She’d never planned to run a plantation, and to her knowledge, her father—the renowned Commodore John Hammond—never intended for her to run it either. At his king’s command, he had no choice but to go to the West Indies last year. With Seth already gone, he didn’t trust anyone else but her with his affairs, so she had been left with a man’s job.
Sarah held up the lantern, and the light flickered on the iron, casting spindly shadows across the wooden steps, as she searched for the white ribbon. Nothing was tied to the railing tonight.
Sighing, she lowered the lantern again. Morah’s four-year-old son, Alden, had spotted British ships out on the James tonight. She’d thought a messenger might arrive as well, so she could deliver a message after services tomorrow.
A coyote howled in the woods at the end of their long drive as she scanned the drive. Not that the messenger would parade up her snowy lane, but perhaps she would see the shadow of a man.
She wrapped her shawl closer to her chest as the skeletal arms of their elm trees swayed along the drive.
Maybe there had been a mistake. The messenger might have forgotten to tie the white ribbon around the railing. Or perhaps a servant had found the ribbon and snipped it. A message could have been delivered earlier this evening and she might not know it arrived.
The courier always hung a ribbon to alert her if he’d left a letter. She wasn’t supposed to check the hiding place, at least not regularly, but tonight she would.
Snow carpeted each step, and she clung to the banister as she edged her way down to the lawn. Lifting her skirt, she hurried past the summer kitchen and the icehouse until she reached the circular stone building to the right of their house. The dovecote.
When she opened the door, hundreds of doves and pigeons squawked, but they didn’t fly out the glover on the top. The birds were used to the cook opening the door, stealing away squabs for breakfast or dinner. Sarah reached her hand into the stone crevice to her right, but all she felt were feathers and straw.
Admittedly, it was a strange system of delivery to hide messages in the dovecote, but it worked well. She knew she could be hanged for treason if she was caught, but she had no intention of being discovered.
Holding up her lantern, she checked the nearby nests for the familiar leather pouch, but there was nothing here tonight. After closing the door, she turned back toward the house, laughing at herself as she walked back through the snow.
Who would have thought that she would be a link in the network spreading throughout Virginia? No one in Williamsburg would ever guess what she was doing. They thought her too shy, too quiet, too loyal to the king to do anything this risky.
She stepped back into the narrow entryway of their house, but she wasn’t ready to put away her shawl. A fire roared in the parlor, and she moved close to warm her hands as she watched it dance. Then she picked a book off the shelf—stories written by Madam Sarah Knight—and slipped into a rose-colored wing-back chair that Aunt Emeline had given her parents when they married. Her aunt had gifted her with Madam Knight’s stories when Sarah turned sixteen.
Sarah liked to think that her mother had named her after Madam Knight, the famous colonist who rode on horseback from Boston to New York in 1704 and wrote about her adventures. That was what Sarah longed to do as well—see the world, experience it in all its glories and discomforts, and maybe even write about it.
Grayson Caswell used to tease her about her obsession to travel, calling her Madam Knight. Yet in his teasing, she knew he understood like no one else. He might not have loved the pen as she did, but he loved learning about the world. Before he disappeared, his mind wandered often from the confines of Caswell Hall, and she’d loved wandering with him.
Someone walked into the parlor and she looked up to see Thomas, the overseer of her father’s plantation. Father had purchased him in North Carolina when Thomas was a boy, and he’d served their family faithfully for more than fifty years. Her father trusted few people, but he trusted this man to look after his property and daughter while he was away.
“Will you be needing anything else, miss?”
She put the book in her lap. “I will be attending services after breakfast.”
“I shall have the carriage ready for you.”
“Did you secure the stables?”
“Aye.”
“Thank you, Thomas.” She took a deep breath. She would be lost without his help. “That is all for tonight.”
“Good night, then.”
As he left, her gaze wandered toward the dark window. It had been almost a month since she’d received the last message.
Was it possible that General Washington didn’t know about the ships? Perhaps the courier had been detained. She would pen a letter herself so those Patriots in Williamsburg would be prepared for more soldiers.
She only hoped that the British wouldn’t stop at her house. No matter what happened, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—entertain them. They could take all she had, but nothing could make her give up this fight for freedom.
Light crept between the shutters and stole across Lydia’s bedcovering, taunting her for remaining in bed on a Sunday morning.
Lydia let it taunt. On the Lord’s Day, Episcopals in and around Williamsburg put aside their political differences and worshipped together at Bruton Parish Church. It took at least an hour for the Caswells’ coach to drive into Williamsburg, but no matter the political dissension or the weather or even if it was planting season, Mother always insisted their family attend. Lydia enjoyed the trips into town, but she would not be going to service this morning.
Mother walked into the room and pushed open the paneled shutters before sitting down on the side of Lydia’s bed. As light poured into the room, she pushed tendrils of wavy hair away from Lydia’s face and placed the back of her hand on Lydia’s forehead. “Are you unwell?”
Lydia shivered under her bedcoverings. “There are pains in my stomach.”
Mother put her hand in her lap and sat straight. “We shan’t attend church without you.”
Lydia shook her head, her mind racing. Her family must leave this morning. “That would be unfair to Father and Hannah.”
“They will certainly understand,” Mother said.
But if Father knew the truth, he wouldn’t understand at all. He would be furious if he found out what she had done.
She reached for Mother’s hand.
The elegant Lady Caswell wore a gown the color of the evergreen trees that grew along the road to Williamsburg. Her gown swept over-top a cream-colored petticoat, and the ribboned curls in her blond wig smelled of pomade and a trace of her lavender-scented perfume.
Lydia squeezed her hand. “You must go. You are already dressed.”
“I will undress.”
Lydia shook her head. “The house will be quiet, and I can rest this morning.”
“But you need medicine and soup and—”
Lydia stopped her. “You will return before dinner. Prudence will care well for me while you are gone.”
Mother’s gaze traveled back to the door, where Prudence stood. “Get the laudanum.”
Prudence nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mother held Lydia’s hand tightly. “We will be home by one.”
“I know.”
“Stay in your bed.”
This time Lydia didn’t reply.
Her mother kissed her forehead and tucked the coverings close around Lydia before she left. Lydia wasn’t ill, but she was plenty tired from being up most of the night, worrying that the stranger would die, worrying that her family would find him.
Had he survived? His passing might eliminate a number of complications, but even so, she didn’t want him to die. Perhaps he would be well enough this morning to continue on his journey.
Or maybe he was already gone.
Prudence returned with the laudanum and a spoon.
“What shall I do with it?” she asked, holding it out as Lydia climbed out of bed.
“
Perhaps we should take it with us to Elisha’s room.”
“But—”
“You may tell the servants I have recovered.”
Prudence shook her head. “I shall take no part in this deceit.”
“But I have recovered.” Lydia glanced toward her window. “Has my family departed?”
“The coach just left.”
Lydia sat up. “Then we shan’t delay.”
Prudence laced Lydia’s cotton stay over her shift and helped her dress in her petticoat, which was scented with violet water, and a jacket before pinning her hair behind a cap that matched the light color of peach in her attire. Tucking the laudanum and spoon in the small pocket under her petticoat, Lydia climbed down the servants’ staircase alone so as not to indict Prudence in her scheme.
The clear blue in the sky and white mantle of snow brushed a bit of color across the dull browns of tree limbs and the grayish blue of the river. She rushed across the melting snow, toward the coach house.
Elisha had driven her family to church. He would keep her secret, but some of the other Negroes might tell the overseer that she’d gone outside while the family was away. The overseer would surely report back to Father.
When she reached the coach house, Lydia looked both ways but didn’t see anyone on the grounds. Taking a deep breath, she climbed the steps and knocked on Elisha’s door.
Chapter Four
The room above the coach house had cooled this morning, the logs disintegrating into black stubs of coal. The stranger on Elisha’s bed didn’t stir with Lydia’s presence, and for a moment, she thought he had indeed perished during the night. But as she stepped closer, she could see the slight rise and fall of the blankets piled on his chest. Somehow this man had survived his frigid swim in the James.
She looked out the window at the thread of water winding in the distance. Was the Royal Navy looking for one of its sailors? And if he was in the navy, why wasn’t he dressed in a red coat and white breeches like the men she’d seen passing through Williamsburg last month?
If he was a deserter, she would have to turn him in . . . but she’d heard terrible stories of what the officers did to deserters. After saving his life, she hated to think of his being shot or hanged.
The air might have cooled, but sweat continued to bubble on the man’s forehead. He was younger than she’d thought last night. Perhaps just thirty years of age or even five and twenty. His sandy-brown hair had dried with the fire, the gray pallor drained from his face.
It felt odd to be alone with a man sleeping in this room. A stranger.
She lifted his head and spooned a teaspoonful of laudanum into his lips. She wished she could ask Mother how much medicine to give him, but it was better to err on more than less. She fed him another spoonful. The sooner he recovered, the sooner he could leave the plantation.
The man sat up straight in the bed, coughing as he flung the covers off his chest. She jumped. His eyes scoured the room wildly until he found her. She started to step back, but it was too late. He clutched her arm. “Tell the men that Arnold is coming.”
She struggled to pull her arm away, but he wouldn’t release it. “Who is this Arnold?”
He shook her arm. “Tell them they must fight.”
“But who must fight?” she pressed. “And whom must I tell?”
He released her arm and fell back onto the thin pillow. His eyes closed again, and he muttered as his head tossed. “Three across, two down.”
“Three across, two down,” she repeated. It was an odd statement, but she hoped the words would comfort him in some way, if only letting him know that she’d heard him.
He nodded in his delirium.
Then he sat up again. “Go!”
She leaned toward him as he sank back onto his pillow. The laudanum must be working.
“Where should I go?” she whispered.
When he didn’t reply, she nudged his shoulder, but he was no longer conscious, his pleas to her a mystery. If only there was some way she could help.
Standing, she covered him with the blankets and retraced her steps back to the house and down into the basement. Colorful glass bottles of cherries, wine, and ginger beer lined the kitchen walls along with wheels of hard cheese and brandied fruit.
The cook was hovering over a steaming pot of chicken soup, and the entire room smelled like garlic and thyme.
Viney looked up from the stove, her eyes filling with surprise. Lady Caswell was the only member of the family who ventured into the kitchen.
“The mistress said—” Viney stuttered. “She said Prudence was to bring soup up to your chamber.”
“Aye,” Lydia responded. “But I am feeling better and would like to dine in the hall instead.”
“Of course, miss.” Viney stirred the soup again. “I will have Joshua bring it to you.”
Lydia’s stomach rumbled. “Will it be ready soon?”
Viney leaned forward to sniff the aroma rising from the pot. “’Tis ready now.”
“Then I shall eat now.”
The windows of the dining hall overlooked the garden and the river in the distance. The large room seemed eerily quiet without her family. In fact, she couldn’t remember a time she had been in the house without her mother or sister near her.
After she sat at the side of the long table, Joshua, her father’s indentured manservant, ladled the hot soup into a bowl and placed a basket of warm bread beside her. She spooned the soup to her mouth, and the broth warmed the chill that had settled in her bones. Surely it would help the stranger in Elisha’s bed as well.
But how would she sneak the soup to Elisha’s room?
She turned toward Joshua, who stood by the sideboard. “You needn’t stay.”
He nodded and stepped back through the servants’ door by the fireplace, leaving her alone.
She finished her bowl and refilled it with more soup. Then she eyed the open doorway into the great hall.
Years ago, when she was eight or nine, she’d hidden bread in the folds of her petticoat and fed them to a wounded duck she’d found near the pond on a neighboring plantation. Mother had caught her taking the piece of bread. She’d scolded her at first for stealing the bread, but once she found out what Lydia was doing, she explained that she didn’t have to steal. For a week, there was an extra piece of bread beside her dinner plate.
Then the duck was gone.
In her silent way, Mother might approve of what she was doing to help the wounded man, but Lydia doubted she would risk their family’s well-being to help him. This time Lydia would have to help on her own.
Lydia lifted the warm ceramic bowl from the table and covered it with her cape. She waited for a moment by the doorway, listening for footsteps, and then hurried through the great hall and out into the stair hall. The split staircase in the entry hall swept up to the second-floor balcony, and one of the maidservants was descending the stairs while the family was gone.
The girl stopped on the steps, but Lydia didn’t acknowledge her as she walked quickly toward the front door. The servants could speculate if they wanted about what she hid under her cape. As long as Prudence and Elisha kept her confidence, the others would never find out the truth.
Stepping out onto the wide stoop, she eyed the drive below her. It circled in front of her house and then lumbered north under the shade of two neatly planted rows of trees. On each side of the trees were hundreds of acres of fields for planting tobacco, and toward the road to Williamsburg were the barns to cure the tobacco.
She stepped outside, not bothering to wear her pattens this time. Her family’s coach shouldn’t return from church for another hour, but she mustn’t delay. The wet snow might ruin the silk fabric, but at the moment, she didn’t care. Shoes she could replace—after the war—but a man’s life could never be replaced.
Soup splashed as she hurried across the walkway, splattering broth across her petticoat and sleeves. When she reached the coach house, she pushed open the door with her shoulder an
d found the man still asleep. If only he would wake and fight for his life.
Sitting down on the stool, she spooned the broth into the man’s mouth as she had the medicine. His eyes opened and closed as he ate the soup, but they never focused on her.
What if she hadn’t gone walking last night? What if she had ignored this man’s groan?
He wouldn’t have survived the night and probably not the hour, in the condition he was in. It was a cruel war, this meaningless plunder of so much life. Thousands were dying, and for what? A proper cup of English tea?
All of it seemed meaningless to her, as King Solomon said in his book. It was like chasing after the wind.
His head tossed again on the pillow, and she set the soup bowl and spoon beside the basin. Where had this man come from? He didn’t look like a rebel, at least not like the cruel men who’d tortured her grandfather. In fact, he reminded her a bit of her brother, Grayson.
Mother had yet to part with any of Grayson’s clothing or personal effects. Perhaps she could find some newer clothes for him to wear from her brother’s closet.
Lydia picked up the bowl and spooned more soup into the man’s mouth.
Often she wondered where Seth was. And how he was. While Sarah received letters from him, she herself hadn’t received one letter since Seth departed two years go. Or if she had, Father had confiscated them. The day Seth left to join the Continental Army, Father ceased to talk about the man he’d once thought would manage Caswell Hall.
If Seth was wounded on the field, she hoped someone would care for him. It didn’t matter to her the political leanings of the person who helped him. She hoped his rescuer wouldn’t see a soldier but a man who needed compassion. A man with a future ahead of him, no matter who won this war.
Her parents’ conversation from last night replayed in her mind, and she clenched her hands together. How could they presume to marry her to a man she didn’t know? She and Seth might have departed on bitter terms, but when the war ended, surely he and her father would put aside their political differences. And if they didn’t—
The Courier of Caswell Hall (American tapestries) Page 3
