JoAnn Wendt (20 page)

“Your master?” whispered Flavia, dumbfounded. “But he has a wife.”

Elizabeth shrugged.

“Mrs. Gresham has been an invalid for years. She grows worse and worse, poor thing. She hasn’t left her bed in two months, and now she’s spitting blood. It won’t be long.”

Mary Wooster set the hay hissing as she moved closer.

“Your master won’t marry you, Betsy,” she whispered bitterly. “If a master wants you, he takes you.”

Elizabeth tossed her glossy black mane.

“Not if
he intends to keep all the equipage he was born with. Jimmy Barlow has made it known from one end of Kent County to the other, that if Mr. Gresham forces me, Jimmy will—”

A natural actress, Betsy paused for effect.

“—will cut off his—his balls,“ she finished.

Mary Wooster tittered, then grew wistful.

“I wish Jimmy Barlow liked
me.”

And me,
Flavia thought, then shook her head at her own ridiculousness.

As though one person, the three of them leaned forward and gazed out over the pit toward the Gresham box. The play was proceeding, but they ignored it. They studied Mr. Gresham. It was Elizabeth Simm who finally summed up their separate thoughts in one tart statement.

“He has,” she said, “big ears.”

Then she shrugged gaily. “Ah, well. So long as that’s not the
only
thing big on him, I shan’t be disappointed.”

With a giggle, she seized her shawl and began scrambling through the rustling aromatic hay, heading for the ladder.

“Don’t go!” Flavia whispered, suddenly realizing she’d not felt so lighthearted in months. Not since the days at Tewksbury when she’d sat on the nursery floor, playing with Robert and giggling at his antics.

Mary Wooster’s face fell, too. “Betsy, you’ll miss the comedy. Next comes
Flora; or a Hob in the Well.
Where are you going?”

“Where?” Betsy flicked back her glossy hair. She whispered, “I shall decide where when I reach the bottom of the ladder. Perhaps I shall flirt with the manager of the Hamilton-St. James Players and run away to become an actress. Perhaps I shall stay in Chestertown, marry Mr. Gresham and become a fine, rich lady. Then again,” she whispered with a mischievous giggle, “perhaps I shall run to the Rose and Crown and let Jimmy Barlow give me a rum toddy and a kiss.”

* * * *

On a chilly night in late September, Flavia sat near the kitchen fire, embroidering Mrs. Byng’s calamanco dancing pump while Mr. Byng read aloud to his wife. She dreaded the approach of winter. Winter would mean being shut in with the Byngs. Evenings would be too cold, too blustery for solitary walks or for sitting out upon the veranda. She would be forced to the warmth of the hearth.

Mr. Byng droned on in a monotone, reading from a new
Maryland Gazette,
which he’d bought at the royal customs house on the waterfront in Chestertown. His voice made Flavia nod with sleepiness. She forced her fingers on, drawing scarlet threads through the coarse, impenetrable fabric.

In the interest of economy, Mrs. Byng allowed only one fire in the evening, and that was in the kitchen. In this Mrs. Byng reaped a dividend. The kitchen fireplace backed up to the Byng bedchamber. An iron box protruded from the kitchen fireplace into the bedchamber, forming a crude sort of warming stove that took the icyness from the sleeping arrangements.

Stingy, Mrs. Byng burned few candles in winter. Instead, she used a cheap rush lamp. The lamp sat upon the kitchen table, flaring and sending up nasty feathers of black smoke whenever Mr. Byng breathed too hard as he sat reading by its light.

Mr. Byng droned on. Even Mrs. Byng began to nod as she sat rocking in her new chair. The chair was an extravagance for the Byngs, and Flavia had noticed that Mrs. Byng’s stingy little economies did not apply to her own comforts. Her latest purchase was proof of it. It was an expensive, all-wood Philadelphia chair, set upon rockers by a clever chairmaker in Annapolis. Never had there been such an unusual and wonderfully comfortable chair, and Mrs. Byng felt like a queen in owning the first of its kind in Chestertown. Everyone flocked to see it, and Mrs. Byng’s proudest hour arrived when Mrs. Tate herself rode over in a stylish landau to examine the chair.

“Now for the London society news, wife,” Mr. Byng droned on.

Flavia leaned forward. Often there was news of titled persons she’d known. Mr. Byng droned on, reading of sumptuous balls, of titled births, marriages, deaths.

“Her Grace, the duchess of Tewksbury—”

Flavia jerked. The sharp point of her needle jabbed into her finger. A drop of rich, red blood sprang up. She jerked the finger to her mouth and sat trembling . . .

“—died of the smallpox on the twenty-first day of September, in the year of our Lord, 1753. The earl of Dunwood set sail for Virginia on—”

Her ears roared. The slipper slid down her gown and fell to the floor with a light clunk. She could not get her breath. Fighting dizziness, she tried to find her feet, tried to leave. But her feet were numb stumps.

At last she managed to pull herself up. Panting, she stumbled to the door and went outside. A cold wind cut through her thin muslin work dress, but she scarcely noticed. She lurched out into the dark yard, groped her way to the low stone fence and fell against it.

Dead. . . dear heaven, everyone thought her dead. . . . She had assumed this, she had prepared herself for this; but now that the moment was here, she realized she’d made no preparation for it at all. Shock. Numbing, terrifying shock. . . her ears rang with her own death knell.

For the next few days, she went about her chores in a fog. Dazed and heartsick, she tried to come to terms with it.
Flavia Rochambeau is gone . . . gone . . . only Jane Brown lives . . . Jane . . .Jane . . .  and what will become of this Jane? Who is she? What does her future hold?

* * * *

Autumn deepened. The nights grew crisp and leaves began to fall. Flavia’s breath punctuated the chill night air and hovered there—a trail of icy steam in the lantern light—as she hurried to the barn to settle Neddy for sleep. The boy wouldn’t be allowed to sleep in the kitchen until December, and she worried about frostbite.

Pushing open the creaking barn door, she let herself in, hung her lantern on a hook and turned, smiling as Neddy’s cheerful shout greeted her. A single window spilled moonlight into the dark barn, and Neddy had been playing with his top in the patch of moonlight.

“Jane! Play—play.”

She went to Neddy and patted his smiling face. Peach fuzz had sprouted on his cheeks. Soon he would be a man physically, and life must grow even crueler for him.

“No more playing, Neddy. Bedtime. But first we must tidy up the barn. Come, get up. Help Jane pick up things.”

“No. Play!”

“Come, Neddy. Help Jane tidy up. If Mr. Byng finds shovels and terrapin lances all over the floor,
Mr. Byng will scold.”

The boy’s face darkened with fear.
He scrambled up and looked about him, bewildered by the array of tools to pick up, unable to formulate a plan to begin. Tears of frustration rose in his eyes.

By accident, Flavia had discovered the boy could learn and remember if she set tasks to music. Music seemed to soothe and settle him. She began to sing softly:

“First Neddy picks up the lances, the lances, the lances . . . ”

Neddy’s face brightened. He joined in the singing and dove to the task. Soon the barn was tidy, and Neddy climbed into the hayrack, snuggling into his nest of hay and tattered blankets.

“Jane,” he demanded, “find doll.”

Flavia searched for the doll for several minutes. Finally she found it in the sheep pen, half under an ewe. She had to kick at the ewe’s thick flank to get her to move. The smelly beast bleated, then lunged to its feet, turning and butting at Flavia.

The doll was a cornhusk one that Dennis Finny had made for Neddy. Flavia had completed it, painting wild berry stain on its face for eyes and lips. She’d made a tiny jacket for the doll. Neddy spent hours putting the jacket on and off.

She put the doll into Neddy’s demanding hands. He cuddled it under the covers and squeezed his eyes shut. He began to sing.

“Now Neddy go . . . sleep, sleep, sleep. Now go sleep . . . ”

Shivering, she was glad to extinguish the lantern light and step back into the warmth of the kitchen, even if it meant another tedious evening with the Byngs. Shedding her cloak and hanging it on a hook, she gathered up her workbasket and sank to a bench by the fire. She threaded her needle with scarlet wool twist and picked up
Mrs. Byng’s calamanco dancing pump.

On the other side of the kitchen, Mr. Byng sat in the sputtering light of the rush lamp, reading his Sabbath sermon to his wife. Mrs. Byng rocked in her Philadelphia chair, rubbing her face with a piece of cut lemon as she listened. The lemon was her nightly beauty preparation, supposedly to bleach and whiten her complexion for the Tates’ ball. It was not working, in Flavia’s opinion.  The woman was as ugly as ever. She punctured her husband’s droning with shrill outbursts.

“How true, Mr. Byng. You have hit the nail upon the head, husband. Lust is the cause of all sin and sin is the cause of all lust.

“I shouldn’t wonder that when your sermon reaches the ear of the bishop of London— you will be wanted there.

“La, husband, you shall be wanted at Kensington Palace. I shouldn’t take it amiss, sir, to be called to London—”

Kensington Court? London? Flavia couldn’t help but snicker. Her scornful snicker was only the slightest sound, but the Reverend Byng caught it and looked at her immediately. It was as though he’d been tuned to her every movement, her slightest utterance.

“You’ve an opinion of my sermon, Jane?”

A chill passed over her. It was frightening to be watched so closely. And the curious flame that burned up in Mr. Byng’s eyes. . .

“No, sir,” she whispered, quickly dipping her head to her needlework. Instantly she regretted lowering her head. The firelight would play in her red hair, warming it to copper. Often she’d been aware of Mr. Byng staring at her hair, the lids of his eyes hooded to mere slits.

“Jane has no opinion,” Mrs. Byng sputtered, rocking faster. “Jane is a bondslave. Bondslaves have no opinion at all.” She turned to Flavia. “Go to bed, Jane.”

Flavia rose to obey, but Mr. Byng lifted his hand.

“Jane shan’t retire until after prayers, my dear. No one is excluded from evening prayers. Excepting Neddy, of course. But Neddy is a fool, and I cannot abide praying over a fool.”

Flavia tensed as Mrs. Byng swallowed her annoyance and smiled sweetly at her husband.

“Nor can I, husband. You’ve no idea, husband, how vexed I am at the thought of Neddy sleeping in the house this winter.”

She threw Flavia a vengeful look.

“Perhaps, husband, Neddy could stay the winter in the barn?”

Flavia trembled for Neddy. Her hands stiffened and the calamanco pump thumped to the floor. Darting a scared look at Mrs. Byng, she snatched up the shoe, brushed it off and whirled to Mr. Byng.

“Please, sir? Neddy will freeze sleeping in the barn. It is too cold for the child.”

When Mr. Byng seemed to consider Flavia’s soft words, Mrs. Byng’s annoyance warmed to anger.

“Neddy is
not
a child. He is a half-wit, an animal. All animals have the knack of staying warm.”

Flavia lost her senses. “He is
not
an animal! He’s a little boy. Trapped in a man’s body.”

Instantly, she knew she’d been foolish to argue. Color rose in Mrs. Byng’s face. Clutching the shoe, Flavia backed away, fearing the woman would fly up out of her chair and smack her.

But Mrs. Byng attacked from a new and bewildering direction.

Smiling sweetly at her husband, she simpered, “I vow, sir. Should the wife of Maryland’s finest preacher endure a scolding from a mere bondslave?”

Mr. Byng puffed up in pride.

“Indeed not, my dear!” Flavia found herself the target of two sets of angry eyes.

“You will repent, Jane,” Mr. Byng ordered. “Come here, chit. Kneel. We shall begin evening prayers at once.”

Heart ticking fearfully, Flavia obeyed. Mrs. Byng came and knelt, too. A prim, pleased smile played over her tightly pursed lips. Mr. Byng knelt between them, placing one hand upon his wife’s bowed head and one upon Flavia. His touch made her cringe. His touch frightened her far more than did the odd looks he sent her way when he believed no one was watching him.

Pompously and in a pulpit voice, Mr. Byng began to pray aloud. Flavia tried not to listen, tried not to stiffen in growing anger when his prayer dealt with her.

“Lastly, Gracious Creator, there kneels before Thee the most contemptible of Thy creatures, Jane Brown. Thou hast put Jane into my care. Thou hast marked her with flaming hair that we might be warned of the lust that burns in her wicked heart. Cleanse and purify this miserable creature . . . ”

* * * *

The long-anticipated invitation to the Tate dancing assembly arrived, and from that moment on, talk in the Byng household and talk throughout Chestertown centered on the ball. It was to be the grandest Kent County had ever seen. Mr. Tate was sparing no expense. Guests would come from Annapolis, Baltimore, Philadelphia and even Williamsburg. Gossips reported that Mrs. Tate had ordered expensive guest “favors.” Each gentleman guest would receive a silver snuffbox to commemorate the ball; each lady, a tiny silver nutmeg grater.

To Flavia’s disgust, Mrs. Byng waxed ecstatic anticipating her silver nutmeg grater. She chattered that no woman of quality traveled about without one, and that at quality tables it was fashionable to take one’s silver grater and a nutmeg from one’s bag and genteelly season one’s food and drink. Indeed, she demanded of Flavia, hadn’t Mrs. Tate so seasoned her rum toddy the day she’d called at the Byngs to see the Philadelphia chair?

Rumor said Maryann Tate was the reason for the lavish ball. Gossips predicted Maryann’s betrothal would be announced. The same gossips insisted the silver favors would be engraved with the entwined initials of the happy couple. Privately, Dennis Finny confirmed both rumors to Flavia. Flavia took a small, bitter pleasure in withholding that news from Mrs. Byng.