MELANIE DOBSON
The Courier of Caswell Hall
ISBN-10: 0-8249-3426-1
ISBN-13: 978-0-8249-3426-2
Published by Summerside Press, an imprint of Guideposts
16 East 34th Street
New York, New York 10016
SummersidePress.com
Guideposts.org
Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.
Copyright © 2013 by Melanie Dobson. All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
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Guideposts, Ideals, and Summerside Press are registered trademarks of Guideposts.
Though this story is based on actual events, it is a work of fiction. References to actual people or events are either coincidental or are used with permission.
All scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Cover and interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group, Mullerhaus.net.
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedication
For Kinzel Shae (my beautiful little pea).
Your love of music and laughter
bring so much joy to our family.
I’m incredibly blessed to be your mom!
Contents
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
PART TWO
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Discussion Questions
About the Author
American Tapestries™
Prologue
July 4, 1826
Glittering trails of firelight illuminated the champagne in Lydia’s glass. Leaning back against a sandstone column, her stiff fingers curled over the worn crook of her cane, Lydia sipped the Veuve Clicquot from its gold-encrusted pool. The warmth from her drink fought off the coolness that stole through her silk gown and gloves.
Hundreds of guests gathered on the north lawn of the white President’s Palace as another round of red-and-blue fireworks rocketed through the night, but only one of the guests interested her. Lydia scanned the shadowed faces of cabinet members and representatives from across the States, searching in vain for their country’s secretary of state.
The echoing boom rattled her bones, and the crowd cheered as shards of light cascaded over the grass.
“Jubilee of Freedom”—that’s what John Quincy Adams, president of their United States, called this day, but the celebration in Lydia’s heart blended with her memories, jubilation fading away like the fireworks in the darkness.
Would their country remember the sacrifices the men and women of the colonies had made as well as their triumphs?
She took another sip, looking again for the distinguished secretary.
Fifty years had passed since their country had declared its independence from Great Britain—and almost fifty years since the man who became the country’s secretary of state turned her and her family upside down.
After the last firework fizzled into the night, the strum of a harpsichord soothed the crashing sounds from the fireworks display. A flute followed the harp and then violins.
Lydia scanned the crowd again. This time she found him.
He stood beside the president, looking quite regal in his long black evening coat. The red-and-golden stripes on his waistcoat and cravat honored this celebration of independence, and his laughter made her smile. He usually didn’t enjoy parties, but this was one celebration he loved.
The music stopped, and silence rippled across the grass as President Adams lifted his glass. Men and women alike lifted their glasses with him. Even though her champagne was gone, Lydia lifted her coupe as high as the others. Decades ago she would have been mortified about her empty glass, but she was much too old now to care about pomp and circumstance.
The secretary of state turned his head slowly until he found her in the lantern light. As the president toasted the jubilee, the secretary raised his glass to Lydia and she smiled at him. His love seemed to wash over her, cleansing the remnants of pain, and her heart fluttered.
Ages ago she’d been called beautiful, but now lines crept up her face even as the youth of her body slipped away. At sixty-nine, her hands were already speckled purple-and-blue, and her copper-brown locks had turned the same milky-gray color of the stone portico at her beloved Caswell Hall.
Yet when he captured her with his gaze, she felt beautiful.
The orchestra resumed playing, and the couples around her began to dance a minuet on the wide patio. How she wished she and the secretary could steal away from the lights and the people and the responsibilities that weighed heavy on them. How she wished they could go back to Caswell Hall and sit together on the wide porch, hand in hand, as they watched the ships parade up and down the river.
Louisa Adams stepped beside her and took her arm. Mrs. Adams’s gaze wandered toward the secretary. “I think you still fancy him.”
Lydia smiled at the First Lady. “Very much.”
“And clearly he fancies you.”
Lydia laughed. “I’ve cast a spell over him.”
“I believe you have. A beautiful spell.” Mrs. Adams let go of Lydia’s arm and brushed her gloved hands over the ruffles of her pale-green gown. “How many years has it been?”
“Forty-four years since our wedding day.”
“And you are still in love.”
Lydia’s heart stirred. “Madly.”
As her husband slowly crossed the floor, Lydia turned away from the First Lady and welcomed him with her smile.
Mrs. Adams nudged her forward. “You should dance with him.”
How she had once loved to dance. She and the secretary hadn’t danced in more than a decade, ever since the doctor said a cane would be her companion for her remaining years, but tonight her husband gently set her cane against the wall and offered her his arm.
Her feet moved slowly to the music, her leg threatening to buckle. But she knew the dance, and she knew her husband’s steps. She knew everything about this man who held her.
> His arm anchored her back as they danced on the patio. He’d anchored her for most of her life. Through illness and the loss of her family. Through the birth of eight children and the death of two. Through the storms that raged outside their plantation and those that raged in her heart.
He bent toward her and whispered in her ear, “Do you remember?”
She looked up into green eyes that flashed in the light, and the years seemed to melt away. She was twenty-four again, and he was teasing her.
She tilted her head ever so slightly, their banter as familiar as the steps of the minuet. “Remember what?”
“That night by the river.” He stopped dancing, and a curtain of skirts swirled around them. “I do not want you to forget.”
“I—” she started, but she never finished her words. He rocked toward her and she clung to him, holding his limp body to her chest. Pain shot up her failing leg, but she wouldn’t let him fall. He was saying something to her, and she tried to hear his voice over the music, desperately wanting to understand.
One of the senators—a doctor—rushed toward them, and the orchestra stopped playing as the senator helped lay her husband on the ground. Her husband opened his eyes and calmed her racing heart with his gaze.
The crowd circling around them seemed to vanish. All she saw were the eyes of the man she loved looking back at her.
His gaze transported her to that cold night so long ago when he’d searched her face. The night he’d asked her the question that changed her life. She could almost feel the dampness on her skin, the longing in her heart.
Her tears drenched her husband’s fine coat as she pushed his hair behind his ears. He was so handsome. So strong.
She couldn’t lose him here.
She reached for his hand and leaned forward so only he would hear her whisper. “We’re going home, my love.”
PART ONE
What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly:
it is dearness only that gives every thing its value.
THOMAS PAINE, THE AMERICAN CRISIS, 1776
Chapter One
February 1781
Near Williamsburg, Virginia
Twilight laced the snowy banks along the James River with orange and pink. The Caswell family had already retired for the night, each member warming by a fire in his or her bedchamber, but the King’s Men hadn’t retired. Leaning against the pillows on her window seat, Lydia Caswell watched a parade of British ships steal past her family’s home, the blue-and-red King’s Colours glowing from a dozen masts.
Why was the British navy sailing up their river?
The last she’d heard from her father, the British soldiers who’d landed in Newport News last month had left for Charles Towne in South Carolina. They weren’t supposed to return to Virginia.
She put down her sampler and slid off the cushioned seat, neatly folding the quilt that had warmed her lap. Part of her wanted to sneak down to the bank to enjoy a better view of the ships, but she wasn’t fond of being outside—at least not like her friend Sarah Hammond. Before the war, Lydia’s family hosted hundreds of visitors each year at Caswell Hall for lavish dinners and balls. She preferred dances and teas to walks in the garden, but the winter and lingering war made the evenings terribly long. Sometimes it felt as if the paneled walls were beginning to close in upon her.
With a candle flickering in her hand, Lydia stepped into the dark hallway. Her parents’ chamber was across from hers, and to her right was the door for the servants’ staircase. Her sister’s chamber and the one kept for her brother, Grayson, were to the left of Lydia’s room. Beyond their rooms was the balcony that overlooked the grand staircase and hall below.
When her father built Caswell Hall, he meticulously crafted a manor that would rival his childhood home outside London, intending to raise his family in a colony ruled by the king. His father had helped him build this house, but the life of the senior Lord Caswell was stolen away much too early.
Lydia crossed the hall to her parents’ door. If he hadn’t seen them already, Father would want to know about these ships. After what had happened to Grandfather, Father kept his political views inside the walls of their house, but she doubted there were many in the American colonies more loyal to the Crown than he.
Her parents’ door was cracked open, and she lifted her hand to knock but stopped when she heard her mother speak. “She cannot marry until after the war.”
Lydia leaned closer to the door. Who was her mother talking about?
Everyone knew that Lydia wouldn’t be married until after the war was over, and her sister, Hannah, had only just turned fifteen. Some families married off their daughters when they were fourteen, but Mother had told Hannah many times that they wouldn’t even consider a marriage for her until she was at least sixteen.
“The war will be finished soon, Dotty. Perhaps before summer.” She imagined Father sitting by the fire, waving a cigar in his hand as he spoke. “We must begin to make arrangements.”
Perhaps they were discussing Lydia’s marriage to Seth Hammond after all. It just seemed odd to her. While she had promised to marry their neighbor five years ago—and her parents had approved of the marriage—Father refused to mention his name now.
Lydia didn’t know if she and Seth would ever marry.
“There will be no wedding without a groom,” Mother said.
Father sighed. “We must find an Englishman for her. Someone loyal to the Crown.”
Lydia held her breath as she leaned closer to the door. Surely they were talking about Hannah, when she was old enough to marry.
“’Tis impossible to say who is truly loyal now,” Mother replied. “When the fighting is over, it will be sorted out.”
“But she is already twenty-four,” Father insisted. “I fear we cannot wait much longer to find a husband for her.”
Lydia sank back against the wall. They were discussing her.
Father continued speaking. “We know where the loyalties of the British officers rest. Perhaps one of them could marry her and take her back to England.”
“I do not want to lose her, Charles.” The strength in Mother’s voice drained.
“Then one of the officers must learn how to run a plantation.”
Lydia backed away from the door and fled down the servants’ circular staircase. She didn’t want to marry a stranger. Until Seth had gone to fight in this cursed war, she had planned to marry him and stay here, at Caswell Hall. But when he joined the rebels in their fight, Father swore she and Seth would never marry.
In the basement she retrieved a dark-blue cloak from the wardrobe along with a muff to warm her hands. She needed to get out of the house, if only for part of an hour. The war was making all of them desperate. Great Britain had the most powerful army in the world. Once they stopped the rebellion among the colonists, all would return to normalcy. Seth and her father would reconcile, and she would become Mrs. Hammond.
Quickly she fastened the leather straps of wooden-soled pattens over her slippers to keep the satin dry. She reached for the long handle of the door that led toward the river, but before she turned the handle, someone stepped into the room through the kitchen door.
Both she and Prudence gasped at the sight of the other. Lydia reached out to help Prudence steady the silver tray in her hand.
Prudence was the oldest of their six maidservants, the only light-skinned one among them. Her hair was tucked back under her white mobcap, and her plump cheeks were always rosy, in both the hot and the cold. She had come to Caswell Hall almost twenty-five years ago to work as a nursemaid for Lydia and then Hannah. The girls were much too old for a nursemaid now, but Prudence had stayed on with the Caswell family to attend to all the women.
Lydia eyed the top of the silver platter. There was an oval-shaped teapot, hand-painted teacups, a wooden caddy for the tea leaves, and a plate of powdered cakes. “Is Hannah hungry again?”
Prudence shook her head. “Your parents called for tea in their rooms. Wo
uld you like to join them?”
Lydia stepped toward the door that led to the riverfront. “Perhaps when I return.”
Prudence eyed her cloak. “’Tis too cold for you outside.”
“I am only walking to the river.”
The teacups clattered with the shake of Prudence’s head. Lydia may have outgrown the need for a nursemaid, but Prudence still watched over her. “The river’s a long way in the snow.”
“Only a few steps, really.” She tied the strings of her cloak. “I shan’t be gone long.”
“Aye,” Prudence said. “I will take Lady Caswell her tea and then remain here until you return.”
“Please do not tell them where I am going.”
Prudence hesitated. “Please return soon.”
Lydia pulled the woolen hood over her cap as she stepped outside. Snow crunched under her pattens as she hurried away from the house down a pathway leading to the small wharf where her family received and shipped goods to England.
She breathed deeply of the crisp air, savoring the golden moments before the sunlight was completely gone. Father’s office was on the left side of the house, its frosty slate roof matching the main house, along with a smokehouse and a barn. The kitchen gardens were to her right along with several other flank buildings: stable, coach house, washhouse, and summer kitchen. The gardeners, laundry maids, and groundskeepers lived in the servants’ quarters beside the coach house, while the rest of the Negroes lived in dwellings a half mile north, closer to where they labored. Prudence and the other fairer-skinned house servants lived in the attic of Caswell Hall.
The family’s formal gardens wrapped around the east side of Caswell Hall, extending all the way to the river, and centered in the midst of the garden was a white gazebo and an ornate glass-and-brick orangery where the gardener grew fruits and vegetables in the winter. On long summer days, she and Seth had sometimes sat in the gazebo, before war began to rage in their colonies.
In 1775, Lord Dunmore, the royal governor of Virginia, stole the colonists’ gunpowder from the magazine in Williamsburg and harassed those who rebelled against the Crown. But then, like the tides along the Chesapeake Bay, the power in Virginia shifted. Lord Dunmore and his family fled during the night, and the rebels began attacking those who remained loyal to the king. They boycotted businesses, imprisoned Loyalists, and administered a painful coat of thickset to the most out-spoken opponents of rebellion. Her heart ached at the memories of her grandfather, a distinguished member of the House of Burgesses, covered with the tar that burned his skin. He died from his wounds—or perhaps from the humiliation of being forced to walk through town clothed only in thickset and a degrading coat of feathers.
The Courier of Caswell Hall (American tapestries) Page 1
