Cig promised that wouldn’t happen if she had to tie him down.
The cottage was toasty. The ladies fed the fire. Finally tiring themselves, they used the furs and blankets Francis had brought for them to make a place to sleep on the floor.
Snuggled together in their shifts, their ball gowns neatly laid over a chair, Cig felt as if she were at a slumber party.
“Sleepovers are a big deal in my time for young girls. You stay up all night, eat junk food, gossip, and then fall asleep despite yourself.”
“What’s junk food?”
“Pretzels, potato chips, popcorn, ice cream, pizza, I mean the worst. All it does is make you fat.”
“Do the mothers cook such foods—pizza?”
“Nah. You buy them in stores. We have supermarkets. You wouldn’t believe it, Margaret, it’s an emporium of food—as big as the Eppes’s house.”
“Like a market?”
“No. We have those, too—although not as many as we should. At a market everything is fresh. In a supermarket, in addition to fresh meat and vegetables, the stuff is frozen or canned or processed so as not to spoil.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“If I could take you home with me, I’d show you.”
A moan from Fitz got Cig out from under the covers. She checked on him then threw another log on the fire. “He’s okay.”
She hurried back under the covers. “I’d take him home, too, if I could. Back to my time, I mean.” She whispered for her face was not six inches from Margaret’s. “Buckingham is home in this time.”
“Do you love him?”
“We click.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Uh, click. It’s when two people get along easily. You and I click. Fitz and I click.”
“I like that.” Margaret’s lids began to droop.
“You know, for the first time tonight I was glad I was in 1699. At least Grace wasn’t at the party. When she’s around the men trip over themselves waiting on her.”
“But the man who is right for you wouldn’t hover around Grace. What does it matter if all the others do?” Margaret made a dismissive motion with her hand.
Cig considered that remark and thought about it later as she fell asleep.
32
The next day Fitz was able to take the ferry across the James. Cig and Margaret insisted that he stay at Buckingham for a few days. He protested but finally gave in. Cig surrendered her bedroom. She’d sleep downstairs in front of the giant fireplace.
Tom, a gentleman, thanked Fitz again for defending his twin’s honor.
Cig caught up with him in the barn.
“I know you’re disappointed in the turn of events. And you’re disappointed in me.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for rising above it.”
He sighed. “For you to marry Lionel—that would have been a glory. We would never want and never worry. But after what he said”—Tom shook his head—“never. Never.”
“Did he say anything coming back?”
“He apologized. Said he lost his head. His mother apologized for him. Kate deVries is a hard woman to please but she likes you, she approved of the match. She’s as melancholy as he is.”
“Did you accept his apology?”
“I did. Fitz put everything to rights. If Fitz hadn’t fought Lionel then I would have. It’s over and done. Still, how could Lionel say that?”
“Because it’s true. I did make love with him. I’d explain it to you but it’s better that I don’t.”
“Explain? That’s like explaining the sunshine or the stars. Better you were married, Pryor, but still, he had no right to sully you. A man protects any woman who has granted him favors. Even the savages do the same. It’s a point of honor. I can’t understand how he could lose his—” Frustrated, Tom couldn’t find the word.
“Composure?”
“More.”
“Well, whatever, he lost it.”
“And he lost my respect and the respect of most everyone there. A gentleman just doesn’t do that no matter what the provocation—even if a lady drew a sword on him.” He thought of the most outrageous situation he could imagine.
“Yes, I understand.” And she did. She felt quite sorry that this masculine code of honor had been reduced to tatters in her time. “And Tom, don’t worry about our future. If you will listen to me, the Deyhles will prosper. We don’t need Lionel.”
He smirked. “Are you going to tell me to plant groundnuts again?”
“I am. I am also telling you to buy land around the Falls—now. I’m going to write these things down for you.”
“What else?”
“Drain all stagnant water. If you can’t drain it put oil on it. There will never be sweating sickness at Buckingham if you do as I say.”
He folded his arms across his chest but he was listening. “What else?”
“Don’t buy Africans. You will profit in the short term and suffer in the long term. Trust me, Tom, trust me.”
“How do you come by this knowledge?”
“The same way I knew the Eppes’s new house would be called Weston Manor.”
A flash of fear crossed his face. “You have second sight—you’ve lost your memory but you gained second sight.”
“Yes.”
“Keep this to yourself, Pryor.” He sagged against a stall door. The sudden turn of events had taken its toll on him. “Pryor, do you ever think you lost your memory because some memories felt like the rack, the pain was too great?”
“I’ve thought of that,” her voice softened, “and I believe if that is so then the memory will flood back in—in time.”
“I have a terrible memory. I never told you. I wish I could forget it.” He covered his eyes with his hand then spoke. “I found our father hanging from the willow tree by the dock. John MacKinder and I found him. I try to wipe the picture from my mind but it comes back.”
Cig put her arms around him. “I’m sorry, Tom.”
“Why?” His teeth were clenched.
“He couldn’t bear the pain inside.”
“But he seemed hardy—Mother’s death and Braxton’s passing, those were hard, hard—but he never betrayed any misery. He went about his business. He had a good word for all. We knew he was suffering but I never saw a sign.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I would have done something. I would have hidden the rope!”
“There’s nothing you could have done. When someone makes up his mind to die, you can’t prevent it. He was going to Mother and Braxton. He knew we were strong enough to live without him. He’s happy now.”
“You knew, didn’t you?”
“I was forewarned. Perhaps that was one of the things that affected my mind. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. I’m here. We’re together. Buckingham will outlive us. Do as I advise: peanuts, the Falls, drain the swamps, no slaves, and I almost forgot, send your children to William and Mary. Make certain the girls get educated, too.”
“The grammar school only teaches boys.”
“Margaret can teach the girls. Someone can. Not just sewing and that stuff. History, literature, music, mathematics. Promise me, Brother.”
“I promise.”
“And I will write this down.”
“Give it to Margaret. I’ll lose it.”
“Done.” She held out her hand.
He shook it. “Done—one other thing. What of Fitzroy?”
“You might let him put leather on Castor and Pollux’s hooves. He wants to prove his method works.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Ah—I’ll not spurn a man willing to die for me.” She smiled. “Tom, I believe everything you do affects everyone else for all time. What you and I do now will affect someone’s life in 1799 and 1899 and 1999.”
“Sister, you startle me with these notions.” He took a deep breath. “I give you my blessing.”
Later that day she sat at the graceful desk, the large family Bible resting on the corner. She f
ound a small, clean sheet of parchment pressed between the pages.
Picking up the quill and dipping it in the inkwell, she wrote down the list. She poured a bit of fine sand on it to dry, carefully curled the parchment and dumped the used sand in her hand.
She placed the list back in the Bible and tossed the sand in the fire. She told Margaret where she’d put the list.
She discovered she liked writing with a quill. It made everything seem so much more important.
33
“Our maternal ancestor, George Villiers, the first duke of Buckingham, was appointed Master of the Horse to James I in 1616.” Tom chatted with Fitz, who sat on a chair, his leg propped up before him, his foot on a stool and three cats artfully draped around his body.
Cig and Margaret buzzed back and forth from the summer kitchen to the dinner table. Marie, normally a good worker, was so enchanted with Fitz’s bravery and the romance of it that she lingered to stare at him.
Tom continued, “That’s when we English began to study bloodlines and families instead of just looking at a stallion and a mare and saying, Try it.’”
“Crossing the Barb, that’s the answer,” Fitz, contented to discuss horses, said.
“Of course.” Tom gesticulated. “But who can afford it? Half the great dukes of England can’t import a stallion, and it must be a stallion for the Infidels won’t part with a mare. We could never bring one here. It would cost a king’s ransom.”
“Then we’ll have to capture a king.” Fitz laughed.
“Marie, Marie, we could use a hand here,” Margaret called to her.
“Yes, ma’am.” The small but round woman reluctantly headed toward the kitchen.
Later, after dinner, Cig and Tom finished the outside chores. Fitz complained about being useless. When they gathered together before the fire they talked of the upcoming century.
“1700. It sounds important.” Margaret giggled.
“How can a number sound important?” Tom teased her.
“Put a pound sign in front of it,” Fitz suggested.
“Seventeen hundred pounds.” Cig whistled. “Sounds good to me.”
A Chill ran down her spine, though, when she thought of the year 1700. They were poised on the cusp of one of the greatest centuries in European and American history. America would free herself from Britain. Napoleon would be born in Corsica. The French would devour themselves in a revolution whose horrible legacy would leave a stain for a hundred years to come. Slaves would revolt in Haiti. Mozart would live briefly. His music would prove eternal. Washington, Franklin, Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe would walk the earth as would Sheridan, Goldsmith, Congreve, and Gibbon. Choderlos de Laclos would scandalize all of Europe with Les Liaisons Dangereuses. Science would yield results so amazing that life would change beyond recognition. Three cheers for Isaac Newton!
She thought of those things, but what was closer to her heart was the knowledge that the foundation of equine grandeur was being laid on both sides of the Atlantic. The efforts of men and women in the colonies would produce Herod, Eclipse, and Matchem from which would eventually spring Man O’ War, Citation, Whirlaway, Count Fleet, Sea Biscuit, and later Nashua, Swaps, Native Dancer, Northern Dancer, Alydar, Affirmed, Mr. Prospector, Secretariat, and so many other names that crowded into her head. There was Kalarama Rex for Saddlebreds along with Rex Peavine, King’s Genius, Black Squirrel, Stonewall King, the perfection of Wing Commander, MyMy, Daydream, Skywatch, Imperator, Man on the Town, Harlem Globetrotter, will Shriver, Belissima, and Valley View Supreme. The Standardbred trotters would go from Hambletonian to Greyhound to Dan Patch to Bret Hanover.
She studied the faces in the flickering firelight and knew they would play their part,
Maybe there is no pattern to history, she thought. Maybe we make it up to suit ourselves. Maybe we can’t stand the fact that some of us are born into good times and some of us into bad and it’s all chance. Some of us are gifted and some of us are dumb as a sack of hammers. But we each have a chance to do something.
Maybe I needed to come back to realize that. I must live every moment. It’s my choice. Maybe someday, three hundred years later, someone will look back and find my name on a tombstone or in a family record and say, “She played her part, now I better play mine”—and so I will.
As she chatted and laughed she wanted to memorize each feature, each nuance of voice. She loved these people.
34
A slashing wind loaded with sleet stung Cig’s face as she rode back from Jamestown toward Buckingham.
Fitz needed to get back to work. He was healing quickly and except for his stitches itching, he was strong enough to ride.
She’d grown close to him during the four days he had spent at Buckingham over Christmas. She loved the simple, warm way Christmas was celebrated—a useful gift, food, and much affection. If Fitz had been allowed, they would have traveled to Jamestown for communion. Apart from missing the sacrament, she thought it was the most wonderful holiday she’d ever spent because it was about cherishing one another.
She and Fitz talked incessantly of bloodlines. She knew the names of Cream Cheeks and a few other royal mares of Charles I. The Byerly Turk was in England but the Darley Arabian and the Goldolphin Barb were yet to come, so she didn’t mention them, which, for her, was like not completing the trinity in prayer.
Charles had supported the great Tutbury Stud. After the king’s beheading in 1649, Cromwell disbanded it. Fitz’s knowledge of English bloodlines encompassed that history plus Irish bloodlines.
When not talking horses, they chattered about anything that came into their heads. She felt as if she’d known him all her life.
She even showed him the list she’d written for Margaret and Tom with groundnuts as the number one crop. He said the worst that could happen was that one would have a lot of fodder.
Fitz, at twenty-five, was mature. Most men of that age in 1699 were accustomed to responsibility, many to hardship.
Riding back she discovered she missed him already and couldn’t wait to see him again.
She had hoped to push on faster but the swirl of sleet slowed her down. She was at last getting close to home and glad of it. The sandy roads were frozen. Full Throttle picked his way around the little ridges. Still, it was better than the frozen red clay of the Piedmont region.
She dreamed of toasty toes. She couldn’t feel her toes anymore. Her fingers stiffly curled around the reins. She’d given Fitz her heavy scarf knitted by Margaret. He gave her his white tie, the forerunner of a stock tie. It was lovely silk but her neck was getting cold.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement in the trees. Full Throttle snorted. She lifted her head and flinched at the sleet lashing her face. She blinked through the gauze of bad weather. She did see something. She strained to hear a sound but the only noise was the rattle-tap of tiny ice bits hitting the ground.
She headed toward the movement and then something, instinct, pulled her up short. She could barely make out the forms but she could now see perhaps five or six men, running hard—Indians.
She squeezed Throttle and flat-out galloped, slipping and sliding as they ran toward Buckingham, not more than a mile up the road.
Throttle, in good shape, covered the treacherous ground in six minutes. No one was at the barn when she pounded up.
“Tom!” But the wind jammed the words back in her throat.
She trotted to the house and hollered. Margaret, scrubbing floors, opened the door. Marie, brush still in hand, came up behind Margaret. “Pryor, what is it?”
“Indians running in the woods about a mile from here. Heading this way. I couldn’t make out much more than that. Where’s Tom?”
“He’s on the bee acres.”
They’d taken to calling the clover fields in the back “the bee acres” ever since Cig had won the bet.
“Load the guns and stay here. Give me the pistols.” Margaret grabbed the two flintlock pistols off the sideboard. She tossed the gunpowder
bag to Cig who stuffed it in her pocket, sticking the guns in her belt. She turned, shouting over her shoulder, “Don’t let anyone in this house until you know who it is.”
“I’m going with you.”
“The hell you are, Margaret. You stay right here or I’ll beat your ass.”
Cig galloped, the sleet thicker now, her throat raw with the effort. She reached the top of the small rise behind the barn. In the distance Tom, Bobby, and Hugh, a young man of perhaps fifteen working as a journeyman, sawed trunks and branches in the acres he’d been clearing for the last year.
“Tom!”
The men couldn’t hear her until she was closer. Tom dropped his saw and ran to meet her.
“Tom,” she gasped, “Indians! Running! Maybe five or six.”
“Where?”
“About a mile down the road.” She bent over in the saddle to catch her breath as Hugh grabbed the bridle to steady Throttle who was excited. She reached under her jacket and handed him a flintlock and the gunpowder bag. “I’m keeping the other one. They were in the woods. I couldn’t see any more than that but they were running hard and coming this way.” He loaded his pistol and passed the gunpowder back to Cig, who did the same.
“Where’s Margaret?”
“In the house. I told her to load the muskets, stay put, and not let anyone in until she knew who it was.”
“If they were in the woods they were trying to keep out of sight.” Tom’s brows knitted together. “Running hard.” He squinted at the sky and tiny ice bits stuck to his eyelashes. “Damn, it’s good cover.”
“They running from something or to something?” Bobby gruffly asked.
“Hugh, take Throttle to the barn, then go to Margaret,” Tom ordered the boy. “Keep the axe close by.”
“I want to go with you.”
“No. I want a man in the house. Just in case.”
Being called a man thrilled Hugh. He promptly headed back to the barn after Cig dismounted.
Riding Shotgun Page 24
