The Randolph Legacy (52 page)

Read The Randolph Legacy Online

Authors: Eileen Charbonneau

BOOK: The Randolph Legacy
7.22Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Suddenly the bright clouds, the waves, the calling gulls, were too
much to bear. Ethan closed his eyes, shutting them all out. But pictures started there, behind his eyelids. “Oh God. You did not flee the Tidewater, like the dancing masters, and craftsmen, and tradesmen. When my—when her husband was away in Europe. At the time of the epidemic.”
“Yes.”
“And I was not born early.”
“No. Only obligingly small.”
Ethan opened his eyes. Jordan Foster was holding his arm in that curious warm grasp from their first meeting. “You abandoned us, then?” he whispered.
“No. Your mother sent me away.”
“To Scotland. Your studies. To Maggie. Another family. Children. West. Indians.”
“Yes. Let me help you—”
Ethan pushed the hand away. “Why hasn’t my mother ever told me?”
“She was protecting you, in the only way she knew. It was hard for me, young, as you are now, to accept her choice. But it was made for you. So you would not grow up wanting, and in the shadow of her disgrace.
When she lost you to the sea, there was no consoling her. Now that she has you back, after all these years, I think she fears losing you all over again.”
“Losing me?”
“Yes. Your love, your forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?”
“I—I need it, too.”
Ethan grabbed the iron railing, letting his eyes warn Jordan Foster back as he rose to his feet on his own power. When the healing hand approached his face, he turned away, clenching the rail. “It requires nothing.” Ethan watched the swells. “Why did you not tell me, before this?”
“I promised her.”
A promise. To his fragile, steel-eyed mother. This he understood. His voice turned quiet. “So. We both broke promises to her today.”
“Yes.” The doctor waited until he turned away from the sea, a long time. “Well?”
“‘Well?’” Ethan echoed with a perverse satisfaction.
“Well … say something!”
A gull swooped down to the water’s ripple, caught his prize. “If you wished to distract me from our encounter with Prescott Lyman, you have accomplished your goal.”
The schooner’s sails moved them away from sight of land, and out onto the open sea. That was all Ethan needed to bury the remaining shock, to banish the childish anger over what-might-have-been from his heart. The time of Jordan Foster’s punishment was over. He felt the physician’s hand on his arm. Warm, familiar. “Please. Let me check your jaw.”
Ethan locked his eyes on this man, his father. “I have dreamed of snow. Sleighs, bells, Jordan.”
“Have you?”
He must stop. It was very rude, this mental tracing of hairline, eye color, height, shoulders. But he was a new man. Again. Not an improper Randolph. A Foster. Mrs. Willard had surmised long before he had that he was not a proper one of those, either, of course, but a Foster. Hands. Hadn’t Eli said his hands were like Jordan’s? Did Eli know? Did Judith? Would Sally love him less when she discovers herself half a sister?
He looked out over the Atlantic, as wide and deep as his women’s love. It would not change, no matter who he was. Of that he was certain, as certain as the realization that this was his last time riding these
waves. His beautiful, determined wife would draw him into the western wilderness, where the Ohio’s waters would have to content him. “Good God,” he whispered suddenly, “my ancestors hanged Quakers? For that alone Judith will go back to Philadelphia.”
“I don’t believe any of our people did,” Jordan said earnestly. “Some of them founded the town of Providence with Roger Williams, based on religious freedom for all. And, Ethan, our coloring … There are persistent rumors that the source was a marriage into the native population.”
Ethan grinned. “Indians? We are Indians? What kind?”
“Wannopeg. One of our grandmothers married a survivor of King Philip’s War, I believe.” He frowned suddenly. “Now, how did I know that my family’s best-guarded secret scandal would not be a source of dismay?”
Ethan laughed. “Walk the length of this fine ship with me, Jordan. Let’s see if Fayette or your dulcimer woman has sent us some dolphins, for Godspeed.”
 
 
“T
here, Judith. It’s so fortunate the styles of the day are such to keep your interesting condition an enhancement! And there’s still room for you to remain lithe in dancing with your husband upon his return.”
Judith stared down at the sea green silk that flowed from her high waistband. She could dance now. Anne Randolph had brought in the fiddler every day and kept her busy learning quadrilles, line dances, and even the scandalous waltz, Ethan’s favorite.
Judith had suffered his women’s attempts to give her grace, glad for their company, their lively, open hearts. And she loved his cantankerous father’s courtly efforts to please her with French delicacies from Martha’s kitchen. Their daily talks in the scrolled bench he had installed in the corner of Sally’s flower garden were now treasures of her heart. He’d been a man of his word. Prescott Lyman had been banished from Windover since that first night.
But he remained the guest of Winthrop and Clara, a mere three miles away. It kept Judith close to the big house, and in the company of family. Still, the feeling that Prescott Lyman was watching her came at odd moments. It came now. She was afraid of those eyes, always intense, now burning. They said her eyes had been like that once, fired with purpose, when pursuing her missions. Would there be no more missions, if she submitted to her husband? If she still had a husband.
Where was Ethan? Would he return? Would they remain here at
Windover? Would he become an indolent planter’s son? Worse? Was he already worse? No. That was poison, Prescott Lyman’s poison. She knew Ethan Randolph as she knew her own soul. She had chosen him—a difficult choice, but wasn’t she the same for him? He was a healer, not a killer. A devoted, loving husband, whose touch she missed beyond reason.
Am I beyond reason, Papa?
Her mind pleaded with her father’s spirit.
Am I beyond God, and
—
what Prescott Lyman believes
—
blinded by my desire for this man?
“Why, Judith, the color has quite left your face,” Anne said. “Are you tired, sweetling?”
“A little.”
“In need of your solitude, perhaps? Away from our chatter?”
“I love your company,” she admitted to women and children who would have never been in her sphere of influence had she remained a dutiful Quaker.
“Still, what if Ethan should come home today, and you were the least bit wan?” her mother-in-law asked now.
Sally rolled her eyes. “We would be subjected to that imperious French tone of chastisement. Mama’s right, Judith.”
“Let’s get these dreadful pins out of you.”
Judith laughed. “They’re not sticking me anywhere, Mother. Please finish the hem first.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
The women continued their work in a happy, full silence. Even Sally’s daughters played more quietly, there by the big casement windows—open, so tall, like Randolphs and Blairs, like these Virginians’ hospitality. The sheer lace blew in a salty breeze, reminding her of her sea-loving husband. Where was Ethan? she wondered again. Would any of their efforts lure him home?
Betsy called from where she held a spyglass to her eye. “A new ship, Mama! It’s docking!”
Anne Randolph raised her head. “From upriver?”
“No, Grandmama—from the great Atlantic!”
“Pirates?” her younger sister asked.
“I spy two, the first two disembarking. Yes, all handsome and dressed in black—pirates! Dr. Foster and Uncle Ethan!
“Give me that glass, you silly creatures!” their mother demanded, then held the instrument. “Mama, Judith … it is they!”
“From the open sea?” Anne demanded. “Those two have some explaining to do!”
“They will, Mama, they will. But they must be hungry. And no wonder Martha and Phoebe have been boiling plum duff all morning! They must have known! Let’s tell them to bring it over. Come, girls. Close all the shutters but the one on that window, yes, that one casts such a lovely light on Judith. Hurry now, that recalcitrant brother of mine is not minding his leg at all. He’s quite ahead of our Jordan. Judith! Stand here, so he will look up and not regret his return from the sea.”
Slowly, in the ringing silence of the women’s wake, Judith raised the glass to her eye. There, below, so close now. Her young husband, handsome even in black, was being ambushed by his nieces. He swung them high in the air. Then he embraced his mother and sister, whose words, as Sally directed his gaze to the window, transformed his tight-with-worry face into one beaming its relieved joy. Joy. At the sight of her. She must get out of this gown, Judith realized, feeling her blood race. She must not stab her fine-formed man with a hundred dressmaker pins.
Footsteps. And the fear, searing her being.
“You allowed that man your body, Judith?”
Prescott Lyman. In her room.
Impossible,
she thought. “You”? Where was his Quaker “thee”?
Talk.
Her only hope.
Through your fear, Judith. Find your voice. Talk.
“He is my husband,” she whispered. “A good man. One my father loved as his own—”
“Murderer!”
“Stop it!”
He shook his head. “Stop. Of course. There is no going on, for either of us, is there, Judith?”
“You must leave. I do not want you here.”
“Are you afraid of me? Or the truth I bring?”
“Perhaps only God will know the truth of that day.”
“I think you know.”
“‘Know’?”
“I am sent here to lift the veils.”
“What veils?”
“The ones within which you have shrouded this man, your husband. These slaveholders, they have enslaved you in that whore’s satin, in their sensual world. You are victim of them, of your murdering husband’s carnality. When the veils are lifted, when you are cleansed of his seed, your powerful Light might shine again. I am the instrument. God has sent me to do these things, Judith.”
“Now. Come away from the window,” Prescott Lyman commanded
. “Unless you wish to have an unfortunate fall.”
Judith’s eyes judged how far away Anne Randolph’s sewing basket was, its scissors within.
“My new daughter has the grace of a deer. She will not fall, sir.” The master of Windover stood in the doorway, displaying a shining saber. “This weapon has been in my family for seven generations, Mr. Lyman, no Quaker stranger to killing.”
“Neither am I,” Prescott Lyman proclaimed, pulling a pistol from his coat and pointing it at the man’s head. “Stand aside.”
Judith rushed forward. Prescott Lyman backhanded her hard, knocking her off her feet.
The elder Randolph raised the sword in both hands, whacked her attacker soundly, then turned the blade, slicing his side. Prescott Lyman stared at the gleaming blood, then fired his weapon. Judith watched the old man stagger back. The close-range burn mark at his abdomen turned red. His eyes held their determination, but his powerful body had no function.
Prescott Lyman threw down the pistol in disgust. “Damned old man!” he muttered, kicking Winthrop aside as he pulled Judith through the doorway.
 
 
E
than lifted Winthrop Randolph into his arms. He packed his handkerchief against the wound. “Didn’t like that man,” Winthrop muttered, “from the first. Now. Hurting her, your good choice, Ethan. Not in my house! Stop fussing, child. Go—give chase. West. The river. The falls, where we lost Aubrey. Go.”
Ethan rose. Jordan grabbed his arm.
“Look after my father. Please.”
The physician released him, nodding.
Ethan rushed past his advancing sister, slowed by her clinging little
girls. He grabbed the children, one under each arm without breaking his stride.
“Charlotte?” He asked after his youngest niece.
“In Martha’s kitchen,” Sally said.
“Mama!” Alice screamed.
“Go with your uncle, girls,” she commanded, rolling back her sleeves. “Take care of the babies.”
When Ethan burst through the doorway, Martha and Phoebe turned from their baking-day fire in astonishment.
“Keep mine with yours, yes, Martha?” he asked, breathless.
“Always welcome, but—”
“All children inside. Bolt the door.”
Her eyes widened. “Yes, sir.” He felt her long, strong fingers grab his head in a curious, familiar hold. She’d done that on the dock, the day he went to sea. And before, long before, after she’d broken the bag of waters, and eased his way out of his mother’s body. How was he remembering that? All of her strength seemed to flow into him as she planted a hard kiss on his forehead. “Godspeed,” she said, and released him.
 
 
H
er unfinished gown was leaving a bright trail to her, as parts of it unpinned, taking root in brush and branches, Judith realized. Prescott Lyman didn’t seem to comprehend this, or anything, except pulling them higher, and toward the rushing spring waters.
“An innocent is within me, Prescott,” she warned quietly. “You must not hurt us.”
“I have done so already, don’t you understand yet? That first time. I only held the horses then. The children, like lambs to their slaughter. The woman, her screams echoing in my head ever after. My brother charged me to finish with his dying breath. It would not have been so painful for your father if he hadn’t turned that damned Virginian toward you. I would have spared you both. I had found a bloodless path!”
“What are you saying?”
“You had to find him like that, Judith. So that it could be planted in your mind that your sailor could dispatch a disapproving father like a rat.”
“Dear God.”
“But his carnal hold on you was too strong—rutting you against a tree’s trunk like an animal! Or perhaps my laudanum made you without
resistance to his abduction that day at Meeting? I’m sorry if that was so.”
“It was not the laudanum. And it was no abduction.”
“You married him freely?”
“Yes.”
“Not my fault, your choice. A comfort to me, then. You still seek to comfort. Extraordinary. Extraordinary woman. And so difficult to kill.”
“Come back to the house with me, Prescott,” she urged.
“No.” He yanked her wrist. “Higher. His leg is bad. I need him weakened, after what his meddlesome hulk of a father did to me. I took his spoiled, lovesick son into my household. I offered that worthless brat a life with my Ruth. Look on this!” He offered her his bloodied hand. “That was not very hospitable of him! I do not trust fathers. Yours caused all this, with his terrible choices, in army, in land, in husband for you.”
“You slander a good man.”
“I keep my promise to a better one.”
“Promise, or curse? You can stop it here, Prescott. You have that power.”
“Do I, wise Judith, my counselor in ragged finery?” He swung her in an arc until she fell on the flat rock, scraping her palms on the blue stone as she protected her middle. His look hardened further as he finally took in her ballroom silk, turned to rags. “Do you remove your gown to entice me?” he demanded. “You, whom I once thought dwelled only in the realm of the Spirit? How far you’ve come to earth, Mrs. Randolph. Shall I cut out your eloquent tongue, so it will not entice me? Shall I let your husband discover you then? Perhaps that will send him into one of his mad fits. Will that finally finish him?”
The image of Ethan thrashing about the library’s bed suddenly blinded Judith with tears.
“For him! Still you weep only for him!”
She struggled to rein in her grief, her shame for ever doubting Ethan.
—
Calm. Calm, Judith.
Whose thought was that winging its way into her being? “Let it be clean,” she whispered. “With dispatch. I would not cause my husband any more pain.”
He pulled a vial from his vest pocket and crouched beside her. Blood from his side stained the rockface. Was he weakening? “Drink this,” he said with an icy coldness.
“No.”
“Judith,” he reprimanded. “Find your courage.”
She raised her head. “Swear it. Swear on your brother’s memory that you will not cause my Ethan any harm, after.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A Quaker demanding I swear?”
“I am no Quaker. Neither are you. Swear.”
“You think me heartless, don’t you? I am not a heartless man. What you ask for him is not a mercy. I would I had died with my brother. Once your husband has been punished with the sight of you, I would not leave him to become the shell the years have made me.”
“That will not happen. He is not you. He has endured worse trials than you have. And he answers with goodness, always.”
He laughed. “That’s what she used to tell me, that woman, my Quaker wife, who led me back to you. ‘Answer it with goodness,’ when my brother’s death grip was on me, when his voice would rise up in the night and charge me again.”
“Hear her. Hear us both now.”
“Too late. It grows within you, Judith. A future. That cannot be allowed. This man who made me kill, he will see you cleansed before I kill him.”
“Cleansed?” Judith asked softly.
“Of the child. Lay back.”
Judith’s fingers found Anne Randolph’s sharp-bladed scissors, slid them soundlessly open. He would not hurt her child while she had breath.
“Stay away from us,” she warned.
“It can be so much easier, dear Judith. Drink first. Let the contents take you beyond the pain, to that place of visions you’re always seeking. There.” He came closer. But there, in the tree above them, a flash of silver. The buttons of Ethan’s vest? Closer. “That’s my love,” her tormentor soothed. “I will leave you to God, I promise. If you survive the cleansing, I will take you back. With him gone, we will form our chaste union.”
Now, before he laid a hand on her. She thrust where she thought his heart was. Wrong. The scissors pieced his skin, but hit bone. She tried again. He laughed, grabbed her wrist, pinning it to the rock. She screamed the scream she’d been holding, waiting to release since she found her mother and siblings dead by the hearth, her father dangling in the chimney. Its sound drove the birds skyward and Ethan from the tree.

Other books

Spanish Gold by Kevin Randle
Off Limits by Vos, Alexandra
On the Edge by Pamela Britton
Maggie's Breakfast by Gabriel Walsh
The Fallen Queen by Emily Purdy
Saints of Augustine by P. E. Ryan
MuTerra-kindle by R. K. Sidler
Vegas Love by Jillian Dodd