you. But someday, when these bad times are over—”

  “Someday, someday, someday!” She suddenly lashed out at him. Grieving would have to wait—right now, all she could feel was anger. “I’m sick of hearing about someday! I don’t care who wins this hateful war! I just want the killing to stop!”

  Then to her great relief, something hard and tight inside broke loose, and the merciful tears flowed.

  Chapter 33

  After hours of hard riding, Robert arrived shortly before noon, quickly tethered his horse, and hurried up to the house. Dr. Jeffers was waiting for him on the veranda.

  “Mr. Robert Prentice, I presume? I’m Dr. Jeffers.”

  Robert made quick work of a handshake. “I came as soon as I could,” he said. “How’s Brandon?”

  “I regret to say that he died early this morning.”

  Robert went pale and drew back as if struck. “Dear God—no!”

  “I’m very sorry, sir. In the end, his injury was just too severe.” He gave Robert a moment to compose himself, then continued, “He’s laid out inside, and burial will take place tonight. Secretly.”

  “What do you mean, secretly?” Robert scowled.

  “The Patriots control this area, Mr. Prentice. If a Loyalist is buried in the local cemetery, his grave will certainly be opened and desecrated. Brandon is known to have served the British. He must be buried here on the Dudley property, in a remote spot unknown to outsiders. It’s the only way.”

  “Contemptible!” Robert spat the word. “Sneaking around in the dead of night to hide him away! He deserves a hero’s funeral, right here in Saint James Church.” But Robert knew in his heart that the doctor was right. “If that’s not to be, then I’ll pay my respects now and be on my way.” He started for the front door.

  Jeffers laid a gentle hand on Robert’s arm. “Just a moment, sir. If I may have a word—Let’s sit over here, in the shade.”

  Robert allowed himself to be escorted to a pair of cane-back chairs under a spreading oak. He was still scowling as the doctor spoke earnestly.

  “The shock of these events has greatly unsettled Mrs. Ainsley. She blames you for Brandon’s death, and there’s no telling what might happen if she sees you. I must ask you, sir, not to enter the house.”

  “Harriet blames me?” Robert looked sad but resigned. “I shouldn’t be surprised. She always insisted I forced Brandon over to the Loyalist side. But he was acting entirely on his own, believe me. I am not to blame.”

  “I’m sure not,” the doctor said soothingly. “But it’s most important that nothing upset Mrs. Ainsley further. You understand.”

  Robert glanced upward. Overhead, small birds twittered in the afternoon sunshine. “Birds sing,” he murmured. “Deer play in the woods. Villains do their evil work and live on. But the youngest and fairest die.” He seemed unaware of the other man’s presence. “Am I really blameless? Or is that a lie I invented for my own comfort? If only he could tell me . . .”

  Dr. Jeffers placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t torture yourself, sir. Come home with me now. Miss Jane and Mr. Hugh are there, eager to see you. It’s not far. I’ll just go get my horse, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Left alone, Robert stared intently at the house. “If only he could tell me,” he whispered. Rising, he strode purposefully toward the front door.

  Molly confronted him in the foyer, her eyes wide in alarm. “Lordy, Mr. Robert, suh, you not's’posed to be here!”

  “Where’s Brandon?” he demanded.

  “You best leave quick, suh. Missus see you, she liable to pitch a fit!”

  “Never mind, I’ll find him myself.” He brushed past her, went into the parlor, then came out again. “Damn it, Molly, where is he?” he barked at the cowering servant.

  But it was Harriet who spoke next. “You dare invade my home, Robert Prentice?” She stood at the top of the stairs, looking like death itself in a long black robe. Sheer hatred blazed in her eyes.

  Robert stepped forward. “I loved him, too, Harriet. May I not grieve?”

  “Grief, sir, is for me, who had my child stolen away. Not for you, who stole him!”

  Robert stepped closer, speaking softly. “My dear, what can I say? If you truly feel I’m guilty of that—”

  “You are guilty, sir. There is no doubt! And just as you led my child to his death”—her hand emerged from the folds of her robe and leveled a pistol at him—“so I lead you to yours.”

  Molly rushed forward, screaming, “No, missus, don’t!”

  But her protest was drowned in a flash of lightning and an ear-shattering blast. Echoes returned from the far reaches of the house, and when they had died away, only Molly’s terrified whimpering remained.

  “Stop that, Molly,” Harriet said severely. “Go find Dr. Jeffers and inform him that I have just shot Mr. Robert Prentice. Go!”

  Molly fled, and Harriet turned her attention to her victim. Robert lay in shock, blood spreading across his chest. Groaning, he tried to rise, then fell back to the floor.

  “Dear me,” Harriet said without emotion. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite accomplish my purpose. Still, in all modesty, I think I’ve done a valiant deed this day.” Serenely calm, she made her leisurely way back up the stairs.

  It was night—that much he could tell from the darkness that was held at bay by a single lamp burning off to one side. As awareness gradually returned, he realized that he was lying in bed and someone was sitting beside him. He squinted, forced his eyes to focus, and saw that it was Jane. Briefly he wondered where they were, and why she wa
s there. As memory returned in a vivid, horrifying rush, he twisted and turned. Hot pain raged through his upper body.

  “Jane—My God, Jane, we’ve lost—”

  “Shhh,” Her cool fingertips stroked his brow. “You’ve been badly hurt, Uncle Robert. Your arm and shoulder are all bandaged, and the doctor wants you to keep very still.”

  His eyes roamed. “Brandon . . . we’ve lost him. He died a hero, and they want to hide him away in the night like a common thief! Don’t let them do it, Jane. Don’t let them!”

  “It’s already done, and Brandon’s at peace. So just let it be.”

  “God, what an abomination!” He closed his eyes for a moment as if trying to shut out unbearable thoughts. “That fine young man, cut down in his prime. And my cherished dream of you and Brandon, master and mistress of Rosewall. Those silent rooms at last filled with the laughter of children. But it was never to be, was it? Even if he had lived—”

  “No, Uncle Robert, it was never to be. I’m so sorry, I know I’ve disappointed you in many ways—”

  “Don’t say that, Jane. I’ve never told you how very dear you are to me. And with Brandon gone . . .” He fell silent for a moment, almost too overcome with emotion to speak. “What about Harriet?” he asked then.

  “Dr. Jeffers finally got her moved to his house and gave her something to make her sleep. She has no memory of shooting you, and Molly claims she didn’t see it. Can you tell us how it happened?”

  He replied without hesitation. “It was an accident, and my fault entirely. I barged in without warning. Harriet came downstairs to investigate. The foyer was so dim, she didn’t recognize me. Must’ve thought I was an intruder, got frightened, and fired. Simple as that.”

  “So dim? It was broad daylight, Uncle Robert!”

  “You must take my word on this, Jane. It was an accident.”

  “All right, if you say so. Do you think you could sleep now?

  His feverish eyes locked on her face. “Jane, please come home. Someday Rosewall will be yours altogether, and you’re needed there.”

  “Please, Uncle Robert. You must rest now.”

  “I’m sorry about that unfortunate business with Cordwyn. When I found out what he meant to you, I tried my best to make amends.”

  “I know. Don’t think about it anymore.”

  “Then for mercy’s sake, come back to us. You left such emptiness behind. Clarissa, without whom I couldn’t live, lies ill and—”

  “Ill?” Jane was instantly alarmed. “With what?”

  “Swamp fever, they call it. She’s never been sick before, and she’s—she craves your forgiveness, too. The whole world is falling down around us, with rebels prowling the woods like bloodthirsty wolves.” Drained from the exertion of speech, he lay back, panting.

  Again Jane’s comforting touch was on his brow. “Please try to sleep, Uncle Robert. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  The suggestion that had failed with Brandon the night before was more successful this time. Robert’s eyes slowly closed as sedatives drew him into a deep slumber.

  A few minutes later, Jane joined Hugh and Dr. Jeffers in the parlor. “He’s finally asleep,” she reported to the doctor.

  “Good,” he said. “And likely will be, for ten or twelve hours.”

  “Did he say anything about the shooting?” Hugh asked.

  “He says it was an accident,” Jane replied.

  “An accident! Are you satisfied with that?”

  “Yes, I am. I see no reason to doubt Uncle Robert’s word.”

  Hugh appealed to the doctor. “You find it believable, sir?”

  “If Jane is satisfied with it,” he replied gravely, “then so am I.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Jane said. “So let’s consider the matter closed. Now, how soon will my uncle be able to travel, do you think?”

  “In a day or two, I’d say. He won’t have much use of that right arm for months, but there’s no reason he couldn’t travel.”

  “Good. Because I want to take him home as soon as possible.”

  Hugh objected. “Jane, you said you’d never go to Rosewall again!”

  “I said I’d never live there again, and I won’t. But Uncle Robert needs to go home, and Clarissa lies ill with swamp fever. They need my help.”

  “Then I’ll come with you,” Hugh said, objections abandoned.

  She smiled gratefully. “I hoped you’d say that.”

  “I’ll provide an ample supply of medication for the patient,” Dr. Jeffers put in, “and give you something for your aunt, as well. Swamp fever’s quite common in the backcountry, but it shouldn’t be difficult to treat.”

  “That’s kind of you, indeed. So, we’ll leave as soon as you say it’s all right. In the meantime . . .” Jane sighed as she pulled herself to her feet. “I’m rather tired, so if you gentlemen will excuse me . . .”

  They bade her good night, and as she went out, the doctor looked after her in open admiration. “She’s a remarkable young woman, Mr. Prentice.”

  Hugh responded with a fond smile. “The most remarkable person, young or old, I have ever known.”

  Slowly climbing the stairs on her way to bed, every step an effort, Jane didn’t feel at all remarkable. All she felt was mind-numbing exhaustion, and a desperate yearning for the sweet forgetfulness of sleep.

  Chapter 34

  On a golden day in late October, Hugh returned to Charlestown to find the city buzzing with excitement. News had come that General Cornwallis, his army half starved after a long siege by Washington’s combined French and American forces at Yorktown, Virginia, had surrendered. The Lion of Britain, as his admirers liked to call him, was finally caged.

  While Charlestown’s British military government brooded over this calamity, the city’s many Patriots danced in the streets and Loyalists kept out of sight. Where the war would go from here was still uncertain. But everyone knew that a major, perhaps critical, turning point had been reached.

  Lydia greeted her returning husband with a barrage of questions. Why was he gone so long? What in the world had happened? And where was Jane?

  Hugh told her the whole story—of Brandon’s death; of Robert being wounded; of Jane’s decision to take him home; and of his own to go with them. Mrs. Morley had been taken to Rosewall as well. She had been unnerved by the horrors falling upon the Dudley house, and now that old Mrs. Dudley was living with the Jeffers family, she wanted to be with Jane again.

  The journey to Rosewall—thirty-five miles and a full day’s travel in a jostling carriage—had been an ordeal for everyone, especially for the wounded man lying helpless while mercilessly tortured by every bump in the road. And his state of mind was not improved by hearing from travelers on the road about the British surrender at Yorktown. Robert had scoffed, claiming not to believe it, but anyone could see that he was severely shaken.

  “By the time we arrived at Rosewall that evening,” Hugh said, going on with his story, “Robert had grown so weak he could scarcely move, and Clarissa was too ill with swamp fever to come downstairs. The only able-bodied people in the house were the two servants, Cuba and Omar. And would you believe it? That giant of a man, Omar, lifted Robert out of the carriage and carried him as tenderly as a baby into the house and upstairs to his room. A remarkable sight to see.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Lydia agreed.

  “Then, of course, it fell to Jane to break the news to Clarissa about Brandon’s death, and Robert’s being shot. She did it as gently as she could, but ill as Clarissa already was, she was hit pretty hard by it all.”

  Lydia nodded thoughtfully. “Well, it’s a sad story you tell, love. That poor Ainsley boy—and his mother going mad like that and shooting Robert. They’re not really calling that an accident, are they?”

  “Robert insists that it was, Jane insists we take his word for it, and no one else has shown any inclination to question it.”

  “Then I guess that’s the end of it. What worries me is, why didn’t J
ane come home with you?”

  “With both Robert and Clarissa out of commission, she just feels she’s needed there, at least for now. She’ll come back as soon as she can.”

  “Robert won’t try to force her to stay for good?”

  “No, he knows better than to try that. My chief worry is that one day Jane might find herself trapped there, unable to leave at all. You know, that fortress of Robert’s has come under attack before. Never by any major force, but things are different now. With Cornwallis finished and the Redcoats pulling back toward Charlestown, the Patriots are taking control in the countryside. Rosewall's fields are already ravaged—bams burned, crops destroyed, livestock and field hands all gone. But Robert will never give up. Every other Loyalist in America might be ready to admit defeat, but not Robert. Never.”

  “What on earth will he do?”

  “Some time ago, he and a friend organized a militia group, thinking they can hole up behind that great wall of his and fight off any rebel attack. It’s hard to believe they could find anyone who still wants to fight for the Loyalist cause. But he’s got a whole troop of them, and they’ve set up camp right there on the grounds. Robert’s certainly got the courage of his convictions. You can’t help admiring that.”

  “Indeed, I can help it.” Lydia got up to put the kettle on the fire. “Protecting poor addle-brained Harriet Ainsley by saying the shooting was an accident—that’s all very gallant. But the rest is nothing but blind-fool stubbornness. I’ll not waste a minute thinking about him—if only we could be certain Jane will be all right.”

  Hugh fell into a pensive mood. “It was strange, being there. I hadn’t set foot in that house in years. I must say, I was treated with perfect courtesy. Still, I felt like an intruder. When Jane saw me off this morning, I was sorry to leave her behind but very glad to be going.” He paused, shaking his head sadly. “When Robert and I came to America, we loved each other dearly, vowed to stick together always. What happened to us, Lydia?”