Surrender the Wind (5 page)

Seth waited while Stowefield left the room. The door clicked shut. Upon Seth's neck, the heat of the evening sun poured through the window. The letter lay in his calloused hand. He stared at it a moment, at his name scrolled in a feminine hand on the front. He broke the seal and unfolded the pages.

My Dear Brother:

I pray Mr. Stowefield has been able to find you. I hope you will listen to his advice with an open mind. Before Grandfather died, he begged me to write to you and ask that all injuries be forgiven. He lived this last year in relentless anguish and rued the past.

I married a good man, but he has left me a widow, with a young son, age two years. He's a fine boy and brings me joy.

I am sure Mr. Stowefield informed you that our grandfather remarried several years ago. His widow is cold in manner and never was a mother to me. I never see her, and I believe she is a sick woman. Her son says if you are alive, the government would refuse to acknowledge you as heir and brand you a traitor and rebel. I do not believe this, dear brother. He says you are undeserving under the grounds of
treason for having fought in the Revolution. Mr. Banes has assured me otherwise.

Therefore, my dear brother, I beg of you to come to Ten Width. Come at least for a time, and then, if it is your wish to return to Virginia, I shall understand.

My friend, Juleah Fallowes, Mr. Stowefield's niece, has stayed with me following the days after Grandfather's death. She has provided a shoulder for me to cry upon. Without her, I’d be alone in the house except for two servants and my little lad. I cannot bear the sorrow here.

So much has happened in my short life. Things I cannot tell you until I see you again. You must send me word of your decision, and hopefully your arrival.

Your devoted sister, Caroline

When Mr. Stowefield returned, Seth sat in the chair with the letter in his hand. Contemplative thoughts stirred his mind and he felt them expressed upon his face. The setting sun spread the copper light of twilight inside the room, and for a moment, he watched it play over the wood furnishings.

“Mr. Stowefield,” he said. “I need time to think.”

“I understand that principle, sir.” Stowefield tucked his spectacles inside his waistcoat pocket and sighed. “But if you think too long and hard on the matter, you’ll find a way to talk yourself out of it.”

“Wisdom demands caution, sir,” Seth replied. “A man who makes his steps too hasty and bases his decisions on feelings may fall into a pit.”

Stowefield chuckled. “You’re a farmer and a scholar.”

“I’m not good at either profession. Nonetheless, I thank you for the compliment.”

“Forgive me for asking, young man. But doesn’t it feel grand to have become so wealthy?”

“No, I feel doubtful.”

At once Stowefield's brows shot up. “That's most incredible, sir.”

Seth stood and picked up his hat. “I must be leaving. Direct me to a cheap inn if you know one.”

Stowefield threw back his shoulders. “I’ll do nothing of the kind. My house is large and I’d be honored if you’d be my guest.”

“I cannot impose upon you.”

“Why waste your money on an inn? You’ll not find a finer table than mine, nor better conversation.”

Though reluctant, Seth agreed to stay. Partridge told him she was pleased to wait upon him, and showed him upstairs before dinner. The glow of the candle fanned out before them as they climbed the staircase. The room stood at the far end of the house.

“Have you a good coat with you, sir?” Partridge's voice was motherly, her gray hair spying out from beneath her white mobcap. “The wise gentleman brings a good coat with him when away from home. If you give me your traveling suit I’ll brush it for you and polish your boots.”

Seth pulled off his boots and handed them over, then his coat. She was short, stout about the middle, and waddled over to him to take them in hand. “These are fine, Mr. Braxton.” She held them out and studied them. “Soon you’ll have finer.”

“I can’t be sure of that, madam,” Seth told her.

“No one knows what the future may hold, Mr. Braxton, save for the good Lord. We hope for the best.” She headed through the door and turned back to close it. “I’ll put your boots out here in a half hour, so as not to disturb you.”

That night the windows in Stowefield's house stood open. The boxwood and roses from the garden scented the tepid air, and candlelight bathed the room in a haze of gold. The interior of the house was stuffy and warm, with that musty smell old houses seem to have.

As he descended the staircase, Seth heard laughter. Dressed in his best navy blue jacket and beige breeches, he entered the dining room. Stowefield introduced him to his guests and he bowed. They were Stowefield's generation, some fat, some lean, gray, and wrinkled. The ladies wore heavy powder upon their faces, and the gentlemen dressed as natural men, a trend admired in Ben Franklin when he won the hearts of the Parisians.

They supped together on a simple yet delicious meal of roasted chicken, pole beans, and potatoes. Partridge stood back near the door and wrung her hands while she watched Mr. Stowefield carve the birds she had prepared. They were burned on the outside, and she fretted they were spoiled.

“I fear they’re ruined, Mr. Stowefield.”

“In spite of their charred appearance,” Stowefield said as he popped a piece into his mouth, “the meat is delicious and succulent, Partridge. Nothing to fear.”

Still, Partridge bit her lower lip and wiped her hands over the front of her apron as Stowefield placed the chicken on his plate.

“It's a fine table you set, Mrs. Partridge,” said Seth, tasting the bounty. “I’ve not had food this good in a long time.”

“Thank you, sir.” She dipped with a broad smile and left the room looking happy.

“I imagine camp food was not to a man's liking,” said Stowefield.

“Not to mine, sir, the little we had.”

“It was the same in the French and Indian War, I assure you. Bread as hard and tasteless as wood, and not a good ale to wash it down with.”

“You served in that war, Mr. Stowefield?”

“Indeed I did, and I have a few scars to prove it. I shall not tell where.”

The group laughed. The middle-aged woman to Stowefield's left, Mrs. Jenny Bayberry tapped him on the shoulder with her spoon.

“We’ve heard the stories a thousand times over, John Stowefield, so much so that we know them by heart. Let us talk of other things.”

“Well, all right. Our young guest, ladies and gentlemen, served in the Revolution,” said Stowefield. “Is that not so, Seth?”

“I was among a group of Virginia sharpshooters, sir.”

“Virginia is proud of her sons.” Stowefield drained his glass of wine and lifted the decanter in front of him to refill it. “As is Maryland. Our Frederick riflemen were praised as the best sharpshooters of the war.”

“A hero sits among us,” Mrs. Bayberry exclaimed. She was a widow, and older than Stowefield by her look, her eyes gray and misty with cataracts, her face a collage of wrinkles.

“Ah, ma’am, I would not say that.” Seth smiled. “I did my duty, that's all.”

“You’re too modest, Seth Braxton. Our Mr. Stowefield was a rich lawyer before the Revolution. Dedicated to The Glorious Cause, he forfeited his plenty to aid the rebels in their struggle for independence. You no doubt gave up much as well.”

Seth bowed his head to the lady. “We all did, ma’am.”

“Indeed, Mr. Braxton. I lost two sons in the Revolution and my husband. I warned he was too old to go off fighting. A stubborn
man was he. I rued the day he and my boys left. I’m sure your mother is glad you lived.”

The memory of his mother caused Seth's smile to waver. “My mother died before the war, ma’am.”

Mrs. Bayberry's expression was empathetic. “Well, fortunate for you, you have a sister. But no wife? What a pity. For you’re young and handsome. You cannot deny ladies wait upon your attentions.”

“I can deny it with confidence.”

He did not enjoy such open conversations regarding love and hoped the subject would change. His experience with women was his own, private, something he felt a man should not boast about. Still, he had not known what it felt like to be in love.

Mrs. Bayberry's mouth fell open. “Perhaps you simply have your eyes closed to it. You’ll have them opened in due time. We should be grateful our infant country and England are on good terms, else no one would inherit a smidgen from their relations on the other side of the ocean. Some of us would’ve been cast off.”

Stowefield cleared his throat and looked up from his plate of food. “Shall we have a toast to our brave lads?” He raised his glass.

With a gentle acknowledgment of their revolutionary heroes, the guests drank, and then coughed from its strength. Seth remained quiet during the rest of the meal, but politely answered every question directed at him. Most came from Mrs. Bayberry, the spokesperson for the group. He was not in the mood for chitchat with strangers, and the conversation put him in a sullen mood, thinking about his parents, the war, his sister, and the decision he faced.

Afterward, tables were set up for card playing. Moodily, Seth stood by the window. Over the mantle hung a group portrait, and when his eyes met those of the woman in it, he was struck by the beauty and skill of the painting. The color of the eyes, the way the artist caused them to glisten and express feminine joy, captivated the viewer.

The subject was unlike any he had seen. She wore a slight smile upon a face naturally beautiful. No powder, rouge, or wig concealed her. Her hair, long and dark, brown as the color of oak leaves in autumn, lay soft across one shoulder. Her left hand held the flow of hair at her breast. A band of blue ribbon pulled her heavy locks together near her forehead, and from under the front of the ribbon, delicate curls framed her face.

A gown of white linen, accented with blue taffeta ribbon at the belled sleeves, graced her feminine frame. Her shoulders, round and smooth, were bare. Her right hand lay in her lap, touched by a flow of soft creamy lace. Within it, she held a spray of purple heather.

Then there were the eyes, the depths of which drew the admirer. The artist's attempt to capture the facets of color held Seth's gaze in rapt attention. Sparkling full of spirit, clear amber struck Seth with the noonday sun. He wondered how they would appear in real life. Would the light play over them and her soul be revealed?

Stowefield drew up beside him. “I see you admire the painting.”

Seth's eyes remained transfixed, as he studied the contours of the woman's face. “Who is she?”

“My niece Juleah. Lovely creature, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, she's pretty.”

“Mather Brown produced the painting earlier this year in London. He painted John Adams and his daughter Nabby's portraits.”

“I’ve heard of Mr. Brown.”

Stowefield turned and lifted his brows. “Have you?”

“Even Virginian planters can be kept abreast in the arts. Who are the children beside her?”

“Ah, her sister, Jane, and brother, Thomas. Jane is a fine girl, and I daresay she shall be as pretty as Juleah. Thomas will be a strapping young man when he's older.”

“Do you see them from time to time?”

“No, but we correspond throughout the year. Juleah will not forget her uncle. I commissioned the portrait a year ago and received it this week. I had no idea she had grown so lovely, and with womanly wisdom showing in her eyes.”

Seth studied Juleah's face deeper and discovered how quick his heart was to beat. “Yes, except there is no true smile there, but a sadness.”

Stowefield pinched his eyebrows together. He drew off his spectacles, held them out before him, and leaned in for a closer examination. “I had not noticed.”

“You can see it in her eyes. She may have smiled for Mr. Brown, but the expression in her eyes shows pretense.”

“You may be right. Most likely she was bored sitting. Or, she may have been thinking of some unrequited love.”

Seth turned away. His manner was cool, but beneath it, his blood raced. It disturbed him that Juleah's image had such a strong effect upon him. Her beauty and natural allure were undeniable, and he thought about the possibility he might meet her in England … if he were to go.