True Heart (4 page)

Merriweather waved to the gardener, who conversed with the cook near the parsnip patch. “Sinful practice, taking a slave girl into his bed.”

If adultery was the greatest of Moreland's sins, naming his illegitimate offspring after the kings and queens of England was the lesser of his cruelties. His own children were slaves. God curse him for selling them with the land.

Virginia echoed a familiar sentiment. “Things are better now. Mr. Parker-Jones doesn't take slaves to his bed.”

“Neither is his wife jealous of you.”

That topic was too distressing. “Do you know what the mistress wants with me?”

“Could be the matter of that cask again. Captain Brown was here this morning.”

Regrets again plagued Virginia. She'd be free in three years, and she'd risked it all and maybe more on the vague hope that Cameron or someone in her family would recognize the symbol on one cask among a shipment of hundreds.

Cameron. Sadness dragged at her, but gone was the longing and the despair. She'd overcome those feelings ages ago. With the passage of time, events blurred, faces faded, and she often distrusted her memory of the life and people she'd left behind in Scotland. Surely they'd buried her memory long ago, at least that's what she told herself when melancholy came upon her.

“I put the newspaper in the springhouse for you.”

Merriweather's kindness reached out to Virginia. Bond servants had few rights and fewer entitlements. For years he'd secretly passed the newspaper on to her. Had he not, she knew she would have lost the ability to read. Through those papers, she'd come to know Horace Redding. In him, she'd found someone to admire, and that was important to her. Admiration for her fellow man was another practice of people who were free. She'd vowed not to lose the traits, both good and bad, that she'd been taught as a child.

“Thank you, Merriweather.”

He smiled, and she knew what he'd say next, so she said it for him, mockingly. “If anyone sees you reading the newspaper, the trouble is on your back.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, he slowed the pace. “North Carolina's to become a state.”

Virginia fought the urge to skip down the path. “It's not in the paper, else you wouldn't have said it. Who told you?”

“Captain Brown.”

Except for salt, some tools, and fineries for the home house, Poplar Knoll was self-sufficient. News from the outside world had always had a soothing effect on Virginia. Without it, she would have gone mad or thrown herself in the river. “That will make twelve states in the Union. Tell me more.”

“I'll tell you this, Duchess. You would have made a fine newsreader yourself if—”

“If I had been a man.” She chuckled. “By my oath, Merriweather, had I been born my father's son, I would not be here.”

His mouth pinched with mirth. “No, you'd be in the House of Lords, your grace.”

Virginia laughed outright. She felt no animosity at the fate that had brought her here.

“The wheelwright gave me a message for you.”

Virginia couldn't hide a blush. “What did he say?”

“Only that he'd be back in a fortnight and hoped to see you again. What have you done with him, Duchess?”

“I said hello, shared a ladle of water with him, and showed him the way to the smithy.” She'd been helping the head gardener prune the roses. The wheelwright had flirted shamelessly with her.

“I thought as much—or as little, that being the case.”

“Did he tell a different tale?”

“No, but when next he visits, he'll have courting on his mind.”

Courting. Romantic rituals in tidewater Virginia bore no resemblance to the social customs Virginia had grown up with. Prior to the Parker-Joneses purchase of Poplar Knoll, Virginia would not have been allowed to speak to a visitor, let alone share common niceties.

“What will you do?”

She chuckled. “I shall try to keep my wits if and when Mr. Jensen returns.”

She was still smiling when Merriweather ushered her into the back parlor. Mrs. Parker-Jones was reading a book.

Virginia guessed her age at past fifty. Her hair had once been black, and although she did not pamper herself, she took pride in her appearance. From Merriweather, Virginia had learned that wealth had come hard and late to them. A childless couple, she and Mr. Parker-Jones would often be seen taking refreshments in the formal gardens in the evening. They smiled often in each other's company. At planting last year, the mistress had driven a cart herself and brought cider to everyone in the fields. It was the first such kindness anyone at Poplar Knoll could remember.

Virginia thought it sad that pox scars marred Mrs. Parker-Jones's complexion, for she seemed an unblemished soul.

Closing the book, she waved the butler away. “Shut the door on your way out if you please, Merriweather.”

Although she'd never been in this room, Virginia refused to gape at the fine furnishings. She'd seen better at Rosshaven. The mistress's dress was another matter. Virginia had forgotten what it was like to wear a fabric as soft as velvet against her skin. Book muslin was good enough for servants and slaves.

Mrs. Parker-Jones had something on her mind, and from the way she toyed with the bindings of the book and stared into the cold hearth, the subject troubled her.

“Take a seat and tell me about yourself.” She indicated the facing chair. “Where are you from, and how did you come into servitude?”

Caution settled over Virginia, and she stayed where she was. She knew a bond servant's place. Getting too close to those in the home house had been disastrous for her. Her skin crawled at the thought of the last mistress and the degradation she'd heaped on Virginia. “Three years remain on my indenture, ma'am. I want no trouble.”

She sighed, her lips pinched in distress. “You have not been mistreated since our arrival here. I want the truth. Are you Virginia MacKenzie?”

Something in the tone of her voice alarmed Virginia. She gripped the back of the chair. “Why do you ask?”

“I'm curious. Where are you from?”

Virginia knew she should tell the tale that everyone believed: the lie Moreland had told. She did not; she could not lie to Mrs. Parker-Jones. “I am from the Highlands of Scotland.”

“How did you come to be here?”

“When I was ten years old, I trusted a ship's captain named Anthony MacGowan. May he rot in hell.” Virginia would go to her grave with a curse on her lips for that swine.

“Won't you please sit down?”

“Thank you, no.”

As if holding on to a weak belief, she stubbornly said, “Mr. Moreland swore your father sold you into bondage. We paid him for your indenture.”

“Mr. Moreland and I saw it differently.”

“You ran away from Poplar Knoll once. They found you on a raft in the river.”

She'd tied fallen limbs together with vines. She'd been so brave then, so desperate to get back home. “Yes, and I paid the price.”

The mistress grew sad. “Again I apologize for what Mrs. Moreland did to you.”

“Thank you, but it wasn't your fault. You needn't mention it again.” At least Virginia hoped she'd drop the disgusting matter.

Mrs. Parker-Jones strummed her fingernails on the book. “Are you the daughter of the duke of Ross?”

Not in years had Virginia spoken of her other life, and every time she had told the truth, she'd regretted it. Mistrust came easy. “Why do you ask?”

“Please tell me the truth. I swear it will not be used against you.”

Virginia had received more humiliating treatment for reasons other than her birthright. For no reason at all, save her sex and the color of her skin, she'd been forced to endure humiliations that still chilled her to the bone when she thought of them.

“Is the
sixth
duke of Ross your father?”

How could Mrs. Parker-Jones know the specifics of Papa's title? Unless this interview was not a trick.

Virginia swallowed back apprehension. “With all due respect, Mrs. Parker-Jones, may I know why you are asking?”

“Do you know a sea captain named Cameron Cunningham?”

Cameron.

Images of her youth swam before Virginia. Then she saw nothing at all.

*  *  *

“Virginia!”

Through a curtain of confusing thoughts, Virginia heard her name. No, not her bondage name. She must be dreaming of her childhood, of Papa tossing her atop the haywagon, of Agnes showing her how to spit straight, of Lottie teaching her to pee standing up without soiling herself or her clothing, of Cameron taking her to the Harvest Fair and buying her sweetcakes—

“Duchess!”

Acrid smoke from a burned feather seared her nose. Batting the air, she turned away.

“Duchess.”

Merriweather's voice. Poplar Knoll. Servitude. Virginia opened her eyes. Two chandeliers wavered overhead. When the images converged, she felt a hand on her arm. She drew back, longing to return to the dream.

“You fainted . . . Virginia?”

Virginia. Her given name spoken by the mistress of a tidewater plantation. Curiosity pulled her fully from the swoon.

Mrs. Parker-Jones knelt beside her. “Have you hurt yourself?”

“No,” Virginia was quick to say. She felt hemmed in, befuddled.

“Then you know this Cameron Cunningham?”

“Aye.” Hope thrummed to life inside her, and she prayed that she didn't embarrass herself. “He was always Cam to me.”

“Sweet Jesus. Merriweather, fetch the brandy.” Mrs. Parker-Jones held out her hand. “We both need fortification, don't you agree?”

Ignoring the offered hand, Virginia pulled herself up and sat in the chair. The spring cushion felt odd, and the smooth wood of the chair arms were cold against her skin. Her mind whirled like a top. Cameron. Cam. The boy she'd pledged to marry. The man who'd sailed to France without her. After all these years, Cameron had—had what? “Cam saw the cask.”

“Yes. He recognized that design of yours.”

The unthinkable had come to pass.

She couldn't form questions fast enough. “Where? Where did he see them? Is he here?”

“He saw them in Glasgow.”

A world away.

“Moreland's account says you were a thief, and your father despaired of turning you from a life of crime. At your sire's bidding, Moreland paid your fine.” She frowned. “Which happened to be the price of a ten-year indenture before the war.”

Virginia couldn't stop thinking about Cam. Absently, she recited an old truth. “Moreland lied. He bought me from a hellish man, Captain MacGowan.”

“You must have been terribly frightened.”

By the time Virginia had been herded off the ship in America, she'd been beyond fear. But the horrors of that voyage paled beside what had come later. “May we talk of something else?”

“Certainly, Virginia. Do you know the name of Cameron Cunningham's ship?”

She'd never forget it. “The
Highland Dream.”

“No. It's named the
Maiden Virginia
now.”

An old memory stirred. She and Cameron stargazing on the roof of the stables at Rosshaven Castle. He'd promised to name his ship after her. He'd vowed to take her around the world. She looked at her hands, stained and workworn and devoid of the lovely ring he'd given her.

But she'd worked hard to forget the past, to dodge the heartache. The pain returned and, with it, the most important question. “Will he come for me?”

Looking like the one with a great secret, she said, “Captain Brown says yes. He sailed from Glasgow before your Captain Cunningham and arrived yesterday. He came to visit this morning.”

“What did he say about Cameron?”

“He believes that with fair winds, the
Maiden Virginia
could dock in Norfolk today or tomorrow.”

Relief robbed Virginia of breath. Her plan had worked. Cameron had seen the cask and remembered the symbol. Cameron hadn't forgotten her. “On his way here.”

“Yes.”

“What did Cameron say to Captain Brown? Tell me every word.”

“Their conversation was brief and very confusing to me.”

“Tell me every word just as it was spoken.”

“Cameron Cunningham was curious about the design on the cask. Captain Brown explained to Captain Cunningham where the cargo came from and gave him our location. The next day, from a member of Cunningham's crew, Captain Brown learned that Cameron visited the daughter of the sixth duke of Ross, who lives in Glasgow. Someone they knew had drawn a similar symbol as the one you put on that cask. They are looking for that person. Brown also found out that they planned to sail for Norfolk as soon as possible.”

They were sailing here, right now, to fetch Virginia. But who was “they”? Who was coming with Cameron? Tears pooled in her eyes and her heart soared. “I first drew the design years ago.”

“What will you do now?”

Deciding for herself on anything but the most elementary actions was as unnatural to Virginia as sleeping on a soft bed. One thing was certain: She'd throw her arms around Cameron Cunningham and cry her heart out. Mrs. Parker-Jones needn't know that. “I'm not sure what to do. When you said ‘they' were sailing, whom did you mean?”

“I don't know.”

Merriweather returned with a silver tray. He poured two glasses of brandy. Mrs. Parker-Jones took them both and handed one to Virginia.

Had she ever tasted brandy? She couldn't remember, and strong spirits weren't poured at table in the servants' hamlet. Unsure of the proper way to drink the brandy, she waited and watched. When Mrs. Parker-Jones took only a sip, Virginia did the same. The liquor burned a path to her stomach, and she almost choked.

“Drink it gently.” Clutching her own glass in both hands, Mrs. Parker-Jones took another sip. “I wish you had told me who you were.”