Fates and Traitors (8 page)

“Why? What's happened?”

“Nothing yet, but as my fame grows, it'll become ever more difficult for me to travel without ending up in the ‘Arrivals' report in the local papers every time I climb down from a stagecoach or step off a steamer. You remember what the press wrote when you traveled with me last year.”

Mary Ann nodded, bouncing June gently on her lap. “Mr. Booth and Lady arrived in the city to-day,” was the standard phrase, but other reporters liked to add a line or two describing his lovely traveling companion in the most admiring terms. One had even boldly proclaimed that her dark, lustrous curls, alabaster skin, graceful figure, and rosebud lips made her the handsomest woman he had ever seen.

“Every English actor on tour in America knows me, and they all know Adelaide divides her time between London and Brussels,” Junius said. “If they see you, they'll ask questions, and they may carry tales back to her. We can't afford a scandal. No gentleman would escort any lady to see me perform. No manager would hire me. My star would plummet to the earth even more swiftly than it rose. We would be ruined, darling. Surely you see that.”

Mary Ann felt tears gathering and forced them back. She had thought that when June was older, they would all travel together, she
helping Junius with his wardrobe, little June amusing his father out of his dark moods, mother and child alike admiring Junius from the wings as he enthralled audiences from Maine to Florida.

But she knew he was right. The only way they could protect their secret was for Mary Ann and June and any children who might come after to remain safely out of the public eye.

So she acquiesced, though she had eloped with him to see the world by his side, not to hoe squash and weed a carrot patch in the wilderness.

Junius threw himself into the role of farmer with such intensity and vigor he might have been rehearsing a newly discovered Shakespearean play—
Much Ado About Sowing
, perhaps, or
The Taming of the Weeds
. Mary Ann tended the baby, put the cozy farmhouse in order, scattered feed to the chickens, and gathered eggs while Junius planted potatoes, sweet corn, and okra and hired men to clear the fields for autumn wheat and barley.

As the summer days passed, vigorous toil and the joy of Junius's constant companionship eased Mary Ann's apprehensions. One hot summer afternoon, she stood up from weeding the kitchen garden, arched her back to loosen a knot between her shoulders, gazed out upon a homestead transformed by their labors, and was struck with a sudden swell of pride, admiration, and delight. The Farm was not the home she had expected when she had contemplated their life in America during their long Atlantic crossing, but it was truly wonderful, a sanctuary where life was sacred and love reigned over all.

Every evening at supper Mary Ann and Junius discussed improvements they wished to make to The Farm in the seasons to come, the expense of hiring more help and purchasing equipment, the profits they could reap if the crops thrived, if they grew more than they needed for themselves and could sell the surplus. Junius hoped that one day The Farm would provide for all their needs, except for books and certain tools and supplies they could not make themselves. These renovations would cost a pretty penny, Junius warned, funds that The Farm did not yet earn.

One balmy night after she and Junius had made love and she lay blissful and drowsy in his arms, he kissed her on the forehead and stroked her long, dark hair away from her perspiring brow. “Mary Ann,
my dearest,” he said, “you know I hate to be apart from you and the boy.”

“No more than we hate to be apart from you.”

“But I need to earn money.” He ran his hand from her elbow to her shoulder and back. “The theatre season will begin soon, and I've accepted several engagements.”

“I had assumed you would have to. If you can keep Joe Hall on as foreman and find a capable woman to help me around the house, June and I will manage well enough if you have to travel now and then.”

She was surprised when Junius shook his head, for Joe Hall was eminently competent and unquestionably loyal. Months before, Junius had hired him from a prosperous local farmer, but soon the nagging awareness that every cent the diligent man earned went into his owner's pocket so outraged Junius that he had purchased Joe, set him free, and immediately hired him back with the dignity of freedom, choice, and wages.

“Darling,” Junius said, and she realized at once she had misunderstood his hesitancy. “Without question I'll have to travel. I'll be on tour for the entire season.”

“From autumn through spring? Oh, no, Junius. You can't mean it.”

“I promise I'll return home as often as I can.”

“Can't you book engagements in Baltimore?”

“Some, yes, but not enough to fill an entire season. This isn't what I want, but it's necessary.”

Of course it was. How else could he earn a living if not on the stage? And the audiences would not come to him.

“Junius,” she said steadily, “I'm not a timid woman, you know that, but I would be afraid to live here all alone in the wilderness with just me and the baby.”

“Joe Hall will be here.”

“Not always, unless you forbid him to visit his wife. Her master will never agree to let her stay here.”

Junius inhaled deeply. “I'll think of a solution,” he told her after a long moment. “I won't have you living in fear.”

They lay beside each other, silent, unable to sleep with disappointment hanging heavily above them and loneliness not far off.

“Perhaps you could build a theatre in Bel Air,” said Mary Ann.
“Something on the scale of Richmond's Marshall or the Park in New York City.”

“That would increase the size of the town by half.”

“It would also be necessary to improve the road from Baltimore. Only the hardiest and most determined traveler would attempt that rough washboard of a thoroughfare, even to see the world's greatest tragedian perform.”

He laughed softly, and with their unhappiness deferred, they were able to sleep.

A few days later, Junius returned from an errand in Bel Air with supplies—and his solution.

Mary Ann knew someone was approaching the house when she heard the deep, full barking of dogs growing louder, and beneath that, the creaking of wagon wheels and jingling of harnesses. She went outside with June beaming and babbling on her hip, and discovered that the traveler was her own Junius. Three enormous dogs with plush black coats walked about in the wagon bed, tongues hanging out and tails wagging.

“They're Newfoundlands,” Junius said, patting the head of one before she raced across the grass to join her companions in chasing one another and sniffing at everything. “Lord Byron reveres the breed.”

“Yes, I know.” Mary Ann smiled as the largest of the trio bounded over to her, nuzzled her hand with his massive head, and sniffed curiously at June's toes, making him squeal in delight. “He called his own ‘in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his Master's own.'”

“‘Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,'” Junius finished. “They'll protect you in my absence.”

Mary Ann agreed the dogs would make fine protectors and companions. “I might grow so fond of them that I won't miss you at all,” she teased, inspiring Junius to growl madly and nip at her neck until she shrieked with laughter.

She named the largest of the pack Boatswain in memory of Byron's favorite, the bitch Flora, and the smaller male Carlow, and grateful enough she was for their reassuring presence when Junius bade her and June a reluctant farewell in early September and set off on tour. The loyal hounds stayed near the cabin in the daytime, but at night
they freely roamed the acreage, their deep barks frightening off any trespassers who might seek to bother the little family.

Joe Hall came to The Farm nearly every day to plow fields, tend livestock, and make repairs to the house and outbuildings as Mary Ann discovered the need. At Joe's recommendation Junius had hired Joe's wife, Ann, a slave from a neighboring farm, to cook, clean, and do laundry. “Hiring another man's slave is not the same as owning one myself,” Junius had assured Mary Ann when she expressed misgivings. “We're sparing her from more arduous work and possible ill treatment at the hands of her master.”

Mary Ann found it a morally ambiguous distinction, so every week she paid Ann a little extra above the wages she was obliged to carry back to her master. Perhaps one day Ann would save up enough to buy her freedom.

Despite the company of the Halls, the hired hands, and the Newfoundlands, Junius must have worried about leaving his family alone in the wilderness, for a few weeks later, he wrote from Richmond to announce that he had written to his widowed father, Richard, urging him to close his London law practice and join them in Maryland. “My father has longed to see America ever since my grandfather thwarted his plans to join George Washington's forces during the colonial revolt,” Junius wrote. “Our need provides him ample reason to make the journey at last.”

When Richard Booth arrived in Baltimore in the last week of October, Junius took leave from his tour to meet his father's ship and escort him to The Farm. Mary Ann had spent weeks preparing a bedchamber for the venerable lawyer, with new linens, sturdy bookshelves, a small desk, and a comfortable bed. On the day he was expected to arrive, she and Ann scrubbed every nook of the house, prepared a tasty, wholesome supper, and kept June, dressed in his best little suit, as clean as possible.

In the early afternoon, Boatswain's eager bark announced the gentlemen's arrival. Mary Ann had time to peer into the looking glass, pinch her cheeks, tuck a few loose strands beneath her cap, and ask Ann to wish her luck.

“Are you ready to see Papa and Grandfather?” Mary Ann asked June cheerfully as she carried him outside. He was large for ten months
and had already boldly taken a few toddling steps on his strong, stubby legs. As soon as they descended the porch stairs, he wriggled and struggled to free himself from her grasp until she had no choice but to set him down.

As the coach halted in the circle between the barn and the cabin, Mary Ann scarcely had time to pick up June again and call out a greeting before Junius leapt down and swept her up into his arms, baby and all. “Oh, my dearest, my darling,” he said, kissing her. “How I've missed you.”

He cuddled his namesake a moment before striding back to the coach to assist his father. He was sixty-three, Mary Ann knew, and from his letters to Junius she gathered he was something of a scholarly curmudgeon. When he descended, she beheld a gentleman from a bygone age: a slender, bow-legged fellow in knee breeches, buckled shoes, and a tricorn hat atop a white queue.

“Mrs. Booth,” he said, too loudly through a forced smile, hobbling toward her on Junius's arm. “How good it is to meet my son's bride at last.”

A wave of relief swept through her. Until that moment, she had not known whether he intended to keep their secret. “Good afternoon, Father Booth,” she replied, offering him a respectful curtsey.

The gesture seemed to charm him, and when she introduced him to his grandson, he smiled warmly and chucked the boy under the chin. As June squealed with laughter and seized his finger, Richard's eyebrows rose. “Strong grip, that one,” he remarked. “May he have a strong mind as well.”

Together Junius and Mary Ann helped Richard settle into his place at The Farm, unpacking his trunks, arranging most of his Latin and Greek books on the shelves in his bedchamber and the rest in the front room beside Mary Ann's collection of Byron's works and Junius's treasured volumes of Coleridge, Keats, Shelley, Dante, Milton, Locke, and Shakespeare. Richard dutifully admired their improvements to The Farm but confessed that the place was so remote and desolate he felt as if he had been marooned on Robinson Crusoe's island.

All too soon Junius returned to his tour. Before he departed, he solicitously sought his father's advice on several matters of husbandry and asked him to undertake a few management tasks in his absence.
Most important, Richard was to be protector, adviser, and companion to Mary Ann, a role he readily accepted.

They had not been long alone together at The Farm when Mary Ann realized that Richard had no interest whatsoever in farming. The minor tasks Junius had conferred on him—more out of a desire to make him feel needed than actual need—he neglected until Joe Hall grew exasperated and took care of them himself. Every day after breakfast, Richard would take a slow, hobbling walk around the clearing accompanied by one or more of the hounds, return to the cabin wanting tea, then settle down with his cup and his books, his favorite shawl draped around his shoulders and spectacles perched on his nose, to work on adapting Virgil's
Aeneid
from a Latin epic poem to an English drama.

Twice a week or more, Richard would become restless, hitch Peacock to the cart, and venture into Bel Air, politely declining Mary Ann's offers to keep him company. She wondered what on earth he could have found in the humble village to entice him back again and again, but he deflected her gentle inquiries. She had almost concluded that he must have befriended a lonely widow when, upon accompanying him on one of his excursions to purchase material to make new clothes for her growing son, she discovered that his inamorata was instead the local beverage of choice, a potent distilled whiskey that sold for nineteen cents a gallon at the general store.

With his secret out, Richard no longer bothered to conceal his indulgences. As he spent more and more time intoxicated, Mary Ann urged him to practice moderation. When that failed, she reported her concerns to Junius, who admonished his father in frequent letters from Baltimore and Richmond. “I have witnessed often with regret the terrible ravages drinking has made both on your Mind and Body,” he wrote in late November. “Refrain from that destructive and sense-depriving custom of getting intoxicated. Madness will be the result if you persist.”