Jack loomed over me, fidgeting until I came to the end of a paragraph. ‘Wasteful!’ he grumbled when I raised my eyes from the page to his face, ruddy even in the semi-darkness. He waved a bit of parchment under my nose. ‘Mrs Ives, do you have any idea how much these candles are costing me?’
‘Peasants in India are sewing sequins on T-shirts under twenty-five-watt bulbs that generate more light than these candles do.’ I paused a beat. ‘Sir.’
‘Be that as it may, I must ask you to economize, madam.’
‘Papa!’ I felt, rather than saw, Melody rolling her eyes. Her skirt rustled as she rose, cupped a palm around one of the three candles flickering in the candelabra on the table next to her chair and blew it out. ‘There. Happy now?’ She plopped back into her chair, bent her head over her work. ‘Besides,’ she added, picking up her sampler, ‘it’s not like it’s real money.’
‘Of course it’s real! Who do you think paid for that frock you’re wearing?’
‘Lynx Entertainment?’
Jack scowled. ‘The dressmaker sends me the bill, young lady. That frock cost me four pounds, eleven shillings and five pence.’
‘What’s that in real money?’ Melody wanted to know.
Jack’s forehead furrowed as he considered his daughter’s question. ‘Allowing for inflation over the past two and a half centuries, you’re gallivanting around in a $700 designer original.’
Melody, who once confided that her normal taste in clothes ran to Forever21 and Topshop, gave her father the satisfaction of emitting a delighted gasp of surprise. ‘No way!’
‘Best you remember that, young lady.’
I wondered what kind of a dent my ball gown had put in his majesty’s exchequer, but wisely decided not to ask. Lord knows I’d tried to get the hang of British money – twenty shillings to a pound, twelve pence to a shilling had been my mantra. But, a pound is twenty shillings, except when you add a shilling and it turns into a guinea, and don’t get me started on farthings, quids, bobs and groats. And there’s no Tylenol here when I need it.
Melody bent over her work, squinted, wrapped the embroidery cotton several times around her needle, took careful aim, and plunged the needle into the linen, drawing the thread slowly down through the cloth and back up again. ‘Like this?’ she asked, turning the work in my direction for inspection.
‘Exactly like that.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack shift uncomfortably from one silver-buckled shoe to the other. ‘Well then, ladies, I’ll bid you goodnight.’
‘Night, Papa,’ Melody muttered without looking up.
‘Goodnight, Mr Donovan,’ I said, opening my book to the page where I’d left off: ‘“I saw two farmers’ daughters at church the other day, with bare necks. I protest they shocked me. If wenches will hang out lures for fellows, it is no matter what they suffer.”’
From the corner by the fire, Amy said, ‘It holds up well, doesn’t it, Tom Jones? Although I have to confess, I much prefer the movie.’
‘Bare necks. How shocking!’ Melody laid her embroidery down on her lap. ‘Well, aren’t you going to go on? Read, Hannah, read.’
TEN
‘This is the end of my third week on the job, and it’s back-breaking work. Mopping the hallway floor this afternoon took simply ages, and then along comes Mr Donovan and the little brat with their muddy boots and I had to mop it all over again.’
French Fry, housemaid
Maybe it was too much work, or lack of sleep, or the late September heat wave that had settled like a hot, wet towel over Annapolis that week, but early in the twenty-four hours leading up to George Washington’s visit, I became anxious about the menu. What would the Father of our Country like to eat? Did he have any allergies? What about his dentures? Would the food be soft enough? Out in the garden, helping Karen pick young, tender spinach, I was seized by the irrational thought that I should Google our first president, check out Wikipedia, visit the Mount Vernon website, looking for clues to the great man’s dietary preferences.
A visit to the well and a ladle of cool water later, I had come to my senses. He’s just an actor, you idiot, I told myself. He probably drives a Porsche, has a full set of cavity-free teeth and enjoys eating blooming onions at Outback.
Fortunately Alex Mueller had taken the children off our hands. For most of the afternoon, Melody and her little brother, Gabriel, as well as the four homeschoolers, had been occupied with dancing lessons at Brice House next door, practicing for Saturday’s after-dinner entertainment in honor of Colonel Washington.
Derek and Chad had disappeared, too, accompanying Jack Donovan to Middleton Tavern – directly across from the Market House – where he would be joining a group of socially-prominent Annapolitan men in re-enacting a meeting of the ancient and honorable Hominy Club. The club had actually disbanded in 1773 – possibly due to political differences – but Jud Wilson must have felt it too important a part of the Patriot House story not to be re-enacted, so he’d slipped the date. Since 1750, when Horatio Middleton first opened it as an ‘Inn for Seafaring Men,’ Middleton’s had been a focus of Annapolis social life, and it still was. Jack had been down at Middleton’s since noon, and if the punch flowed as freely that day as it had back in 1773, he would be struggling home long after dark on the steadying arm of Jeffrey Wiley, his trusty valet.
In the meantime, French, our housekeeper, was tasked with scrubbing the floors – upstairs and down – while Amy was sent to the dining room to polish the silver. That left Karen and me to manage things in the kitchen. Most of the baking had already been done, except for a butter cake. Karen put another log on the fire, then set a clean bowl on the table, tossed a generous handful of butter into it and began creaming it with a wooden spoon.
‘While you do that,’ I said from my perch on a kitchen stool, holding a cookbook, ‘let me see if I can find a recipe for roast pig.’ The book had no index, so I began to leaf through the pages. I found instructions for boiling a calf’s head – ‘serve the brains mashed or whole, and the tongue slit down the middle’ – and fricasseeing lambstones, but it took several minutes of browsing, puzzling over unfamiliar ingredients such as sounds, charr and pluck, before I found it. ‘To roast a pig,’ I began.
Karen was using her hands to work flour into a pound of butter. ‘Uh huh.’
‘Spit your pig and lay it to the fire. That seems simple enough. Oh, wait a minute, before you do that, you’re supposed to roll some sage, salt and pepper into a piece of butter the size of a walnut and sew it up inside. Actually, that sounds pretty good.
‘While the pig’s cooking, you keep basting it with flour,’ I continued. ‘Then, it goes on to say … Oh, yuck! You’re supposed to keep flouring it until the eyes drop out.’
‘Excuse me while I barf.’ Karen cracked an egg, used the shells to separate the white from the yolks, then dropped the yolk into the bowl. ‘There! That’s the last of the eggs.’ She picked up a spoon and started stirring the batter vigorously.
I slammed the book shut. ‘When this is over, I swear I’m going to become a vegetarian. If you’re going to eat meat, it should come cut up and wrapped in plastic and not be so …’ I paused, searching for the right word, ‘… so recognizable.’
While Karen was stirring the cake batter, Dex came in from the garden, staggering under an armload of firewood. He dropped the logs next to the fireplace, then began to stack them on top of the few logs that still remained after our marathon baking session.
‘I hate to see a little guy work so hard,’ I said. I lowered my voice so that Dex couldn’t hear me. ‘He should be in school with the other kids, or taking dancing lessons, not doing chores.’
Dex balanced the last log on top of the pile, then turned to me, wiping his hands clean on his breeches. ‘Mama says that my great-great-great-great grandma was a slave.’ He counted the ‘greats’ out on his fingers.
‘I think Dex is gaining an appreciation for the sacrifices his ancestors made for him,’ Karen said with a smile. �
�It’s true. Her name was Nellie Moore, and she was a slave on Walnut Creek Plantation in South Carolina.’ She stopped beating for a moment, stuck a finger in the batter, tasted it. ‘I know that I’m only here today because somebody like Nellie had the will to survive.’
‘I wonder what Nellie would have thought seeing you now, Karen. Actually volunteering to dress the way she did, work your fingers to the bone like she did.’
Karen laughed. ‘She’d probably think I was out of my freaking mind.’
I gathered up the spent eggshells, tossed them in the crock that was designated for compost and sent Dex out into the garden with it. ‘I wonder if Nellie endured because somewhere, deep down, she knew that one day, things would be different?’
Karen fixed me with her amber eyes. ‘If you’ll pardon my saying so, Mrs Ives, that’s just a lot of fancy, liberal white lady talk.’
I felt my face grow red.
‘No,’ Karen continued, ‘I think Nellie survived because her will to survive was so strong.
‘I’ve been thinking about her a lot since I came here, Mrs Ives,’ she continued after a moment. ‘Somewhere between picking peas in the garden, burning myself in the fire, and beating this damn cake – the recipe says I have to do it for an hour! – I feel like I know her, not well, but … I wish I could tell her how grateful I am to be her survivor.’
I slid off the stool and returned the cookbook to the shelf. ‘I think I know all I need to know about roasting a pig,’ I said. ‘Here, let me take a turn at that.’
Karen smiled, shook the kinks out of her right hand, and relinquished the bowl and spoon gratefully. While I assumed responsibility for beating the cake, she busied herself stringing the green beans.
Just about the time I thought my arm would drop off, barely five minutes into my shift, Gabriel came barreling into the kitchen. When he saw me, he screeched to a stop. ‘Where’s Dex?’
‘Out in the garden,’ I told him. ‘Delivering compost to the greenhouse.’
Gabe reached into his waistband and pulled out a leather pouch. ‘I’ve got some marbles, and I need somebody to play with.’
I caught Karen’s eye. When she nodded, I said, ‘That’ll be fine.’
Gabe did a quick about-face, disappearing the way he had come.
‘Dancing lessons must be over,’ I said, cradling the bowl against my apron and stirring, stirring.
Suddenly, the gardener’s dog, Flash – ever true to his name – streaked into the kitchen, followed by Gabe and Dex, in hot pursuit. ‘He’s got my marbles!’ Gabe shouted. Flash darted under the table, and crouched there, Gabe’s leather bag dangling from his mouth. I swear the dog was grinning. Gabe got down on all fours and crab-walked toward him, at which point, Flash took off for the door, knocking me off balance.
As the trio of pint-sized ruffians disappeared into the garden, I was distressed to discover that I’d slopped a good half-cup of Karen’s butter cake down the front of my dress. ‘Oh, shit! Look what I’ve done!’
Calmly, Karen handed me a damp cloth and watched while I tried to clean the spill off the linen, but my efforts only seemed to work the batter more thoroughly into the weave. ‘Ruined my gown, and your cake, too, I’m afraid.’ After all the elbow grease we’d already put into it, I felt like crying.
‘Never mind,’ Karen said with a grin. ‘It’ll be just half a slice smaller. Nobody will even notice. Here, let me have the bowl while you go upstairs and change for supper.’
‘Thanks. I’ll send Amy down to give you a hand.’
But Amy wasn’t in the dining room. The candelabra, the tea service, the chafing dishes on the sideboard, all gleamed in the late afternoon light, so I figured she’d moved on to other tasks. ‘Amy!’ I called, but she didn’t answer.
When I reached my own bedchamber, I unhooked my stomacher and slipped out of my gown. I carried the gown over to the window where the late-afternoon sun would illuminate my work, and began to give the stain some serious attention with the damp flannel I usually used on my face. After a few minutes of careful daubing, the biscuit-colored stain had only spread. About the size and shape of a cinnamon bun, it stared up at me, mockingly. I realized that its only hope was a trip to the wash tub on Monday – our usual washing day at Patriot House. I’d turn it over to French. Laundry was her job.
I folded the gown neatly, stain uppermost, then selected a fresh gown from my trunk, a dark wine color that harmonized well with my pale pink petticoat. ‘Where’s Amy when I need her?’ I grumbled as I struggled to fasten the stomacher in place. Eventually, I succeeded, checked my reflection in the looking glass – not bad – then let myself out the hidden door that led to the service staircase.
Somebody was already there, hiding in the alcove to my left.
I stopped short, stifling a yelp of surprise.
But the man was paying no attention. His back was to me and, judging from the pale arms wrapped around his neck, Alex – or so I deduced from the ink-blue suit and the ringletted blond ponytail – was engaged in a serious necking session with some saucy wench he’d backed into the corner. As I watched from the shadow of my doorway in stunned fascination, Alex moaned softly, wrapped his hands around the woman’s waist, and lifted her up gently. As her white stocking-clad legs eased around his waist, I caught a glimpse of the pale blue piping I’d seen earlier that day on Amy’s petticoat. ‘Oh, yes, yes, yes,’ she breathed.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph! No wonder Amy was so eager to get Drew declared officially dead, I thought. She’d obviously moved on, rushing past the till-death-do-us-part section of the marriage vows and headlong into her new, post-Drew life. I wondered whether Alex Mueller was to be the destination along that road, or just a comforting stop along the way.
Slowly, I backed into my room and closed the door silently behind me. My face felt hot, flushed with embarrassment. I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
What Amy and Alex did on their own time wasn’t anybody’s business but their own, I thought. But in Patriot House, we had no time of our own; we’d signed contracts that proved it. Amy and Alex should thank whatever god they prayed to that LynxE hadn’t installed a camera in that stairwell.
ELEVEN
‘My legs are all hairy, and before long, I’ll be able to braid the hair sprouting out of my armpits. Oh. My. God. It’s disgusting.’
Melody Donovan, daughter
I rang the bell for breakfast half an hour early on Saturday. The children arrived promptly, bursting with excitement over George Washington’s visit. They inhaled their ham and biscuits and were excused from the table a good five minutes before the rest of the family managed to straggle in.
Before long, Melody was back, hovering at her father’s elbow as he buttered his bread. She rolled her eyes, outlined in black like Cleopatra. ‘Daddy, do something about Gabe. He’s out in the garden teasing the rabbits.’
Jack Donovan, whose own eyes bore the unmistakable traces of an intemperate evening of food, wine and song, smiled indulgently. ‘Boys will be boys. Have some patience, Melody. He’s only nine years old.’
She stamped her foot. ‘Well, I’m tired of running after him. Why don’t you get one of the servants to do it?’
‘You’re seven years older than he is, don’t forget.’
‘How could I? He’s a total brat!’
Donovan looked up from his scrambled eggs and noticed his daughter for the first time. ‘What on earth have you done to your eyes?’
Melody blushed, tucked her chin to her chest. ‘It’s charcoal. From the fire.’
‘And your lips?’
‘Beet juice. Karen gave it to me.’ A single tear ran down her cheek. ‘I have to do something to make myself pretty for the party.’
Jack reached out and took his daughter’s hand, sandwiching it between his own beefy paws. ‘Melody, you are beautiful just the way you are.’
‘No, I’m not!’ she blubbered. ‘Nobody’s going to want to dance with me.’
Alex Mueller
rested his fork on his plate. ‘She’s a fine dancer, Mr Donovan. You’ll see that for yourself tonight.’ To Melody, he said, ‘I’d be honored to partner with you, Miss Donovan.’
Melody swiped at her eyes, smearing the charcoal until she looked like a panda. ‘You’re not just saying that?’
‘I am not.’ The corners of Alex’s eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘And I’m sure Colonel Washington will be delighted to dance with you, too.’
I put in my two-cent’s worth. ‘Melody, back in the eighteenth century, fashionable women would have killed to have skin as white and pale as yours. Do you know how they got it?’
Melody shook her head. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘They poisoned themselves with lead-based white face powder and rouge.’
‘And they looked ridiculous, like clowns,’ her father harrumphed.
‘They decorated their faces with little black patches shaped like half moons, stars and hearts to cover up smallpox and acne scars,’ Michael, the schoolmaster, added. ‘And you know what else?’
Melody shook her head.
‘Some women even had false eyebrows made out of mouse fur.’
Melody’s eyes grew wide. ‘Euuuuw!’
‘Absolutely true. As Jonathan Swift once wrote, “Her eyebrows from a mouse’s hide, Stuck on with art on either side.”’
It was my turn to say euuuuw. ‘After Amy gets you dressed, Melody, come see me. There’s a makeup box in my room. LynxE has stocked it with the modern lead-free equivalents of the makeup women used to use back then. I’m not sure we can do much to improve on your natural beauty, but it might be fun to experiment. Are you good with that?’
Melody’s ear-to-ear smile told me all I needed to know.
Founding Father had warned us to expect Colonel George Washington, late of the Virginia Regiment, sometime after noon on Saturday. I didn’t expect the great man to suddenly materialize on our doorstep with a quiet rap-rap-rap of the knocker, but I was totally unprepared for the eighteenth-century equivalent of the half-time show at the SuperBowl.
The Last Refuge Page 10
