“Father,” she said as he left for the wharf, “you’re a rogue. Don’t go peddling me through the countryside.”
Her admonition was futile; a week later when a tobacco ship arrived from London he announced to the entire family, “Glorious day! We’ve found a husband for Fair Rosalind!”
Cheers greeted this longed-for news and Rosalind’s sisters left their places to kiss her. “Now our families can all live together,” Letty cried, but her father dampened this enthusiasm by saying, “Roz won’t be living here. She’ll be across the bay ... in Maryland.”
The Janneys gasped. Maryland! To exile the daughter of a Cavalier family to Maryland was a sentence only slightly less formidable than death, because Maryland was almost as deplorable as Massachusetts. In fact, the news was so depressing that no one could think of a sensible comment.
With studied care Thomas Janney spelled out the terms of the deal he had arranged: “He’s a distinguished gentleman whose ancestors reached the James River forty years before ours reached the Rappahannock, which makes him gentry. He owns two thousand acres ... an entire island ... plus another four thousand on a fine river ... slaves, his own harbor, acres of tobacco ...” His voice trailed off in a way to suggest that the bad news would follow.
“How old is he?” Missy asked.
“He’s been married before.”
“Did he push his wife into the harbor?” Letty asked.
“She died in childbirth.”
“You haven’t told us how old,” Letty pressed.
“He’s got a splendid start in life ... a substantial plantation ... He’s forty.”
Another long silence, during which Janney could see his daughters calculating how old the proposed bridegroom was in relation to their father. “He sounds ancient.”
“He is a husband,” Janney said, emphasizing the second word.
Now Rosalind spoke. “Have you met him?”
“How would I meet him? He’s over in Maryland.”
“How did you hear of him?”
“Fithians. I wrote to Fithians in London.”
“Oh, my God,” Rosalind exploded, “now you’re peddling me through the streets of London!”
“Watch your blasphemy! It don’t become a lady.”
“I’m no lady. I’m a woman outraged because her father has been hawking her like a shipload of tobacco.”
“We’ve been trying to find you a husband,” Janney said stiffly, and when he appealed to other members of the family, the young people nodded; they, too, had been making offers up and down the tidewater.
“How much did you authorize Fithians to pay ... if someone would take me?” Rosalind asked icily.
“Fithians assures me that your future husband requires no dowry!”
Rosalind arranged her knife and fork in a precise pattern, then asked, “One thing’s important. Is he of good repute?”
“He is. Fithians have done business with his family much longer than ours. They reminded me ...” His voice trailed to a whisper. “His family had dealings with ... Old Simon.”
“Shouldn’t you tell me his name? If I’m to be married to him.”
“There is one thing more, Roz. He’s Papist.” And before any of the family could protest,’ he added, “But he’s promised that you won’t have to convert.”
“Generous,” Rosalind said bleakly, and then her father passed along a letter forwarded by Fithians in which the bridegroom had put his promise in writing:
I, Fitzhugh Steed, do hereby promise that my wife Rosalind will never be pressed to convert to Catholicism. My pledge and bond,
Fitzhugh Steed
“He’s a Steed!” Missy cried joyously, and each of the young people recalled friends who had connections with this distinguished family. Almost every Catholic home along the great rivers of Virginia had sent children to marry the Steeds, and Letty cried, “Oh, you lucky girl!” But Rosalind looked straight ahead, for she had not intended marrying a man of forty.
So on a September day in 1701 Rosalind Janney left her lovely home and walked soberly down to the family wharf, holding fast to the hands of her weeping sisters. At the final stretch of lawn she looked with apprehension toward the pinnace which had been packed the day before with those personal things she was carrying to her new home, but in its place stood a lovely snow, its three masts yellow, its trim red, its body brown and its water line a shimmering blue. On its stern, lettered in gold, stood the name Fair Rosalind. It was a magnificent gift, large enough to sail to London; she would descend upon her new home in grandeur.
Her sisters kissed her farewell; her brothers-in-law did too, with a sense of relief. Her father clasped her and said, “Always remember, you’re a Janney of Virginia, Your grandfather rode with Prince Rupert. Be proud. Be a good wife. And teach your children that they come of good blood. They’re Cavaliers.”
She watched her kind family standing on the wharf until they became distant figures in a twilight fairy tale. When they vanished she studied each house, each tree along this river she loved so much, and then the river vanished, and finally Virginia itself, lost in mists, and she began to weep.
Now they were on the bay, that grand, forbidding body of water, and she sensed that her life was being wrenched in half: the sweetness of the past was irrecoverable, the humiliation of the present inescapable. To leave Virginia for the wilds of Maryland! The gentility of the Rappahannock for God knows what savage river! And the sweet English chapel for the Romish Mass! Dear God, in neither Virginia nor England can a Papist hold office, and here I am marrying one! Was ever a young woman forced into a worse marriage?
To her unlistening slaves she cried, “It’s awful for a woman to be put up for sale.” It was this last word which turned her attention to them: How would these sailing the snow find passage back to Virginia? And she asked the white captain, “How will the sailors get home?”
“They belong to the ship,” the captain said, and it was only then that Rosalind realized that her father had given her not only this handsome new ship, but also the twelve slaves needed to man it. She had expected to take her three sewing women. But the men as well! This was the dowry of a princess.
Next morning, like a good manager, she concentrated on the sailing of her snow; if this was to be her ship, she needed to know its secrets, and that was not easy, for this was a most unusual craft. It had a standard foremast, square-rigged of course, and a mainmast also square, and with such sails she was familiar. But immediately behind the mainmast, and almost touching it at points, rose a curious third mast from which hung fore-and-aft sails, and as soon as she understood the benefits arising from this unique combination, she knew that few ships afloat could outmaneuver hers.
She was in good spirits when her snow pulled into the lee of Devon Island, breasted the eastern headland and turned west to find the creek. As it progressed slowly inland she had a chance to inspect her new home: a giant oak, a lawn as fair as any in Virginia, a rambling wooden house that bespoke decades of exciting living, and on the wharf a handsome man of forty, fair-haired, relaxed in manner, and from the way he carried himself, probably vain and self-indulgent. Beside him stood a petite young girl, and it was she who first offered greetings. Curtsying prettily, she extended her hand and said, “I’m Evelyn, your new daughter.” The man smiled and reached out to help. “Hullo,” he said. “I’m Hugh Steed.”
Rosalind, looking at the handsome pair, knew how plain she must appear to them; she felt that they were part of the conspiracy, the beautiful people allied against the ugly, but she would be perpetually grateful that if they were disappointed, they had the breeding not to show it. She tried to smile. “I’m Rosalind Janney.”
But when she stepped onto the wharf and stood beside these resplendent people, she experienced the full shame of being an unprepossessing bride. She felt faint and wondered if she could carry this thing through, this marriage arranged by Fithians across the ocean, but then she gritted her teeth, allowed Fitzhugh Steed to kiss he
r, and thought sardonically: Courage, lass. You’re the granddaughter of a Cavalier who rode with Rupert at Marston Moor.
ROSALIND’S REVENGE
WHEN ROSALIND JANNEY WALKED FROM THE WHARF ON Devon Island toward the plantation house and saw its random form, with afterthought additions sprawling across the rise, she had the strange feeling that she had been ferried up the bay to bring order into this household, and that without her it would not be achieved. The Steed house needed pulling together, and so did its inhabitants. Gathering her skirt in her left hand, she marched to the task.
Fitzhugh, punctilious in his attentions and gracious in trying to make his proposed wife feel as if she were indeed mistress of the island, led her onto the wooden porch, paused so that she could look back upon the creek and its activity, and said grandly, “It’s all to be yours. It cries out for your attention.”
At this show of generosity she wanted to grasp his hand, but the presence of slaves lugging bundles restrained her. Instead she smiled, showing the firm white teeth that always looked so big. “Governing a plantation is a monstrous job. You seem to have done well without me.”
He chuckled and told his daughter, “Show your new mother to her quarters,” and he was gone, his lace-touched coat bobbing in the sunlight.
Evelyn Steed was even more gracious than her father. She was a pert little princess, bubbling with self-assurance and positively eager to help this newcomer establish herself properly. Taking Rosalind by the hand, she led her through dark hallways to a spacious bedroom overlooking the creek, and then, when it might have been time for her to drop Rosalind’s hand, she caught the other one and squeezed it tightly. “We’ve needed you so much,” she cried impulsively. “We’re all so glad you’ve come.”
“You’re a surprise,” Rosalind said with catching breath, touched by the girl’s sincerity. “I wasn’t aware your father had so lovely a daughter.”
“And Mark? Did they hide him from you, too?”
“Who’s Mark? Your brother?”
“Older than me and at St. Omer’s.”
“Where’s that?”
“In France. All Catholic boys study at St. Omer’s. If their fathers have ships. Or access to them.”
“I like the way you use the word access, Evelyn. You sound as if you’d had good schooling.”
“Father loves to use big words. Says a gentleman should speak precisely.” With this, she pirouetted about the room, then stopped suddenly and once again grasped Rosalind’s hands. “It’s been most awfully lonesome here—with Mother gone, Mark in France ...”
“Your mother ...”
“Died. Seems years ago.” Again she pirouetted lightly. “And Father’s been fully as lonely as I.” She came to rest directly opposite Rosalind and asked, “How old are you?”
“Not old enough to be your mother, not too old to be your sister.”
“I like riddles! Let me guess.” She circled Rosalind,’ surveying her from all sides. “You’re twenty-seven.”
“One year too much.”
“That’s a jolly age. But isn’t it rather late to be married?” Without waiting for an answer, she asked, “Were you married before?” And again without waiting: “You see, Father’s already eager to marry me off, and he’s been writing to the Claxtons across the bay. Do you know them? In Annapolis?”
“How can I answer if you ask so swiftly?” And Rosalind pulled the excitable girl onto the bed beside her, and there they sat with their feet dangling, grappling with importunate questions.
“My marriage has come late, Evelyn, because I was ill-favored. My younger sisters were as pretty as you, and they married near your age. I’ve not been married before. And how would I possibly know any Claxtons in Annapolis when I’m from Virginia, which is a long way distant.” But then she became aware that she was speaking crisply and even with a certain irritation, so she softened her voice and asked, “Is he a pleasing young man?”
“Never saw him. Never saw any Claxton. It’s all being done with letters.”
“As in my case,” Rosalind said.
“You, too?” The girl’s curls flashed in the air as she swung about to look at Rosalind and laugh. “So you’re a letter bride!”
“By way of London.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your father inquired of Fithians if they had a bride and they wrote—”
“You’re Fithians too?” Evelyn cried gleefully, and she danced about the room, making mock introductions: “Miss Fithian, meet Miss Fithian!” But her laughter died abruptly as she said softly, “Maybe it’s permissible to be a letter bride when you’re twenty-six. At my age I’d like at least to see him.”
“So you shall!” Rosalind said impulsively, remembering her own reactions to a similar situation.
“Don’t give in,” the girl pleaded. “Please don’t give in.”
“Now just a moment, Evelyn. We’re not forming a team against your father.”
“He’s a darling ...” She hesitated. “What am I to call you? Mother? Or what?”
“You’re to call me Rosalind. I’m Rosalind Janney, soon to be Steed.”
The new snow was dispatched to Annapolis to fetch a priest, and on the fourth day of Rosalind’s stay at Devon she was tended by Evelyn, who helped dress her for the wedding. “I confess I’m most nervous, Evelyn. I’ve no concept of what a Catholic ceremony is.”
“Me neither,” the girl said. She was unusually flushed, more excited really than her mother-to-be, and it was not long before Rosalind learned why.
“Father Darnley’s from Annapolis. I’m sure he’ll be able to tell me about Regis.”
“Who?”
“Regis Claxton. The boy I’m to marry some day.”
“Do ask,” Rosalind said, “and if you feel any embarrassment, I will.”
“No fear! I want to talk with him.”
So Rosalind was dressed by Evelyn and her own three black maids, and although her size prevented them from making her the traditional delicate bride, the laces they attached to her and the flowers they placed in her arms did create a sense of festivity, and she did not feel apologetic when she left her bedroom and walked to where Fitzhugh and the priest waited.
The ceremony surprised her; it was almost indistinguishable from her sisters’ in the Church of England, and Father Darnley, a big, relaxed man, did everything reasonable to make her feel at ease. When the prayers ended she asked to speak with him and Fitzhugh alone. “Our children shall be reared as Catholics. And I will want to attend Mass with my husband, but I think it best that I do not convert.”
“There’ll be no pressure from me,” Steed assured her.
“Nor from me,” Father Darnley echoed. He had lived in Maryland too long to retain the missionary zeal of his youth and in recent years had seen too much of the fatal struggle between Catholic and Protestant to believe that the old days of Catholic domination would ever return.
“Do you realize,” he asked, as he folded his ceremonial garments, “that when our capital was moved from St. Mary’s City to Annapolis, guards were posted at the central square forbidding any Catholic to walk on the street facing the new buildings ... lest we profane them?”
“Can that be true?” Steed asked.
“It’s still true,” Darnley affirmed, whereupon both he and Steed broke into laughter.
“My footfall endangers the state!” Steed shook his head, then warned his new wife, “You see the infamous circle you’re joining.”
“My sisters kissed me goodbye as if I were quitting the known world.”
“In a sense you were,” the priest said. “But you’ll find solace living here in Maryland—with the Steeds and their promise of greatness, and the Catholics and their promise of immortality.” He hesitated just long enough to convey the impression that what he had said was jest. “I’m famished. We must all eat ... and I wouldn’t be offended if we also drank.”
Rosalind arranged it so that Father Darnley sat next to Evelyn, and during
the festivities, managed by eleven blacks, she kept an eye on her new daughter and saw with satisfaction that a lively conversation was under way. Toward the end of the banquet she moved to the other side of the priest and asked, “What have you been able to tell her of the Claxtons?”
“A splendid Catholic family, well regarded in Annapolis.”
“And Regis?”
“A fine Catholic.” He said this with falling inflection, as if that were all he could say of the young man or all he wished to say.
“But not an exciting prospect for a husband?” Rosalind asked bluntly.
“Exciting? No. Trustworthy? Yes.”
“I see,” Rosalind said, and from the manner in which Darnley turned from her to attack his persimmon pudding she knew that he would confide no more. In his human alphabet young Claxton rated zed.
Now the day ended. Slaves carted away the remnants of the feast and fires were lit in the black quarter, where women, coming in from the fields, were offered pieces of the wedding cake. On Devon Creek the first wild geese of autumn convened noisily and the first really cold breeze swept in from the bay. The priest sat alone in the inglenook, and in her bedroom Evelyn let down her hair and contemplated the unhappy news she had heard that day regarding her intended husband.
In the bridal bedroom Fitzhugh Steed, forty years old, experienced a kind of relief. From the moment his first wife had died, a supremely silly child unequal to the task of living on an island and rearing two children, he had known that he must remarry: the plantation had grown too large and too diverse to be easily handled, and if he wanted it to prosper, he must pay full attention to it rather than to the distracting problems of a household.
Many families in both Maryland and Virginia had wanted to align themselves with the Steeds of Devon, and various marriages had been proposed, but he wanted no more fatuous brides; one was enough for a lifetime. He required someone exactly like Rosalind: older, of good family, and safely past the age of romantic folly. He needed someone to oversee Evelyn’s getting married and Mark’s introduction to the management of the plantation. As for himself, he had worked out various arrangements, which were proving satisfactory, and sought no additional entanglements from a new wife, but he also recognized that if he did remarry, he would have to honor certain implied obligations, especially those relating to the bed, and he proposed doing so, even though he felt more propelled by duty than by passion.
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