Riding Shotgun (30 page)

“Our expression is more crude… needs to get laid.”

“Ah, I see what you mean.” Margaret suggested, “If you’re going to pace about bring us some apple cider.”

Cig opened the back door, dashed to the summer kitchen and returned with an earthenware jug of cider. She poured two glasses and returned to Margaret.

“Thank you. Sit down, Pryor.”

“Restless.”

“Green sickness. A bad case.” Margaret laughed.

“Maybe I didn’t use my best judgment. He’s so much like Blackie—oh, I don’t know. But you say it isn’t awful?”

Margaret quizzically looked at Pryor. “It’s natural. It’s better if you’re wed but…” She shrugged.

Cig wished William and Mary had taught classes in real-life history. She knew dates, battles, and treaties, but nothing of the texture of life in other times. “Sex is natural, but things happened later—in the nineteenth century, I guess—and people began to regard it as sinful but necessary. I wonder
if I’m putting this right. The opinion was, men desired sex. Women didn’t.”

“Absurd.” Margaret couldn’t believe it for she was a product of an earthy age.

“Yes. But since that time these ideas have infected us like a sickness. Some people rebel and become promiscuous. Others,” she thought a moment, “suffer. Mostly people turn into hypocrites. They say they believe in abstinence or faithfulness to their partners but they don’t practice it.”

“That’s true in any time. I think the first words spoken by man were, ‘Not me.’”

Cig laughed. “You’re right! You’ve made me feel better. You don’t think I’m a whore.”

Margaret frowned. “No one would ever use that word, Pryor. But Lionel is determined to marry you and you’ve given him hope.”

“I know. I was stupid.”

“No. Just a woman. He is a handsome man.”

“Do you think he’ll say anything to Tom?”

“No.” Margaret was firm.

“Do whites marry Indians?”

“Yes. Not many do, but some.”

“What about sex with servants?”

“Of course.” Margaret finished her glass. “That will always happen. You use the word curiously. To me sex means male or female.”

“It does for me, too, but sex can also mean the act of copulation.” She ran her hand through her hair. “I’m not sure when that started. I know my grandmother never used the word that way—but then I’m not sure she ever discussed these matters.”

“Let me dress your hair for the ball.”

“What made you think of that?”

“You ran your hand through your hair.”

“Is it that bad?”

“No, but you can’t wear it braided like that. Not to a ball.”

“Margaret, this is making me nervous.”

She held out her glass for more cider. It had a kick to it.
“All will be well. At Edward Hill’s I carefully told a few ladies that you’d endured a temporary loss of memory. You needn’t fear not recognizing people if Tom or I aren’t beside you. They’ll understand. After all, you do have your wits about you and people, quite healthy people, lose their memories sometimes.”

Cig coolly appraised her. “I underestimated you.”

Because of the snows the James was higher than usual, the current swift. Cig fixed her eyes on the dock on the south shore because if she looked down into the river she’d become seasick. She loved ferries and would take them across the Potomac, the Mississippi, wherever she found them. This ferry, not motor powered of course, proved how consistent the art of crossing a river was over the centuries. Burly John MacKinder, notable for his heavy beard and big red hands, gripped the tiller while punters stood on either side of the craft. Not that there’d be much punting at this depth but when they closed to shore the long poles would be dipped into the water and mud for a directional shove.

The distance between Buckingham and Eppington couldn’t have been more than seven miles, but two of those miles were over water. John had crisscrossed the river throughout the day as people gathered for the Christmas ball given by Francis Eppes and his family.

The sunset melted over the waters, transforming them into a scarlet path. Margaret pulled her cloak closer around her shoulders. Tom chatted with the other men at the prow.

Cig’s heart beat faster as they approached the dock. Parties excited her, even though she had been shy as a child. Her great-aunt had coached her on how to talk to people she didn’t know. G-Mom had advised her at the tender age of six to look for special jewelry or the color of someone’s shirt and to start from there. People love to talk about themselves, G-Mom swore; the secret was to get them started. Gig’s first conversational success was Binky West’s mother, deep in the grape.

Cig smiled thinking of the skinny, middle-aged woman she had approached at a hunt club party. “Mrs. West, you have the prettiest pearls. I bet you know a lot about the ocean.” This sent the blue-haired lady into fits of laughter; but she did talk about her pearls, how pearls are formed, the difference between white and black pearls and of course, freshwater pearls as well. By the time Mrs. West had exhausted her discourse on the secretions of the oyster, Gig knew that G-Mom had given her one of the keys to survival: the ability to talk to anyone. She tested her abilities on unwary adults after church, at school gatherings, at hunt club meetings, and best of all, at her parents’ parties.

Adults would exclaim, “What unusual poise Cig has.”

Well, she had to have something since Grace clearly had the beauty.

The ferry bumped into the dock, rocking the passengers off their feet. The men leaped off first, offering their hands to the ladies. This also afforded them the delicious opportunity of lifting the ladies onto the dock. Cig, too big for such gallantry, nonetheless had her hand held tightly by John MacKinder whom she liked on sight.

“Thank you, Mr. MacKinder,” she said.

“Why, ‘iffin I lacked the bark I’d swim ye across.”

She squeezed his hand and then dropped it as they hurried to the two carriages sent for them from the big house.

“Where is John MacKinder from?” Cig whispered to Margaret.

“Highlands. Hardworking man. His wife is crippled now, poor thing. She lost the sensation in her legs then grew
dizzy. After that she shriveled before your eyes. He’s a good man. You’ve known him since childhood.”

“Thanks, Margaret. What would I do without you?”

“Fall on your face.” Margaret’s hazel eyes twinkled.

Tom heard them laughing. “Margaret, I’ve never heard you laugh so much as since Pryor came home to us.”

Edward hill III’s wife called out from the other carriage, “You see, Tom, Pryor’s safe return heralds good fortune. Good fortune starts with laughter, I always say.”

Tom doffed his hat to her. “Fine philosophy.” Then he hopped into the carriage while the driver, a slender fellow, clucked to the matched pair.

A candle blazed in Eppington’s every window. Lanterns hung along the drive created a festive air.

The house was a simple, long white clapboard structure with neat black shutters. White clapboard dependencies stood near the main house. Eppington made up in warmth and simplicity for what it lacked in grandeur. When the head servant opened the door, music and laughter flooded over the lawn.

A tall, lean Creole, Henry Jardin, the head servant, had been born in the West Indies. Clean-shaven, with skin the color of café-au-lait and soft green eyes, he was a breathtaking example of masculine beauty. He could remember names, protocol, and who was feuding with whom, which endeared him to Francis Eppes, whose memory was porous. He also served as secretary to the energetic man whose business interests encompassed both the Old World and the New.

“Henry, good to see you.” Tom clapped him on the back.

Henry pointed the way to the table as servants took their wraps. He whispered to Cig, “You’re a vision tonight.”

Half the colony of Virginia turned out for the party. Children, dressed as miniature versions of their elders, raced and screamed throughout the rooms. The elderly were as animated as the children. Holly berries and big waxy magnolia leaves decorated the table and the rooms.

Cig marveled at how attractive people appear in massed candlelight. Having known only the harshness of electrical
light, she was amazed at the
emotional
difference candlelight created.

Before she could study the surroundings more clearly she felt light pressure on her elbow.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Patrick Fitzroy handed her rum punch in a handblown crystal glass.

Her heart gave a thump. “Fitz, I’m so glad you’re here, too.”

“May I escort you to the table, or shall I bring you a plate?”

“Let’s see the table.”

He offered her his arm and they made their way into the long room. Moving through the crowd, people nodded, called out and held up their glasses in toast. Pryor recognized some of them from hunting but many were new faces to her. They bubbled for she was escorted by Patrick Fitzroy.

The massive table overflowed with turkey, capon, venison, bear, an entire suckling pig, succotash, sweet potatoes, white potatoes, cornbread, dark bread, mountains of sweet butter and jellies and jams, pickled corn as well as pies made from every fruit grown in the colony, a five-layered moist chocolate cake, and bread and rice puddings, Cig’s favorite.

Servants carved the meats, releasing the rich aroma into the room.

Cig smiled at Fitz as he dutifully worked his way around the table. She pointed to the turkey, the venison, whatever suited her, and he put the food on a fine white-and-blue china plate. She felt silly but all she could do was smile.

He found her a seat, returning to fill his own plate. Daniel Boothrod paraded by, the buckles on his shoes gleaming.

“’Pon my soul, the man is a Mercury, a veritable Mercury for I would have served you myself.” The intricate lace on his sleeve swayed slightly when he spoke and the snowy white lace at his throat was handiwork of exquisite delicacy.

“Daniel.” A shrill voice pierced the room.

Fitz concealed a grin. “Your angel, Daniel.”

“Ah, yes, my bride, my bride,” Daniel mumbled, then
bowed to Cig and ambled in Amelie’s direction with a singular lack of enthusiasm.

“Daniel, you know more about shipping than the rest of us.” Francis Eppes spoke as Daniel passed. “I say it’s time we had a proper shipyard in Virginia.”

Soon half a dozen men gathered around Daniel as he discussed how to raise capital for such a venture, how much tonnage Virginia could be expected to send over to England, France, and whoever else wanted Virginia’s crops.

Cig, overhearing, said, “It’s exciting. I feel as though all things are possible.”

Fitz smiled and started to say something but a bass voice interrupted.

“Pryor, you are radiant.” Lionel bowed to her. “I told Samuel to inform me the moment you arrived but he was too slow and,” he paused, “this huntsman is too fast.”

“I would have found you but,” she pointed to her plate, “I’m famished.”

“As soon as you are ready, mademoiselle, I wish the honor of the first dance.”

“I’m a terrible dancer,” she blushed, “but I will try.”

Lionel bowed again. Glaring at Fitzroy, he withdrew.

Really nervous now, Cig concentrated on watching the people.

The coats of the men, cream, sky blue, deep plum, rich navy, contrasted with their brocaded waistcoats. Accustomed to seeing men in drab clothing at formal occasions, Cig was entranced by this swirl of peacocks.

Another new sensation caught her ears, the rustle of women’s skirts as they moved. The silk fabrics, like the men’s clothing, abounded in luscious colors, each carefully chosen to complement the lady’s complexion.

The visceral appeal of color, sound, and candlelight made Cig spontaneously smile despite her apprehensions. She no longer felt awkward in Pryor’s ball gown, a warm melon with burgundy ribbons, cut low on the bodice.

The small orchestra took its place at the end of the main room. Ladies demurely waited, eyes bright. Men preened then plucked up the courage to ask for a dance.

She noticed Abraham Boothrod bowing to a petite blond woman then saw Lionel heading in her direction. His mother emerged from the next room.

“Not so fast.”

Lionel slowed to accompany his mother to the side of the room.

“Well,” she boomed, large pearls heaving on her bosom and pearl and diamond earrings dangling from her ears, “isn’t anyone going to ask me to dance? I may be old but I’m still vertical.”

Fitz touched Cig’s elbow, stood up and gracefully bowed to Mrs. deVries. “Madam, may 1?”

She curtsied smoothly. Cig could see she had an athlete’s grace and thought she looked wonderful for her years.

As Fitz led Kate onto the polished floor, Lionel claimed Cig. She knew she would trip over her own feet, slam into the lady in front of her, turn right instead of left. Frozen with fear, she stuck in her seat.

“Mademoiselle?”

“I think you’ll have to pull me up,” she whispered.

Margaret noticed and joined them for a moment. “Come on.”

Lionel held her hand tightly and half-led, half-pulled her onto the floor. “Your hair shines so.”