Read The Randolph Legacy Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
The Randolph Legacy (13 page)
“Yes, Aaron said that, didn’t he? Why did Dr. Foster not stay in service to the Randolphs?”
“He was not a doctor then, but a young man, like thee, seeking to further his own education. Thy father was grateful for his help during an epidemic. He provided the means for Friend Jordan’s advanced studies.”
Ethan smiled. “A good investment. But my father’s wealth is based on slave labor, is it not, Judith?”
She looked down at her lap. “Yes.”
He slipped his hand into hers. “This offends us both.”
“It is my hope that thee will always feel this way, Ethan, without ceasing to love thy family.”
He frowned. “I don’t know my family. Perhaps my family has no wish to know me. But I know you, and Eli, and—” He spoke a thought as it dawned on him. Was he losing her already? “Is that why your father has gone north this morning, Judith? The Philadelphia Quakers—are they now distressed that you found me, because my family holds slaves in bondage?”
Her steel eyes met his. “Our Society is based on recognition of the Light in everyone, on—”
“Tolerance, of course.” He shook his head. “There is so much I don’t understand.”
“Thee is not yet a full day on dry land, beloved.” She stroked his brow in that familiar way he loved. “My father has gone to report on our three-year mission abroad. He will find us a home, and seek to establish our livelihoods in Philadelphia.”
“Livelihoods? Don’t you preach?”
“Yes, we are both ministers of our Monthly Meeting,” she explained. “But the Meeting doesn’t support any ministers, except on our travels.
Now that our English mission has finally ended, we make our own way in the world.”
Now that our English mission has finally ended, we make our own way in the world.”
“You do? How?”
“We were farmers, when I was a child. Since our move to the city, Father has a small trade as an herbalist. I craft my silhouettes, and I’m ashamed to admit it to one so much better skilled, but I take in mending.”
“People pay for such things?”
“Wealthy people, in cities, yes.”
He nodded, enjoying her closeness, enjoying the full, rich silence around them. But thoughts invaded his contentment. Were her people tolerant enough to approve of his stolen kiss, her
“beloveds”?
If he could win her love, would they tolerate her marriage to a slave owner’s son, even if he renounced his family and took up her mending trade beside her?
“beloveds”?
If he could win her love, would they tolerate her marriage to a slave owner’s son, even if he renounced his family and took up her mending trade beside her?
T
hough the woman stood on the wide, open porch of the Windover plantation house, she was bathed in shadows. Ethan’s tongue thickened in his mouth.
hough the woman stood on the wide, open porch of the Windover plantation house, she was bathed in shadows. Ethan’s tongue thickened in his mouth.
Aaron carried him off the schooner and over Windover’s dock. “Master Ethan, that be your mama.”
Her abundant hair, iron-gray shot through rich amber, was dressed simply, elegantly, in lace. Her lavender chemise sifted over a slender, stately form. Anne Randolph moved down the wide steps with the grace of a dancer, more grace than he could ever hope to achieve. She would turn him out. For that alone, she would turn him out.
Her eyes changed. Not the way Judith’s did, with her surroundings. This woman’s eyes veiled, as if she had dozens of invisible lids she could place over their green brilliance. The intricate complexity of her beauty wove around him like an enchantment. Warm mixed with cold on her like snow on a sheltering tree.
When she met them, she looked not into his eyes, but at the space between them. An artifice, an imitation of directness. “Mr. Washington,” she said softly—and it was sealed, what they should call him in her presence. “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” he said carefully. Were the words in English? Yes.
Behind her strutted a man in clerical black. He resembled Winthrop in height, but was without his imposing size.
“My second son, Clayton.”
Clayton Randolph bowed stiffly.
“Grandmama!” Betsy called. She jumped down from her father’s
arms to bound toward the woman’s welcome. “Mrs. Madison visited Uncle Ethan three times, once with a bright-plumage bird on her shoulder! We ate ice creams every day she came!”
arms to bound toward the woman’s welcome. “Mrs. Madison visited Uncle Ethan three times, once with a bright-plumage bird on her shoulder! We ate ice creams every day she came!”
“How delightful, darling. But we must bring our guest inside now, he looks tired.”
“He’s not our guest, Grandmama! He’s your little boy who was lost, come home. Don’t you know him?”
Anne Randolph’s eyes met his at last. “I’m sorry, Mr. Washington, for the child.”
“She has been a treasure,
madame.”
madame.”
“I will apologize for—” She bit her lower lip and he caught a glimpse of the girl she’d once been. “—for myself, then. This has all happened too suddenly for me.”
“You are most brave and generous to entertain the possibility that I may be your son. And I would consider myself the most fortunate of men if it proves so.”
He bowed his head, unable to maintain this taut, rational equilibrium under the veiled scrutiny of those eyes. He felt the light, trembling touch of her fingers on his shoulder. Long fingers, like his own. Cold. Was she afraid too? Of what? That he was not her son? Or that he was?
Her elder sons quickly flanked her, taking each arm. Winthrop glared. Clayton raised his eyebrow with what seemed detached curiosity.
“Well, if you’re not going to kiss him,” Betsy proclaimed, folding her arms, “I shall have to bring him to Mama.”
T
he entry of the airy, splendid house was a dazzling shine of marble, cream-painted wood, and urn finials. In their midst was a brass chandelier and a staircase that spiraled up from two directions. Ethan felt more dizzy than the first time he’d experienced the sun on the wide deck of the
Standard.
he entry of the airy, splendid house was a dazzling shine of marble, cream-painted wood, and urn finials. In their midst was a brass chandelier and a staircase that spiraled up from two directions. Ethan felt more dizzy than the first time he’d experienced the sun on the wide deck of the
Standard.
“Stop. Please,” he whispered to the bondsman.
Aaron halted midstep. Judith felt Ethan’s face with the back of her hand. A simple gesture, he knew, to assure herself of his health. The affection behind it eased his lightheadedness. “I don’t know this place, these people. Judith, might we go? I don’t know them.”
He brought her ministering hand to his lips, then gave it the kiss he longed to give his mother. The one Anne Randolph did not invite.
“Betsy,” Judith called the little girl, who was already halfway to the first landing, “would thee show us to thy grandpapa’s study?”
His niece took her hand. Ethan noticed for the first time how Judith’s clothes contrasted with those of the Randolphs. The cloth was more textured, of plain color and simple lines, without ornamentation. How directly it complemented her beauty, without distracting his already tired eyes with swirls and variations of color and design. He was still following the flow of the folds from her waistband when Aaron placed him on a chair in the small room. The bondsman opened heavy green drapery from the windows.
The sunlight entered the room selectively, lighting two tapestries depicting a medieval harvest celebration, the carved mahogany chests, and the long trestle table with silver candlesticks on each end.
“Familiar?” Judith asked him softly.
He felt he had shrunk to the size of the tip of his smallest finger. Impossible. He was sitting in the captain’s quarters of the two-masted brig he’d made aboard the
Standard
, the one Fayette had placed in Judith’s bag. “Only in dreams,” he whispered.
Standard
, the one Fayette had placed in Judith’s bag. “Only in dreams,” he whispered.
She stooped beside his chair. “A source of comfort, then?”
“The color, it’s wrong.”
Aaron joined Judith. “What about the color, sir?” he asked.
“Not green. The walls should be rose, that rose,” he pointed to a reveler’s tunic in the old tapestry.
The black man grinned. “The younger Master Winthrop had us paint this room, just last month.” He lowered his voice. “He don’t think his daddy’s going to be well enough ever to see what he done. Walls will shake when the old master comes down, I say!”
“Are you ready to see my mama now, Uncle?” Betsy said, tugging at his sleeve.
Ethan smiled. “Yes. I must compliment Mrs. Gibson on her excellent taste in daughters.”
S
ally Gibson’s room faced the south side of the house. It was bright in the afternoon sun. The high Palladian windows overlooked an expansive boxwood maze that hedged pathways through gardens alive with early summer flowers. Fayette had taught him the names of some flowers. It was too late for the jonquils, crocus, and hyacinth, but the purple and yellow irises were in full bloom.
ally Gibson’s room faced the south side of the house. It was bright in the afternoon sun. The high Palladian windows overlooked an expansive boxwood maze that hedged pathways through gardens alive with early summer flowers. Fayette had taught him the names of some flowers. It was too late for the jonquils, crocus, and hyacinth, but the purple and yellow irises were in full bloom.
The woman standing by the windows was swaddled in pale green folds of a cashmere shawl. She turned as they entered. The sun dappled shadows across her form. She looked like the rest of them—imposing, light-eyed, hair kissed by the sun. But the features that had hardened in
her brothers were distinctive on her, and tempered by kindness. Aaron placed Ethan on the brocade sofa.
her brothers were distinctive on her, and tempered by kindness. Aaron placed Ethan on the brocade sofa.
The woman walked slowly to him, the train of her chemise the only whisper in the room. Ethan lost the sense of Judith beside him, then Aaron. Even his niece had gone silently. Sally Gibson sat. Her recovering, distended body was full of mystery. Her eyes were as green as Anne Randolph’s. But without veils, without confusion.
She gently lifted the hair from the side of his face burned by the cannon’s blast off Trafalgar. Warm lips pressed a kiss there, though it had long since healed, though his brows had grown in again over whitened scars.
“Mother called it a great injustice—you getting eyelashes women would swoon over, while she and I were gifted so sparsely.”
“Did she?” he whispered.
A flood welled up, faster and worse than any that had ever invaded the hold of the
Standard
. The woman blurred.
Standard
. The woman blurred.
She held out her arms as his body betrayed him, shaking, sputtering. It began to wrack itself free of sobs. She allowed it, welcomed it, holding him close. Ethan smelled the milk soaking her bodice. He knew that smell. “You’re safe now, sweet boy,” the woman promised. “You’re home.”
T
he gull screamed. How had the bird gotten so far belowdecks? “Fayette,” he called, “the gull, she’s caught, let her out!”
he gull screamed. How had the bird gotten so far belowdecks? “Fayette,” he called, “the gull, she’s caught, let her out!”
He opened his eyes. Judith had his shoulders. “No, no. Not caught. Hungry,” she assured him. “And not a gull, a baby.”
“A … ?”
“A baby,” she said again.
He took her wrist, steadying himself to its pulse. “Baby?”
“Yes, silly.”
She left him, walked to the windows where Sally Gibson was in a draped chair, her new daughter at her breast. A tray sat close by, the mingling aromas of beef stock, vegetables, yeast bread, and honey-smoked ham tantalizing.
Judith put a white blanket over her shoulder, then took the tiny bundle from her mother’s arms. Sally sat back, smiled at him. Affection shone from her eyes. Was this glorious woman who’d held him, then sang him to sleep, his sister? What had gained him her love? he wondered, astonished.
Betsy rose from where she’d been stacking alphabet blocks with a
child who was a smaller version of herself. No, this one had her father’s pointed chin, Ethan realized as they took each other’s hands and approached with Judith and the baby.
child who was a smaller version of herself. No, this one had her father’s pointed chin, Ethan realized as they took each other’s hands and approached with Judith and the baby.
Betsy stopped them all, then stepped ahead. “Uncle Ethan, may I present my sisters Alice and Charlotte? Alice, you’d better curtsy so he knows you are neither a bird nor a cabbage,” she instructed.
Alice obeyed formally.
Ethan sat up higher. “A pleasure, ladies,” he said.
He took the younger child’s offered hand and watched her light eyes fire with indignation. “Like Mrs. President Mad’son, if you please,” Alice insisted.
“Like—?”
“Kiss my hand!”
He looked over the curly head at the child’s mother.
“If you please,”
Sally mouthed silently, mimicking. He kissed the dimpled knuckles, stifling a smile.
“If you please,”
Sally mouthed silently, mimicking. He kissed the dimpled knuckles, stifling a smile.
Judith sat beside him. “Charlotte,” she whispered. He peered into the blankets in her arms, left breathless by the tiny face, the perfect fingers, the sweet scent that emanated from Charlotte Gibson. “Oh, Judith,” he finally whispered. “Let’s steal them all.”
Alice turned on her older sister, her eyes wide with horror. “See? He is a pirate, and not our uncle at all!”
“Of course he’s our uncle, he only used to be a pirate.”
“He doesn’t look anything like an uncle. He’s dark and clever and foreign, like a pirate.”
Their mother swooped down. “What a notion, you silly creatures!”
“But, Mama, Uncle Winthrop says he’s come to steal—”
“Return to your game,” she told them in a low, calm voice that had molten lava behind it.
“But you said we might feed him when he woke,” Betsy cajoled softly. “We’ve been playing so quietly, and he does look awfully hungry.”
Their mother’s frown lightened. “Very well. Betsy, you may pour the soup. Alice, prepare a cold plate.”
Ethan watched the miniatures go about their tasks. He smiled at their mother.
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