The Tobacco Lords Trilogy

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  There was other, newer fencing too, and the fences snaked round and bridled the wilderness for hundreds of acres.

  She wanted a place like this. She wanted it. Why should that selfish, arrogant brute have all this while she had nothing. There was something basic about owning land that gave the kind of security she needed. Such was the desperation of her need that, as she hurried along, hugging tightly at her cloak, she began to imagine that it could be hers, almost that it was hers already.

  Somewhere, somehow, there was a way.

  Then it occurred to her that perhaps in showing her antagonism to Harding so plainly and so often she had been endangering her position more than Mistress Kitty’s death even could. After all, even if Mistress Kitty did not die, he could still replace her with someone else if he had a mind to. It surely followed too that it Mistress Kitty died, he could still employ her to run his house if he had a mind to.

  For the first time she realised that it was on herself and how she could influence Harding, not his wife, that her future depended.

  When she returned to the house, she read to Mistress Kitty for a while before going down to tell Jenny to take up her tray. Then she went in to have her meal in the dining-room with Harding.

  There were two silver candelabra on the table and the warm light on the yellow pine walls gave the room a golden glow. Harding’s black hair, tanned skin and white shirt made a startling contrast. She always experienced something of a shock when she saw him.

  She was stiff-backed in her blue brocade gown and quilted satin petticoat. Her hair glimmered like ruby wine, the long curl dangling over the front of her shoulder accentuating the creaminess of her skin.

  The slaves served the meal, the silence only broken by the tinkle of cutlery against china. Gradually, a sense of well-being and satisfaction soothed over her as she ate. Every now and again, her gaze wandered over the curves of the mahogany sideboard and its silver serving dishes, the lustrous mahogany of the chairs and table; the rich reds and blues of the carpet. No one more keenly appreciated the good things of life than she did. She tried never to think of the past, but sometimes memories of her life in Glasgow sucked her into a tunnel of fear. It seemed incredible that she had once begged in the streets in her bare feet, had slept with criminals in filthy stairways, had eaten revolting scraps of food from the stinking pockets of Quin.

  She shuddered and returned to her thoughts of the afternoon. She must not endanger her position by showing antagonism. Eventually she managed to fix a cool green stare on the man opposite. His attention was concentrated on his food and he seemed completely unaware of her existence. Gradually, however, he sensed her eyes upon him and looked up.

  Her mouth twisted into a smile. He stared at her.

  ‘Mistress, I believe that is the first time I have ever seen you smile. It’s a poor effort. But the effort was made. I wonder why?’

  Her fork toyed with the food before her.

  ‘I am sorry if I’ve appeared over-solemn, Mr Harding.’

  ‘Are you indeed?’

  ‘I will try to be more pleasing in future.’

  ‘Pleasing?’ He laughed incredulously. ‘You?’

  She didn’t dare raise her eyes.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he added.

  ‘Like yourself, sir, I always mean what I say.’

  ‘You are actually likening yourself to me?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Maybe we are not so different as you think.’

  ‘Mistress Chisholm,’ he said. ‘I have never been so deeply suspicious of you as I am today.’

  She smiled again.

  ‘Will you excuse me, Mr Harding?’

  With a rustle of skirts she rose and left the room. In the hallway she hesitated. The thought of going upstairs to be closeted with Mistress Kitty for the rest of the evening held little attraction. Most evenings she sat reading in a corner of the drawing-room. Sometimes when Harding was at home, he sat by the fire reading. Sometimes he wrote, his quill scraping and scoring at the silence between them. Perhaps tonight he would retire early and leave her to enjoy her own company. She decided to take the risk and went into the drawing-room.

  A log fire crackled in the fireplace, shooting out arrows of light. The pendant flame of the candelabra shivered in the draught and as she lifted it and took it over to the bookshelves, its amber flame trailed unwillingly behind her. She selected a book and sat down. No sooner had she done so than Harding entered. She did not glance up until he came over to her. Without a word he lifted the candelabra, took it over and with it lit the other candles on the small table beside his chair before returning it. Then he poured himself a whisky and leaning back in his chair, sampled his drink.

  ‘You want to go to Williamsburg, is that it?’ he said eventually.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want something, mistress.’

  ‘At the moment, Mr Harding, all I want is peace to read.’

  His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Yes, something’s crystallising in that icicle of a brain. Take care, Mistress Chisholm. Take great care.’

  28

  ‘I TOLD you you were doing too much.’ Annabella helped Mr Blackadder off with his coat. ‘You’ve more than enough to cope with when you visit the merchants and tradespeople in town without riding for miles across country to outlying farmers and planters.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Aye. They’ve got to be catechised as well.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks,’ she said, deftly undoing his waistcoat. ‘Your health comes first. I will not allow you to continue over-straining yourself like this, sir.’

  She attacked his breeches, ignoring his indignant struggles to hold on to them.

  ‘You’re an awful lassie, Annabella.’

  ‘You have a fever again. Your face is monstrously inflamed.’

  ‘Damn you, I just feel a wee bit shivery and tired.’

  Nancy said:

  ‘I don’t think he rightly recovered from the last time.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ Annabella agreed. ‘I told him he returned to his duties too soon. Quickly, quickly, to bed with you. Nancy has put a warming pan in.’

  ‘Will you stop harassing me, woman,’ Mr Blackadder protested but he was shivering so violently, he was glad of his wife and Nancy’s help to hoist him between the sheets.

  Annabella smoothed and tucked the coverlets high around him, then she dabbed at his face with her handkerchief.

  ‘We have some of the potion left from the last time, have we not, Nancy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bring it then.’

  Mr Blackadder had begun to mutter and moan and by the time Nancy had returned with the potion, his face was scarlet and shiny with rivulets of sweat. They propped him up and with much difficulty Annabella forced some of the liquid between his lips. But his condition continued to grow worse instead of better until his eyes became glazed and he tossed restlessly about. Occasionally he called Annabella’s name.

  ‘I am here. I am here,’ she kept assuring him. Then to Nancy: ‘Gracious heavens, what can we do?’

  ‘Will I fetch the doctor?’

  ‘He will only bleed him but perhaps on this occasion it might help. I do not know. I am prodigiously fluttered. Yes, go on, fetch him, Nancy.’

  After the maid left, Annabella dipped her handkerchief in a bowl of water and gently bathed Mr Blackadder’s face. Nancy was a long time in returning. The room had darkened and Annabella was stiff with sitting crouched over the bed. Mr Blackadder was still murmuring and moaning and shouting her name. Nancy lit a candle and held it over the minister while the doctor examined him. Then, to Annabella’s disgust, he fastened a cluster of leeches to either side of Mr Blackadder’s face. She loathed the writhing black worms. Eventually she cried out:

  ‘These monstrous slugs are distressing him. I will not have him tormented like this. Remove them at once.’

  ‘I was just about to, Mistress Blackadder.’ From under his long wig the doctor eyed her severely. ‘He has b
een bled enough. Now I will give him a febrifuge pill.’

  ‘And what is that, pray?’

  He took a pinch of snuff before answering.

  ‘It is made with powdered Peruvian bark, oil of cinnamon and powdered red coral and it is for reducing his fever. I will leave you seven more. Give him one each night and morning in a little barley water.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Nancy took the candle to light the doctor’s path to the door where his carriage waited, lanterns swinging in the cool night breeze.

  When she returned upstairs to the bedroom she said to Annabella:

  ‘You’re tired. Do you want me to sit with him while you have a sleep through in Mungo’s room?’

  ‘No, light another candle and leave it by the bed. I’ll stay and watch him. He might be agitated if he called my name and I did not answer.’

  ‘Maybe the pills will help.’

  ‘Gracious heavens, I hope so. He is on fire with fever and suffering monstrous pain by the sounds of him.’

  Nancy moved in a pool of yellow towards the door.

  ‘Call me if you need me.’

  The door closed leaving blackness except for the finger of light near Mr Blackadder’s pillow. His breathing had become fast. It sawed through the silence like a tireless carpenter. And every now and again he gave a roar.

  ‘Annabella!’

  And her voice came close.

  ‘I am here. I am here.’

  Until, unexpectedly, his breathing stopped.

  Rising from her crouched position, she lifted the candle and held it over his face.

  ‘Och, Erchie!’ she said brokenly, reproachfully. Then she closed her eyes and tipped up her head, nostrils quivering. She stood like that for a long time before going to tell Nancy.

  In the days that followed she kept herself busy and went about the preparations for, and then the funeral itself, with brisk efficiency. It was not until it was all over and the many guests and mourners had gone that she retired to her room and shed helpless tears.

  Nancy pushed open the door saying,

  ‘You’ve been overtiring yourself.’

  ‘Losh sakes, don’t just stand there gawping at me then. Fetch me a reviving cup of tea. Do something!’

  Nancy went away muttering and rolling her eyes and Annabella shouted after her,

  ‘And I’ll have none of your impudence, you sly, black-haired bitch. You and your bloody farmer. Never a word did you say to me of where you met him or when.’

  She snatched up her fan and rapidly jerked it to and fro. She would have to write to her father and tell of her predicament. How could she continue to keep a house and a growing son with no money coming in? She felt vastly alarmed. Yet as time passed, her usual courage and bouncy spirits came to her rescue. If necessary, she would live on credit until money came from her father. She would manage somehow. Every day she busied herself with household duties or with attending to Mungo. Sometimes, while arranging flowers in a vase near the window, she would peer out, expecting to see Mr Blackadder’s long, lean figure come plodding along Francis Street. Then she would remember that she would never be seeing him again and a tightness would come to her throat.

  But she determinedly swallowed it down. Sometimes she sang a little song to cheer herself as she whisked busily about the house. She tugged the chintz covers from the settee and chairs and rubbed and scrubbed at them herself in a tub in the kitchen. The curtains were washed too and all the woodwork and brasses energetically polished. She also made frequent batçhes of biscuits and cakes, much to Mungo’s delight. No one was allowed to be either idle or gloomy. Several times she chastised Betsy for weeping and howling, ‘Poor Mr Blackadder! Poor Mr Blackadder!’

  ‘Losh and lovenendie, will you stop your fruitless lamentations. He’s gone and that’s an end to it.’

  Then one day, not long after the Public Time had started, Robert Harding called.

  ‘Annabella!’ He strode across the room towards her and attempted to take her into his arm but she indignantly pushed him away.

  ‘How dare you, sir. You would try to take advantage of my unfortunate position.’

  ‘I have just heard. Why didn’t you answer my letters? Why didn’t you write and tell me?’

  ‘Mr Harding, it is quite simple. I had no desire to answer your letters. As for telling you of my husband’s death—I did not see any reason for doing so.’

  ‘I can look after you now.’

  ‘No, sir, you cannot.’

  ‘You have no longer any excuse.’

  ‘Excuse? You are mad, sir. You think my husband was no more than an excuse to keep your advances temporarily at bay? I see I will have to speak plainly to you, sir. To say the least, you are obviously a monstrously stubborn and arrogant man.’

  ‘Don’t think too harshly of me. I have suffered greatly. My marriage was a tragic mistake and the only relief from misery I have enjoyed for many years started when I first saw your face. I could not tear my eyes from you. You were testing a horse on Trongate Street, remember? But I first saw you approaching through the crowds on Stockwell. As soon as I caught sight of you and the proud, wild way you carried yourself, I knew you must be the daring beauty I had heard so much about.’

  ‘Mr Harding, there is no point in talking like this.’

  ‘Since then you have haunted my every hour. I dream of holding you, possessing you again as I did that night.’

  ‘That is enough, Mr Harding.’

  ‘We are meant to be together.’

  She stamped her foot in exasperation.

  ‘No, we are not. We are not, sir. I think of you only as a monstrously crude and infuriating creature and you are the last person on earth with whom I would choose to share my life.’

  ‘In time you will think differently.’

  She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Mr Harding, how blunt do I need to get? I had a higher regard for my husband than I could ever have for you.’

  ‘I do not believe you.’

  She began flicking her fan.

  ‘There is another man, Mr Harding, a charming gentleman of my acquaintance that I hope to see during the Public Time. He is a trifle catched by me and I by him …’

  He moved forward and she thought that he was going to fell her with one blow. Then he hesitated, turned abruptly and left the room. She ran across to the window and watched him stride from the house, mount his horse and gallop away.

  She sighed.

  ‘Poor Mr Harding.’

  Still, it had to be done. Such a man could make a lady’s life a misery, she felt sure, and she had no intention of allowing herself to be disturbed by someone so lacking in sensibility. No doubt he would soon forget her by drowning his sorrows in a carousal with the noisy mob of planters now filling the ‘Raleigh Tavern’. Probably he would indulge in a harlot or two. That would be more in keeping with his coarse and unruly passions. Yet she had to admit that when Mungo came into the room, she felt a pang of conscience, even perhaps of regret and she experienced the same wrench of the heart that she remembered feeling on the ship coming to Virginia when she gazed on the shores of her native land for the last time.

  ‘Can we go for a walk, Mummy?’ Mungo asked.

  Kneeling down in front of him, she took his hands.

  ‘No, it is not possible during the Public Time. We can walk no further than the garden for the streets are so crowded and filled with such monstrous abominations. They have put several privy houses in the street and they empty their filth onto the apparel of anyone who happens to be passing. And even the hogs and the cattle protest noisily at the crush. But perhaps I can persuade Lord and Lady Butler or some other friend to give us the use of their carriage so that we can take a short outing. Would you like that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps we could catch a glimpse of some of the wonders of the fair.’

  The child’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Oh, yes, please. Please, Mummy.’

  She rustled
to her feet.

  ‘I shall see what I can do.’

  Mr Cunningham possessed a very grand carriage and he was a most obliging gentleman. No doubt if she made her need known to him, he would put his carriage at her disposal. She expected a call from Mr Cunningham at any time. As soon as he heard the news he would come. And just as she expected, it was not long before Nancy showed him in.

  ‘Mistress Blackadder.’ He made a deep, slow bow.

  ‘Mr Cunningham.’ She spread her skirts and bowed her head in a curtsy.

  ‘I was shocked to hear of your distressful bereavement.’ He took her hand and for only a brief moment pressed his lips to it. ‘May I offer you my sincere condolences. The Reverend Mr Blackadder was a fine Christian gentleman.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Cunningham. He was indeed.’

  ‘If there is anything I can do, dear lady, please do not hesitate …’

  After inviting him to sit down and ordering Nancy to serve some tea, she told him of her conversation with Mungo.

  ‘My carriage is at your disposal,’ he said at once.

  He was such a wondrously delightful man.

  They sipped tea together and conversed pleasantly for some time before he rose to take his leave.

  ‘Can I look forward to the pleasure of seeing you at the next Public Time, Mistress Blackadder? Or am I being too insensitive in view of your recent loss?’

  ‘Locking myself away and indulging in fruitless lamentations will not bring back my husband, sir. Yes, of course, I will be attending the social occasions of the next Public Time.’

  His eyes glimmered when he smiled.

  ‘Mistress Blackadder, you are unique—a sensible woman as well as an enchanting one.’

  29

  THE PINK fragrance of roses mingled with the dark leather smell of books and the waxy aroma of polished wood. Silver and amber slats of light heavy with dust sloped in, painting lustrous patches on furniture and floor. Outside, trees made secret whispers and crickets and birds joined in a chorus of chirpings.