The Randolph Legacy (11 page)

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Authors: Eileen Charbonneau

BOOK: The Randolph Legacy
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“These Randolphs. Do they know I don’t remember them, Judith?”
“Yes.”
“Are they angry with me?”
“No. Only, they will need time, as thou does.”
“Ethan. Why was I given that name? Who gave it to me? From whom did I learn the constellations?”
Judith laughed. “I don’t know, beloved! Thou must ask the Randolphs these things.”
“You will come too?”
“Yes. Now eat.”
“What is that?”
“Plum duff, of course.”
The portion she spooned into him was full of raisins, oats, and a sweet, vanilla-based syrup. He let it skate about his mouth, savoring all its flavors separately, then in combination, before he allowed himself to swallow it.
“Judith?” he whispered, as she held another spoonful at his lips.
“Hmmm?”
“Are you sure I’m not dead?”
Ethan Randolph
The white linen shirt reached his knees. Above its hem was an embroidered
set of three letters. The large
russet R
was flanked by an
E
and a
B
in crimson. The
B
must initial his middle name. Ethan wondered what it was, and who had fashioned the beautiful monogram. He was a grown man who didn’t know his middle name. Who would want such a man in his family? He tucked the shirt into the trousers, fastened the braces, pulled on the gray-and-white-striped waistcoat. The waistcoat had ivory buttons, like the handle of Captain Willis’s knife.
Exhausted, Ethan sat back in Fayette’s chair, and pondered the dizzying array of neckerchiefs and cravats, the merino wool coat beside them. He would rather wear Fayette’s coat.
A swift knock sounded at the door. He thought it belonged to the newly balanced Captain Mitchell, but he raised his eyes to a stranger.
The heavyset man was dressed in an array of mustards, olives, and browns that complemented his light hair. He was very tall. He had to stoop inside the small compartment. After tucking his high hat stiffly under his arm, he stared at Ethan for a long time. His expression, sour to start with, grew more displeased. The room was crowded with this man, as it never had been with Ethan’s friends.
“You don’t even know how to dress yourself properly!” he accused.
“Sir?”
“‘Sir?’” he mimicked. “Oh, yes. You don’t remember me.”
“I—”
“Isn’t that the conceit your little Quakeress has connived to get her orphan reunited with a suitable family?”
Ethan’s throat tightened. “Judith did not—”
“Oh, but Judith did, young man! Judith involved Madison and Jefferson and all of Washington in her first round. Even I will have to sing ‘hail the fallen hero’ to their tune. For a time only, I warn you. I will make you sorry you ever schemed entrance into my family.”
 
 
J
udith Mercer boarded the
Standard
on Stephenson’s arm. She was about to ask the source of his worried look when Captain Mitchell rushed to her side.
“Thank all that’s holy you’ve come!”
“What is it? Ethan’s not ill?”
“I don’t know! He’s locked himself in his quarters since Stephenson went to help him dress this morning. Every one of us has pleaded. I’ve had to turn away the ambassador to Great Britain and his dismal, formal apology.”
“What does he say?”
“The ambassador? He was most displeased—”
“Ethan, Captain Mitchell. What does Ethan say?”
“Oh, that he’ll open the door to no one but you.”
She smiled. “Well, I’d best get below decks, then?”
“Oh. Oh, yes, quite right.”
Stephenson led her all the way to the rounded door before he tipped his hat, apologized awkwardly for doing so, and left her there. She knocked softly. “Ethan,” she called. “It’s Judith.”
She heard his key enter the lock, turn. She waited on the other side until he’d made his way back to Fayette’s Peruvian throne. “Come,” he whispered.
She was struck by the way his clothes made him disappear even against the brightly gilded chair. Why had they ordered so much black? The color turned Ethan’s already pale skin translucent and accentuated the dark circles under his eyes. Winthrop was behind it, she was sure.
The pantaloons were loose on him, as if the tailor did not believe the measurements he was given. The many yards of muslin neckerchiefs remained untouched, and his shirt was open. The fine cutaway coat fit him badly, too large everywhere except the arms, which were short enough to show the bandage around his wrist. Winthrop, definitely.
Worst of all was Ethan’s expression. His grief over Lafayette’s loss was there, reined in behind his beautiful eyes. But there was something else, too, something deeply troubled. Why? He would know the complexities of his new life soon enough.
He sat there in Quaker-like stillness. She loved his stillness, and wondered if any of the other Randolphs had it. Or was it his alone, born in captivity? Judith walked to him. He raised his head, and took hold of her hands. His were cold and bloodless, like his face. Dark hair fell in waves to his shoulders. The younger American men wore their hair this way
now, free, without a queue. She wanted to tell him this, to chatter on and on. He squeezed her hands.
“Judith, I think Captain Mitchell, the crew—they would allow me to stay on board,” he said quietly.
Anything. She was ready for anything. But not this. “What?” Her voice cracked so badly Ethan winced.
“I have a skill. I’m good at mending the sails, you said so yourself, remember? They’d treat me decently now, wouldn’t they? And I love the sea, Judith, I’ve always loved the—”
She flew away from him, pacing the small space. “One of them got in here!” she realized, turning. “One of them bribed his way into thy cabin. It was Winthrop, it had to be!”
He winced again. “That man is my father?”
She looked at his eyes, at the slant of his brows, always winsome, now distressed. His mother’s had the same bent. “He is the younger Winthrop Randolph, thy brother. Thy eldest brother.”
He shook his head. “No. These are not my people, Judith. I think you made a mistake.”
She fought to keep her voice calm. “Ethan, listen to me. Winthrop has many fears. That thee wants to steal—”
“I don’t want anything from him, from any of them.”
“They would have to possess the hardest of hearts not to see that soon. But thou must give them a chance. Thy brothers are almost a generation thy elder, Ethan, and so different from thee.”
“And Sally Gibson?”
“With Sally, the years between you don’t mean so much. Thy sister is forever young.”
“Like you.”
Judith should have said something, denying it, but she was so happy for the slight smile that played about his bruised lip. “If only thy sister had come instead of Winthrop. And she would have if she hadn’t so soon delivered a child.”
“The children.”
Judith could see him remembering his nieces with a stab at his resolve to remain on board the
Standard.
Of that she would take full advantage. “Yes, the children. How dost thou think of abandoning them before you’ve even met?”
He frowned, guessing her ploy, she thought. “Judith, I have not come to be a burden to these people. I have a trade here on the
Standard,
I have a certain acceptance. Can I find a trade there, on land, in my own country? I do not ask for promises, but I need to know the
truth of it. I need to know if there’s any possibility of my becoming worthwhile. Out there.”
When she reached for the gaunt curve of his cheek, he kissed into the palm of her hand, then rested his face there. “Yes,” she whispered, unable to explain a worth that would never have anything to do with his clothes, his wealth, his family and religion, all the things that would forever keep them apart. “Yes, of course,” she said, louder.
“I have become a great burden to you, Judith Mercer,” he observed, like a wind condition, without regret or apology. Then he smiled. “I suppose I must hold on to your soul a little longer.”
 
 
J
udith finished winding his white muffling, then tied the black silk cravat around it. “Thee is very handsome.”
“No I’m not,” he disagreed. “But at least my attire doesn’t frighten you now.”
“Frighten me?”
“When you first came in it did.”
Was she so transparent? “It was the color, the black. We Quakers don’t wear black. We have no mourning.”
“I offend you? Should I wear Fayette’s coat?”
“No. Thee must show respect for thy own people now, Ethan, not mine.”
A tapping sounded at the door. Judith opened it to Captain Mitchell and Winthrop Randolph. Behind them walked a tall, muscular black man of about fifty. He had to stoop even farther than Fayette had, so she judged his height in excess of six feet. His eyes made quick contact with hers, then lowered to study Ethan’s twisted leg. With interest, perhaps even sympathy. Without disgust.
But as the captain and Winthrop talked, a glistening line of sweat stood out on the servant’s broad forehead. Something was wrong.
Winthrop Randolph finished his instructions. “Now, Aaron will assist your ascent to—”
“I can’t, master,” the black man blurted out.
“What are you saying?”
“This place. A bad place, sir. It grabs at my strength.”
“What is this nonsense?”
The servant went to his knees beside Fayette’s chair, clutching his middle. Ethan reached out, taking his shoulder. “Yes,” he said, “I understand.”
Winthrop Randolph’s eyes narrowed. “Understand what? Get up,
Aaron,” he demanded. “Carry this man topside or you’ll face a whipping the likes of which—”
“No,” Ethan commanded in a white-hot voice Judith had not heard before. “No more whippings.”
Captain Mitchell sighed. “Amen to that,” he said, under his breath, as if his old superior officer were still beside him.
The black man moaned. Ethan spoke calmly above its unearthly sound. “If you’ll escort my brother topside, Captain,” he said, “we will meet you there shortly.”
Captain Mitchell nodded, then hustled Winthrop from the hold.
With only the three of them in the room, Aaron raised his head. “There be other folk here. Suffering, dying,” he gasped out.
“We know,” Ethan said. “We’ve seen them too, haven’t we, Judith?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Ethan squeezed the man’s broad shoulder. “Go up to the gundeck, sir,” he urged gently. “It’s cooler. It might be less troubling.”
“But, how—?”
“Judith will help me; go on.”
Aaron stumbled out of the cabin on Judith’s arm. She returned, and soon they heard him move up the stairs with an ever-quickening step. Judith turned to Ethan.
“Blood memory,” he whispered. “Is that man a slave, Judith?”
“Yes.”
“Belonging to the place on the river? Windover?”
She nodded.
“Are there more?”
“Yes.”
He winced. “Many?”
She nodded again. “Nearly two hundred.”
Judith heard the barest sigh escape him. He handed her Fayette’s coat, the only inheritance he was bringing from his years on board the
Standard
. She draped it over her arm before assisting him to his feet. He was an easy burden, weighing less than herself, she judged. It was hard to judge his height, but he was not a tall man like his brothers. Even his undamaged leg was not strong, and buckled before they reached the stairs. There Judith heard him mutter a soft French blasphemy before he slid down, breathless, on the last step.
“Ethan,” she pleaded. “Allow me to fetch—”
“I will not be the cause of any whippings,” his new, steely voice insisted. “Just stay ahead of me, Judith. I’ll manage. I’m strong.” He smiled ruefully, surveying his crumpled form as if it didn’t belong to
him. “Well, I’m stronger than I look. It’s not so far, not if your face is just beyond me.”
She released his cravat, unwound the cloth, then opened his carefully folded high collar. She ripped a yard’s length, tied one end to his right wrist, the other end to her own. He smiled.
“Ethan Randolph. Dost thou find me amusing?” she demanded, as imperiously as a Quaker could manage.
“You make good use of my brother’s strangling neckwear.”
Ethan’s arms were the strongest part of him, Judith realized, as he lifted himself over each wooden step. His fine coat smeared with tar and dirt. Twice he caught his sleeve on nails, ripping the wool.
Finally, as they neared the cannon level, large hands reached past her. They lifted Ethan to the deck’s gunpowder-scented quiet.
Aaron clucked his tongue severely. “You looking like you been giving the bullfrogs a merry chase down in the salt marsh!” he chided.
“Salt marsh, sir?”
“Ain’t the likes of me a sir, Master Ethan. You’s the sir,” Aaron explained as he brushed the worst smudges from the black coat. “You don’t recollect that? Or me?”
“I do not. I’m sorry.”
Aaron took the ripped neckerchief Judith offered and wiped the sweat from his charge’s face. “No need for any sorrying,” he crooned in a deep voice, rich with melody, before lifting Ethan Randolph high in his arms. “Lord, Lord. You don’t got the heft of the straw man in the garden, young master! My Martha, how she gonna love the job of fillin’ you out!”
Ethan smiled. “You are feeling better?” he asked quietly.
“I am, sir, thank you.”

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