The Randolph Legacy (24 page)

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Authors: Eileen Charbonneau

BOOK: The Randolph Legacy
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The doctor pressed his arm. “Ethan, none of the sailors ever—?”
“No. Fayette protected me. Some assumed I was his lover, I think. I was not. He was a woman’s man only, as I am, so our great beauty was wasted on each other, yes?”
The doctor sneered. “Peacock.”
Ethan sneered back. “Nursemaid.”
“Maupin was reckless,” the doctor said. “It cost him his life.”
“What are you saying?”
“That night you were discovered, captured. Climbing the masts in a storm at his age!”
“Following a full-grown man at yours, sir! Fayette was also reckless when first he took my weight over his shoulder after the lashing. That is why I am here to plague you now. What afflicts you besides that wound? Are you angry that his language saved us both? Fayette was the bravest of men. His final action—”
“Almost cost you your life.”
“You know nothing of it! Nothing!
Rien du tout!”
Ethan turned away from the physician, pulled both his legs in tight against his chest. His breathing went ragged.
“Ethan.”
Ethan buried his head in his arms.
“Son, it’s not good for your knee to—”
“Leave me alone!”
The gaping silence hovered between them.
“You heard my envy speaking.”
Ethan brought his head up. “Envy?”
“When we all thought you dead, Maupin raised you. Splendidly.”
Ethan turned. “What?”
“You heard. Don’t humiliate me further.”
“I remain unfinished, Dr. Foster,” Ethan whispered.
“Unfinished?”
“If Judith will have me as her husband, I will need a trade. Will you take me on as your apprentice? We don’t need much, Judith and Eli and I. We have simple tastes.”
“But Ethan, your family—”
“I am not my family’s heir. Too much has happened to me. I will never be a gentleman. I will never be a slaveholder. But I want a family of my own. One like yours was, with music and kindness to strangers. One like Sally’s. I need a trade to accomplish this. I need you, Dr. Foster.”
The physician looked away and bit his knuckled finger. This was a curse, Ethan remembered. Where? In Italy? Is that what the physician thought him, a curse? Jordan Foster faced him again. His dark eyes looked almost pupil-less. They stayed on Ethan without wavering.
“My name is Jordan, except before our patients. Then only, am I Dr. Foster to you, understand?”
Ethan smiled. “Yes, sir.”
“Winning Judith will not be easy, I warn you, even with my promise of a trade and a roof over your heads.”
“I know that. But once I do, perhaps I’ll give you to my mother after all.”
“What?”
“I may be unschooled ignorant, but I’m not blind, Jordan. And I am Mother’s favorite. She won’t marry again without my approval. So, when the time comes, you’ll have to come to me for permission to seek her hand.”
“You arrogant—”
“This is not a good start to your courtship. Or your healing. As your surgeon, I must insist you calm yourself.”
“I’ll tell your mother of your disobedience, I swear I will!”
“Not without the details of our adventure tonight. I suggest you rest while I take the first watch.” Ethan found the post rider’s coat and drew it up to Jordan Foster’s shoulders.
“You are your mother’s child, Ethan. Don’t distress her.”
“What? I should have let those cutthroats hack through the rest of your miserable … Wait. Jordan. Cutthroat. She knew it. As she bid me farewell. Do you remember? My mother knew one of us was going to get his throat cut.”
The physician looked stunned for a brief moment. He shook it off like a chill. “She was frightened, that’s all.”
“No. That’s not all. She has visions. My mother has visions, as I do! Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I
am
her child.”
“You don’t get them from your father,” Jordan Foster murmured.
“What do you know of my father?” Ethan asked him quietly.
“Everything.”
“Did she ever love him?” he barely whispered.
Why was it so important he know this, Ethan wondered, as he scanned the trees around their camp, instead of looking at the doctor, whom he feared would laugh at the question. Was it his arrogance, this need to be what Martha called him, a product of love? Or was it a simple desire to see Anne Randolph’s eyes unveiled, unburdened, happy again?
Ethan finally turned away from his vigilant watch across the darkness. His physician-turned-patient’s eyes were closed, his breathing easy and at peace.
Ethan shook his head. Foolish. Why did he think Jordan Foster had the answers to everything?
Ethan dismounted, leaned against the saddle until the stiffness
left his right leg. He looked around at two dozen carts and carriages, and half as many horses. He’d come upon a gathering at the sprawling farmhouse. What kind of gathering? he wondered as he stroked Lark’s withers. Was this even the right place? He heard a door behind him open. Soft, slippered steps sounded on the farmhouse’s flagstone walk. They were followed by skipping.
“Beecher! What has thee brought us today?”
When Ethan turned, the girl stopped short. She was older than Betsy, but not yet a full-grown woman. The boy peeking out at her hip matched Ethan’s eldest niece in size. Both fit Judith’s descriptions of the Lyman children.
“Thee is not Beecher,” the girl said.
“No. Is this Prescott Lyman’s farm?”
“It is.”
Ethan reached for his hat, then remembered as he touched the rim. Stupid, that was the first thing Judith taught him about Quakers. No hats-off to them. He finished removing it, and wiped his brow with his sleeve as if that had been his original intent.
He didn’t like the hat; it reminded him of the civilian style the army wore. He preferred the black japanned straw hats he’d worn while a midshipman aboard the
Ida Lee.
But of course his mother would have none of them. He left the hat on the stone shelf of the well. The boy approached his mount.
“She’s a fine horse,” he offered.
Ethan grinned. “And gentle. Lark’s her name. I have been riding her hard since we left Philadelphia.”
“Thee must rest her, Friend. And replenish thyself,” the girl said. Ruth Lyman. How old? Fourteen, Judith had written. She was staring at him. Why? Was he so mud-spattered he repulsed her?
Ethan nodded his thanks as she pulled up the bucket of cool water. He took a long swallow from the ladle she offered.
Her little brother came closer and reached up to Lark’s neck. Ethan lifted him higher, without thinking, the way he did his nieces. A look of fear sparked the girl’s expression, but the boy laughed and rubbed Lark’s ears vigorously.
“Ah, this she loves!” Ethan approved.
The boy cocked his head. “Thy speech is strange, Friend.”
“Hugh!” the girl chastised him.
“From what country does thee come?” the boy continued as Ethan set him back on his feet.
“The country of Virginia.”
“Virginia? Where Judith’s letters come! Did thee bring more letters?”
“Yes. And packages enough to fill two saddlebags. For Mercers and Lymans.”
“Packages! I am Hugh Lyman. Does anything bear my name?”
“I remember it distinctly.”
“And thee did carry these things all the way from Virginia?”
“I have.”
“Does thee hear him, Ruth? Now the Randolphs have hired their own post rider to bring us presents!” He tugged at Ethan’s leather coat. “The crippled boy our Judith delivered from the hands of the British is himself coming to visit,” he proclaimed proudly.
“Is that so?”
“Hugh, the post rider has no interest—”
“We have seen his coach and six, when it brought our Judith and the doctor,” her brother continued. “It had marvelous fast and sleek horses, like thine own. I keep watch for that coach. Father is not happy. It’s planting time. We must make room for the crippled boy and his servants, all besides getting the crops in. He is very spoiled, Father says, and will be very demanding on our Judith.”
“I hope that will not be so.”
Ethan cast a longing glance toward the farmhouse.
Let me show them differently,
he pleaded silently.
“I’ll see if Judith can be called forth from Meeting to see thy bounty,” Ruth Lyman offered.
“Meeting? It’s not Sunday.”
He’d planned carefully not to come on Sunday. Did Quakers gather on other days as well? Was the farmhouse full of them?
“This is a special session. Judith Mercer has been asked to serve as mediator in disputes between the followers of Elias Hicks and those who insist on a defined creed and imposed authority.”
“Quakers are in dispute with each other?” Ethan asked.
“I fear so, yes. Most of us here follow Brother Hicks and serving our Inner Light. But the Meeting for Suffering is very powerful.”
Who were these people who shone a beacon of peace to the outside world but fought among themselves and treasured suffering?
“Something troubles thee, Friend?”
Ethan stared at Ruth Lyman. Brown, braided hair pinned close to her head, like Judith’s. He opened his mouth, but all his thoughts were coming in French.
“Thee is not used to the company of Friends?”
Ethan’s eyes darted over the carriages. “Not so many at once,” he finally stammered.
She smiled. “We are not so dreadful, Friend post rider from the country of Virginia! Be at thy ease.”
But Ethan had come to steal Judith from these people, so her words brought cold comfort.
Once the girl slipped inside the white clapboard farmhouse, Ethan yanked off the leather coat. It slipped through his shaking hands. The boy caught it, then laid it on the low stone wall.
Ethan heard Fayette’s voice inside his head.
Do something normal, to return your balance. See to your horse.
Ethan pulled the double-blade knife from his boot. The child stepped back abruptly.
“Hoofpick, Hugh,” Ethan assured him as he lifted Lark’s front right foot and went about his task.
“Th-those are fine boots.”
Ethan smiled. “My brother made them.” He moved to the next hoof. His young companion ventured closer.
“I’ve never seen a knife come out of a boot.”
“No?”
“Or such a knife.”
Ethan looked up from his work. “Would you like to finish this one?” He offered the walnut handle.
Hugh’s eyes widened. “I would.”
Ethan held Lark’s leg steady as the boy picked the hoof clean. Yes, this was returning his balance, Ethan realized. “Good work,” he complimented the child.
“Thy knife is so light.”
“Yes,” Ethan said with pride. “Thrown, it flies.”
He recovered the knife and walked to Lark’s hind legs.
“My sister Ruth admires thee,” the boy said, following him.
Ethan turned. “I’m witless today. She is very kind.”
“She lets Beecher fetch his own water.” Hugh rolled his eyes the way Betsy did when she caught Ethan sighing over a letter from Judith.
Ethan chuckled. “You would make an excellent partner for my niece, I think, Hugh.”
“Thy niece? A girl?” He sounded dubious.
“Well, yes.”
“Does she take pleasure in fishing?”
Ethan cleaned the third hoof, carefully directing the point of his knife. “She does.”
“And is she able to skim stones?”
“Seven on one fling.”
“Thee saw it, post rider? Seven?”
“Saw it?” He released the last hoof and patted Lark’s hind quarters. “I taught her. I’ve done nine. To give her a goal.”
The boy looked toward the house. “They’ll be keeping Judith at Meeting for a time yet, post rider. We should walk thy poor sweating mount to the creek to finish her grooming.”
“Do you think so?” Ethan asked, one horseman to another, as he wiped the blade of his knife with his oiled handkerchief.
“Follow me,” the boy directed.
The creekside sported crocus plants. A field of wild strawberries was starting to sprout. The wild strawberries were being picked when Ethan left Virginia. Traveling north was like traveling through time as well as distance. He would experience two springs this year. The thought pleased him immensely, a welcome distraction from his own nervousness.
Ethan tied a slip knot in Lark’s lead rope and circled a small limb of poplar with it. There were less poplar, more laurel and white birch, since he’d crossed the border into Pennsylvania. He must ask Eli Mercer why that was. He brought two grooming brushes from his saddlebags. Hugh Lyman reached for one. Ethan smiled, handing it over.
“I’m in your debt, Hugh.”
“Not after thee rode here, all the way from Virginia! Why is thy boot heel higher on the right?”
“Because that leg is shorter than the other.”
“Oh.” Hugh brushed the horse’s flanks, thoughtfully stealing glances at Ethan’s movements. “Did thy knife slip once?”
Ethan threw back his head and laughed. “No,
petit frère.”
“What does that mean?”
“Little brother.”
“In what language?”
“French.”
“Do Virginians speak French?”
Ethan ruffled the boy’s flax-colored hair. “This one does.”
 
 
J
udith sat in the garden. She was supposed to be meditating on the best way to bring the factions inside together, but she pulled Ethan’s latest letter from her skirt’s deep pocket instead.
“Peace. Oh, Ethan, I need some peace,” she whispered.
Reading the letter achieved that purpose, refreshing her mind in the process. He was coming, as maddeningly free as the letter was of details. She wanted to tell him how seeing her brethren embroiled in ever-deepening controversy overwhelmed her spirit. Could she cocoon herself and Ethan in serenity when her Meeting sparked conflict all around them?
He would doubt his welcome, she was sure of it, despite Prescott Lyman’s promise that his home would accommodate—what did he call Ethan?—her “hapless sailor on his ill-timed visit.” She wished her
father had not accepted this man’s hospitality. She wished she were anywhere but this place that daily reminded her of her blighted childhood home.
Judith heard the footsteps behind her. She returned the letter to her skirt’s pocket. Trapped, Judith realized suddenly, looking upon the faces of the angry, expectant men. Trapped, among Quakers, her own people? It was worse than being caught like a fly in amber under Captain Willis’s gaze, because it was so unexpected. She wished she could return to her own Philadelphia Meeting. Prescott Lyman stepped forward.
“We continue. Thee has found refreshment, Judith?”
Ruth’s blue skirts wove their way among the elders’ browns. “The Virginia postman waits, Father. To deliver his letters and goods.”
Prescott Lyman frowned. “Tell him to leave them and go.”
“But he has rode this day from Philadelphia, and his horse is very tired and I’ve thought to offer—”
“I would speak with this man, and see to his comfort,” Judith declared, rising, leaving them all staring after her.
 
 
E
than and Hugh watched the stone skip.
“Four … five … six only!” Hugh proclaimed. “And that was thy third try, post rider.”
Ethan grunted. “It must be that Pennsylvania water is more dense, perhaps more magnetically charged than that of Virginia.”
Lark whinnied.
“See?” The little boy laughed. “Thy horse knows it’s only thy arm needs charging!”
“
Et tu
, Lark?” Ethan asked.
“Your horse understands French?”
“That was Latin.”
Hugh shook his head, laughing. “I’ll find thee a flatter stone, Friend,” he promised.
Ethan stared into the still-pool part of the creek. He went down on his good knee and felt his face. Clean-shaven; he’d managed that much this morning in Philadelphia. But he was smeared with mud to such a degree he might have Judith, too, calling him “post rider.” He pulled his long shirt out from his trousers and dipped its tail into the water. But wiping his face only smeared the mud further. He plunged his head into the pool and scrubbed the mud off with his hands.
Hugh laughed as a spray of water flew off Ethan’s hair. Footsteps,
a regiment of footsteps sounded on the flagstones behind where the boy stood. Ethan heard Judith’s voice over his frantic heart’s pounding.
“Packages?” she was saying. “I care not for packages, Ruth. What I’m wanting is—” She stopped in the shade of a giant oak as he turned. “—Ethan.”
He rose to his feet, nodded. “Judith,” he said.
Her hand reached instinctively for the oak’s support.
Not the tree, Judith,
he directed the thought at her.
Not the tree. Me. I can hold you now.
She stepped forward as if called. So many people around them. Was he dressed plain enough, enough like them? But he did not note their clothes or expressions except for the tall man with sunken cheeks who was standing beside Ruth.

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