Beloved Enemy (65 page)

The
Harringtons were obviously most prosperous, Ginny decided, looking at the
hustle and bustle of the shipyard where the husks of boats rested on cradles,
swarmed over by an army of carpenters. Shipbuilding would be a most useful
business in this water-based community, almost as profitable as tobacco. As
they tied up at the landing stage, ready hands helping them ashore, a loud
whoop of glee came from above. Ginny looked up to see a veritable tribe of
children come hurtling down the slope from the house. Behind them, at a more
stately pace, came a woman whose gown of crisp starched muslin shining from
application of the chintz glazer made Ginny feel wrinkled and travel-soiled, as
indeed she was.

"Cousins,
I bid you welcome," the woman said, a smile wreathing a plump and
benevolent countenance.

Ginny
took the outstretched hand, laughing as the horde of children swarmed around
her skirts, babbling questions without giving her time to answer them.
"Mistress Harrington, we stand in your debt," she said simply,
looking around for Giles who seemed backward in making his own greeting. The
reason became obvious, since he was busily engaged in castigating one of the
canoe paddlers for allowing water to splash on a roll of silk, brought as a
gift for his cousins.

"Husband,"
Ginny prompted quietly. "See, here is your cousin come to welcome
us."

Giles
turned instantly at that, his face still twisted with annoyance, but he managed
to be gracious enough in responding to the welcome.

"My
husband is most sorry that he was unable to be here to greet you himself"
Susannah Harrington said, "but the planting in the meadow field could not
be delayed. He will be back for dinner." Shooing the children in front of
her, she led the way back up the hill to the house. "I hope you found the
inn not too uncomfortable, Cousin?"

"Not
at all," Ginny replied, "but it was monstrous crowded—four to a
bed!"

"
Tis always the way, when the ships come in," her hostess said. "Our
own accommodations are somewhat limited . . ." Smiling, she indicated the
brood of children, who seemed disinclined to leave the interesting company of
the new arrivals, "but we have prepared a small chamber over the kitchen
for you. I trust you will be comfortable there for the time being. My husband
will explain further plans later."

"You
are too kind, mistress," Ginny murmured, her heart sinking.

"Oh,
pray let us not stand on formality. I am called Susannah, and you bear the name
of our Colony, I understand."

"I
am generally known as Ginny," Ginny replied, returning the smile. Except
by Alexander Marshall when he is vexed, she thought irrelevantly. Such
devastating irrelevancies had become less frequent since they had left
Southampton, but their power had not diminished one iota, she discovered, as
the lump filled her throat and the bright day dimmed.

"My
dear, are you unwell?" Susannah laid a hand on her arm anxiously.

"No
... no, not at all, I am quite well," Ginny replied firmly. "I am
just a little overwhelmed, Susannah, at reaching journey's end after such a
time, and at finding such warm and gracious hospitality."

Chapter
25

"There
now, my pretties, enjoy that while you may, another week and you'll come to the
table in a most delectable fricassee." Nodding with satisfaction, Ginny
set down before a half-dozen exceedingly fat young chickens the size of
blackbirds a porringer of dried raisins pounded in a mortar and mixed with milk
and stale bread. Robert and Susannah Harrington were to dine with them the
following Wednesday, and these plump babies, at the
height of their fat,
fried in butter and served with a sauce of white wine and savory herbs were
destined to be the meal's crowning glory.

Closing
the coops, she went out of the fowl house into the crisp air of a late October
morn. The chicken house was set in a small plot where already her newly planted
herb garden flourished behind the small frame house that had been her home for
almost two months. The creek of Piper's Cut flowed alongside, providing the
Courtneys with access to the main thoroughfare of the James River.

"Virginia!"
The irascible bellow preceded the appearance of her husband in the kitchen
door, tucking his shirt into his britches, blinking at the morning light.

Ginny
sighed and came up the garden toward him. "Will and Rob have been gone
this last hour to clear the ground about seven-acre field, Giles. They await
you."

"Then
they may wait," he grunted. "Fetch me ale."

"You'll
at least take some breakfast with it," Ginny said, moving past him into
the kitchen. "Lizzy has prepared batter for griddlecakes. It will take me
but a moment to make some." Taking his grunt for assent, she stirred up
the barter in the bowl, setting the skillet to heat over the range. It would not
really matter whether or not Giles went to help the laborers clearing his land.
He was quite incapable of doing any work himself and would probably only hinder
them with an ineffectual but annoying supervision. If it weren't for the
efficiency of Tom Brigham and the kindness of the Harringtons, who had put at
their disposal this simple abode until the Courtneys could clear sufficient
land and build for themselves, they would still be lodged above the kitchen at
Harrington Hundred and their own acres would remain virgin woodland. As it was,
thanks to the labor lent to them by Robert Harrington, they could put in their
first crops of tobacco, corn, and wheat, and there was sufficient pasture along
the creek for the two milk cows and the goat.

Giles
appeared sublimely indifferent to these signs of their establishment in the New
World and refused to listen to Ginny's anxieties as to how long they could rely
on the assistance of his cousin and his cousin's labor. Soon, they must employ
their own men about the land. Lizzy, the daughter of the Harringtons'
nursemaid, provided Ginny with all the help she needed about the house in
exchange for a meagerly wage and her keep, but Giles seemed to consider one
house servant woefully inadequate to his consequence, and the contrast between
his situation and that of neighboring planters was frequently brought home to
him when they received hospitality from these welcoming families.

Ginny
set a plate of griddlecakes on the table in front of him, poured ale from the
pitcher by the door, and went upstairs to the single chamber it contained. She
had given up racking her brains as to how one persuaded a man who had never
been expected to work for his bread and his position that circumstances had
changed, and that if he wanted to achieve the degree of comfort and prosperity
of his neighbors he was going to have to stop relying on others and do
something for himself. When she had attempted to point out that the hand of
friendship would eventually be withdrawn, once their neighbors realized that
their offerings of assistance, intended as temporary measures to help the
newcomers settle in, were accepted as permanent fixtures, Giles had raged at
her in a terrible temper, heaping vilifications upon her head until she had
thought she could bear it no longer. Then, as usual, he had sought and found
solace in the whiskey bottle, and matters had continued as before.

Ginny
opened the chest they used as a linen press, drawing out some garments that
required mending. She touched the soft folds of the turquoise gown Alex had
bought her in London. Somehow, she could never bring herself to wear it,
however scanty her wardrobe. She looked with distaste at the bed, its frame
laced with ropes, the mattress stuffed with horsehair and rags. Before winter, she
was determined to replace the stuffing with feathers, although they would not
make her nights any the more restful. . . .

Another
bellow from below brought her to her feet, cutting off the inevitable
progression of her thoughts. She went down the rickety staircase to the main
room where Giles was struggling to pull on his boots. "Is my horse
saddled?" he demanded.

"There
is no one to saddle it," Ginny told him, collecting his dirty dishes and
dumping them into the wooden tub. "This is not Courtney Manor, husband,
and we have no stable lads."

"Tell
that lazy, good-for-nothing girl to do it." He went to the door and yelled
for Lizzy.

"She's
collecting honey at the hives," Ginny told him, waiting for him to tell
her to saddle Major herself. It was the next logical step, and she supposed, in
the interests of peace, that she would comply. It was certainly simpler in the
long run, although her spirit rebelled. But surprisingly, he didn't, merely
muttered a string of oaths and limped pointedly out of the house and round to
the lean-to that sheltered their riding horses.

Ginny
took a wooden pail down to the creek for water to clean the earthenware dishes.
She did not mind the hard work, welcomed it in fact, since it kept her
healthily occupied and she need not drink too much. Unpleasant though Giles
was, at least she had only him to contend with and was spared the spite of his
womenfolk, and at least she was mistress of her own house and not required to
play subservient daughter-in-law. It was hardly a great house, but it was not
uncomfortable, and it was furnished with their own things brought from England,
the decorated cherub head andirons, the pewter mugs and spoons, and the china
dinnerware brought out of the chest only for special occasions. And she still
had her simpling and physicking to keep her interest. It was a skill that had
won her many friends in the last two months, and one that she was relying upon
to keep those friends even though their disillusion with her husband might lead
them to withdraw their help and support.

No,
life could be, indeed had been, much worse. Even the pain of loss these days
had retreated to a dull ache, that only flared and throbbed late at night after
Giles, stupified with whiskey, had failed to exercise his marital rights, and
her fear that this time he might succeed was slow in receding.

This
Virginia legislature was an impressive body, Alex thought, shifting on the hard
wooden visitors' bench in the House of Burgesses in Jamestown. For the last two
days, they had been discussing the governor's right to levy taxes without
legislative authority, and it looked as if the governor of this royal Colony
was going to be left with dramatically curtailed powers. All of which was of
great interest to the Parliamentarian, who had fought so hard and so bitterly
for the curtailment of royal powers in the mother country, and it would
certainly be of interest to those at home, when he eventually returned.
Although, for all the good he was doing here, he might as well take ship in the
morning, he reflected dismally.

For
three weeks he had been cooling his heels in Jamestown, trying by casual
questions to elicit some information about Ginny. So far, he had discovered
that she was alive, and so was her husband. Now he did not know what to do.  He
could not allow even a shadow of suspicion to fall upon her, not when the
punishment for a woman accused of adultery was thirty lashes. If he surprised
her, heaven only knew how she would react, but how could he get an
uncompromising message to her? And why did he assume that she would be as
desperate to see him as he was to see her? She must surely have settled down in
her new life with her husband. The last thing she would want would be to stir
up the old troubles and longings. But having come this far, he could not simply
turn away again. He had hoped to find her free of her husband, that something
had happened to change things. Instead, she was still as securely married to
Giles Courtney as ever, and all Alex could do was pace the streets of Jamestown,
hoping that by some miracle he could catch a glimpse of her if she came to town
on household business. Although what he would do in such a case, he could not
begin to imagine.

"General
Marshall, what is your opinion of our homegrown troops? Nothing to touch the
New Model, I’ll be bound?" Burgess Robert Harrington came over to him as
the session broke up, walking with him out of the state-house, voice and
expression genial.

"They've
not had a war to fight, Harrington," Alex commented. "It's not easy
to be part-time soldier, when there are fields to plow and trades to
pursue."

"Aye,
right enough," Robert agreed as they walked to the inn. "And we'd
rather be fanners than soldiers. ‘Tis a matter for rejoicing that there's been
no need to take up arms in recent years. Nevertheless, there's been some
anxiety expressed among the burgesses about our lack of readiness, should
troubles come again. Peace makes us careless."