“I shall, Mr Lakey,” Bess agreed, warmed by his commiseration.
“Well, will you have some punch with us, Mistress Livesey?” Lakey offered. “Hot tea on a spring day is all very fine, but a cold sip or two of somethin’ sweet is even finer. Andrew, attend to Mistress Livesey, there’s a good lad. With your permission, ma’am?”
“Thankee, Mr Lakey,” Bess agreed again, laying her hand upon the offered arm that Andrew made for her. He really was a very fine-looking young fellow, Bess thought; Andrew Hewlett was tall and fair, with an open, honest and forthright face—when he wasn’t blushing or biting his lips in nervousness. Lakey garbed him just as fine as he did himself, but there was a rawness to Hewlett’s posture, as if the fine clothes wore the young man, not the other way ‘round, and a gawkiness of elbows and knees and neck that made him look as clumsy as a spring colt.
Gawky or not, he was reckoned a fine catch, and Bess enjoyed the attention, and the side-long glances from the other girls as he escorted her to the punch bowl under the trees.
“You … uhm …” Hewlett stammered “…I cannot recall the pleasure of your appearance the last few weeks, Mistress Livesey, other than at church. You have been work … hah … otherwise engaged?”
Bess turned a cool gaze on him, seeing him stumble over what surely was a well-rehearsed speech. Damme, she thought, he’s as scared as I am! And he’s a man! She decided to put him at ease.
“Oh, ’tis spring, Mr Hewlett!” she said with her openest smile and perkiest airs. “Cleaning to be done, my growing brother to be re-garbed, before he comes out at the elbows and knees …”
Damme, why remindhim how clumsy boys look! she groaned to herself.
“Preparing for a glorious summer,” she concluded, rewarding him with another, disarming smile.
“Sure to be another hot one,” Hewlett said, flummoxed.
“Why, indeed, sir!” Bess nodded. “But glorious, in spite of it. The smell ofjessamine, of azaleas … the pleasure of flowers about the house. Even a humble spread ofhoneysuckle along a fence …” she enthused.
“Ever catch a bumblebee in honeysuckle?” Hewlett asked suddenly, infected with her manner. “Creep up and close it over the bee?”
“I would not dare, sir!” Whisking her fan in punctuation. And encouragement.
“Then pluck it, and hold it to your ear, and you can hear him buzzing like anything!”
“A feat for braver sorts than I, surely!” Bess praised, fanning herself again in mock fear. “But you’ve done it? My word!”
“Often!” Hewlett preened under her approving expression. “Here, allow me to dip you a glass of punch, Mistress Livesey.”
“With pleasure, sir.” Bess smiled. “Though we sound so formal.”
“I could name you by your first name, then?” Hewlett paled with glee at that privilege.
“Elisabeth, sir. Andrew,” she replied, looking away shyly.
“We have roses out at The Lodge … Elisabeth.” Hewlett gulped at the enormity. “Not the wild woodroses, but real’uns, brought in from England! Oh, all sorts of flowers growing. Perhaps you … and your father and brother … could coach out to see them sometime.”
“I would expect my father would welcome your uncle’s invitation,” she breathed, almost cooing as he handed her a cold glass, looking to Mr Lakey for confirmation.
“Heavens, yes,” Thomas Lakey agreed quickly. “Whenever I’ve come to town, I’ve noted the improvements you’ve made about the yard with marigolds an’ such, Mistress Livesey. Why not take cuttin’s to transplant for your house, hey?”
“We would appreciate that greatly, Mr Lakey.”
“Well, shall we sit in the shade yonder?” Lakey suggested.
They took seats on a white-painted stone bench which circled the girth of a tree to sip their drinks.
“Ah, the concert’s ended, thankee Jesus,” Lakey said, as people began to leave the stuffy salon and make for the punch bowls. “And did you smile proper, Mistress Livesey? When the dotin’ mamas give you the eye?”
“I did, sir.” Bess laughed.
“If one of’em’d broken wind, their dames would have glared at the audience, as if to say ‘they’ did it!” Lakey sniggered. “Pardons, Mistress Livesey, but the thought did strike me, an’ I’m cursed with sayin’ aloud things better left hush.”
“A tendency a politician should control, surely, sir?” Bess bantered back. Lakey was around mid-thirties, a real adult, but he’d always been so droll that she had few qualms about Lakey getting his back up over a comment.
“My dear, a faction man should say what first comes to mind, now an’ again,” Lakey laughed. “Bless me, but you’re a sharp’un. A credit to your father. An’ becoming a fine young woman. God help us, there’s so few with sense enough to come in out’n the rain here. Most refreshin’, I must say. Don’t you think so, Andrew?”
“Oh, indeed, Uncle.” Andrew Hewlett beamed whole-heartedly.
“Make a feller a fine match. An’ never let him forget it.”
“As fine a match as …” Andrew struggled, blushing again as he looked for an example. “As Harry and Georgina … hmmph …”
“They were a rare couple,” Lakey sighed, losing his gay edge. “God, poor Georgina! I don’t rightly know what she’ll do without him. She’s closed up the townhouse, don’t ye know … retired to Tuscarora. ‘Spect it’ll be a year or more, before we see her.”
“Father said that life will never be as grand and lively, with Uncle Harry gone.” Bess sobered as well. “Yes, poor Georgina.” Bess took a sip of punch. “And you, Mr Lakey?”
“Hey?” Lakey puzzled. “Oh, you mean the faction. Well, there is Osgoode Moore to carry on. The Harnetts, down to Brunswick. Others as sharp as Harry was.”
“And you, Mr Lakey. Father thought you would inherit leadership,” Bess said.
“Lordy, girl, I’m a gad-fly!” Lakey laughed at himself. “Long as Harry and Osgoode crafted things, I could shout myself hoarse from a stump, an’ huzzah like the Vicar of Bray. Stir things up, an’ back up their works. But leadin’, though … I ask you, Mistress Livesey. Do you see anyone followin’ met With the plantation to run, most of the time, I have little spare time. To huzzah at meetin’s, yes. But for leadership an’ deep thinkin’, no. Serious an’ devout as I believe our argument to be, to improve the lot of all Englishmen in our colony, of all the colonies, in fact… Harry showed me letters of like-minded men from as far away as New York an’ Boston. But it’s a matter of respect an’ sobriety, far as who takes over the good work. Never did I think it’d come to murder, though … Harry’s goadin’ an’ all. Thought we were dealin’ with gentlemen.”
Against her better judgment, and her father’s harsh admonition, Bess pressed him further. “So you think some of our ‘barons’ had him killed?”
“Don’t know what to think, truthfully.” Lakey frowned. “Might never know. Not official,” he said, tapping a finger alongside of his nose for a sage tap. “P’raps it was someone followin’ the orders from his betters. Or might’ve been one of the middlin’ pack who sided with ’em, an’ got too rowed by Harry, on the other hand, an’ did it on his own. Things get hot enough, a scapegoat’ll appear like a ‘Jack-in-a-Box,’ an’ never a word you’ll hear ‘bout any ties to the ‘barons,’ an’ I’ll lay a serious wager on’t. Best he springs up soon, though, ‘fore somethin’ happens. Way people are talkin’ already …”
“And Constable Swann solves this?” Bess added.
“Swann, Lord help us!” Lakey spat. “This is way beyond him, my dear girl. A body gets murdered ‘round the Cape Fear, most o’ the time ’tis two-a-penny reasons. A drinkin’ spree, a woman at the heart of it, two sailors goin’ at each other? And too drunk and witless to get far. Most get caught at the scene of the crime, knife in hand. Or there’s so many witnesses, all Swann has to do is go knock on the right door, come mornin’, t’get his man. But Harry, now … dear God, but I think that was planned. Somebody cold as cha
rity finagled to get him out on the Sound Road in the middle of the night, an’ knew he’d come alone … an’ that makes it a cold-blooded homicide, not a hot-blooded killin’. Your pardons, my dear.” Lakey cooled, almost wincing. “This ain’t a fit topic for conversation. Do forgive me, please.”
“There’s also talk,” Bess began, “down in the market, the stalls, Mr Lakey. Well. Let me ask you something. At the funeral, when Reverend McDowell asked for Uncle Harry’s sins to be forgiven, some of the people, uhm … well, they found it amusing.”
“Ah,” Lakey pondered, stroking his chin as her father did. “I see, hmm. How to best phrase this the most gently. Long as you asked, that is, an’ have heard the gossip already. Harry Tresmayne was… ha! In his younger days, mind … rather more’n free with the ladies. Some, not ladies, but…” Lakey coughed, turning a tad crimson. “Fact or no, it’s a repute that’ll cling to a man, no matter how long, or how single-minded a man’s later married. The sort o’ thing that gets blown all out o’ proportion, but that’s understandable, ‘cause Harry was champion for the common folk, an’ they always wish t’make a hero’s fame bigger, more colorful than it might really be, d’ye see? But for him t’be messin’ about, recently … well, I can’t believe a pinch of it. Harry’s first wife … my cousin, Priscilla. Do ye recall ought o’ her, Miss Livesey?”
“I do, sir,” Bess replied. “Most fondly.”
“Wild as he was, Harry was the most dotin’ husband to her, an’ Priscilla wasn’t your average brainless twit, either,” Lakey declared. “Not the sort t’be taken in by the first gay swaggerer that comes down the pike. Far too intelligent an’ discernin’ a woman, an’ willful for her future happiness, t’let herself be beguiled by just any jumped-up rogue. ’tis a young man’s nature t’be wild, for a season, I tell you. And a young woman’s t’grind the rough edges off him. Just as my dear Priscilla did with Harry. And I always deemed it a mortal pity there were no children who might’ve inherited her sensibility and charm, or Harry’s boldness and wit. What a waste o’ good breedin’, that was … her dyin’ young …an’ so hard.” Mr Lakey sighed most wistfully.
“And then, there was Georgina,” Andrew Hewlett contributed.
“Lord, yes, lad.” Lakey nodded. “Knew her, too, since we were sprouts, an’ your aunt Priscilla’s shade forgive me for sayin’ so, but Georgina’s even handsomer a match. Was. An’just as quick-witted an’ sensible as ever Priscilla was. Neither would’ve let a rake-hell pull the wool over their eyes.”
He took a sip of his punch, looking a bit mournful. “I called on Georgina, myself. Had hopes, at one time, but…” He shrugged it off, philosophically. “An’ I expect every landed gentleman or landed gentleman’s son in the next five counties did, too, hey? Pretty as she is? No, Mistress Livesey … both were the sweetest, handsomest, smartest, gentlest ladies in the whole Cape Fear. Not the sort for a rake-hell, or the sort t’suffer such a one for long. Man’d be a purblind fool who’d go behind their backs. Now Harry was a lot o’ things but he was never a fool. Not once he came back from that college up north. Oh, he took a spell, right after Priscilla passed away. Went off sol-dierin’, an’ mayhap he assuaged his grief along the way. But once back, an’ in his right mind, again … ? Only problem was, he had that former reputation to live down!”
“Yet, something lured him out on the Sound Road, alone,” Bess pointed out. “Even so, Mr Lakey, you said you’d heard things… even if you put no stock in them. Pardon my curiosity, but… what?”
“Well, mind now … this is a scurrilous rumor.” Lakey glowered at her, though seeming to relish being a gossip, even a reluctant one. “I’ve heard some say there’s this girl, ‘cross the river. Cape Fear an’ the Brunswick, both. Biddy MacDougall, or so I heard tell she is. Pretty enough little snip. ‘Bout as fair as … well, ‘bout as fair as Georgina. Not a breath over sixteen or seventeen, younger than you, my dear. Somebody’s been callin’ on her, of late. Somebody dressed gentlemanly, on a fine horse.”
“Taking his life in his hands, if he did, sir,” Andrew Hewlett stuck in, glad for a chance to participate in such a fascinating conversation, happy to have a tidbit to share—and get Bess’s attention back in his direction. “Her pa is Highland Scot. They came down from Campbelltown or Cross Creek by flat-boat. This MacDougall … there’s talk he was run off by his own clan back in Scotland. And by others of his clan here in the Cape Fear! I heard… before he left Scotland he murdered his wife! And slew the son of his clan lord, the same time! A right-fearsome fellow to be messing with!”
“Really,” Lakey drawled, winking at Bess as he put on a scowl. “And where would an upstandin’ young gentleman be goin’, when my back is turned, t’hear such? You been across the rivers, yourself, Andrew? You sound impressively well informed pon this matter.”
“No, Uncle, certainly not!” Andrew blushed, protesting vehemently. “But some who have seen this Biddy MacDougall, and heard about it, talked to me, and naturally … uhm …”
“Ah, Andrew,” Lakey grunted, as if disappointed that his ward could be so gullible. “No proof to that … only idle talk. An’ talk is the cheapest dish. A strange newcomer will get talked about. An’ a promisin’ lookin’ young chit with him’ll be thought the worst of… an’ usually by the worst young fellows, ‘til she’s proved ’em wrong. Now, gossip like that’s a tasty dish, I’ll allow. But! I have heard myself that this MacDougall fellow is a cold’un, I’ll grant you. Devilish black squint on his phyz most o’ the time, when I see him come to town to market. Never see the girl with him, far as I recollect, so she’s just as big a rumor, ha! An’ may the devil take ’em for calumny, but…”
“What?” Andrew and Bess gasped together, intrigued by the topic, and morbidly, eagerly interested by then. Lakey sighed, looking down and missing their first, secret, shared grins at each other.
“There’s some black-hearted hounds do say that Harry was hangin’ his hat on Osgoode’s hatrack too often for innocence. Whilst he sent Osgoode off on faction business, up to Duplin or New Bern, down to Masonborough and Brunswick, far as Charleston. Gettin’ him conveniently out o’ the way so Harry could … well, damn their blood, I say!”
“God Almighty!” Bess hissed in shock. “Anne Moore? But…”
“Told ya it was vile talk.” Lakey shrugged once more. “Slurs, not worth repeatin’, hey? You may hear such trash from others, butjust remember I told you it was trash, made up by trash! An’ not the sort of stuff I’d care to hear you were spreadin’ about for fun.”
“I could not mention such, Uncle, ever!” Andrew swore.
“It’s too unspeakable.” Bess shivered, though her imagination swam with giddy images of lust, of Uncle Harry clasping women to his breast, enfolding them in a riding cloak. Bess tried to picture some poor, hard-scrabble farmer’s daughter in home-spun, bare-legged and barefoot, without stays, petticoats or chemise pretty enough to … And Anne Moore, “Do” Jesus, surely not! Though she was handsome, Bess thought. Dark-haired and almond-eyed. Sleepy eyes, with breasts … tight as fashion-bound women, Anne Moore was pouted as a pigeon up … there! Darkly pretty as she was, Anne Moore looked somewhat… common. Trullish. Doxie-ish. Like a sailor’s “Poll.” But Bess also wished she was merely a tenth as endowed as Anne Moore. Boys put so much stock in them, she thought, and sofar, I’ve so little, God help me!
She came back from her fevered fantasies, aware of fanning in a frenzy, of sipping her glass of punch down to “heel-taps” in a few gulps. Most unladylike !
“But ifUncle Harry was… Mrs Moore, I mean …”
“It would mean that Osgoode Moore murdered his best friend,” Lakey scoffed. “Now, can you imagine anything more unbelievable than that? For God’s sake, let’s converse on somethin’ else! Lord, here comes Mrs Yadkin, gogglin’ the multitude.”
“She’ll want to ask me all about Father, I expect,” Bess said, making a small, private moue. “Happens every time, and no escaping.”
“You two young p
eople go for a stroll, why don’t you?” Lakey suggested, getting to his feet. “I’ll beard the peepin’ ewe myself.”
“Mr Lakey, you are a Christian gentleman,” Bess offered sweetly, kissing him on the cheek in parting.
“An’ ‘him whom the Lord loveth, He chastiseth,’ hah! I go forth to be chastised. Scat, younkers. While you may!”
Chapter 9
FOR NINE MILES east of tiny Wilmington, to the Sound or the islands, it was a barren—a maritime forest of pines, oaks, cypress in low-lying areas, and gnarled and convoluted smaller wind-sculpted tangle-oak. Very few people lived there, and those small holdings that did exist were little larger than scrap shacks, clearingsjust large enough for hut, stock pen or truck garden. One road ran to the southeast to Masonborough and the Sound. Another darted east towards an even tinier settlement of fisher-folk and outcasts some deemed Wrightsville. Both roads were narrow, little wider than a wagon, hemmed in by dogwood, tangle-oak, oleander and myrtle, pine, vines and thicket bushes no one had yet classified; dirt, sand and mud roadbeds heavily rutted by cartwheels, depressed to budding fens wherever they crossed a seeping spring or rill. And the blue sky was cut off by interlacing, sighing boughs that trembled to a sea breeze blowing in off Cabbage Inlet. A breeze which didn’t quite reach the ground, or the men who stood beside the Masonborough Sound Road, sweltering and still.
“Reckon ‘is be where it happ’m,” Jemmy Bowlegs said, kneeling several paces down a game trail which straggled off east into a grove of trees and bushes. He held the reins of his horse with one hand, pawing gently at the ground with the other, the sand and trampled grass, pine-needle detritus and dead leaves. “They’s blood ‘nough heah, Cap’m … ‘less a body kill hisself a hawg,” Bowlegs tittered.
Matthew Livesey kneed his horse forward for a better view, even though it felt distasteful and morbid to do so. Or to participate.
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