The Last Refuge (11 page)

‘It seems that George Washington is passing through Annapolis on Saturday, a stopover on his way from Mount Vernon to Philadelphia for a meeting of the Continental Congress. He's representing Virginia, no surprise. He'll be staying here overnight. Damn.'

The color drained from Amy's face. ‘
The
George Washington? As in the first president of the United States?'

‘Bingo. But he's only a colonel. He won't be president until . . .' I paused to think. ‘. . . until 1789. That's fifteen years in the future.'

‘But, all our bedrooms are taken! Where will Colonel Washington sleep?'

‘Good question.' I thought for a moment, tapping the letter absent-mindedly on my cheek. I certainly wasn't going to move in with Jack Donovan, even if the staff could scrounge up a bundling board somewhere. ‘We'll give Washington the best bedroom, no question about that. Jack will have Melody's room. That means that Melody will bunk with me, on the trundle bed.' Just thinking about playing ‘musical beds' made me tired. ‘I'll have to tell French. We need to make sure we have clean sheets.

‘Founding Father also reminds me, in case I'd forgotten, that today's market day. The vendors are expecting us; I'm to pay a visit to the Maryland Table stall. Oh, Amy! Do you think I can get out of it? I
hate
the idea of going out in this rain. Call me cynical, but I think the producers planned it on purpose.'

‘Planned what?' Amy wanted to know as she tipped the tea kettle over the wash basin.

‘This evil weather. I can just hear them thinking, what could be better than to send Hannah to market on a rainy day? Watch how she ruins her shoes.'

‘You should wear your pattens,' Amy suggested.

I'd tried out the pattens, a kind of high-heeled wooden clog that strapped over your shoes and supposedly kept your shoes and the hems of your skirts dry. But after
clack-clack-clacking
around the house in a pair of them, teetering like a drunk, I decided to give them a pass.

‘Your water's ready, Hannah,' Amy reminded me. ‘Best to use it before it gets cold.'

I dipped the flannel in the water, wrung it out and pressed the warm cloth to my face, being careful not to drip water on my dress.
Note to self. Wash first. Dress second
. After a moment, I said, ‘Karen will be accompanying me, of course, but it doesn't say anything in the letter about not taking my maid along.' I draped the damp cloth over the rim of the bowl. ‘Would you like to come, too? Get soaked along with me?'

Amy drifted to the window, pressed her forehead against the glass. ‘I admit it would be a relief to get out of the house. Melody is driving me crazy with all her mooning over some pimply-faced cowboy named Tim back in Texas. They've only been separated for a couple of weeks, but you'd think it was a year.'

‘Don't be too hard on her. I remember being crazy in love at her age. When my father got transferred to San Diego from Norfolk, I thought I was going to die. I'm still crazy in love, believe it or not, and Paul and I have been married for more years than I care to count. If you look to the far right, you can almost see my house from here, but Paul might as well be on the other side of the moon.'

‘At least you'll get to see Paul again . . .' Amy's voice broke.

‘Amy, I know what you told me earlier, but I can tell you're not over it.'

She flapped a hand in front of her face. ‘No, no, I'm all right.'

But I didn't believe her, not for a minute.

After I sat down at the breakfast table, I shared the news about George Washington's visit with Jack. I thought he'd be delighted, or nervous, or apprehensive . . . something, but from behind a facsimile copy of the
Maryland Gazette
, he merely grunted. Melody looked bored, and Gabe was busily sawing his cinnamon toast into skinny, one-inch rectangles called soldiers. I wondered what the latest news was on Katherine's condition, but decided that now wasn't the best time to inquire.

As he'd spent the night on the trundle in Michael's room, I had expected the dancing master to be joining us for breakfast, but his chair at the table sat empty. ‘Where's Alex?' I asked.

Michael scooped some melon out with his spoon. ‘He ate earlier in the kitchen. He said he had to go over to Brice House to check out the ballroom. Apparently, there's to be a dance there next week.'

‘A dance? Is that something we'll be invited to attend?'

Michael chewed his melon, looking thoughtful. ‘Almost certainly. I'm sure our friendly neighborhood Founding Father will be sending out invitations soon enough.'

I spread a bit of butter on my bread and added a dollop of Karen's homemade strawberry jam. ‘What's so fascinating about the newspaper, Jack? Surely, that's old, old news.'

‘You'll find this interesting, Melody,' her father said. ‘A fellow named James Hutchings is announcing a sale at Broad Creek Ferry on Kent Island. Listen. To be sold, several negroes, the time of several servant men and women, household furniture, several horses and some black cattle. They will be disposed of at public sale, for ready cash or tobacco.' He looked at his daughter over the tops of his reading glasses. ‘Imagine. Humans being sold for tobacco.'

‘As if . . .' Melody muttered into her porridge.

Jack glared at her over the top of the newspaper. ‘What did you say, young lady?'

‘Nothing, Father.'

Jack flicked a crumb off his vest and returned to the paper. ‘“The time of several servant men and women,”' he quoted. ‘That means indentured servants, Melody, like French.'

Melody grunted.

‘I'm going to market today, Mr Donovan,' I informed the master of the house. ‘Is there anything in particular you require?'

‘Oh, can I come, too?' Melody interrupted before her father had a chance to answer my question.

Her father shot her a withering glance. ‘You'll be in school today, young lady.'

‘But you let me skip school to go to the dressmaker,' Melody whined.

‘That was different. School today and every weekday, and there'll be no arguments.'

‘Sir, do you think Gabe's too young to start Cicero?' Michael Rainey inquired. ‘As a republican, albeit in Roman times, he undoubtedly inspired our founding fathers. John Adams is quoted as saying of him, “As all the ages of the world have not produced a greater statesman and philosopher united than Cicero, his authority should have great weight.” I couldn't agree more.'

Melody rested her head against the back of the chair, crossed her eyes and made a face at the ceiling.

I reached out and grabbed her hand, jerking the little madam back into proper sitting position. ‘That's enough! Well-bred young ladies don't behave like that at table.'

Had it been my imagination, or did Jack Donovan's plump lips twitch with approval?

Michael Rainey grinned. ‘Perhaps Miss Melody would prefer to study a book I found in the library this morning:
The Ladies Compleat Letter Writer
?'

Wisely, Melody picked up her spoon and resumed eating her porridge.

Gabriel, on the other hand, seemed eager to start his lessons. ‘Mr Rainey is teaching me math tricks, Father. Do you want to hear a good one about nines?'

Donovan laid the paper down, picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. ‘Yes. Do tell me all about the nines, Gabriel.'

‘What's two times nine?' Gabe asked his father.

Donovan furrowed his brow, feigning deep thought. ‘Eighteen?'

‘Right! And one and eight added together make nine.' Gabe bounced excitedly on the edge of his seat. ‘Three times nine is twenty-seven, right? That's a two and a seven, and two plus seven makes nine! Four times nine is . . .'

But as usual when math came into the equation, Hannah Ives, mistress of Patriot House, tuned out.

‘Hannah showed up in the kitchen with her cookbook this morning to go over the menu for dinner tomorrow. I can read the damn cookbook myself, of course, but that's not the way it works. So I listen to her read and I measure out the ingredients and I keep my mouth shut. I'm making an independence cake. I hope George Washington appreciates the effort.'

Karen Gibbs, cook

W
e grew most of our vegetables on the grounds, either in the greenhouse or in the kitchen garden, but fresh fruits, other than apples, were just as scarce at Patriot House as they were in colonial times, so to obtain them, we'd have to go to market.

No Safeway, alas. No Giant. But, LynxE had made arrangements with several vendors at Market Space on Annapolis' city dock to carry the meat, cheese, produce and sundry items that we might need to buy for Patriot House.

One of my jobs was to plan the meals, a challenging task since – thanks to our Founding Father – I never knew who was going to be dropping in (or out!) for dinner. This couldn't be done without consultation with the cook who had her finger on the pulse of household stores, so after breakfast was over, I picked up my copy of
American Cookery
and trotted down to the kitchen.

A fire was burning cheerfully in the large, open fireplace. Karen's son, Dex, crouched in front of it, using a bamboo whisk to baste a duck that was roasting on a spit being turned by a clock-like contraption mounted over the fireplace. When he saw me, Dex leapt to his feet and bowed deeply. ‘Good mornin', missus.'

‘Good morning, Dex. I haven't seen very much of you lately.'

‘I've been chopping wood, mostly. It's gonna get cold soon, and we'll be needing fires in the house.'

On the hearth, the duck began to sizzle alarmingly. ‘Hadn't you better get back to the duck?'

‘Oh, yes ma'am,' he said, bending again to his task.

‘Looks like hard work, Dex.' He looked like such a little man in his white hose, brown breeches and white linen shirt, that I had to smile.

‘Oh, not so hard. Much better than emptying the chamber pots, ma'am.'

Chamber pots. I'd been mistress of the house only a little over a week and already I was taking the clean chamber pot that sat under my bed each night for granted. I felt my face redden, not realizing that a lad of ten, who should have been playing Little League baseball or going on a campout with his Boy Scout troop had been taking care of our ‘night soil' every morning. History textbooks hid some ugly truths.

‘Where's your mother, Dex?'

Dex shrugged and continued to mind the spit.

While I waited, I wandered over to a board near the window where three fresh-baked loaves of bread were cooling. Next to the bread sat two pies. I bent over them, touched a finger to the juice seeping up through a slash in the crust and tasted it – cherry.

On a long table sat the tools of Karen's trade – wooden bowls and spoons, a rolling pin, a mortar and pestle, a cleaver, a salt pig, cones of sugar and packets of spices. On a wooden block nearby lay a dead rabbit, fur and all, and a lifeless chicken. I was just wondering whether I should go look for Karen in the garden when she struggled through the door sideways, carrying two buckets, one of milk and one of water, balanced across her shoulders on a wooden yoke. ‘Good morning, ma'am.' She knelt and set the buckets down on the tiles near the door, wiped her face with the hem of her apron.

‘The ham was delicious this morning, Karen.' It had been sliced from one of several hams – smoked, wrinkled and green with mold – that hung in the storeroom just off the kitchen, a room I knew had been an office until just a month ago. The space that the desk, computer, printer and fax machine once occupied was now crowded with bins of root vegetables – potatoes, carrots, onions, turnips, beets, cabbages – and various grains, such as wheat, oats, peas, beans and dried corn that we'd need during our time at Patriot House. Sugar, salt and jugs of vinegar, oils and other liquids sat on wooden shelves. Jugs of rum, too, which went into the punch that sat out in a bowl in the front parlor, swimming with sliced fruit, ready refreshment for anyone who came to call. There was also a wine cellar in the room below stairs, but it was kept locked, and Jack Donovan wouldn't trust anyone but himself with the key.

‘Thank you, ma'am,' Karen said as she hefted one of the buckets and poured some of the milk into a jug. ‘It's all in the soaking. Draws out the salt.'

I pulled up a stool and sat down on it, arranging my skirts around me. ‘I've received news that we're having an important guest next Saturday. He'll be spending the night, so we'll need to plan for dinner, supper and for breakfast the following morning.'

Thinking about all the extra work this would entail, I was sure Karen was about as excited by this news as I was, which is to say – not! But, we were both aware of the wall-mounted video camera silently whirring away, capturing for posterity our cozy domestic scene, so she said, ‘Who would that be, ma'am?'

‘Colonel George Washington. He's actually going to sleep here.'

Karen chuckled. ‘If you'll forgive my saying so, ma'am, I think you've just invented a joke.'

I had to laugh, too. ‘Since I received the message, I've been thinking about the menu,' I told her. ‘We could start with fresh melon slices and some of that wonderful ham, followed by peanut soup, baked oysters, braised beef, roast quail, sweet potatoes – if the market has any – and green peas. Are the peas in the garden ready yet?'

‘No, ma'am. The peas are done, but we've got beets, kale and spinach.'

‘Spinach, then,' I decided.

When Karen nodded, I continued. ‘What do you suggest for dessert?'

‘Would a butter cake be satisfactory?'

Even though I'd just eaten breakfast, my stomach rumbled in anticipation. ‘Perfect! We'll need a light supper, too. Welsh rarebit? Strawberries and cream?'

‘That can certainly be arranged. And there'll be leftover ham and biscuits enough, too.'