What Lies Buried: A Novel of Old Cape Fear

by Dewey Lambdin

  Cape Fear commerce and agriculture summed up neatly by those icons, Matthew Livesey thought with a firm nod of recognition. And all about the obverse rim, inside the milled edge, were the words:

  ‘Planter + Scholar + Soldier + Loving Relative + Firm Friend

  Aye, Livesey nodded again, his eyes beginning to water as he clasped his fingers about the medallion to press it hard against his palm; that pretty much summed up Harry Tresmayne, too. For better or worse, Harry had been a damned good friend. For all his faults, he’d been a man to cherish—as he would cherish this remembrance.

  Livesey swore he’d get a joiner to make a small presentation box for his medallion, soon as he could—a triptych box with a plush lining, so the medallion could be seen on both sides, and take pride of place on his mantel down through all the coming generations.

  Chapter 21

  SOLEMN AND SUBDUED as everyone felt, Georgina bade them enjoy themselves—take more wine, stay and have a bite more. Slaves set out fresh platters and bottles, though Georgina excused herself for awhile to go upstairs and refresh herselfbefore rejoining them.

  Bess got herself another glass of hock while her father was sunk deep in a brown study, gazing mournfully at his medallion—so intent he couldn’t tell her not to—and went out onto the front veranda for a welcome breath of cooler air. Samuel was barely fit company anytime, even less so today. Andrew was over in one corner with his elegant uncle Thomas Lakey. The Maultsbys were both boresome old trots, for all their sweetness, so Bess de-siredjust a little time to herself.

  For a moment, she thought ofjoining Andrew. But after Samuel’s spiteful parting shot about her “setting her cap” for him—so doubly wounding since it was pretty much true, she thought with a quick hissing anger—she wasn’t sure how to approach him until she’d sorted out her depression and resentment, so she could appear chirpy, gay—and coyly uncommitted.

  For company, though, she found Mrs Anne Moore, seated alone on the shady cool veranda on a white-painted slat settee, with her hands folded in her lap about the stem of a half-full glass of sherry, chin high and gazing out onto the sandy, sunny street.

  Why not? Bess asked herself. She’s here; I’m here. I might not get a better opportunity soon.And it beats wangling an invitation to her house, or inventing anotherplausible lie, allhollow!

  “So sad,” Bess began hesitantly.

  Anne Moore swiveled her elegantly coiffed and hatted head about for a moment, and straightened her back, as if she’d been caught in the unladylike activity of slouching in public. Bess saw that Mrs Moore’s eyes were pink and slightly puffy from weeping.

  But the woman merely glanced at her once, dismissed her presence with the slightest squint of petulance, and folded her arms across her bodice. She returned her interest to the street’s doings, which were no great shakes at that moment. One idle hand brought the crystal stem up to rest against her cheek, near her mouth, in a contemplative pose.

  Mrs Moore’s wide petticoats and lacy sack gown, so precisely arranged, left little room on the settee, so Bess settled herself on the edge of a matching chair nearby, and fortified her unsettled mind with a sip of hock. She directed her own gaze to the roadway.

  A piebald hound on the porch opposite yawned, then rolled from its left side to its right. The tail flopped once. Then, a hind foot rose up lazily and made some vague scratching motions somewhere in the vicinity of its ribs. But that was too much effort.

  Fascinating, Bess groaned to herself.

  “I’m so glad Aunt Georgina’s come back to Wilmington,” she said finally, blurting out the first solid thought that occurred to her. “I was worried Tuscarora would be too isolated, when she needs company to take her mind off things. Distractions.”

  “One would suppose that is so,” Anne Moore replied in a tone so distant she sounded infinitely bored with anything a mere chit of a girl might say. Bess imagined (not for the first time in talking to her elders) that her remark, and Mrs Moore’s reply, had been such a rare coincidence of timing between her, and a real adult’s conversation, that what had passed might actually be mistaken for a sign they were taking place at the same time, with Mrs Moore actually listening, then making an effort to respond!

  Turk Janissaries are stealing your carriage horses, ma’am, Bess thought sourly; “That’s lovely, my dear,”Mrs Moore might say.

  “Not balls and such,” Bess blathered on. “Oh, supper among her friends now and again. Music in someone’s parlor. Sewing with some other ladies. Tea and talk?”

  Mrs Moore took a deep breath, held it for a moment as she pondered the idea, then slumped a little as she most unenthusiastically murmured, “Mmmm,” with a faint nod of agreement. She took a sip of her sherry, then returned the glass to her cheek, near the corner of her mouth where it was caressed like a lover’s fingers.

  “Such a fine memento,” Bess said after another long moment had passed. “The medallions.”

  “Hmmph,” Mrs Moore commented, with the most liveliness she had yet shown.

  “You did not like them, ma’am?” Bess inquired.

  “More than a touch—as the French might say—gauche,” Mrs Moore sneered lazily. “I was not consulted.”

  Bee-yitch! Bess drawled to herself, savoring every nuance of the Southern pronunciation. “But Mr Osgoode surely was. Perhaps then, you and he …”

  “Don’t be so tiresome, dear,” Mrs Moore said with an arch lift to one brow to underline the vexation her voice was too lazy to impart.

  “Perhaps mourning rings would have been more appropriate, more … tasteful,” Bess simpered, posing as a social critic more attuned to Mrs Moore’s tastes. And hating herself for even pretending to sneer at Aunt Georgina behind her back. “Or, had she her heart set on the medallions, they could have been … smaller? Less pretentious?”

  “Less gaudy?” Anne Moore actually deigned to reply for once, a corner of her mouth lifting in amusement for a second. “Oh, indeed.”

  “I never heard it done in Philadelphia,” Bess added.

  “An infinitely more elegant and mannerly city,” Mrs Moore said, turning to look at her at last. “Not a sawmill town.” She grimaced.

  “Were you ever in Philadelphia, ma’am?” Bess asked her.

  “Not that far north, no, my dear,” Mrs Moore intoned. “Virginia when I was small, then New Bern. Charleston, though, many times—my family and I. One could wish that Wilmington, new as it is, could aspire at some point in its existence to such gentility and refinement.”

  “It was quite a comedown for us, too, ma’am. Leaving Philadelphia when I was little,” Bess encouraged, matching Mrs Moore’s dismissive tone, and lifting a brow of her own in sympathy. “I’ve never been to New Bern, but I hear it’s grand. Not as large as Wilmington, but… !” Bess managed to squirm girlishly, and to play eager and curious. “What is it like?”

  “The houses are proper mansions,” Mrs Moore informed her, with a wist-fulness. “Streets, the main roads, are actually paved, my dear. The General Assembly brings gentlemen and ladies of the highest merit and breeding together. When in session, there is a continual round ofballs, routs and drums. Small it may be, but wealthy, so very wealthy! And refined wealth—as opposed to the tawdry flummery of Wilmington’s … how like the French to have such a perfect word for them … parvenus—attracts only the finest merchandise, the most tasteful and cosmopolitan selection from London, Paris, the great capitals of the civilized world.”

  Bess could not help glancing down to her gown, a fairly new pale-yellow cambric. But so tawdrily plain!

  “Present company excepted, of course, dear Mistress Livesey,” Anne Moore allowed, with a nod in her direction, and a wry tip of her sherry glass. But the smile which accompanied that nod Bess thought denoted a hypocritical condescension.

  Lyiribee-yitch!’Bess fumed to herself, even as she returned her smile with a rather beatific one of her own.

  “I suppose a person must be wealthy, to appear tawdry,” Bess replied, after a
cooling sip of hock that lit off a slow heartburn in her innards. “Our circumstances … but for some color, a bit of lace now and again … I must appear Quaker-plain.” She frowned.

  “Not at all, my dear,” Mrs Moore quipped, fully engaged now, and wholeheartedly amused. She turned her torso to face Bess, with one arm on the back of the settee. “Even a strumpet may earn the price of too much flibberty-gibberty. ’tis their stock-in-trade, hmm? N’est-ce-pas?” Mrs Moore actually laughed. “Besides, very young girls, such as yourself, should neverbe awash in crack-ery. Time enough to follow fashion. There is a line, after all.”

  “I’ve always adored your taste, Mistress Moore,” Bess lied with a becoming shyness. “Why, I wager even the barons’ wives, with a week to prepare, can’t hold a candle to you when it comes to elegant. Oh, what is that French word? You’re right, they’re so apt when you need le mot juste! Panache! You could throw on a croaker sack with not a moment’s notice, and carry it off with panache.”

  “Why, thank you, my dear, ’tis a pretty compliment.” Mrs Moore blushed, and dimpled prettily. “Though I fear I’m quite beyond the day when a hasty toilette would serve to carry any occasion.”

  “I only wish I had that sense of easy, but elegant, style,” Bess pretended to bemoan. “Now our condition is improving … oh, I dasn’t ask this of you!”

  “What, my dear?”

  “Your sensible advice,” Bess gushed. “Before I go and do something silly. And tawdry.” Bess forced herself to giggle, though it was a wrench. “Before I become so enthused over having a new gown made, ‘stead of sewing for myself, that I end up looking foolish and trullish. Young Andrew … Mr Hewlett? Oops! Well…”

  Well, heck, everyone else believes it, even Andrew, Bess told herself; go all the way past miss-ish—aspire to simpering twit! A guinea to a pinch o’ sand she’ll believe it, too!

  “Aha, so that’s the reason!” Mrs Moore cajoled softly. “Well, why not? He’s a good prospect. Though, should you be able to travel to a larger city, I’m sure you’d discover a myriad better. Yes, we could get our heads together. Who are you using?”

  “I haven’t decided yet, ma’am,” Bess lied again, quickly. “Umm … I’d thought of something much like that lovely gown you owned last winter. I recall it was pale gray watered silk, with off-white lace? And lovely blue ribbon to set it off. To match my eyes. You looked so handsome in that!”

  “Mmm, perhaps not,” Mrs Moore decided, eyeing Bess up and down like a horsetrader. “Too mature, byyears!” She found it amusing.

  “It was so funny,” Bess chuckled with effort. “You wore it once, all I can recall, and then … Good Lord, here comes the magistrate and his wife two Sundays later, as if she hadn’t a clue! Mrs Marsden in nearly the same gown, I swear! Poor old thing.”

  “I do recall,” Mrs Moore replied. But her gay tone had taken its leave. She swiveled away to face the street once more, her face returning to a vacant mask. To Bess, her reply had almost sounded snippy!

  “I do trust her … pale imitation did not hurt you, ma’am,” Bess stumbled, wondering at her mercurial change, and if she caused it. “Or did I, by bringing it up, then? If I did …”

  “No, my dear,” Mrs Moore responded quickly, grating out her words, though, as she took a deep breath for steadiness. “It would be extremely silly for me to be upset over such a trifle, past a slight irritation of the moment. To hold a grudge so long …” Anne Moore sighed, waving her wineglass absently. Reminded that she still held it, she took a dutiful sip.

  “But you still have it?” Bess pressed. “That gown?”

  “You wish my cast-offs?” Mrs Moore queried, raising her brow in arch, but weary, amusement again.

  “No, ma’am, of course not!” Bess answered, flushing hot that it sounded like she was begging. “I’d wish to see it, to recall its details for my dressmaker, though. If you no longer care to wear it. So I would not imitate you …I have no need to beg, ma’am!”

  “Too old for you by half,” Mrs Moore dismissed with a snort, returning her gaze again. “Best stay with youthful styles suitable to your years. Such heavy fabrics, so glittery, are unseemly for one so young. The color is more apt for an established matron, as well.”

  “I see.” Bess nodded. “Then I thank you for that advice which I requested, Mistress Moore. You see, you have saved me from a crude error already!” Bess grinned, trying to cajole the woman with a bit of flattery.

  “I have the latest sample folios,just arrived,” Mrs Moore at last allowed. “Direct from London. And from Paris, no matter that we are still technically at war with the French. There are means … I’m told. I’ll send you them, once I’ve perused them for myself. I will indicate which I deem proper for you.

  “That would be very gracious of you, Mistress Moore,” Bess said. “I’m grateful to you for your most experienced advice. Forgive me, if I’ve imposed upon you, ma’am. But with Aunt Georgina in mourning, and no woman about our house to advise me, I dasn’t pester her with silly concerns at this time.”

  “It is no imposition,” Mrs Moore intoned so dully and dutifully that Bess was sure that it, indeed, was.

  “Could you advise me just the tiniest bit more, then, ma’am?” Bess coaxed, leaning forward as if to conspire. “About whom you think is the most talented dressmaker in the settlement?”

  “Oh, well.” Mrs Moore pondered. “There is the widow Cofer, out on Fifth Street. I use her almost exclusively, but she is swamped with work. And rather expensive these days,” Anne Moore informed her with a gratuitous nod to Bess, and the state of her finances. Sneerin’bee-yitch, Bess deemed her in silence.

  “There is a black freedwoman, Mama Trickett, who is quite good. Though one must keep her lazy fingers to their task. Her fee would be more … comfortable.” Mrs Moore shrugged doubtfully.

  “I’ve heard there’s a new girl ‘cross the Brunswick. Her name is …” Bess paused, forcing herself to simper with giddy stupidity as she got to the crux of her interrogation. “Oh, dear, I’ve quite forgot. Was it Goody? Bridey? Biddy? Louisa Lillington told me, but… have you heard anything of her, ma’am? Louisa speaks highly of her, but I would trustjowrjudgment more. Have you seen any of her work?”

  “No,” Mrs Moore dismissed sharply. “I have not.” She rose to her feet gracefully, though with a touch more haste than that languid style a lady should display. “You will excuse me, my dear.” It was an order, not a polite social withdrawing sound.

  Bess was forced to her feet as well, puzzled by how stern Anne Moore looked, wonderingjust what the connection was between her sudden vexation and that dress. Or was it the dressmaker? Bess thought.

  “You are feeling unwell suddenly, ma’am?” Bess chirped. “Have you a headache? Perhaps I could …”

  “A most egregious headache!” Mrs Moore all but snarled, showing her true feelings at last. “I have no more patience for this.”

  “If I have offended, ma’am …” Bess shambled.

  “To prate ‘bout dresses, and fashion, at such a somber time!” Mrs Moore hissed. “When sensible people would respect the melancholy of those who … I mean, really! Respect the dead, and the mourning, you silly little goose-brain! Think where you are, at least!”

  “Ma’am, I…!” Bess gasped, recoiling.

  Anne Moore set her sherry glass down on the porch railing and swept past her with a final crushing glare and re-entered the house, swishing her skirts in frothy hostility.

  “Well, da… darn!” Bess muttered to herself on the empty porch.

  Now what in tarnation did I say to set her off like that? Bess speculated, mortally abashed by Mrs Moore’s scornful dressing-down. She felt crushed by her clumsiness, as well, when she thought she had been so clever in bringing up the subject of that gown—and Biddy.

  She went to the sherry glass on the railing and picked it up. Shrugging, she lifted it to her lips and tossed it off to “heel-taps,” badly in need of fortification at that moment.

  “Beats hock
all hollow,” she told herself in a whisper as the sweeter, mellower sherry settled warmly in her stomach, muting heartburn from her more-acrid white wine, and her sense of failure.

  Mrs Moore came out onto the porch a moment later, nose high, with her parasol ballooned out to protect her already-olive skin from the sun. Osgoode Moore came almost bleating in her bustling wake, expostulating in desperate whispers as she plowed her way down the steps and across the walk, toward the front gate and her waiting carriage. He tacked from port to starboard in her wake, avoiding dogwood bushes and azaleas that impeded his progress.

  He handed her into the four-wheeled cart while the black coachee held the door for her; all but wringing his hands. Bess turned to stare at the middle distance, up-hill, to avoid shaming him further. And to spare herself, truth be told; such domestic hurricanes between man and wife should never be seen in public, especially where the woman held the upper hand. And it boded ill for young people to witness them, blighting their own naive prospects for a happy life.

  Mercifully, Bess made to enter the house, though she could not quite avoid seeing Osgoode Moore sag in defeat as the coach departed.

  She set her wineglass on the sideboard, wishing no more hock. Then she picked up a chewy molasses cookie and nibbled on it, pondering all the while what had set Mrs Moore off.

  That gown! she thought. Biddy’d made it for her; yet she lied about knowing her work. She’d only worn it once, whatever the reason. Everything had been goingjust wonderfully, until she’d brought it up. Bess sighed. She cast a guilty glance over at her father, sitting by Aunt Georgina. Now, if Anne Moore had been seeing Harry Tresmayne on the sly, if the bawdy rumor was true …

  Lord! Bess gulped, blushing at the fantasy which arose!

  What if Anne Moore had worn that gown on one of their trysts? Samuel had told her how muddy and weedy that grove was. He’d snorted with sly, lascivious glee that the lovers’ bower was beneath a prickly pine, littered with dry needles and cones. Had she ruined it? Haste, fear of undressing completely lest someone discover them … or the dank chill before spring had come …or torn it in the throes of lust?