Devil Water (73 page)

It’s been a long voyage, since I ran foul of the edge of a hurricane in September and was blown -- ”

“Yes, yes,” said Jenny. “What about Evelyn?”

“Why, Miss Evelyn seems to be ill. Mrs. Byrd is so much concerned she begged me to summon the Colonel -- and
you,
ma’am, at once. She says Miss Evelyn particularly asked for you.”

“How ill?” said Jenny.

“I didn’t see her again before I left, but Mrs. Byrd said she’d had a kind of swoon, and then spat up a cupful of blood.”

“Which signifies nothing!” said Byrd sharply. “‘Twill do her good like any blood-letting.”

Even Randolph could distinguish fear under this remark, and he shook his head. “I hope you’re right, sir.”

“Did you bring over any passenger from England?” asked Jenny, with a nervous glance at Byrd and speaking as casually as she could.

“Passenger?” repeated the Captain, his weather-beaten face puzzled. “Why, I had a few, but they’d all shipped for Norfolk, and I landed them there.”

“Any letters?” said Jenny, very low.

“A sackful of letters directed all up and down the James, and some for here which I’ll leave at the Raleigh to be distributed.”

“I mean letters for Evelyn.”

“There might’ve been,” said the Captain. “There was a packet for Mrs. Byrd and the Colonel -- my quartermaster sorted them.” He was puzzled by her questions, and dismayed to find that she had all her former attraction for him. He had been angry at the way she had treated him eleven years ago -- leading him on then leaving him flat for this great lunkheaded jail-bait, and he’d relieved his hurt by marrying an English girl, Miss Grosvenor of Bristol, on the very next voyage back. A good wife, and no body, face, or hair of the kind to upset a man and make him jealous.

As for Jenny, she hardly saw Randolph at all, except to note vaguely that a full set of china teeth made him look quite old, as did the deep crow’s-feet around his blue eyes. All her thoughts were of Evelyn, which Rob -- awkward as this delay might be -- quite understood. Nor was he ever a man to neglect the payment of a debt, and he knew how much he owed to Evelyn’s friendship.

“You’ll be leaving at once, sir?” he asked Byrd, who nodded.

“Yes. The coach must be at the door. Ned, will you deliver this to the Governor? It explains my absence at his supper tonight.”

It was four o’clock and drizzling, when Jenny and William Byrd arrived at Westover in Byrd’s coach. Rob had stayed to finish up his business and would follow in a day or two. During the long drive up the James the occupants of the coach found little to say. They chatted a while about the King’s Birthday Ball; Byrd asked a few questions pertaining to life in Goochland, then he pulled a volume of Tillotson’s sermons from the door pocket, put on a pair of spectacles, and began to read.

Only once did he break the silence. It was after the troublesome ferry passage across the Chickahominy, when Byrd said abruptly, “I
don’t
believe there’s cause for anxiety about Evelyn. You know how strong and brisk she’s always been. The instant I get home I’ll consult
Radcliffe’s Dispensatory.
Are you perchance any relation of Dr. John Radcliffe’s?”

“I think he was a cousin of my father’s,” said Jenny politely. “Was he a good doctor?”

“The best. I sent him a Negro boy once as a present, Juba. He gave the lad to the Duchess of Bolton -- Evie was two at the time. She used to play with Juba before he left here. It doesn’t seem like twenty-eight years.” Byrd picked up the book of sermons again, opened them with some violence, and began to read doggedly, while his hands trembled on the cover.

Maria Byrd received them at Westover’s doorway. Her lace cap was awry, her mild eyes peaked with worry. “Evelyn’s no worse,” she announced. “At least I don’t think so. Yet she won’t eat and she just lies on her bed with such a strange expression, as though she were listening for something. Mr. Fontaine’s with her, though she didn’t seem to want him.”

“I’ll go right up!” said Byrd. “Have you sent for a doctor? Not that there’s one of them worth a farthing in Virginia.”

“I sent Tom for Dr. Tschiffeley, but he hasn’t come yet.”

“Bah! That Swisser. I’ll soon find what’s the matter myself!”

“Will -- ” said Maria putting a timid hand on her husband’s arm. “Evelyn wants to see Jenny at once. It’s the only thing she’s said.”

“Very well,” said Byrd impatiently, “though I should think she’d be
more
eager to see her father. Come along, Jenny.”

They mounted the mahogany staircase and turned right into Evelyn’s luxurious white-paneled bedroom. Evelyn lay on her four-poster, propped up with pillows, her head tilted towards the river windows. The minister sat beside her, reading from the Bible, in his mellow voice. He had now been married many years, there were two children in the rectory, and he had long since transmuted his love for Evelyn into the friendship she had desired. It was as a friend that he now stroked her hand while he read, an action under which she lay entirely passive.

Since she did not seem to notice the entrance of her father and Jenny, they came around to the other side of the bed, and her hollow dark eyes slowly focused on them. Her pale lips parted in a faint faraway smile. “I’m sorry to tear you from the fleshpots of Williamsburg,” she said in a voice like the rustle of dry leaves. “Father, did you best old Commissary Blair as usual, and have you got the Governor in your pocket?”

“My dear child!” said Byrd, relieved by this echo of her normal self. In the fortnight of his absence, she had wasted alarmingly. His eye lit on a mugful of milk by her bedside. “You haven’t drunk this!” he said. “I must supervise your diet, Evelyn!”

She shrugged slightly, and gave him the remote little smile, tinged this time by pity. “I can’t drink it,” she said, “for then I cough and it comes up -- colored pink.”

“There are remedies!” he cried. “Dr. Tschiffeley’s coming, and I myself will consult the
Dispensatory.
A clyster -- that’s it! A clysterful of camomile, and cream, and poppy oil. That’ll nourish you!”

Evelyn shook her head. “Dear Father,” she said in the hoarse rustling voice, “I wish to be alone with Jenny. Please -- please go now.”

Byrd frowned, the minister silently took him by the arm, and the two men went out shutting the door.

Evelyn’s eyes closed, for a few minutes she lay drowsing while Jenny stood by the bed, quiet tears running down her cheeks. Then Evelyn stirred, she opened her eyes and spoke with more energy. “Under my pillow, Jenny. The letter. Read it!”

Jenny drew out a heavy sheet of paper which had been sealed with black wax. It was addressed to “Mistress Evelyn Byrd, Westover-on-the-James, Virginia.”  Inside was a woman’s handwriting.

London, July 1737.
Dear Madam:

My husband, Sir Wilfred Lawson, died of smallpox on July 13 th. A private letter attached to his will requested that you be notified of his death whenever it might occur. This sad duty I have now accomplished.

Faithfully yours,
Elizabeth Lucy Lawson.

“You needn’t cry, Jenny,” Evelyn said. “You should laugh as I do, that I didn’t think of this after my dream. How silly I was. But you see he
did
set sail on July thirteenth on a long, long voyage, and he is coming for me as he promised. I’ve simply to wait some more.”

Through Jenny’s anguished mind ran all the things that she should say. The bracing, reasonable ones. That this was a morbid coincidence, that Evelyn could get well if she tried. That she was still young, and that now that hope of marriage to Sir Wilfred was for ever ended she might find happiness with someone else. Jenny could say none of them.

“Burn the letter, please,” Evelyn whispered.

Jenny took the letter to the fire and threw it in. Evelyn lifted herself on her elbow to watch, and was seized by a paroxysm of coughing. When she dropped back exhausted on the pillows, her handkerchief was flecked with blood.

Jenny went and knelt down beside the bed, she took Evelyn’s hand and laid her cheek against it. “Evie, darling --” she murmured.

A tremor ran through Evelyn’s hand; she turned it so the hot dry palm caressed Jenny’s cheek. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you, until the end?” Evelyn whispered. “I’m a bit afraid sometimes.”

“I’ll be here,” said Jenny.

The days blurred after that, days and nights of nursing shared with Mrs. Byrd and the frightened servants. The Harrisons came every day: Ben, Anne -- who had grown softer since her mother-in-law had died -- and little Benjamin the Fourth, who was of an age to play with Byrd’s son.

Dr. Tschiffeley came and went, having examined Evelyn and pronounced it “galloping consumption,” for which there was nothing to do. Byrd would not believe him. He continued to try new drugs and clysters, until Jenny went to him in his library one day and said, “Mr. Byrd, I beg of you not to torment Evelyn any more with remedies which won’t save her. I know you’re frantic -- but, you see, she wants to die.”

“Why?”
cried Byrd, raising an old and haggard face to Jenny. “Why should she? She has every luxury to make her happy, she was pleased with the new house, she’s devoted to me, my wife, and the children -- and as for marriage, there still are suitors.”

Jenny hesitated, then made up her mind. “Evelyn wants to die, because Sir Wilfred Lawson is dead.”

Byrd started. “That’s ridiculous! A sickbed fancy! How dare you make an outrageous conjecture like that!”

“I’m sorry,” said Jenny softly. She looked at him with genuine sympathy, and left the room.

On some days Evelyn seemed better. She awoke without a drenching sweat, she coughed less, and everyone except Jenny was hopeful. On one of these days, she was alone with Evelyn, when the latter said, “I’ve been thinking of our past together, of our schooldays, and what a strange life you’ve led.” She paused and rested before going on. “Jenny, I want you to get your Radcliffe ring. It’s in the oak chest in the attic. Get it and keep it with you. It shouldn’t be left here when I’m gone, and surely Rob won’t mind if you wear it now.”

I’m afraid he would, Jenny thought. She went to the attic and found the ring in the toe of her red-heeled slipper, which lay with its mate beside the rose taffeta gown. The gown was cracked open along the folds, there was mildew on it. Jenny put the ring in her bosom, because Rob had arrived at Westover, and was waiting as patiently as possible for the inevitable -- which Jenny had convinced him of.

It came at three o’clock in the morning, when Jenny and William Byrd were both in the sickroom. Jenny had summoned him an hour earlier. There was a change in Evelyn’s breathing, a change in her face. Her fingers plucked constantly at the counterpane and she was unconscious. They sat silent on either side of the four-poster bed, while the fire died low, and the candles guttered.

Suddenly Evelyn sat bolt upright in bed. She opened her mouth and blood gushed out, running down the front of her white nightgown. Jenny and Byrd were both frozen, as Evelyn stared down at the bloodstains. “Why see!” she said in a strong voice which seemed to hold both wonder and amusement. “A whole flight of cardinals. They’re such beautiful birds.”

Jenny ran for a towel, and Evelyn turned to look at her terrified father. “Poor Papa!” she said. “You’re a beautiful Byrd too, though you don’t like name puns. I forgot. I don’t mean to tease you, I really do love you, but you see Wilfred has come.”

Jenny stood transfixed with the towel, while Evelyn slowly moved her head and gazed at the wall between the river windows. Jenny followed the direction of the huge exalted eyes, and thought that she saw against the strip of paneling a shimmer of green and a dim face beneath a white wig.

Evelyn made a small, contented sound. She dropped back on the pillows, sighed once, and was still.

NINETEEN

All the sultry July afternoon there had been distant rumblings of thunder in the mountains. They made Jenny restless, apprehensive in a way thunderstorms never used to, for they could be so fearful in Virginia. Lightning had once killed three of their hogs, and far worse than that was the news last year of Ben Harrison’s incredible death. He had been watching a storm from a window at Berkeley, two of his little daughters beside him, when a bolt of lightning felled them all.

So young Ben was master at Berkeley, as young Will was master at Westover. Jenny couldn’t picture Westover without William Byrd -- or Evelyn -- and she had never gone back there since the day they stood beside Evelyn’s grave in the little churchyard while Mr. Fontaine read the burial service in a shaking voice.

William Byrd had moved the church after Evelyn died, moved it downriver onto Herring Creek. Hers was the last burial in the old Westover churchyard by the river. Her father, who died in August of 1744, had not cared to join her there. Mr. Fontaine had written to the Wilsons in a slightly disapproving tone, that Byrd desired to be buried in his own garden with an obelisk and a copious epitaph to cover him. In fact, wrote the minister, Colonel Byrd had never mentioned Evelyn’s name again after her burial, though, on the other hand, he kept her portrait in his library. “ ‘Every way of a man is right in his own eyes; but the Lord pondereth the heart,’“ Mr. Fontaine wrote. “So
I
cannot presume to. The Colonel was a good man according to his lights, & most certainly a cultured, and at times a witty one. He has left some writings about his western journeys which are delightful, and his vast & well-thumbed library indicates a quality of intellect I fear we shall not soon see again.”

A just enough summation, Jenny thought, and glanced nervously towards the mountains, where there was another growl of thunder. Her brown beagle, Spot, came streaking out from the woods, his tail flattened to his behind, his eyes beseeching.

“You don’t like storms much either, do you?” said Jenny, lifting the dog and kissing his muzzle. “Well, stay with me, and we’ll shut the house windows.”

Spot returned the kiss and wagged his tail. Rob had procured him as a puppy from Spotsylvania, where he had traveled one summer to inspect the ironworks and furnace established near Germanna by former Governor Spotswood. Hence the dog’s name. And there were other substitutes for the baby which had never come to replace Robin. Jenny kept school in the winter; she had taught all of Nero’s seven children to read and write -- also there was Bridey Turner, now twelve and a quick lovable child who adored Jenny.