Riding Shotgun (25 page)

“Does she like me?”

“As much as she likes any woman,” Margaret filled in.

“Oh.” Cig was beginning to regret her insistence upon visiting Wessex.

“She lost four children, you see,” Margaret said, “and I believe that compelled her to favor Lionel although she doesn’t hesitate to criticize him.”

“He’s devoted to her, of course,” Cig flatly stated—they always were under those circumstances.

“Yes, but he’s not unaware of her tyrannies.”

“Oh, brother,” Cig exclaimed under her breath.

“What?” Tom asked.

“Just an idle expression.” She sighed.

• • •

Two and a half hours later they entered cleared lands, which in spring would be planted in corn, tobacco, and oats. Hickories, walnuts, and chestnuts towered in the pastures beyond. Finally Wessex hove into view. The central portion was a red-brick four-over-four home executed in the latest style, the beginnings of what would later be termed Georgian. The windows set in white wood provided a pleasing contrast to the brick. Crisp black shutters, each held back by a wrought-iron scroll, gave the house a formal facade, as did the fan window over the large double doors. Gray smoke curled from two of the four symmetrical chimneys.

On both sides of the house in the back, perpendicular to it, ran rows, or ranges, of smaller brick houses; tiny dependencies housing servants, a foundry, salt storage, a carpentry shop, a wheelwright’s shop, and other shops that Cig couldn’t identify. Wessex, a hive of activity, astonished her. Most of the workers were English, a few were African, but what really knocked her back was the number of Indians on the property.

Margaret, noting her surprise, said, “They’re here to do business with Lionel or to pay homage. They stay over in the dependencies or camp by the river. They’ve a fondness for copper like our fondness for gold. Lionel trades copper kettles and flat pieces cut into foot-square sheets. The finished items he imports from England, of course, but he has a mine somewhere up the river. A few people have gone there—”

“Escorted by soldiers,” Tom interrupted.

“Why don’t the Indians take it away from him?” Cig asked.

Tom smiled. “Because they don’t know how to smelt the ore and Lionel does.”

“They also bring him copper to work,” Tom added, “from mines far north, where the Indians say there are lakes of fantastic size.”

“The Great Lakes,” Cig said.

“What?”

“That’s what they’re called.”

“I’ve never heard that.” Tom checked Castor and Pollux who were eager to reach their destination because it meant getting unhitched, rubbed down and fed in a luxurious Wessex stall.

“The Indian names are too difficult to pronounce,” Cig replied, thinking fast. “It’s easier to say great lakes.” She stopped, staring at a young, tall Indian. “He looks like the Indian in the mists.” Then she noticed another Indian, the right side of his head also shaved, the hair on the left side twisted in a long coil about four feet, with little bits of copper and brightly colored thread woven into the hair. “But then—”

“Powhatans.”

“Why do they shave the right sides of their heads?”

“Easier to draw a bow that way. The priests have the whole head shaved with a lock running down the middle. Each tribe of the Algonquins has a slightly different way of dressing its hair or cutting its clothes. The Iroquois and Sioux confederations differ in dress more than the Algonquins.”

“Some men are covered with tattoos of fanciful design. And what strikes me as odd is how quickly they have learned our language,” Margaret said.

“Why is that odd?”

Margaret wrinkled her nose as a snowflake fell on it. “Not many of our people have learned their languages.”

“Our grandfathers knew more than we do,” Tom said. “Father used to say, ‘If the Powhatans and the Appomatucks wanted to kill us they could easily have done so.’”

“Then what went wrong in 1622?”

“No one knows.” Tom shrugged. “There was a great queen of the Appomatucks. While she lived all was well. Things soured after she died. I don’t suppose anyone will ever know the truth.”

“Maybe one of us did something wrong.” Cig’s heart raced. Much as she wanted to relax around the Indians she was afraid of them.

“I’ve thought of that myself,” Tom mumbled.

Before Tom reined in Castor and Pollux, two wiry young men sprinted toward the wagon, reaching for the horses’ bridles. Another man, a bit fat, dressed in livery, emerged from the house.

“Welcome, ladies.” He bowed, reaching up to assist them.

“Good to see you, Samuel.” Tom smiled as the butler led them up the stairs.

Lionel nearly knocked him over as he rushed through the door. “Pryor…”He bowed to Margaret then took Cig’s hand, glancing over his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to slight you, Tom.”

“I’m glad you didn’t greet my wife that rapturously, Lionel.”

“Only because you married her first, Thomas,” Lionel gallantly replied.

“Lionel, you could charm the birds out of the trees.”

“I’m singing only to this swan.” He smiled broadly at Cig as Samuel shut the door behind them.

Before Cig could admire the center hall, the rows of ancestral paintings, the luster of the rich, patterned floors, a commanding alto voice rang out. “Lionel, who is here? I demand to see them this instant.”

Samuel winked at Lionel, trotting ahead to pacify the lady of the manor.

“We’re flying to you, Mother,” Lionel called, then under his breath said to Cig, “Amuse her and ignore half of what she says. You know Mother.”

They entered a room with mahogany wainscoting in a squared design halfway up the wall. Pale yellow silk moiré covered the rest of the wall up to an ornately carved ceiling, also in mahogany. Cig, unprepared for such splendor, gaped.

“What are you staring at, missy?” Kate demanded.

“I—I had forgotten how beautiful this room is,” Cig stammered.

“Ha! When it’s gilded then I’ll have something to brag about. Lionel, you don’t listen to me. I tell you to bring over a gilder from Paris. What does he do? He brings over more copper pots.”

“Patience, Mother, patience.” Lionel smiled at his mother, a tall woman by the standards of the day, and she was stretched to her full height standing in the middle of the room to receive her guests.

“Old women don’t have patience!” she snapped.

“I don’t see any old women in this room,” Cig said, but not obsequiously. Cig had dealt with imperious dowagers all her life and knew the first rule is never let them bully you.

“You always were the prettiest liar, Pryor Deyhle.” Kate grumbled but she was pleased despite herself. “Well, sit yourself down so I can hear more of your prattle. You, too, Tom and Margaret.”

Samuel hovered at the doorway.

“Don’t just stand there, Samuel, bring our guests refreshments. Hot.”

“Would madam wish the spiced wine and some breads?”

“Madam would and quickly.” She rapped the floor with her foot. Samuel disappeared.

“We missed you at Edward Hill’s,” Margaret said.

“Lionel spared me not a detail, to further accent my misery. My lumbago flared up and I languished here in a stupor of pain, I tell you, a veritable stupor. What does my fine son do but burst through the door to tell me that Mistress Deyhle rode like a centaur and nearly up on her horse’s neck. And where did you learn that, young lady?”

“In London.”

“Well, if it’s the fashion soon every Tom, Dick, and Harry will be doing it. I heard also that you were most peculiarly dressed.”

“Again, the new fashion.”

“Fashion is for imbeciles!”

Cig fired back, “Then all is lost for you are the most fashionable lady in the colonies.”

“Pshaw!” Kate frowned then smiled. “Oh, do tell that to Amelie Boothrod, how I would rejoice to see that painted face fall.” She cocked her head to focus on Cig.

The motion made her look like a parrot. It was then that Cig realized the woman was blind in her left eye; a faint dot of white in the pupil gave evidence to that.

“Perhaps she uses all that paint because she regards herself as a work of art.”

Kate exclaimed, “Well said, Pryor!”

Samuel arrived, flanked by two other livened servants, bearing trays of cakes, spiced hot wine and sweetmeats. Lace napkins, neatly folded, were also on the trays.

“Lionel, don’t just stand there. Get your mother some wine.” She paused. “After our guests are served, of course.” That meant for Samuel to step on it which he did.

Kate brought the cup to her lips but sniffed the enticing aroma before tasting the wine. “I’ve had better,” she barked.

“Sorry, madam.”

“You’re too modest. This is the most delicious mulled wine I’ve ever imbibed,” Cig responded.

“A bit of orange rind ground fine, my dear, very fine. Naturally, there is more to the recipe, which I refuse to divulge until you marry my son. Mind you, I don’t relish the prospect of a useless daughter-in-law underfoot spoiling my routine, but he won’t be happy until you are his bride. He speaks of love. Oh, Lionel, really,” her voice dropped, “marriage has little to do with love and a great deal to do with stability.”

“You loved my father.”

“I learned to love him. I certainly didn’t start out loving him. You young people are putting the cart before the horse. All this blather about love. If you’re in love before you get married you surely won’t be in love afterwards. Love is a slow flower and flourishes best upon the soil of respect. Cart before the horse, I’m telling you.” She defiantly glanced around the room. The servants bowed their heads. Cig laughed outright. “Impudent! You always were impudent.”

“Mistress deVries, perhaps love can be cultivated in many fashions,” Margaret suggested.

“Are you now going to upset my digestion by informing me with soulful eyes that you cannot live without my son? That you love as no one has loved before?” She turned to Cig.

“Mother—”

“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

“You never want to hear anyone’s opinion but your own.” Lionel laughed. His mother could drive him to distraction but he did love her.

“Simply because my opinion has not been hatched in a broody box of untrammeled emotion.” She trained her one good eye on Margaret. Margaret, not comfortable under that searing gaze, nonetheless stood up for herself. “I confess, when I look at Tom I am, as you put it, all untrammeled emotion. My knees sometimes go weak.”

“Ha, the beginning of rheumatism,” the old woman shouted as Samuel discreetly handed her another glass of spiced wine. She noticed Tom smiling at his wife. “Oh, don’t look at her with those cow eyes.”

“She is my alpha and my omega,” he declared.

“Lovesick puppies.” She knocked back her wine with one hand while the other reached for a sweetmeat. Samuel quickly placed the tray under her hand as the other servant relieved her of her cup, returning it refilled. She swept her eye over them. “What is love?”

Cig replied, “Don’t ask me.”

“Love is what you make of it. Like a humor, some are choleric, some sanguine—”

She interrupted her son. “That’s a tepid explanation.”

“Love is a mystery. If we knew the answer then where would be the pleasure? The joy of a mystery is precisely in
not
knowing.” Margaret’s long eyelashes lowered.

Cig added, “Since love concerns the heart, how can the head comprehend it? You feel it—and that’s what frightens me.”

“Ah yes.” The slender hand with one large diamond paused while bringing the glass to her lips. “Now that I do understand. Pryor, you’ve changed. London seasoned you. I’ve changed, too. I’ve gotten even older. I didn’t think I would live this long. I’m bored. I’ve seen people marry. I’ve seen them have children. I’ve seen fortunes made and fortunes lost. The same old prattle wearies me: tobacco prices, land prices, the Crown plays chess with France—it’s all the same. Only the cut of one’s bodice changes.” She sipped her wine this time. “But you, Pryor, you have changed. I find
women suffocatingly boring, you know. Make no secret of it.” She opened her mouth to say that for this instant she was not bored but decided that too great a compliment to bestow. Besides, the minute the remark escaped her lips she probably would be bored.

“Mother, you must be tired—”

“Not at all.” She smiled wickedly at Lionel, delighted in his discomfort for he wanted to be rid of her. “Tell me, Pryor, what did you learn in London?”

“That we are not truly Englishmen, ma’am. They do not understand us. They cannot imagine life here in the New World. We are becoming a new people and in time we will be quite different—we will be Americans.”

Shocked by this radical thought, Kate blinked then leaned forward, pointing at Cig. “How are we different? For I believe I am as good an Englishman as King William himself or the late Queen, God rest her soul.”

“We have no limits. We will someday settle the Falls, Mrs. deVries.” She forgot that Mrs. wasn’t a form of address. It was mistress, madam, mademoiselle, or the title of nobility, as in your Grace. “We will march ever westward. What do we care for the wars of the Continent? We have enough here to keep us happy forever. And someday we will build theaters and libraries and hospitals. In London their thinking is circumscribed by the boundaries of that small island. We are so enormous a land mass we have no boundaries, and it will affect how we think.”

“That’s extraordinary,” Kate gasped. “I don’t know what to think. I like being English.”

“We have no choice, anyway.” Lionel laughed, but he was intrigued by what Pryor said, intrigued and a bit worried. That kind of talk could create difficulties. “You are still a loyal subject of the king, no matter—”

Margaret quietly said, “We are all loyal subjects of the Crown, Lionel. Still, I can see how we will become different. What of those Indians we passed coming here? No one in London can imagine such men.”

“Lionel, it seems you wish a bride with a brain.”

“Well, Mother,” he smoothly replied, “I learned it from you.”

The corner of Kate’s mouth turned upward. “Pryor, will you marry my son?”

“Mother—” He was exasperated.

“He is so handsome that a woman has to guard against him.” Cig’s voice was warm. “One is so dazzled by the cover one has not had time to read the book.”