Defiant Impostor

by Miriam Minger

  Camille gave a very small laugh, which sounded more like a congested rattle. “You’d manage, Susanna, I’m sure of it. I always wanted to be more like you, so clever and headstrong, and now, in a sense, I’ll have my chance. How I always admired the way you filled that great, somber house with your laughter and drove Aunt Melicent to distraction with your antics. Remember the time you invited all the village children to Sunday supper, and the time you collected that jar of spiders and emptied them out on Mistress Plumb’s desk after she scolded me during a lesson—”

  “Or when I convinced you to climb out onto the roof with me so we could see the stars better, giving Lady Redmayne the scare of her life,” Susanna broke in, recalling the stern dressing-down they had both received, once safely back inside Camille’s bedchamber. “Aye, I’m sure there were many times she wished she had left me in London’s slums.”

  “That’s not true, Susanna, and you know it. She was very fond of you. She always hoped that some of your joie de vivre would chase away my shyness, and perhaps it did, a little. You faced such adversity as a child, yet your spirit remained undaunted. I couldn’t help but be encouraged and inspired.” Camille’s expression grew pensive. “Even so, I don’t think Aunt Melicent ever accepted the fact that I’d never be the belle of the Cotswolds. After she spent so much time teaching me to be a lady, I truly disappointed her when I proved to be such a timid homebody. I got to be quite good at avoiding all those dreadful balls and card parties, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” Susanna agreed, still hoping to convince Camille of the absurdity of her plan, “but Lady Redmayne didn’t always take no for an answer. You had a few social acquaintances in Fairford. In Gloucestershire, for that matter. What makes you think none of them will ever travel to the colonies?”

  “And trade their comfortable country lives for a dangerous sea voyage and the unknown wilds of America? If any of my acquaintances possessed a daring streak, I’m sure Aunt Melicent would quickly persuade them from their folly with her talk of red savages, mysterious dread diseases, and the terrors of ocean travel. No, the only person who could have hindered my plan was dear Captain Keyes … and he’s dead—”

  Strangling on the last word, Camille looked truly frightened. She clutched Susanna’s hands as if she would never let them go and added in a tremulous voice, “I almost wish Aunt Melicent had convinced me to stay in England. I—I’m not very brave, Susanna.”

  Swallowing the sudden hard lump in her throat, Susanna had to fight back helpless tears.

  Don’t let your fear show, Susanna Jane, she chided herself. Camille needed her comfort and courage, not doubt and weakness. She would have to be brave enough for the both of them!

  “Everything is going to be fine,” Susanna said with conviction, truly believing it. “You’ll see. I promise.”

  Easing her hands from Camille’s weakening grasp, Susanna busied herself with changing the cloth on her mistress’s forehead, which felt much warmer than it had that morning. Camille looked so weary, the dark smudges beneath her eyes more sharply drawn. It was clear their lengthy discussion had taxed her strength.

  “Camille, you must rest. We’ve talked enough for now.”

  “I will, but only after you swear, Susanna. Swear that you’ll go to Virginia in my place if anything happens to me. Please. It would mean so much to me to know …”

  Susanna met Camille’s desperate eyes and relented, if only to humor her so that she might get some sleep.

  “Very well. I swear it. Now I don’t want to hear any more talk of dying. Are we agreed?”

  Camille’s thin shoulders slumped back upon the pillows in relief, and a gentle smile curved her lips. “Agreed.”

  ***

  Susanna sat numbly in her chair, staring at the narrow bed, Camille’s bed, which looked so huge in its emptiness.

  For the past week she had been unable to bring herself to sleep in it, as if by doing so she would commit some sacrilege or gross act of disrespect. Instead, heartbroken, she had slept upon her cot against the opposite wall, telling herself each night before she snuffed the lamp that Camille would be in that bed when she awoke in the morning, and everything would be as it had been before.

  Of course in the morning the bed would still be empty, and she must reconcile herself to the fact that Camille would never come back.

  The killing fever had claimed her after all.

  Death had come like a silent thief one beautiful, sunny afternoon when Susanna had been convinced Camille was getting better. Her cough had lessened, her skin had been cool to the touch; even her pale cheeks had held two rosy spots of color. Yet Camille must have sensed that the thief was in their cabin, for her last words were a poignant, whispered good-bye.

  “Remember, Susanna … you swore. When you get to Virginia, marry wisely, as I would have done, and live happily. Please … don’t forget me.”

  The remainder of that day was an awful blur in Susanna’s memory. Her only vivid recollections were the unsettling exchange of her dress and apron for one of Camille’s simpler gowns, the excellent fit being no surprise since they were virtually the same size; then later, Camille’s hasty burial at sea. Rather, Susanna Guthrie’s burial at sea, for so it had been recorded in the ship’s records.

  In her grief, some small part of herself had been rational enough to identify herself as Camille Cary when she had gone to report the death, the deceased being her unfortunate waiting-maid, Susanna. No one had asked questions. Camille had been such a recluse that few people aboard ship except Captain Keyes had ever seen her. Thus Susanna had fulfilled her sworn promise and her dearest friend’s dying wish. There would be no going back.

  Susanna sighed heavily, her gaze dropping to her folded hands in her lap.

  They were idle, purposeless hands now that she no longer had Camille to wait upon, fine gowns to be laid out and arranged, hair to be dressed, pillows to be fluffed, or tea to be poured and served. She didn’t know quite what to do with herself. As she wondered for the hundredth time what her life would be like when she reached Virginia, doubts crowded in upon her.

  How could she, a waiting-maid, former beggar and pickpocket, possibly act the part of a real lady?

  It was true that through her seven years of service to Camille her speech and manners had become proper. She had been taught to read, write, and do some arithmetic by Camille’s staid governess, Mistress Plumb, yet she lacked any musical talent whatsoever and was all thumbs at needlework—besides hating it anyway!—two prerequisites for refined ladies of quality.

  She hadn’t been trained to be a “decoration for society” like Camille, although they had used to play that they were both grand ladies until Lady Redmayne had caught them and lectured Susanna severely on her correct place in life. What was even worse, she knew absolutely nothing about tobacco! How could she, a bloody waiting-maid, run a huge plantation? She was a fool to have sworn to enact this insane masquerade! Surely she could have been more forceful in persuading Camille that it was sheer folly to even think such a plan could work—

  Susanna started at the sharp rap on the door and fairly flew out of the chair.

  “Who—who is it?”

  “Captain’s mate, Miss Cary. I’ve been goin’ ‘round to the passengers to tell ye that we’ve sighted land. We should make Yorktown by tomorrow mornin’ if the winds hold up. God be praised, I’d say! A good ev’ning to ye.”

  Land, Susanna thought, pacing the cabin before retaking her seat rather shakily. Soon her lifelong masquerade would begin. Could she manage it?

  All she had to do was remember the fervent plea in Camille’s eyes to have her answer.

  “What the devil’s the matter with you, Susanna Jane?” she suddenly chided herself aloud, slamming the flat of her palm down so hard upon a side table that her skin stung. “You’ve never been one to shrink from anything life handed you! Why don’t you just accept your good fortune and do the name of Cary proud?”

  Aye, and so she would, Susanna vowed, fe
eling more like her normal optimistic self than she had since Camille’s death.

  Preserving Briarwood was the least she could do for a dear friend who had played a part in rescuing her years ago from an abusive, drunken father and a miserable life of prostitution. Why, she owed it to Camille! What better way to thank her for the happiness she had known in Fairford, the sense of belonging, the security and comfort, and most of all, their friendship? Perhaps this new life would even help her distance herself from her bitter childhood memories and the terrible nightmares that still plagued her; nightmares that caused her to wake in a sweat, sometimes screaming, her flesh on fire from a phantom lashing that seemed terrifyingly real.

  Susanna shuddered and quickly shoved away her thoughts of bad dreams, purposely reflecting instead on what lay ahead for her. She was a quick learner and a good mimic. Surely if she watched other young ladies, she would manage to discern the fine points of Virginia’s social behavior.

  Suddenly Susanna felt a nervous flutter in her stomach as she recalled the reason Camille’s father had summoned her home to Briarwood.

  James Cary’s last letter had said it was time his daughter found a husband, and he had even mentioned that he had someone in mind, although he hadn’t given a name, writing instead that they would discuss it when Camille arrived in Virginia in the fall. Oh, dear, that meant she was now to be wed! Susanna thought. And he wouldn’t be the skilled tradesman of her long-held dreams, either. Not anymore. Not for an heiress, and a very rich one at that.

  Lady Redmayne had thoroughly coached Camille on the criteria for finding a suitable husband once she was in Virginia, stringent rules which Susanna knew she must now adopt. She could still hear the baroness’s dignified recital as if it had been directed straight at her.

  “An heiress like yourself, Camille, must marry into both money and position. Marrying for love is a luxury only the poor can afford. That is not to say, of course, you will forego your share of happiness. You and your husband will undoubtedly discover a congenial contentment that quite often leads to genuine affection. My marriage to Baron Redmayne, God rest his soul, was most agreeable even though we were barely acquainted when we wed. Am I understood thus far, Camille?”

  “Yes, Aunt Melicent.”

  “Good. You must wed a gentleman who is your equal, one who can bring as much, if not more, material wealth to your marriage than you yourself bring. First and foremost, your husband, without any assistance from your own inheritance, must be able to support you in a manner befitting your birth. Always remember, my dear, that you’ve the Cary reputation to maintain, albeit in the barbarous wilds of Virginia.”

  Camille had never questioned these dictums, fully believing that they would help her to enrich Briarwood’s fortunes, and neither would she, Susanna thought as she moved to a large trunk full of her mistress’s belongings. If she chose a husband wisely, she would surely find not only security and social acceptance among the Tidewater gentry, but happiness as well. It all made perfect sense.

  She had never planned to marry for love anyway. In that, Lady Redmayne had been wrong. Even for a poor woman, it made more sense to wed a good, hardworking man whom she didn’t love than to fall in love and marry a handsome rakehell with few or no prospects, as her mother had done with her father. Their love had quickly soured and turned to hatred in the face of his drinking and constant unemployment. Susanna had sworn to herself long ago that that would never happen to her.

  She and Camille had talked about her also finding a husband in Virginia. She had never entertained any thought of settling down in Fairford, although she had caught many a young man’s eye, wanting as she did to travel with Camille to the fabled American colonies one day. They had decided that “her man” would have to be associated with Briarwood so the two women would never be far apart. James Cary had mentioned in his letters, and during his last visit to the Cotswolds, an industrious, trustworthy young man named Adam Thornton who had been working at Briarwood, first as an overseer and then as the plantation manager, and Susanna had been eager to meet him. But all that had changed now. A hired man would hardly make a proper husband for an heiress.

  Susanna wished Mr. Cary had mentioned in his last letter the name of the particular gentleman he had had in mind for Camille. It would have made her task so much easier. Now she would probably have to choose from a wealth of eager suitors, and with only Lady Redmayne’s strictures to guide her.

  “I’ll simply marry the richest, most prominent, most eligible gentleman I can find,” Susanna vowed, lifting the trunk’s heavy brass-bound lid. Such a union could not help but preserve the Carys’ fine reputation and, most importantly, fulfill her promise to Camille.

  Susanna drew out a folded whalebone hoopskirt. She was determined to practice walking in the unwieldy garment until she could do so gracefully. But it tumbled with a crisp swoosh to the floor when she spied the top of a gilt frame tucked toward the back of the trunk.

  Tears dimmed her eyes as she was assailed by fresh grief. She had forgotten all about the portrait. Slowly, and with trembling hands, she withdrew a small, exquisitely framed painting of Camille.

  Meant as a gift for her father, it had been commissioned by Camille shortly after she had received his last letter and before she had learned he had been killed in a hunting accident. She had debated giving it to her aunt instead, but at the last moment had decided to bring it with her to Virginia, thinking the portrait would make an appropriate wedding gift to her future husband.

  Susanna gazed into a pair of serene jade-green eyes, and wondered if she could find it within herself to destroy her only image of her beloved friend. The painting would surely label her as an impostor if it fell into the wrong hands. Despite their many physical similarities, she and Camille had not looked so much alike that she could pass the portrait off as one done of her …

  No, she could not part with it, Susanna decided firmly, her throat tight with suppressed emotion.

  Instead, she found a razor-edged letter opener and deftly slit the painting from the heavy gilded frame. After rolling the canvas carefully, she buried it deep inside the trunk beneath mounds of lingerie and accessories. When she reached Briarwood, she would simply find a good hiding place for the painting. No one would ever discover it. She would see to that.

  It was well past midnight when Susanna finally crawled into the narrow bed, abandoning at last the cot in which she had slept since the ill-fated ship had left Bristol. She was exhausted from hours of trying on Camille’s beautiful gowns and from her tense, late-night walk upon the upper deck, where she had dumped a large cloth bag containing her few personal belongings, maid’s clothes, and the costly frame into the blackened sea. Then she had returned to the cabin and done her best to bathe and wash her hair with the small bucket of precious water each passenger had been allotted.

  Now, dressed in a lacy nightrail that still carried the delicate lavender scent of Camille’s perfume, Susanna felt a moment’s unease as she drew the embroidered coverlet up over her shoulders, both for the place she was usurping and the unknowns she would face in the morning. But her determination to honor her dearest friend’s last wish proved much stronger than her niggling misgivings.

  “Go t’ sleep, Camille Cary,” Susanna whispered drowsily as she reached over and snuffed out the lamp.

  Chapter 2

  Yorktown, Virginia

  Squinting in the brilliant July sunshine, Adam Thornton dismounted from his lathered chestnut stallion and intently scanned the line of passengers peering over the railing of the Charming Nancy.

  Thanks to Elias, a Cary slave who had been quartered in the town to watch for the ship’s arrival, word had traveled swiftly to Adam that it had finally arrived earlier that morning at the Yorktown docks. Elias had also informed him that the vessel had been struck with typhus fever during the ocean crossing, and that no one would be allowed to disembark until the town’s physician had discovered if there was still a threat of disease on board. Adam had ridden
the fifteen miles from Briarwood to Yorktown at a hellish pace, not knowing if Camille Cary, the young heiress he intended to marry, was alive or dead.

  “Damn,” he muttered darkly, a hard knot forming in his stomach as his gaze shifted from one passenger to the next.

  Several young women were scattered along the railing, but none with honey-gold hair that he could see. James Cary had boasted many times about his daughter’s fair tresses and sea-green eyes, so Adam had some clue as to her appearance. He ignored the blatantly appraising glance of one pretty, saucy-eyed wench, a lady’s maid judging from the plainness of her clothing, and, growing more agitated, tethered his heaving stallion to a post.

  Adam’s athletic, solidly built frame felt like a tightly coiled spring as he strode with the slightest limp toward a somber-faced group of men standing just beyond the lowered gangplank. He recognized several neighboring tobacco planters, while the others were local merchants and townsmen who no doubt had goods aboard the large sailing vessel.

  “Adam, my boy, hold up!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Adam saw Robert Grymes, another neighbor, descend from an open carriage and rush along the dock to catch up with him. Reluctantly he paused and waited for the portly planter to reach his side.

  “Grymes,” he acknowledged, resenting the delay. He was in no mood for conversation. He wanted to see if the other men had any information about the survivors.

  “What brings you here this fine morning?” Robert asked jovially, clearly unaware of the Charming Nancy‘s plight. “I would have thought you’d be in the tobo fields tending to Cary’s Finest.” The planter wiped his sweaty face with a silk handkerchief and added in a low aside, “Word has flown that you’ve shipped another handsome crop of sweet-scented to England, eh, Adam? Quite a tribute to James, I’d say, poor bastard. By the by, if you ever tire of managing Briarwood, I’d be happy to hire you on at my place. Just name your price. I’d pay a pretty sum to have a crop master like you supervising my leaf.”