Heart's Heritage

by Cecil, Ramona K. ; Richardson, Lisa Karon;

  “Then she was not guilty at all.”

  “She was not. You can imagine my feelings at this discovery.”

  She nodded, as intent on the story as a small child.

  “I have obtained a pardon from the king on her behalf. She is a free woman.”

  “We must tell her.” Mrs. Benning nodded to a young slave boy standing at unobtrusive attention in the corner, and he scurried from the room.

  In a few moments, Merry entered the drawing room. She looked much as usual until she saw him seated near Mrs. Benning. The color drained from her face in a rush, and she stumbled slightly.

  Abigail Benning rushed to her side. “Oh my dear. I ought to have warned you. I know you do not associate this gentleman with entirely pleasant memories, but I assure you, he has rendered you a great service. Come. Come and sit with us.”

  Merry pulled back, shaking her head. “Ma’am, I could not.”

  “Nonsense. Oh, I have muddled this. Perhaps you ought to explain matters, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Graham stood until both Merry and Mrs. Benning had seated themselves.

  Merry’s lips were tipped up in a stiff smile, but her glare ate like acid.

  He swallowed. “It’s a long tale, but the essence is that your innocence is known, and I have obtained a full pardon on your behalf.”

  Her jaw clenched so tightly he could nearly hear the grinding of her teeth. He cleared his throat. He had known she would be furious. Even so a sense of loss swept through him, and he realized how much he desired to reclaim her regard. And how unlikely it was.

  Perhaps one day she would find it within her to forgive him. For everything. He squared his shoulders. If not, at least he would have the comfort of knowing that he had done what he could for her.

  Heedless of the tension between them, Mrs. Benning embraced Merry. “Oh my dear, I am so happy for you. It is all so wonderful. You will stay with us of course, won’t you? As my guest? I could not bear to lose you just now. And the children …”

  Merry blinked and then smiled broadly. Her eyes glittered with triumph as she gazed at him over Mrs. Benning’s shoulder. “Of course, I shall stay with you as long as you wish. I could never leave at such a time.”

  He gritted his teeth. Blast it all anyway! He ought to hire a berth on the next outbound ship, no matter its destination, simply to be away from her. Did she not see that her mission could be dangerous? He knew something of investigation, and it was not for the faint of heart.

  Not that Merry was in any way faint of heart.

  He stifled a sigh. He would simply have to talk some sense into her. In the meantime, he had promised to take on the slave woman’s cause.

  Heaven help him when he confessed to Connor.

  “Mr. Sinclair, won’t you stay and have some refreshments?” Mrs. Benning’s features were animated now, and her smile seemed genuine.

  He winced. “You are most kind, Mrs. Benning. But I don’t wish to tax your strength. Nor could I enjoy your hospitality under false pretenses.”

  Her smile melted into confusion.

  He fumbled for words. “I have been asked to defend your slave woman against the charge of murder.”

  “What?”

  “Do you believe her guilty?”

  The color in her cheeks went the way of her smile. “I have known Jerusha all my life. She could never have done this. No one—It had to have been an accident. Nothing else makes any sense.”

  “Mrs. Benning.” The sonorous voice of the elderly butler brought conversation to a halt.

  “Yes, Isaiah?”

  “Mr. Cleaves is here to see you, ma’am.”

  She sighed then squared her shoulders. “Show him in.”

  Merry shifted in her seat, but Mrs. Benning placed a hand on her arm. “Stay with me, dear.”

  Cleaves marched into the drawing room with a jaunty stride that spoke of a man who expected to get his way. “Mrs. Benning, I’m sure sorry to hear of your fine husband’s passing. It’s a sad day for Virginia. A sad day.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cleaves.” She pointedly did not invite him to sit.

  His eyes flickered from Mrs. Benning’s face to Merry’s beside her to Graham. And then jerked back to Merry.

  “Did you need something else, Mr. Cleaves?” Mrs. Benning’s voice was frigidly polite.

  “I just—That is …” His Adam’s apple bobbed reflexively. “I’ve heard tattle about this young woman here. I thought, what with your husband’s death and all, that you shouldn’t be burdened with a rebellious and forward servant.” Mrs. Benning’s chilly stare seemed finally to penetrate his understanding, and his final words trailed off uncertainly. “I came to offer for her….”

  “Yes, well. I note your concern, but you need not fret on my account. Good day.”

  Befuddled, Cleaves clapped his hat back on his head. “Good day.”

  “And Mr. Cleaves. Please do not return in regards to this matter. Miss Lattimore’s innocence has been acknowledged, and she has been pardoned. While she remains in Williamsburg, she will be my guest.”

  His nod was a single short jerk of his chin. “Good day.” His stride was clipped and precise as he departed.

  “Thank you.” Merry reached for Mrs. Benning’s hand.

  “Think nothing of it, my dear. I am more than glad to see the back of that man.” She smiled and touched the edge of Merry’s apron. “We must see to making you look like a lady.”

  Graham smiled secretly. Abigail Benning was stronger than he would have credited. He would be leaving Merry in good hands.

  Mrs. Benning turned to him. “Mr. Sinclair, I will be most grateful if you will defend Jerusha. Find out what really happened so that my husband may rest in peace.”

  Merry was sucked into a tempest of gowns and ribbons, frills and furbelows the moment Graham departed. Two maids worked on her hair while Abigail regarded her critically. They made a wall of skirts around her, hemming her in before the vanity.

  With the backs of her fingers, Merry caressed the silk dressing gown she wore, taking care not to catch the fine thread with her work-roughened hands. It had been years since she had worn anything so fine. Merry recognized the impulse driving Abigail. In the wake of her father’s death, Merry had taken on any number of new projects. Anything to find distraction from her loss.

  It was an altogether different prospect to be on the other end of such attention.

  At least she’d had the satisfaction of seeing the look on Graham’s face when she had been invited to stay in the house. It nearly made up for his conniving. Why had he suddenly assumed responsibility for her well-being? Where had he been for the last five years, when she could have used a friend? She shook off the frisson of resentment.

  For now, the most important thing was that she could continue to try to discover who had really murdered Mr. Benning.

  Would the slaves speak to her now? It would look odd if she continued to haunt the slave hall.

  Hattie pulled her hair and she grimaced.

  “Sorry, miss.”

  Merry raised a hand. There it was. The formality—the distance. It may already be too late to get any information from the staff.

  On the other hand, her new status gave her greater license with the family and guests. She could ask questions of them now that might have gotten her punished for impertinence as a servant.

  “Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Benning. I am most grateful to you, especially at such a time.”

  “I am only sorry you’ve had to suffer so in the first place. I feel as if I’ve contributed to the injustice by buying your indenture.” Abigail patted her shoulder.

  “Oh no. You saved me. If Cleaves—” She shuddered. “I just wish there were something I could do to repay your kindness. I would remove your burden if I could.”

  Tears lurked in Abigail’s eyes. “Thank you, but grief can only be healed by time.”

  “At least Master Raleigh is home. That must be a comfort.”

  “Poor Raleig
h. He is so like his father.” She reached forward and plucked a curl from its confines and placed it at Merry’s temple. “I am not sure Charles Towne was altogether good for him. He seems not himself since he returned.”

  “Perhaps it is a symptom of grief, or simply a process of maturing?”

  “Perhaps. Hopefully he will settle once classes resume at the college. He did very well last year. But his father wanted him to go to England and study law.”

  “He does not care for law?”

  “He does not care for England.”

  Merry blinked, unsure whether she ought to be affronted on behalf of her homeland.

  “He fell in with a group of agitators while at school. They are sowing discord all up and down the coast. They seem to set out each day looking for offence. Though from what I understand there have been some legitimate grievances. I do not follow politics, but I fear there is trouble brewing in these colonies.”

  “Was his father sending him to England to tear him away from unsuitable friends?”

  “Oh no, I don’t think so. He simply felt that law would be the best field for Raleigh.”

  “Mr. Sinclair passed the bar at the Middle Temple. I’m certain he has fond memories of his time there. Perhaps he could be prevailed upon to speak to Master Raleigh. That is, if you intend to encourage him to follow his father’s wishes.”

  “That may be just the thing Raleigh needs. He is so headstrong at times.”

  Abigail pinned a final ribbon in the back of Merry’s hair then patted her shoulder. “You look lovely.”

  For the first time since being plunked down in front of the glass, Merry focused on her image. Her hair was piled high, though mercifully not powdered. Between that and her fine gown, she bore little resemblance to the bedraggled woman who arrived in Virginia aboard a convict hulk.

  She raised a tentative hand to her cheek. “I hardly know myself.”

  “Oh my dear. Fate has played on you so unfairly. It is time that something good should happen.” A playful smile crossed Abigail’s features. “Now you must tell me about Mr. Sinclair. I think there must be more to the story than I have been privy to.”

  The click of heeled shoes stopped by the open door. “The funeral must be starting now.” Mrs. Fraser’s observation brought instant tears to Abigail’s eyes.

  Merry shot the woman a hard glare. Could she not let Abigail forget about her loss even for a few moments? No, she must dredge it all back up and then top it with a dose of guilt.

  “I wish I could be there with Raleigh. He’s young to bear such a burden.” Abigail looked down, her fingers plucking at invisible bits of lint on Merry’s shoulder. “And I would have liked one more chance to bid Reginald farewell. I don’t know how we shall all get on without him.”

  “That would hardly be fitting. You do best by staying decently with your children and allowing the gentlemen to attend to such ghoulish duties. My husband will take great pains to ensure that Raleigh is comforted.” Catherine Fraser’s brisk tone held no understanding.

  Abigail straightened as if she’d been doused with a bucket of rainwater. “We are lucky you have been with us at this time.”

  Merry watched Abigail closely. If there was any irony in the comment it was so well hidden as to be indiscernible.

  They repaired to the parlor for a genteel tea, and as the ladies talked over their memories of Mr. Benning, Merry’s mind wandered to her earlier conversation with Abigail. She had been given much to consider.

  If Master Raleigh had fallen in with a crowd of political troublemakers, was it possible his newfound convictions were so strongly held that he would do anything to avoid consorting with the enemy?

  Graham inhaled and wished he hadn’t. The prison’s stench was thick with the pungent musk of despair. His eyes adjusted slowly from the brightness of the Virginian sun.

  “Jerusha?”

  He heard a scrabble in the corner and finally saw her, hunched in so deeply on herself that he had missed her presence.

  “Yes sir.” Her voice rasped as if she had been coughing, or perhaps crying, a great deal.

  “My name is Graham Sinclair.”

  “Yes sir. I know you.”

  “I have obtained permission to speak in the yard. Would you care to step outside?”

  The prisoners’ yard was a pitiful little brick-and-stone courtyard perhaps ten feet wide and fifteen feet long. Its only advantage was that it allowed them to speak away from the ears of the other prisoners.

  She squinted in the light, and her reddened eyes bore witness that his surmise of recent weeping had been correct.

  “Miss Lattimore has been busy on your behalf.”

  The comment coaxed an almost-smile from the woman. “She’s a loyal girl, and kind.”

  “But perhaps a bit naive?” Graham completed the sentiment she could not seem to bring herself to voice.

  Jerusha shrugged.

  “I’m a lawyer. She has requested that I take on the defense of your case.”

  She looked up at him sharply. “Is that allowed?”

  “There is no law preventing it.”

  She looked at him askance, as if realizing he had not exactly answered her question.

  “Do you know anything about this murder?”

  She shook her head adamantly. “I don’t know nothing about it.”

  He eyed her steadily. “Jerusha, you know the household, you know the people. Servants hear a great deal of the most intimate discourse. You are privy to more about your mistress than even most of her family. You must have heard or seen something.”

  “No sir. I don’t take account of nothing that ain’t my business.”

  Graham restrained a sigh. She had to say it of course; she could not admit to hearing the conversations that whirled about her. Slaves had been flogged to death for repeating gossip about their masters. But the keeper would be back in a few moments to send him about his business.

  “Jerusha, I don’t have much time. You must tell me if you saw or heard anything suspicious.”

  “Mr. Sinclair, sir, I learned long ago it don’t do to speak ill of white folk. I don’t know no reason anybody’d want to kill Master.”

  Time to try a different tack. “Had he been acting differently of late?”

  “Not that I recall. He was just himself. Except …”

  He latched onto it. “Except what?”

  She glanced around again and lowered her voice. “He seemed worried. He and Mister Fraser were at odds. Don’t ask me. I don’t know why. I take care of Miz Benning, and the gentlemen didn’t say anything quarrelsome in front of the ladies. They just weren’t as friendly-like as they used to be. And then there—” Once more she skidded to a stop, midsentence.

  He took her arm, perhaps a bit more roughly than he intended since she winced. She did not pull away though, accepting the pain as if it were to be expected. He loosened his grip.

  A key scraped in the courtyard’s gate.

  “You must tell me whatever you know.”

  “Mr. Benning’s been upset with Master Raleigh. It was silly, an argument, no more. They would have made up in a few days, and things would have gone back to normal.”

  The keeper appeared, blowing his nose into a large, grayish handkerchief. “Time’s up.”

  Jerusha reached a hand toward him and then snatched it back. “Is my Abigail well?”

  Graham nodded. “She is holding up, though I think the loss has wounded her deeply.”

  Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. “I didn’t kill ’im. Please tell her.”

  The turnkey cleared his throat pointedly.

  “She doesn’t think you did.” He would have liked to offer some sort of comfort, but could think of no hope to extend her.

  Merry swept into the dining room on Raleigh Benning’s arm. As she took her seat, she peeked up at him through demure lashes. Though only seventeen, he had his father’s elegant leanness and stood half a head taller than she. His eyes cam
e straight from his mother however. Now they were stormy, though he troubled to offer her a smile.

  They were a small party, just the household and Mr. Sinclair. It would not be fitting to entertain at such a time. Still, Merry’s fingers returned again and again to caressing the lush brocade of her skirts, and her nose quivered at the tantalizing smells of roasted meat, fine sauces, and freshly baked bread. Smells she had sought to ignore for months so as not to be driven mad with longing.

  Despite the witness of the looking glass, Merry could not quite reconcile herself to the notion that she was no longer a servant. She felt at once both small and grubby, and overlarge and clumsy. A spectacle, that’s what she was. The only saving grace was that there were not many spectators.

  Mr. Fraser’s eyes raked her from stem to stern. “My wife told me of your good fortune, Merry.” He welcomed her as if he were the host rather than a guest himself. “I’m sure we are all pleased at your extraordinary luck.”

  Merry’s cheeks tingled, and she withdrew her hand from his grip. To still use her given name, so informally. He acted as if she were not innocent all along, but had simply wriggled through some fantastical loophole.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fraser.” She managed to incline her head with a measure of dignity. She at least knew how to conduct herself.

  Graham leaned forward across the table slightly. “Miss Lattimore”—was it just Merry or had he stressed the appropriate form of address?—”has been through a great ordeal. I for one am most relieved that her reputation has been fully restored.”

  Mr. Fraser pursed his lips, and the line of his jaw tightened. An instant later the expression disappeared into a toothy grin. “Hear, hear.” Mr. Fraser raised his glass. “To Miss Lattimore.”

  The others had no choice but to follow suit, though it hardly seemed in the best taste to be toasting at dinner when Mr. Benning had been buried that afternoon.

  “I imagine you will be returning to England now that you are at liberty?” Mrs. Fraser’s smile looked as thin as Merry’s felt.

  Mr. Fraser flourished his knife, spattering the table with sauce from his squab. “I believe the sloop in port at Yorktown will be sailing within the week.”