“He is a family friend.”
The man laughed. “That is quite presumptuous of you.”
“Major Reed is also a guest at our home.” Mother climbed back into the coach and closed the door. She leaned forward to speak again through the window while the soldier skimmed the letter. “The major has sent us on an errand to Williamsburg.”
The soldier took a step back. “You are helping him?”
“Of course,” she said. “And he would appreciate it greatly, I believe, if you did not detain us another moment.”
Lydia waved the pouch in front of her face as they rode away. The British army really should employ her mother to negotiate for them.
Chapter Fifteen
The cobblestone streets in Williamsburg smelled like coffee beans and custard, pine and tar. The wooden sidewalks were crowded with people peering into the windows of the millinery, bakery, and wigmaker’s shop.
Each shopkeeper displayed a painting beside his front door for those who couldn’t read—a picture of shoes for the shoemaker, a loom for the weaver, a basin for the barber—and the doors were donned with evergreen wreaths of ribbons, pinecones, and winterberries along with wooden birds and other figures woven into the greenery.
It was almost as if there were no soldiers preparing to overtake the town.
Down the alleyways were dozens of mulberry trees and white-painted homes behind neat picket fences with gardens dormant through the winter months. Lydia loved the beauty of Williamsburg, though her nerves rattled with the hordes of people and the constant clanging of wagon and carriage wheels against the stone.
The bells of Bruton Parish Church rang out to announce the hour of ten. She and Mother would have four hours in town before they must return home.
The coach passed beside the long lawn that led up to the vacant Governor’s Palace. When Lord Dunmore’s family occupied the palace, they hosted the most magnificent dinners and balls to celebrate the colony’s bounty. He often invited members from the House of Burgesses, the men and women who owned businesses in their colony’s capital, and the influential plantation owners who lived around Williamsburg. After Thomas Jefferson became governor, there were no more invitations for the Caswell family.
Elisha stopped the coach beside the millinery, near the old capitol building. Lydia followed her mother inside the shop to check on a spring hat her mother had ordered last month. Mrs. Reynolds, the milliner, had once been kind to Mother, but she’d stopped being friendly in the months before Grandfather’s death and had been downright unkind ever since. The relationship with Mrs. Reynolds had evolved into a purely business relationship, and it saddened Lydia that they were no longer amicable.
Few people in town offered consolation for what happened to Grandfather. It was almost as if they believed he had deserved the tar and feathers.
Mrs. Reynolds sat behind the counter, her wide frame surrounded by colorful hats in an assortment of shapes and designs.
“I would like to inquire about my order,” Mother said quite matter-of-factly.
Mrs. Reynolds pushed herself off the stool and retrieved the straw hat with a pale-blue flower on the back and a lovely display of yellow-and-white ribbons. Mother took it without bothering to compliment the woman’s fine handiwork. Then she turned to walk back toward the door.
Mrs. Reynolds called out to her, “I am afraid I will need the payment today.”
Mother swiveled back toward the counter. “Lord Caswell comes in every month to reconcile the accounts.”
The shopkeeper reached for the hat. “I can no longer sell you hats on credit.”
Mother set the hat on the counter. Instead of arguing, she pulled two paper notes out of her reticule and set them beside the hat. Mrs. Reynolds took the money, and Lydia nodded to her before following her mother outside.
Mother set her new hat on her lap in the coach and pinched her fingers around the brim. “Dreadful woman,” she murmured. “Just dreadful.”
Lydia glanced back at the window of the shop, and she could see Mrs. Reynolds inside, working on another hat.
“Everyone seems to be struggling at present,” Lydia said, trying to console her.
Mother shook her head. “She is not struggling. She is making a point that she does not trust our family to pay our accounts.”
If there was another milliner in Williamsburg who made such beautiful hats, Mother would move her business to them, but Mrs. Reynolds replicated the most fashionable designs from London. Even though she had lived in the colonies for the past thirty years—and even though it was difficult to obtain the finer fabrics and lace—Mother still attempted to dress like a gentlewoman.
They strolled along the wooden walkway, purchasing sticks of cinnamon, gingerroot, and different colors of ribbon out of the money in Mother’s purse, since it seemed as if all the merchants had conspired against them to refuse the Caswell family credit. Then they stopped shopping, but they didn’t stop walking until they reached the long plaza that stretched to the palace.
The old steeple at Bruton Parish Church towered in front of them, and beside the plaza stood the Pendells’ brick home. Mr. Pendell was a professor at the College of William & Mary and used to share the view that the colonies should submit to the king. Lydia hadn’t heard of any other supporters of the British being tarred and feathered in Williamsburg since the war began, but plenty had been plundered and some even killed for their beliefs. She often wondered how the Pendells escaped this, remaining in Williamsburg while many Loyalists from the university went back to England.
Perhaps Mr. Pendell also realized that he must keep his political views secret until after the war.
Mrs. Pendell had been one of Mother’s closest friends since the Caswell family arrived in the colonies, but as Mother tentatively knocked on the door, it was as if she were afraid that this friendship had dissolved as well.
A maid answered the door and escorted them into the parlor.
Mrs. Pendell rose when she saw them, her large arms outstretched—but her smile quickly faded when she saw Lady Caswell’s face. “Oh, Dorothea, you look as if you are about to collapse.”
Mother’s resolve crumbled, and she pulled her handkerchief out of her small bag to dab at her tears. “It has been a perfectly awful day.”
Mrs. Pendell guided her to a chair. “What on earth happened?”
Mother’s story of humiliation surged out of her, Mrs. Pendell listening in earnest. Their host brushed her cheeks with her own handkerchief as Mother described the injustices done to her today and in the months and years past, interjecting words like ghastly, despicable, impossible. Mrs. Pendell sympathized fully with her, but she didn’t contribute any stories of her own.
Were the Caswells the only family treated like this in town?
“We shall think of this no longer. We shall have some—” Mrs. Pendell hesitated as if she were debating what she would serve. She leaned toward them as if they were conspiring together. “We can no longer serve tea here, you understand, but would you like some chocolate?”
Lydia smiled. No one could argue against chocolate.
“Chocolate would be fine,” Mother said.
Mrs. Pendell rang her bell for their refreshments and then looked back at the women. “Have you heard from Grayson?”
Lydia shook her head. Part of her appreciated the sympathy in Mrs. Pendell’s eyes, while another part of her wished she could refute the pity. Mother changed the subject, and they talked of the weather and the plantation and the fact that Mr. Jones’s oldest daughter was planning to wed in spite of the war.
The chocolate arrived and Mrs. Pendell poured them each a cup. Lydia sipped her warm drink slowly. The chocolate was flavored with cinnamon and vanilla, and she savored each drop.
“I do hope the war will be over before Miss Jones’s wedding,” Mother said.
“We have heard the British might be close.” Mrs. Pendell leaned toward them again. “We pray they are.”
“In the strictes
t confidence . . .” Mother began.
“Of course.”
“We have eighteen British officers staying at Caswell Hall.”
“Indeed!” Mrs. Pendell’s look of alarm quickly turned into one of joy. Lydia wished she felt as excited about the British being in Virginia.
“They will not be at our home for much longer.” Mother turned toward the empty doorway as if to check for eavesdroppers. “You and Herbert should leave Williamsburg for a season.”
“Whatever for?”
Mother sipped her drink. “I believe they will be marching on Williamsburg soon. Even though your family is loyal, I am afraid you will be in danger.”
“Herbert will want to stay and welcome the men.”
“It still may not be safe.”
Mrs. Pendell sighed. “Nothing seems safe these days.”
“I suppose not,” Mother said. “And it is difficult to trust anyone.”
Mrs. Pendell reached for a wooden box and handed it to Mother. Mother reciprocated with the rest of her paper money. Even though they were friends, or perhaps because of it, the women never operated on credit. Mother held the box—filled with what Lydia assumed was English tea—close to her side.
“Please take care,” Mrs. Pendell said, kissing Mother’s cheek.
Lydia reached into her pocket. “I nearly forgot. Sarah Hammond sent you a letter.”
“Oh, she is a dear, isn’t she?” Mrs. Pendell took the letter from Lydia and clutched it in two hands. “I wonder why she did not bring it herself.”
“Her horses were stolen last week.”
“I certainly hope this madness will end soon.” Mrs. Pendell patted her arm. “Might I bother you with one more errand?”
“’Tis no bother,” Lydia said.
“I wonder if you could deliver my reply to Sarah on your way home.” After Mrs. Pendell wrote her reply, Lydia linked arms with her mother and set off, with Mrs. Pendell’s box and the letter, to the livery to find Elisha and their two horses. The church bells rang three times as they rode away from the town center. Thankfully they would be home before dark.
Elisha pressed the horses forward to reach home before night fell, and Lydia watched the endless tree limbs as they rode. Mother rested quietly, though sleep was impossible with the fierce rocking. Lydia figured she was processing all that had transpired in Williamsburg. While Mother trusted Mrs. Pendell with her thoughts, it was almost as if she were afraid to talk about them with her daughters. Maybe she feared appearing weak when she wanted to be strong.
As they neared Hammond Plantation, Lydia closed her eyes. She wished they could stop at Sarah’s house to assure her that Mrs. Pendell’s letter had been delivered and to give her the response, but it was too late in the day now. Lydia would send Elisha over at first light with Mrs. Pendell’s return message.
The earthy smell of wood smoke drifted into the coach, and Lydia enjoyed the aroma until Elisha slowed the coach. She glanced out the window and saw a man walking along the side of the road, a tricorn hat askew on his head. He looked like a vagrant, with his black cloak draped over his arms. One hand held some sort of satchel, and the other clutched a wooden cane.
At the sight of the cane, her gaze shot back toward his face.
Surely not. Nathan should be far from here by now. But when he glanced up, his gaze met hers, and she gasped.
“Stop staring,” Mother insisted.
Lydia turned forward quickly, afraid Mother would inquire whether she knew him.
Was her imagination playing with her? Why would Nathan be on this road?
As they came upon the avenue to Sarah’s house, the smoke grew thicker, the smell rancid. She waved her hand in front of her face.
“What in heaven’s name—” Mother coughed, trying to fan away the smoke that encompassed them. She reached over and opened the window, but instead of letting the smoke out, more poured inside.
Elisha turned toward the Hammond house without being directed, and neither she nor Mother questioned him. There was no time to think about Nathan now. They must find out what was burning.
Mother leaned toward the open window. “Hurry, Elisha.”
Had the kitchen caught on fire? Or another building?
Fear filled Lydia’s heart.
Whatever had happened, she prayed Sarah was safe.
As they drove toward the house the smoke grew black, and Lydia’s stomach rolled at the terrible stench. It smelled of death and dirt and terror.
Elisha slowed the carriage at the end of the lane, and Mother gasped. A burned shell had replaced the elegant home where they’d sipped tea that morning. Smoke from the dying flames rose to the sky, leaving only blackened scars.
Major Reed and the others had discussed burning houses around Charles Towne and in Richmond, but why would they burn houses here? Especially a plantation home like the Hammonds’? With the exception of Seth, the Hammond family was loyal to the Crown.
There must have been a terrible accident. She couldn’t think, couldn’t fathom, that someone might have done this intentionally.
Two Negro men sat beside the drive, staring at the coach, their faces blank from shock. Lydia hopped down from the coach and ran toward the cluster of four remaining buildings that flanked the house. “Sarah!” she shouted.
When she turned back, she watched Mother step out of the carriage and begin calling Sarah’s name as well. Elisha rushed toward the two Negroes.
Lydia cupped her trembling hands, her voice shaking as her shout turned to a question. “Sarah?”
Then she listened, praying for a response.
To her right she heard the creak of a door, and she swiveled on her feet to see her friend emerge from the family’s dovecote. Her fairylike dress was covered in soot and hay, and her eyes bore the same blank stare of the Negro men.
Sarah tripped and then leaned back against the stone building, gulping great breaths of the smoke-laden air. Lydia rushed toward her. They needed to get her away from here, but Lydia couldn’t force her to move. Not even with the darkness pouring over them.
She led Sarah back toward Mother and the Negro men. She wished she had the perfect words to ease her friend’s distress, to comfort her, but she had none. Only questions.
“What happened?” Lydia asked.
“The British came,” Sarah murmured. “They set it on fire.”
Even though she’d suspected it, Lydia still felt as if someone had struck her. She wished so badly that she had been wrong.
Sarah began to shake.
When Lydia looked up, she saw Elisha’s eyes wide with fear. “Where is Morah?” he demanded.
“She must be near—” Sarah said.
The man next to Elisha interrupted her. “The British took the rest of the slaves with them.”
A horrible noise surged through Elisha’s lips, the guttural sound of despair. When he dropped to his knee, Lydia’s skin turned cold.
What happened to his wife? His son?
In that moment, Elisha wasn’t their family’s Negro. He was her protector, her friend.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered.
Elisha buried his head in his hands.
When Sarah spoke again, her voice cut like ice through the smoke. “What about Thomas?”
“He tried to stop them by the river.” The taller man spoke again. “They shot him.”
Sarah tilted again, and Lydia tried to steady her. She wished there was something she could do to comfort all of them.
“What—” Sarah’s voice cracked. “What will they do with the rest of our servants?”
“I am afraid they’ll sell them, miss,” one of the men said.
Sarah collapsed onto the ground and Lydia sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her friend. Sarah’s tears poured onto Lydia’s shoulder, and anger pulsed through Lydia. For a moment this morning, everything had seemed normal again. They had been two friends simply talking over tea.
But nothing was normal.
The blunt bru
tality of this war came crashing around her. There was no safe place for any of them, Negro or gentleman.
“You must come home with—” Lydia stopped before she finished her invitation. What would happen if Major Reed and the others had set Sarah’s house on fire? They couldn’t take Sarah home with them, and they certainly could not leave her here.
She looked over at her mother. “We cannot leave her alone.”
Mother eyed the unburned flank buildings around them. “There is no place for us to spend the night here.”
Sarah sat up, and Lydia took her friend’s hand. “Perhaps we can all go back to Williamsburg,” Lydia said. The soldiers might still be patrolling the roads, but Mother could concoct a story for them.
Sarah shook her head. “Elisha cannot drive. He must grieve his loss.”
Lydia looked up at him again, at the devastation etched into his face. If only they knew where the British had taken his family.
Another Negro man ran up to them. “Four more British soldiers are coming from the west.”
Lydia’s heart quickened as Sarah turned to her remaining two men. “Can one of you take us to town?”
The younger man stepped forward. “Aye.”
Mother spoke. “You must walk home, Elisha.”
His nod was inconclusive.
Mother kept talking. “Tell Master Caswell that we will return on the morrow.”
Lydia’s legs trembled as she climbed up into the coach. How could her mother ask Elisha to do anything?
But perhaps Mother needed to take charge of this situation. It was almost as if she couldn’t allow herself to empathize with the loss of a son.
With his cane in one hand and a shaving kit in the other, Nathan moved slowly along the road. While there were times when he needed to stay hidden, often he avoided suspicion by remaining in plain sight. He couldn’t have come up with a better way to escape notice. A crippled man, with a passable British accent, posing as a barber.
Even though British soldiers frequently stopped him, none kept for him long. He charged two pence for a shave. Some paid, some did not, but they always let him on his way.
Months ago, a barber near Fredericksburg had given him a basic lesson on shaving and letting blood. The barber tried to teach him how to pull teeth too, but heaven forbid if someone actually asked him to do so.
The Courier of Caswell Hall (American tapestries) Page 12
