Devil Water (67 page)

Peter Fontaine left for Williamsburg on the Tuesday morning after having consulted his friend, Francis Hardyman, the sheriff of Charles City County. Consequently, he was armed with the correct papers, including Jenny’s plea for pardon and then manumission of her property -- one Robert Wilson. She had sealed the petition with her Radcliffe ring, which gave her a painful sensation. She could not help remembering the beseeching words her father had spoken when he asked her to wear the ring. During those days of yet more uncertainty and waiting she scarcely saw Rob.

True, he had moved to Westover, to a room in the overseer’s house, and the collar had been removed. Yet there was a constraint between them. She knew that Westover’s ineffectual overseer had sniggered and made lewd jokes much like Harrison’s about Rob’s ownership by a fine London miss. And too, Rob spent all his waking hours finishing Berkeley manor house. He labored in the carpentry shop by candlelight or by day on scaffolding, fitting up the last of the cornices under the roof. Corby, who no longer had rights over him, ignored him but found many ways to heckle and even punish Rob’s co-worker, Nero -- until a trivial incident when Corby, for no special reason except a need to show mastery, tweaked one of the bone ornaments from Nero’s ear. The overseer surprised a look of such malignant hatred in the huge Negro’s yellowish eyes that he felt a chill run down his back. Thereafter he avoided both men.

On Thursday at dusk Rob was still at Berkeley when Peter Fontaine rode up to Westover. Jenny, who was constantly on watch, saw him first and ran to open the north front door. Then she stood mute on the step, afraid to ask, while the minister dismounted. She saw his tall lank figure silhouetted against Westover’s beautiful wrought-iron gates, with their entwined
WB
ciphers picked out in gold. There were stone eagles too, poised on the gateposts. Jenny stared at the eagles. Eagles were strong free birds, but these were not. They were forever frozen here, enslaved. An omen -- a horrible omen! The minister did not greet her. He seemed to look disconsolate. He’s not got the pardon, I know he hasn’t, Jenny thought. The Governor wouldn’t grant it -- or perhaps is dead.

The minister had not seen her huddled near the door in her dark dress. He came up the steps and bumped against her, uttering an exclamation and apology.

“You needn’t tell me,” she said in a harsh high voice, so unlike her own that he was alarmed. “You haven’t got the pardon.”

“But I have, my poor child,” he said gently. “I
have
got the pardon, right here in my pocket.”

“You mean Rob is free?” she asked in the same queer voice.

“Robert Wilson is a free man, as of eight o’clock this morning.”

Jenny made a little mewing noise, she pushed her hands feebly out in front of her, and fainted on the doorstep.

When Jenny opened her eyes again, she was lying on the sofa in the parlor and Rob was kissing her, whispering “Jenny, Jenny” over and over in a frightened imploring way. Mrs. Byrd and Evelyn were hovering beside her with sal volatile. Mina had crowded in between and was staring pop-eyed at the spectacle of Miss Jenny being kissed by a big, strange, dark man in the canvas pants and loose shirt that the slaves wore. The minister was there too, his long face twisted in concern.

Jenny sighed and rested her cheek against Rob’s. He smelled of earth and sweat and new-sawn wood. She nestled against him. “I’m all right,” she said. “Oh, Robbie, are you indeed free?”

“I am, hinny,” he said in a choked voice. “But you needna take it so hard, you’ve scared the wits out of me!” He gave a shaky laugh, while the minister blew his nose violently. Mrs. Byrd and Evelyn both drew back from the sofa, their eyes misting.

“Can ye sit up, lass?” Rob asked in the rough-tender voice she had loved since she was five. “A couple must be dignified in front o’ the minister that’s to marry them!”

Jenny sat up, leaning against Rob’s arm, pushing back her disordered hair. “ ‘Tis true,” she said. “We must be dignified.”

“Shall we wed tonight, Jenny?” asked Rob eagerly. “I believe Mr. Fontaine will waive the banns, and now I’ve the twenty shillings to pay for special license.” He added this very proudly.

“Certainly I’ll waive the banns,” said the minister, “but we can’t get the license, the clerk’s office is closed, and tomorrow -- ”

“Tomorrow is Friday,” cut in Jenny. ‘‘Oh, Robbie. You know how it was always thought at home to be terribly bad luck to wed on a Friday! Saturday morning we’ll be wed, and in church, I beg you --” she cried turning to the minister, and then to Evelyn. “May we be married in Westover church?”

They both nodded. The minister was pleased because it was seldom that the Virginians used church for a wedding, and Evelyn was startled because she had not expected religious formality from Jenny. Then she remembered what the girl had once said about her own parents’ hole-in-corner marriage in the depths of Northumberland, a marriage that was a failure from the start, and she understood that Jenny wished hers to be in all things different.

As for Rob, he said, “We’ll be married on the moon, or in the middle of the James, if you wish it, hinny. I’ll abide by what you say,
until
we’re wed!” And he gave the rare transforming chuckle which had startled and charmed the few who had ever heard it -- as it did now.

William Byrd returned the next day from Williamsburg, and his anger when he discovered the outrageous goings-on in his absence was very much what Evelyn had expected. She kept Jenny out of the way, and protected the bewildered and innocent Maria Byrd from her husband’s wrath. Then as the storm abated a little, she meekly obeyed Byrd’s stern summons to the library. In this small detached building which housed his precious books, where he kept his diary and other writings and where he felt most at home, Byrd turned on his daughter and said, “Sit down!”

Evelyn sat. Her father took the chair behind his desk, and in a voice he strove to keep calm, he said, “I begin to understand that
you
are behind this extraordinary, this monstrous huggermuggery!”

“In a way, Father,” said Evelyn mildly. “I’ve helped all I can.”

“I think you must be mad! It appalls me to find that you’ve been a party to this buying of runaway slaves, this freeing of convicted murderers, and even arranging marriage in
my
church for that poor deluded little fool of a Jenny -- I think you’re all mad! Fontaine too, I can’t conceive of how you dragged
him
into it!”

“I didn’t, Father. At least he saw the rights of the matter -- the justice, more clearly than you do.” She added with quiet precision, “And so did Governor Drysdale.”

Byrd frowned and bit his lips. “The old man’s so ill he didn’t know what he was doing!”

“Oh yes, he did, Father! Mr. Fontaine talked with him for quite a while. They went over all the aspects of the case. The Governor said he was grateful for a chance to do some good in this world before he left it, and that he signed the pardon without hesitation.”

Byrd gave an exasperated grunt. “Well, they can’t be married in my church, it’s -- it’s iniquitous. The girl, for all her idiocies, has noble blood, even royal blood. And such a shameful misalliance is degrading to everyone concerned.”

“It’s not your church, Father,” said Evelyn still mildly. “It’s the parish church, if anything it’s Mr. Fontaine’s. And I should think you’d be pleased to give happiness, as the Governor was. Besides it would make
me
happy to have this wedding at Westover.”

“That’s just it!” Byrd cried. “What possible interest have
you
in this imbroglio? Evelyn, I never understand you. You say you’re fond of the girl, yet you do all you can to help her leave you. And for this you clandestinely brave my disapproval, my extreme displeasure!”

Evelyn tilted her head, her dark unfathomable eyes looked straight at her father. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is because there was once a time when I did
not
dare brave your disapproval, when I
could
not! A time when I cared very much whether I became to you ‘a creature detested’ or not.”

He started. “Who said
that?
Who used such words to you?”

“You did, Father. In a letter you wrote me on July twentieth of seventeen hundred and twenty-three.”

Byrd recoiled. He moved his hand aimlessly back and forth on the desk. For an instant he saw Evelyn clear, and he saw himself too. “Evie, my dear child,” he whispered. “You know I love you. I acted for the best. And so it was. The -- man proved worthless, you admitted it yourself.”

“He would not have been, if you had given me even the two thousand pounds you’d promised from my share of my mother’s estate!”

“You can have it any time -- for marriage to the
right
husband!” Byrd cried rashly. He no longer had any such sum about him; fashionable London life, and gambling debts, had melted it away. But he was much upset, and he yearned to remove this scornful look from the beautiful accusing face.

“My dear father,” Evelyn said with frigid patience, “there is only
one
right husband for me. And only one for Jenny. Some women are like that -- not many, I admit. But that’s another reason I’ve helped her.”

“I -- I see,” he said almost humbly. And he did see momentarily into the depths of his daughter’s passionate, thwarted, and adamantine character. He understood at last that she had suffered greatly. And he was sorry for the vindictive role he had played three years ago, aware for a painful instant that his hatred of Sir Wilfred as a son-in-law had sprung not from the profligacy he had so eloquently insisted on to Evelyn, but from bruised pride at the young man’s negligent mockeries of himself.

He could not tell her he was sorry, nor was he, for more than an instant. Yet he loved her, and that flash of insight made his voice hesitant and tender as he said, “Well, my dear -- what’s done is done. And no matter what you say I don’t believe that you will become an antique virgin! As for Jenny Radcliffe, arrange her marriage as you like, but,” he added more sternly, “I will not have that ill-matched couple living here!”

“There’s no question of it, Father,” said Evelyn sighing. She had exposed to him more of her inner feelings than she meant to, and regretted the weakness which had made her allude to the beloved man who was the cause of the rift between herself and her father. A rift which she perceived he would now again forget. “Rob and Jenny are going to the western part of Virginia,” she said dully. “During his escape, Rob found some land where he wishes to settle.”

“Indeed,” Byrd said, pleased that she seemed submissive, and relieved at the introduction of a neutral topic. “I’m glad of that! Virginia needs settlers on the frontier. Where is the place?”

“It hasn’t any name. I gather it’s near a river, over a hundred miles west of here. There’s some hills, and then beyond you can see blue mountains.”

“The Blue Ridge!” said Byrd with interest. “That knave Spotswood crossed those mountains ten years ago, on his ‘Golden Horseshoe’ junket. I was in London of course, but I heard that all they did was carouse, and bury a wine bottle somewhere with King George’s name in it -- hardly an impressive claim to the lands!”

“Can Rob Wilson settle where he wants to out there?” she asked.

Byrd nodded, anxious now to be agreeable. “If he goes into the wilderness, he can choose a thousand acres where he likes and take his time about surveying, then travel to Williamsburg for a grant, which won’t cost him anything, since I’m on the Council. We
must
settle the West, it’s our best protection here against the French and Indians. I want to have a talk with Wilson, see what sort of spot he has in mind.”

Evelyn gave a sad, secret smile. So the rage and unhappy allusions of the last hour were all forgotten now, effaced by her father’s relief at getting rid of Jenny and Rob, and by his enthusiasm for a pet hobby -- the development of western lands. This result was a fortunate one for Jenny. What about
me?
Evelyn thought, realizing how cruelly she would miss the girl, and how dreary life at West-over would be. Yet Evelyn would not harbor such weak sentiments as self-pity and loneliness, and she attacked herself with irony. As for me, she thought, I can reread Dr. Swift and Mr. Pope, who will help me enjoy the foibles of those around me. She arose and said, “If you’ll excuse me, Father, I’ll go consult Mother Byrd about arrangements for the wedding.”

Jenny and Rob were married in Westover church at noon the following day. There was quite a gathering for the ceremony. Byrd, who enjoyed dispensing hospitality and had been agreeably surprised by his interview with Rob, sent an invitation to the Harrisons. Ben and Anne accepted at once. Mrs. Harrison curtly refused, then thought better of it. There was really no point in sitting home alone, when there was any diversion in the neighborhood.

Accordingly, the Harrisons came in their best clothes. Ben had even donned a white bag-wig for the occasion. The Byrd family sat in the other front pew across the aisle. Maria Byrd’s eyes were full of sentimental tears. Wilhelmina, stiff in her London party dress and very much awed, was squeezed in beside her father, who had amiably offered to give the bride away -- and very glad he was to do it.

During the night it had occurred to Byrd that all Evelyn’s peculiarities might be attributable to Jenny’s influence, and that with the girl’s departure his daughter would immediately forget her silly notions, and become meek, gentle, and obedient to his every wish. This comforting theory had produced in Byrd a mood of indulgence and gaiety. He had given all the field hands a holiday, and permitted the house-servants to view the wedding from the gallery in the church, where they were now shuffling and whispering excitedly. He even permitted his delinquent overseer to sit in the last pew, though Fell was under notice of dismissal.

Mr. Fontaine began in his mellow voice, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here . . .” and they all stood up.

It must be admitted, Byrd thought, that the pair at the altar rail made a striking couple. The girl wore a white muslin dress of Evelyn’s, her corn-colored hair flowed over it loose to her waist; a wreath of magnolia blossoms and syringa on her head, her cheeks like the magnolias tinged with pink, her gray eyes wide and brilliant. She seemed far too ornamental a creature for the life she was about to lead -- but no matter, she was going to. And Wilson, for all his awkward bulk and his shock of unruly black hair tied in a queue, looked very nearly a gentleman. Not quite, of course, The only suit to be found at Westover which came near fitting him was a brown velveteen which had belonged to the overseer. It was too short, and strained to bursting across the back, yet it had silver buttons and a striped satin waistcoat which Byrd was certain Fell had stolen from a wardrobe during his master’s absence.