Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Can you see to this matter yourself?”

  The young man was brought up sharp. “Well, I suppose, that is, if you’re sure—”

  “Excellent. Tell the good gentleman I am otherwise engaged. You will find the banker’s drafts in Reginald’s top drawer.”

  “V-very well, Mrs. Powers. That is, if you’re sure.”

  “I most certainly am.” Erica waited until he had bowed to the visitors and turned away before quietly saying, “I apologize for Abe’s—well, his appearance and his brusqueness.”

  “There is no need,” Mrs. Cutter replied. “It is nice to see such young and vibrant energy about the place. And Reginald claims the young man is most remarkable. Why not invite him to lunch with us on Sunday?” Mrs. Cutter asked Erica.

  “Oh, Reginald would be delighted. He has been urging Abe to visit our church. It will prove the perfect opportunity.” She led them across the chamber and through the next doorway. “I am very sorry Gareth is not here to greet you as well, Abigail. He is midway through a tour of the southern states. There is a national election, you see. It is staggered in time, stretching from August right on through until November. Gareth wanted to observe some of the results firsthand.”

  “I am sorry to have missed him.” Abigail followed Erica into a long room with oiled paneling and a row of tall sash windows overlooking the street. “This is just as I imagined! You described it well, Erica.”

  Erica gave another of her warm smiles. The sunlight was brilliant enough to reveal a shadow of weariness upon her strong features. “My father’s desk belongs to Reginald now.” She pointed to a long table set by the first window, with a smaller desk forming an L to the right. “That desk was a special birthday gift from my father. I use it now for my pamphlet writing. Though I have less time for this now than I would like, what with the care of our darling little girl and the requirements of this business.” She lowered her voice. “And the harsh times we face with our work on the cause.”

  “Your work is valiant and vital and will bear great fruit,” Abigail’s grandmother stoutly declared.

  Erica started to say something, then seemed to change her mind and gave another smile, this one slightly forced. “Let me serve you coffee.”

  When they were seated at an oval table set by the unlit fireplace and coffee had been poured, Abigail ventured, “I met several times with Mr. Wilberforce before we departed.”

  Erica brightened. “And how is the dear man?”

  “He has bad days and good, with his ailment and all,” Abigail said.

  “So I have heard.” Erica set her cup down untasted. “And what news do you carry of our struggles in England?”

  “Work goes well on some fronts and less well on others,” Abigail said, feeling rather ashamed. For in truth the words were simply a repetition of what she had often heard her father say, not derived from any knowledge of her own.

  “And of slavery? Have there been many victories to count?”

  She lowered her gaze. “I fear my parents have felt I was too young to become involved in that particular battle.”

  Erica recovered the moment swiftly. “And they were well advised to take this course. Were you my own daughter I would have insisted upon the same.”

  Abigail took enough heart from those kind words to offer, “I understand things are not all that we would hope. I have heard my father speak of many defeats and few victories.”

  “So we are being vanquished there as well,” Erica said disconsolately.

  Abigail Cutter interjected, “Only on the surface, my dear. Only on the surface. You are too involved to realize just how great is the opposition’s foment and fear. The anti-slavers are growing in force. Pamphleteers such as you and your husband are generating great support for the cause. This you would recognize yourself were you only to take a step back and view your efforts from a distance.”

  Abigail decided no better cue could be offered. “Mr. Wilberforce has sent you a letter.”

  “For me?”

  “It is addressed to you and Gareth. He asked me to convey personally that it is more than a request. He says that if ever you have treated anything he has said as a directive, do so with this.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Of course.” Abigail withdrew the letter from her handbag. She observed the intensity with which Erica fed upon the pages. She found herself yearning for something that would give such purpose to her days and her life.

  Erica refolded the letter and stowed it away. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. “As soon as Gareth returns, we shall begin,” Erica declared, excitement coloring her voice.

  Abigail tried to maintain an interest in the conversation. Yet her mind continually returned to the new fervor that gripped her friend. How would it feel, she wondered, to have something that ignited her in such a way as this?

  Chapter 18

  When Lillian awoke the next morning, she tried to tell herself it was just an ordinary day. She rose in the four-poster bed and went through her morning preparations with a deliberate air. She chose a gown she thought seemed suitable. She decided not to wear any jewelry except a small silver brooch. She brushed her hair, pinned it up, and carefully inspected her reflection. She heard sounds from the kitchen directly below her room. The family was gathering for breakfast. Lillian rose from the dressing table and walked to the window. There was no rain, but there was also no sunshine. Nor was there wind. The day seemed trapped inside a stillness. Lillian turned from the window. The day’s tranquility moved with her. She looked around the room, the walls cast in shadows by the dim light. It really was a lovely room. The furniture was all maple and elm. The hardwood floor was as polished as the furniture and graced with a hooked rug in autumn colors. The curtains framing the tall sash window matched the rug and the bedspread. Lillian moved about the room, tidying up her things and making the bed. She had not truly noticed the room before now. In fact, it seemed as though she had moved through the past weeks since the shipboard service noticing little save the internal turmoil that held her captive. If she opened her heart to forgiveness and hope, how was she to protect her secrets? How could she keep her blackmailer at bay?

  The previous night had begun like all the others since her seasickness had passed. She had gone to bed exhausted and slept poorly. Sometime in the night she had awakened. This was when her worst struggles commenced. All the raging voices were loudest then, all the memories clearest. Only this past night had been different. She had lain there waiting for the battle to begin. Instead, there had been an eerie calm. Lillian had been filled with the knowledge that the conflict was over. Her indecision was gone. She had not realized a decision had been reached until that moment. Then she had turned over and slept without dreaming.

  Even now, as she started down the front stairs, she was tempted to pretend to herself that no choice had been made.

  “Good morning, Countess.” Mrs. Cutter rose from her place at the kitchen table as Lillian came through the door. To one side sat Abigail. On her other side sat a woman Lillian did not know. “I hope you slept well,” her hostess continued.

  “Very well, thank you. Must we rest upon formalities here among us?”

  “Not necessarily,” Mrs. Cutter replied. She spoke slowly, as though testing the words. “No doubt you would prefer to take your breakfast in the dining room?”

  “A place here at the kitchen table would be fine.”

  “I’m not sure . . .” But Mrs. Cutter stopped midsentence because Lillian had already seated herself. “May I introduce a very dear friend, Mrs. Erica Powers.”

  “A pleasure, Mrs. Powers. I have heard a very great deal about you. Abigail admires you to the highest degree.”

  “Likewise, my lady.”

  “Please, I would be most grateful if we might use a less formal address. I am Lillian—or if you prefer, Mrs. Houghton.”

  Erica smiled. “A truly American sentiment.”

  “So I am told. Everyone in London speaks
so highly of you and your husband—except of course those who profit from slavery. But no doubt Abigail has already told you of this.”

  “London,” Erica repeated. “I would very much like to return there. It has been far too long.”

  Mrs. Cutter chided gently, “Your work here is not done.” “And I am telling you that all efforts at this point are futile.” Erica wearily rubbed the side of her face. “Forgive me. I was up half the night with our daughter. She has a fever that will not ease. Fortunately, she is better this morning and her nanny urged me to get out for a bit.” She stopped and sighed. “Also I received a letter from Gareth saying he will be away longer than expected. I do miss him so.”

  The cook asked Lillian, “Will you be having tea this morning, my lady?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “And a bit of porridge, perhaps? I just made some up fresh for Mr. Cutter.”

  “That would be lovely.” She asked Mrs. Cutter, “How is your husband this morning?”

  “The same. Always the same.” Clearly this was not a preferred topic. “Mrs. Houghton, Erica was just telling Abigail about the coming election. Do you mind if we continue with our discussion?”

  “Not at all. And please, I would be most grateful if you would call me Lillian.”

  “Yes, I understand and I will abide by your wishes.”

  “I am told that titles hold little value in this country.”

  “That is both true and not true. Within some circles, titles are all the rage. Were I to let it be known I harbored a countess in my back bedroom, I would be flooded with invitations.”

  “Then please do not tell a soul,” Lillian replied with a small smile.

  Erica said to Lillian, “I hope you will excuse me for saying this. But thank you for accompanying my brother to the cemetery yesterday.”

  “I was unsure whether to mention it myself,” Mrs. Cutter said. “But now that it is out, I must agree. All of us who care for him are most grateful.”

  “Reginald has mourned long enough,” Erica added. “Even he says this. But it is one thing to speak the words and another thing entirely to live the act. Yesterday when he told me of your outing, I dared hope for the first time in a very long while.”

  “Please,” Lillian said after a pause, “you were going to speak about an election?”

  She was glad to see the gathered ladies took this as a signal to change the subject. Erica now turned to Abigail and resumed her conversation. “Originally there were five candidates running for the presidency—Crawford, Calhoun, Clay, Adams, and Jackson. All but one own slaves. All of them give lip service to abolishing the practice, but only while they visit the Northern states. When they travel south they sing an entirely different tune. The political race has come down to just two men now, Jackson and Adams. What is perhaps more telling of the nation’s mood is the fact that one man, John C. Calhoun, will run as the vice-presidential candidate on both tickets.”

  “You do not support this man,” Abigail observed.

  “John Calhoun has spent his entire political career defending slavery. He is an eloquent master of the half-truth.” Erica Powers’s voice had hardened. “But he merely represents the views of many Americans. These days, all talk is of expansion. Of opportunity. Of new wealth and growth. The fact is that our fair land is besieged with suffering and wickedness.”

  Erica paused, then added more quietly, “Gareth has written of rumors that the election may be stolen.”

  Mrs. Cutter protested, “Surely that is an exaggeration.”

  “Perhaps.” Erica did not sound convinced. “As you know, the more distant states began their elections last month. The final votes from these eastern states are due in November. Jackson is sure to win substantial majorities in almost all of these outlying states. Adams has formed an alliance with Clay, a most unscrupulous politician. Clay masterminded the admittance of Missouri as a slave state and Maine as a free state, thus maintaining the balance in Congress. Clay has won a tremendous amount of power with the Southern states as a result. It appears that Jackson will win the popular vote. But the choice of president lies with members of the electoral college. They can be swayed. Or so Gareth reports. This is why he has delayed his return. To determine the truth to these rumors.”

  “All this is beyond me,” Mrs. Cutter said, waving her handkerchief. “But to think of the president being chosen by wrongful means, well, it’s a bit too much to fathom.”

  “You know as well as I that corruption in Washington is rampant,” Erica replied. “There is bribing and thievery from the public purse. Our constitutional integrity is undermined by secret deals. Politicians are using public office for private gain. Private interests are being granted priority over public welfare.”

  “Yes, of course you are right; we all know of this and condemn the practices. But the office of the president? Surely not.”

  “Gareth is working with his contacts throughout the states in question,” Erica said, clearly not able to hope she was wrong. “He is trying to establish what is really happening.”

  Lillian spooned her oatmeal and sipped at her tea, and all the while she observed the women gathered in this cozy kitchen. Even amidst these harsh tidings, there could be no denying their closeness, their strength, their sheer goodness. They were unlike any Lillian had come upon before. They sat and spoke together as concerned friends, filled with compassion for those they did not know. The safe confines of wealth and power could easily have shielded them from needing to think of such matters. Instead they sought to use their affluence to help those less fortunate. They were passionate in their causes.

  “Begging your pardon,” the cook said over the voices at the table. “Mr. Reginald’s coach has just arrived.”

  Lillian was immediately on her feet. “You must excuse me.”

  “My dear, you haven’t finished your breakfast.”

  “I’m not . . . That is, I must hurry. Thank you.” There was little reason for such haste, but her heart was tripping so fast that were she to tarry, it might give her away.

  There may have been a cough in the kitchen as she shut the door, or even a soft chuckle, but she did not care. She hurried to the stairway to flee to her room just as Reginald sounded the front door knocker. Heart fluttering, she turned and opened the door.

  “Madam.” He tipped his hat, his smile warming her through and through. “I hope this morning finds you well.”

  “Thank you, yes, and do please call me Lillian.”

  “I should be delighted, but only if you will leave behind the ‘sirs’ yourself and use my name as well.”

  “Reginald,” she said. It was silly, this fluttering of her nerves that caused her voice to catch.

  “Would you join me on a drive this morning?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes, please, I have something to . . . Well, yes, that would be lovely. I’ll get my wrap.”

  Reginald drove the light open rig himself, and Lillian sat beside him. The wheels were very high, rising up almost to her shoulder as she sat upon the jouncing seat. Reginald explained it was designed for rough tracks or bad weather, both of which this part of the country experienced in abundance. Lillian listened, yet she could not say whether she heard him or not.

  They passed the Oak Hill Cemetery they had visited the previous day and continued along a winding river Reginald identified as Rock Creek. They left Georgetown behind, or so it seemed, for the pastures stretched out broad and green. Trees rose here and there, beacons to summer’s close.

  Reginald pulled up by an overhang that gave them a view of the fields and the creek and the city of Washington beyond. “I often ride out here of late,” he confessed. “It has become a place where I try to make sense of the jumble in my head.”

  “It is very nice,” she observed. Then she slid as far from him as the bench would permit and turned to face him. “I must speak with you of something, Reginald. And I fear I shall be rather long in the telling.”

  “Wait a moment, then.” He s
lipped from the seat and eased the tension on the two horses’ traces. The conveyance rocked gently as he climbed back on board. He wrapped the reins around the hand-brake handle. “All right, Lillian. Speak away.”

  “I fear you may not—not think very well of me when I finish.”

  Reginald, dressed in an overcoat of forest green with a matching cravat and a high-collared white shirt, nodded as he crossed his arms and leaned back to wait.

  She liked this about him, Lillian decided. He was a man of means, yet he held no sense of impatience. At least he did not demonstrate this with her. For some reason finding yet another quality to admire in Reginald acted like a key. She felt the door to her heart creak open. A door she had not even realized existed.

  “I am not going to bandy words, Reginald. I scarcely know you at all. Please forgive me if I sound too forward. But I find myself caring for you—caring what you think of me.”

  “Lillian—”

  “No. Please.” She stopped his movement toward her with an upraised hand. “Wait, I beg you. I am not who I appear, you see. Far from it. I have never spoken of these matters to a soul. My late husband knew some of this. In fact, he put together the charade of my present life. I was very fond of him, I suppose. No, I do know that as a certainty. We appreciated and cared for one another well enough. All my life until now I assumed that was as much affection as I was capable of, except for my son, whom I adore. Now. . .”

  “Now things are very different indeed,” Reginald softly offered.

  “Do not look at me so, I beg you.”

  “And how, please, am I looking at you?”

  “As though you are about to hear something good. As though I am pleasing you with my words.”

  She thought he might respond with some offer of affection, of gratitude over her honesty. Instead, Reginald merely nodded. Up and down, very slowly. Then he looked away. Out over the fields and the river and the still day.

  Lillian was again struck by how astonishing this man truly was. All her life she had dismissed the concept of love at first sight as sheerest folly. Yet here she sat with a man she hardly knew at all. And she was thinking of opening her heart and soul to him, to tell him everything. Her darkest and her wildest.