Surrender the Wind (38 page)

His heart gripped in his chest. Like a hammer, its rhythm pounded, while he strained his eyes to comprehend the face. He stood motionless, shaken, his muscles tense, with his hands flexed.

He whispered, “Juleah?”

He frowned and pressed his lips together against the pang of sorrow. He told himself what he had seen was a mere coincidence. What else could it be? Juleah was dead.

Gathering himself together, he crossed the street and looked up at the shingle outside the inn. He hesitated, not sure about going inside, for his conscience pricked him. Perhaps he should go to Annapolis first before returning home. It wasn’t far, and he could be there in a few hours if he had a swift horse or could find a boat going up the bay.

He headed back down to the docks. Fishermen lingered on the wharf, smoking clay pipes. “Is there a man among you willing to sail to Annapolis? I’ll pay you well.”

One man stood forward and accepted the offer. When they passed the mouth of the Potomac, the wind increased, billowed the sail, and sent the boat off like a startled deer. Lightning flashed across the horizon, leapt higher, and thunder rolled. Rain fell in misty sheets along the opposite shore. The rain never reached him, but the cool wind brushed against his face.

Soon enough, the town rose along the shoreline. He imagined Mr. Stowefield was enjoying the afterglow of a sabbath's rest. Seth regretted he would bear him bad news, but knew his duty. Perhaps a letter from Henry Chase had arrived by now and would make his meeting with the old gentleman easier.

After he paid the charitable fisherman, he made his way to Stowefield's house. The windows stood open. Curtains flapped in the breeze, while bluebottle flies landed on the broad sills. Partridge stepped outside the front door, broom in hand. She swept the front stoop with vigor, but when Seth approached the bottom step and drew off his hat, she stopped with a start.

“Mr. Braxton!” Her eyes enlarged with disbelief and she gasped. “My word. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to visit your employer.” Seth smiled.

Partridge put her hand on her ample hip. “Hmm. England didn’t work out for you, sir? Well, you know what they say? The grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the hill.”

“You are keen at supposition, ma’am.”

“I’ve been told that before, sir. Come inside if you will.” She opened the door and passed through it before him. “I shouldn’t be sweeping on a Sunday, but some child threw mud at the porch.” She set her broom aside and hurried into Mr. Stowefield's sitting room. He drew off his spectacles when Partridge entered.

“A surprise, Mr. Stowefield. A gentleman of your acquaintance to see you, sir.”

Stowefield closed the pages of his Bible and looked up. He stood as quick as his legs would allow. He’d grown thin, his head of hair white. His hands shook, and his eyes were a misty gray. In the doorway stood Seth.

Shocked, Stowefield threw open his arms. “Seth! What brings you back so soon? You have not been gone a year. Don’t tell me the place was a shambles and heavy with debt.”

“No, sir, but it was not what I counted on.”

“Hmm, it never is. Your sister is well?”

“Yes. She has a son and is happily married.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. And how is my favorite niece?” Stowefield glanced toward the doorway.

Seth could smile no longer. “I married her.”

Stowefield's mouth fell open with a thrill. “Yes, I know. She wrote to me and said she was happy. Ah, the surprise of seeing you pass over my threshold has muddled my brain.”

Seth did not know how to respond; he nodded and tried to smile. He looked upon the older man. How would he break the news to him without breaking his heart? But something else drew his eyes—Juleah's portrait. His heart swelled as he looked into her face. How could he ever forget the soft touch and honey taste of her lips?

Stowefield strode to the door. “You have brought her with you, no doubt. Where is she? Bring her in, Partridge. Juleah, where are you, child?”

Seth rested his hand on Stowefield's shoulder. “Juleah is not with me. There is more to tell and it is not good news. Please sit. I’ll tell you everything.”

At Seth's words, Stowefield's expression fell to worry. “Why? Has something happened?”

Moving him back inside the room to his chair, Seth drew up another in front of Stowefield. He went on to explain, spoke slowly at first, telling him about the fire, how he denied Juleah's death, how it could have cost him his sanity if not his life. He hated this. It caused him to remember the night he went to Henry Chase to tell her parents, the stunned looks on their faces, the scream of agony, the tears. Now he had to tell her uncle, whose face became more and more drawn and distraught as Seth unfolded the series of events.

Stowefield shrank back in his chair and moaned. “Tell me she lives, or that someone took her far away and you seek her. Tell me anything other than she is gone.”

“I wish it were otherwise, sir.” Seth watched the color drain from the old man's face. “If it were so, I would have brought her here to see you, and I would have taken her to Virginia, to my river and mountains. I do not know how I’ll go on living without her… . I’ll grieve a long time.” Seth felt every muscle tighten, tremble, and surge with emotion.

Shaken, Stowefield rose and shuffled to the window. He stared out at an empty street. Seth looked at the floor, gripped his hands together, enraged at the thing that took her from him, that forced his mind to reel with despair and rip into him the reality of her loss, of living without her the rest of his life.

“Poor, child,” Stowefield said, soft and painfully. He lifted his spectacles and wiped his eyes. “The last time I saw her was before the war. So pretty a child was she.” He turned to Seth and let out a ragged breath. “You loved her?”

Seth looked up. “More than my own life.” He ran his hand over his face and hung his head. “I had to leave England. I couldn’t stay any longer.”

“I’m sorry. God knows I am.” He put his hand on Seth's shoulder. “I’ll write to my sister. Oh, how I grieve with her and Henry, though their grief no doubt is far deeper than my own.”

“Lady Anna took it hard.”

Stowefield sighed. “I understand why she has not written, for it must be too painful to put it in a letter. What will you do now?”

“Go back home, build my father's estate, raise horses.” He could not continue. Sadness swept over him in waves.

“Stay with me a few days before you move on,” said Stowefield.

Seth looked over at him. “I would, sir, and I’m grateful for the offer. But I hope you understand the need I have to be alone. I would add to the melancholy of this house.”

“Nonsense. You know you are welcome here. But I do understand. When my Mildred passed on, I, too, wished to be alone, to grieve for her in my own way and in my own time without others chattering on and on about her, filling my ear with their sympathies, no matter how sincere. Is there anything I can do for you before you leave?”

“I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Seth answered. “Shipboard food is not the best, and I find my strength waning.”

Stowefield rose from his chair and called Partridge. She moved into the light of the doorway from the shadows. She’d been listening, her eyes sad and weepy. She brushed away her tears and hurried Seth off to the dining table. She carved and poured for him, then cleared the dishes when he had finished.

They walked together to the front door in silence. Stowefield took a moment to set his hand upon Seth's arm and pull him forward. Seth's own father had never embraced him, and though it seemed awkward, he understood when the old man put his arm around him.

Before he rounded the corner on King George Street, Seth turned and raised his hand in a sober farewell.

Back inside his house, Stowefield went into his parlor and stared at Juleah's portrait for several minutes. He’d give it to Seth. She was his wife after all, and it should go to him. He spent the rest of the evening writing a letter to his sister Anna.

When Partridge inquired about how he was feeling, Stowefield told her he could not shake off the sadness. She brought him a strong evening cup of chamomile and warm
milk to help him sleep. After he had drunk it down, he stood to take to his bed. But before he climbed between the sheets, coach wheels passed over the cobblestones and stopped outside his front door.

He peered out the window. Under the glow of the street-lamp stood a boxed-shaped coach, drawn by dappled horses. Curious, he watched the coachman drag the reins through his hands to steady the horses. The footman jumped down from his perch, placed the step down and opened the door. From this height, Stowefield spied the top of a lady's hat exiting the coach.

Annoyed, he moaned. “Who could that be at this hour?”

S
towefield's house was dark and solitary when Juleah arrived. An amber spray of moonlight brushed over the window glass. The flame in the streetlamp near the door glowed against red lacquer, causing the brass handle to twinkle.

When the footman handed her down from the coach, the mist-laden air stroked her face and the scent of the bay enveloped her in its seductive ambiance. Her knees weakened, and she gazed up for the first time at the two-story house. In an upper room, the glow of a candle passed before the window. She had not seen her uncle in years. Would he recognize her? What would his reaction be to finding her on his doorstep?

Lifting her skirts, she turned and asked the driver to wait. She glided up the stairs, lifted the door knocker, and let it fall. A moment later, the click of the lock, and the door opened. Around its edge, Partridge peered out in her nightcap and robe, with candle in hand. The flame shimmered over her rosy cheeks.

“Yes, what is it?” Partridge looked Juleah up and down, attempting to make out her face in the dark.

“Forgive me for this late intrusion, but is Mr. Stowefield at home?” Juleah said.

“Yes, but he's abed,” Partridge said.

“May I see him please?”

“He opens in the morning for matters of the law, if that's what you wish to see him for. Come back at nine.”

Juleah stepped closer. “Oh, I did not come to see him for that reason. I am his niece, Juleah Braxton.”

Candlelight spread over Juleah's face. All at once, Partridge's knees wobbled and she let out a gasp. “It's a miracle!” With her hands shaking, her expression a mix of confusion and amazement, she threw open the door and fumbled to set the candle on the table next to it.

“Mr. Stowefield!” she shouted in alarm. “Mr. Stowefield, come quick!” She hurried to the stairs, her arms and hands stretched out as if to take hold of him.

Juleah stepped inside and watched Partridge head up the stairs. In the shadows above, the shape of her uncle came down the corridor.

“Dear me, woman. What's the ruckus? Who's that lady at the door?”

When Juleah heard her uncle's voice, she too hurried forward and stared up. Partridge stopped at the top of the stairs. She slapped her hand over her chest, and her bosom rose and fell.

“Mr. Stowefield, your niece is downstairs.”

“Oh, that is cruel, Partridge. It cannot be. Go see who it is and tell her I open for business in the morning.”

He turned to go. Partridge grabbed his arm. “You must go and speak to her at once.”

“Oh, very well.” Stowefield headed down the stairs. Boards creaked under his weight, and Juleah gazed up at his face
through the gloom. He had aged, but still had the same kind face, ever noble.

“See here, young woman. What kind of joke is this to play on an old man in the throes of grief? How dare you come to my house and claim—” He stopped short at the bottom of the stairs. He trembled and reached for the banister. “Can it be? Do my eyes deceive me? Am I seeing a ghost?”

Juleah smiled and put her hands out to her uncle. “I am no ghost, Uncle John. Do you not recognize me?”

Stowefield froze. His eyes widened. He struggled to speak. A sob escaped his lips and he reached out to pull her into his arms.

“I am glad you are happy to see me.” She kissed his cheek and laughed.

“Happy? Words cannot describe.” He released her and in a rush, took her hand. “Come into the parlor and sit. Partridge, bring my niece something to eat. Are you hungry, child?”

Juleah nodded. “Very. Have you any tea?”

“As much as you wish.” Stowefield's voice quivered with excitement. “I cannot keep my eyes off you, child. You are worn out from your journey?”

“Indeed, but my journey was broader than the sea.”

Stowefield rumbled his brow. “Was it?” He looked confused, elated, and looked as though he wanted to ask her questions. Yet, he held back. She untied her ribbons, then drew off her hat and laid it aside. It troubled her, his mood, the teary eyes and the shock.

“Uncle, you are disturbed by my arrival?”

He snatched up her hands. “I was told—”

She squeezed his hands. “What were you told? Have I upset you?”

“No, child. Tell me everything.” His eyes were intent, although they filled with tears. He cocked his head. “What evil befell you?”

She released his hands. Where was she to begin to tell him all that had happened? “I was taken aboard a ship against my will, drugged, and kidnapped.”