Lydia shook her head. That was four years past now, and Grandfather wouldn’t want her to think about the tar and feathering. Even though he’d been treated dishonorably, he’d died an honorable man and he would want her to remember his strength. If he were still alive, he might have been on one of the British ships, fighting for the king.
Caswell Hall was only four miles southwest of Williamsburg. She’d seen the British soldiers passing through the town last October, but neither the British nor the rebel soldiers had come near her family’s plantation. She didn’t know how her father had managed to keep the soldiers away, but the current Lord Caswell would do almost anything to protect their plantation.
It was only a matter of weeks, Father had said, before the Continental Army would fold anyway. When that happened, King George III would reward the Caswell family well for its loyalty.
She stepped to the top of the bank and looked upriver. Black willows drooped low to her right, their icy fingers dangling in the water. The ships had passed by, but on the other side of the willows, she could still see their ensigns in the fading light. With the British navy in Virginia, surely the British were close to restoring peace in their colony.
She burrowed her hands farther into the muff. Her father might not be vocal about his politics in Williamsburg, but in the privacy of their dining hall, her father was as loyal to the Crown as General Cornwallis. And he wanted her to marry someone just as loyal.
She was so tired of this war that pitted neighbor against neighbor—the war that killed her grandfather, took away her brother, and drove the man she was supposed to marry to rebel against the country her family loved.
Peace was what she desired. A return to the days when neighbors trusted each other. When they were all working together to build up the colonies instead of tearing them apart.
King George III would eventually win the war—everyone of a reasonable intellect knew that—but like a child rebelling against his parents, the Yankees and their George, General Washington, persisted in demonstrating the little strength they had left. No amount of discipline from Great Britain had been effective enough to end the rebellion. The rebels stood on what they called “principle”—principles that would get them either hanged or shot.
She shivered. Every day she prayed that the rebels would buckle before Seth was killed.
At one time, her father had great admiration for George Washington, a hero for the British during the French and Indian War, but that changed when Washington stood against the Crown. Still, Father respected Washington, just as he should respect Seth.
She must convince Father to change his mind. When the war ended, Seth and her father would make amends—she was certain of it—and their lives would return to a steady pace of high teas and elegant balls and visits with the friends who now shunned them in Williamsburg and Richmond.
Stars began to peek through the darkness until a canopy of twinkling lights ceiled the wide river. She took a deep breath. Perhaps now she could tell her parents about the ships—and try to tell them that she couldn’t bear the thought of marrying a stranger. She must make them understand.
She turned to retrace her trail along the starlit path, but before she took a step, she heard a sound in the willows.
A groan.
Her heart leaped in her chest. She froze, listening, but the only sound in the night was the steady current flowing over the rocks near the shore.
The darkness must be playing with her mind. An animal had gotten trapped in the branches. Or the water was driving a log through the leaves.
She began walking toward the windows that glowed with warmth when a voice cried out.
Her heart seemed to stop.
It wasn’t an animal in the willows. It was a man.
Chapter Two
Everything within Lydia screamed for her to run. Back to her warm room, to her father who would do anything to keep her safe. Back to the brick fortress that had protected her for more than twenty years.
The man groaned again, and her mind flashed back to that terrible day when the three rebels dumped her grandfather outside the plantation door.
She couldn’t leave anyone out here in the snow and hope the servants would find him in the morning. The cold would steal away his life long before dawn, and his blood would be on her hands.
She moved slowly toward the willows. “Who is there?” she called.
There was no answer.
She lifted a willow branch and stared into the tree’s dark tendrils. Branches and leaves were all she saw in the starlight.
Perhaps it was her imagination. The sighting of the British ships had startled her nerves, creating people when there were none.
But then she heard another groan, and her nerves shattered.
Lydia stepped into the branches and saw the man’s shadowed form, hidden a few feet into the willows. His head and arms were on the shore; his legs dangled in the frigid water.
She lurched forward. There was no time to consider where this man had come from or whether he was friend or foe. She must get him out of this water before it killed him.
Leveraging her foot against the roots, she cupped her hands under his shoulders and pulled. He was so heavy, his clothing weighted down by the river water. He only moved a few inches up the bank. She pulled again, dragging him out of the water a few inches at a time, away from the willows. Then she stopped, her lungs crying for air.
“Arnold,” the man rasped, grasping her arm. “Arnold is coming.”
She took another breath before prying his hand off her cape and placing it back at his side. “Hush,” she whispered.
His head thrashed from side to side. “You must tell them.”
Who was she to tell?
“I shall,” she assured him, and his head stilled at her words.
She examined the man in the starlight. His waistcoat was soaked, as were his trousers. And his long hair. No gentleman would venture out unshaven, wearing homespun trousers, but during this time of war, she could hardly criticize a Loyalist for his state of undress. If he was loyal . . .
His words were slurred, but his accent sounded British. Of course, it was impossible to judge one’s loyalty by one’s accent. Plenty of rebels were from Britain.
Kneeling over him, she wiped the river water from his face with her muff. Then she removed her heavy cloak and covered him. If he was a Loyalist, Father would welcome him into their house, but if he was a Yankee, Father would probably put him right back out into the snow.
“What am I to do with you?” she whispered.
All she heard in reply was his heavy breath as he trembled under her cloak.
What if he was a rebel coming to hurt her family? Or a marauder intent on stealing their livestock?
She stared at him for another moment. It could be a ruse. He might be bait, to get inside their home. Or a band of Skinners—thieves—might be waiting in the willows to steal their food and livestock, hurt her family. Or he simply might be a poor soul who fell off one of the British ships. If he was a Skinner, he was much too weak at the moment to steal or injure anyone. She could turn him over to the magistrate in the morning.
Lifting her skirts, Lydia turned toward the house. Others might fear the king, but she feared God. She would have to answer to Him if she left this man to die, and he would die, probably in a matter of minutes, if she didn’t hurry. Peace would never come to their colonies unless people on both sides were willing to help each other, no matter how risky.
She wished she could fetch Sarah—Seth’s sister and her best friend—to help her with this man, but there was no time. She must convince Prudence instead.
She found Prudence downstairs in the kitchen, the empty tray in her hands. “I need your help,” Lydia said.
“Of course.” Prudence set down the tray on a counter. “What is it that you need?”
“There is a man outside.” Lydia hesitated, not sure how to explain. “He’s unconscious.”
Prudence looked a
larmed. “One of the Negroes?”
Lydia shook her head. “A British man—or an American. He seems to have fallen off a ship.”
Prudence pointed toward the staircase. “We must tell your father.”
“We cannot.” She twisted the muff in her hand. Her parents never explained themselves to their servants, but she wanted Prudence to understand. “What if this man is a rebel?”
“If he is—” Prudence hesitated. “Your father might avenge his father’s death.”
“That is what I fear.” Lydia glanced back at the door that led outside. “I cannot be responsible for letting another man die here.”
“He might not be a good man, Miss Lydia.”
“That is not for me to judge.”
Prudence still didn’t move. “The Scriptures say we know a righteous man by his deeds.”
“Then let us wait until he awakens before we pass judgment.” She swallowed. “But he will never awaken without our care.”
Reluctantly Prudence joined Lydia outside, her hastily donned cape askew. By the light of their lantern, the two women stared down at the man’s pale face.
Wet hair curled around the crown of his head, and icy drops clung to his eyebrows. He no longer shivered, and his stillness frightened Lydia.
“We must take him inside,” she insisted.
“There is no place to hide him.”
Her parents might not find him in one of the spare rooms or the attic, but Hannah most certainly would. Her sister would burst before she kept a secret this big.
Prudence rubbed her arms under her cape. “Perhaps we could hide him in the servants’ quarters.”
Lydia nodded. It was a risk to have him near the servants. One of them might turn him over, afraid of her father’s retribution, and if this stranger was a rebel, Prudence’s position would be in jeopardy.
An idea began to form in her mind. The head groom at the stables was an honest man, and he lived in a room above the coach house, with a view of the river instead of the house. He was also strong enough to carry this man.
She looked up at Prudence. “Do you think Elisha would help us?”
“He’s probably the only one who would.”
And they could trust him to keep a secret.
“Fetch him right away,” she said.
Prudence nodded and then set the lantern in the snow before she picked up her petticoat and ran toward the stables.
Watching her grandfather die had torn at the seams of Lydia’s heart. The idea of another man dying beside her, a man whose story she had yet to learn, was terrifying. She didn’t want him to die, didn’t want anyone to die. She knelt beside the stranger and reached for his hand, praying quietly that God would intervene. She didn’t know what else to do except pray and warm his hand in hers.
He might perish on someone else’s watch, but she prayed not on hers.
Elisha came back with Prudence, his dark skin blending in with the night. He swore when he saw the stranger. Then he looked up at Lydia, his eyes wide. “Pardon me, Miss Lydia.”
“There is no reason for apologies,” she said. “I was shocked as well.”
“What do you require of me?”
“You must carry him to the coach house.”
In the starlight, she could see the fear in his eyes. He stepped back, shaking his head. “If Master Caswell finds out—”
“You’ll tell him the truth—that I insisted upon it.”
Elisha examined the man’s face as Prudence had done, as if he were debating whether it was more beneficial for him to listen to Lydia and incur the wrath of his master, or ignore her command and escape Lord Caswell’s anger. His sigh was long, resigned, as he knelt down in the snow and lifted the stranger to his chest as if the man were a newborn foal.
Prudence rushed off to heat water while Lydia used the lantern to guide Elisha to the other side of the well.
Elisha climbed the steps of the coach house and set the stranger on his narrow bed. Lydia knelt beside him, examining the stranger’s face again. He looked to be about Elisha’s age, perhaps nearing forty years old. His skin was shaded like a gray winter sky, his jawline flecked with stubble. When his chest stilled again, she reached for his wrist, checking to see whether life still coursed through his veins.
His damp skin felt colder than the snow, and when she felt no pulse, she placed her fingers on his neck. The slightest knock of his heart tapped against her skin.
Elisha stacked three pieces of wood in the fireplace. “I’m afraid there isn’t much hope for him.”
Prudence was correct—they would know a righteous man by his deeds—but Lydia didn’t know how long they must wait to discover the righteousness of this man.
Another scripture flooded her mind. “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
Life was fragile for even the strongest of men, but they couldn’t abandon this one, no matter how weak he was. God asked of them to care for His children.
“As long as there is some hope, we must fight for his life.”
“If he lives—” Elisha looked up at her, hesitant to speak.
“What is it, Elisha?”
“I’m afraid you might not like what happens if he lives.”
“Somewhere this man has a family.” She pulled her cloak off the stranger. “If nothing else, we must attempt to keep him alive for their sakes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stood to help her peel off the man’s drenched waistcoat. Then he reached for two blankets on a shelf. “You best turn your head.”
She nodded, turning to face the narrow window, as Elisha removed the rest of the stranger’s clothing. What did one do to save a man half-frozen and perhaps half-drowned as well? Father usually sent for Dr. Cooper in Williamsburg, but Dr. Cooper was an outspoken Loyalist and one of her father’s closest friends. He would certainly tell Father about this man.
Elisha gasped, and Lydia swiveled around. Her stomach rolled when she saw the jagged gash on the man’s foot.
She’d been well-schooled in the arts of dance and conversation. She’d learned to serve tea and cake and stitch pincushions and samplers for gifts. Mother was teaching her how to manage the household staff. But no one had taught her much about the practicalities.
Or how to save a life.
Perhaps she should fetch Mother’s laudanum. Mother thought the laudanum cured everything.
The fire began to warm the room, and Prudence returned within the half hour with a pot of hot water and rags. Steam curled toward the wooden ceiling as she poured the water into Elisha’s white basin, dipped a rag into the hot water, and wrung it out. Leaning over Lydia, she covered the man’s face and then his arms with more hot cloths.
Elisha produced a bottle of whiskey and Prudence helped lift the man’s head. The stranger sipped the whiskey without urging. Then he began to mumble again about Arnold as Prudence and Elisha cleaned his wound and wrapped it with clean cloths.
Lydia felt so helpless, watching Prudence and Elisha work with ease. Where had they learned to care for someone on the brink of death?
She stared up at Prudence, desperate to do something to help bring back his life. “Shall I get medicine?”
Prudence shook her head. “Whiskey and warmth are the only cures for him now.”
Lydia looked back at the bed. “And prayer.”
“Aye,” Prudence replied. “Particularly prayer.”
Elisha added several pine knots to the small fire. The room would be plenty warm soon.
Prudence pointed toward the door. “You should return to your chamber, miss.”
She didn’t move. “I cannot leave him.”
“You mustn’t worry,” Elisha said. “I’ll do my best to care for him tonight.”
“But what about the morning?” she asked as she slowly stood.
“It is not likely he will survive.”
She knew it would be a miracle if he lived until morning. Thankfully, she still beli
eved in miracles.
Chapter Three
Sarah Hammond wrapped her shawl across her shoulders and stepped out into the cold as darkness fell. None of the servants inquired after her. Ever since her father had sailed away last summer, they’d become accustomed to her nightly strolls. They just didn’t know why she must venture out each night.
She knew her servants often whispered in the basement about her oddities, as did the people in Williamsburg. How could they not? No other woman aged barely twenty-five was attempting to run a plantation in Virginia. Her servants had no choice but to work for her, and she had no choice but to run this plantation until her father returned. Every night, she dreamed about sailing away with her father instead of trying to manage his property.
She tried to be grateful for the blessings of a home and plantation, but she held on to them loosely. What she clung to was the gift of freedom and her library full of books. The library whisked her away to places she might never visit, the pages of her book sweeping her off to islands and cities and long voyages filled with grand adventures.
The flame inside her lantern lit the wrought-iron railing her great-grandfather had constructed more than eighty years ago. The Hammond family plantation house was one of the first built along the James River. It was small compared to the other nearby plantation houses—like those belonging to the Caswells and the Webbs—but her family’s plantation had ushered in the growth of the colonies. In time, when her brother returned, it would grow as well.
Seth wanted to become a planter like their father, but Sarah had no desire to stay. One day she would visit some of the cities she read about in her books—Philadelphia, New York, and Charles Towne. Once this war was over, she would be free to go wherever she wanted, but until then, she and Thomas—her father’s overseer—were left here to manage four thousand acres.
The Courier of Caswell Hall (American tapestries) Page 2
