Love Finds You in Annapolis, Maryland Page 9

  Sena gripped Lark’s elbow. “Come. Let us go before the masses can blockade us.”

  “Will your father not worry if we leave without him?”

  Sena’s answer was to lean over the railing, apparently catching her father’s eye. After sending a wave and a smirk below, she grabbed Lark’s hard. “There, he now knows we are off in search of trouble. Hurry.”

  If she argued here, it would draw undue attention. Better to go along now and then try to reason with Sena once they had gained the out-of-doors. They had to cut a path through the women, but once they were on the stairs, they ran into no one else—that is, until they reached the bottom and plowed directly into a group of men.

  This was becoming far too familiar a sensation in this town. At least this time someone caught her before Lark could become acquainted with the floor. She glanced up to utter her thanks, only to have the words lodge in her throat.

  General Washington gave her a small smile and put her gently back on her feet then glanced at Sena. “Ah, Miss Randel. I ought to have known where there is mishap, you would be involved.”

  Sena curtsied, her cheeks pink. “My apologies, sir. Might I present my friend, Lark Benton of Williamsburg?”

  “Benton?” He turned back to Lark with interest. “Of Endover?”

  Lark could only nod.

  He smiled. “Give your father and brother my greetings. And of course, my wife and I shall see you all at your wedding in March.”

  With a nod, he and his aides hastened away. Lark gripped Sena’s arm to keep her knees from buckling. “George Washington knows who I am.”

  “More, Lark—he thinks he is going to your wedding. The one you cried off.”

  Flutters took flight in her stomach. “Oh dear.”

  “Indeed. Luckily, I know how to combat that particular ‘oh dear.’ Follow me, my friend.”

  Anything would be better than contemplating that would-havebeen wedding. And really, what could Sena have in mind that would be so terrible?

  Behind them Lark could hear the rising noise of the assembly breaking up. She hurried with Sena under the rotunda and out into the brisk air. Because she couldn’t resist looking, she saw Washington and his men striding quickly toward the right, but Sena pulled her straight down the hill.

  She had come to expect that her friend rarely walked anywhere, but she had not yet grown accustomed to the half run required to keep up with her. They shot down Cornhill Street so fast Lark feared tripping over an icy cobblestone; she didn’t dare look up to see what they passed. Shops, taverns, residences, she assumed. At its end was an open area directly before the docks.

  That was enough to instill reason and fright back into Lark. “Sena, we ought not go into Market Place by ourselves. We can go back and fetch a maid first, or a page boy.”

  “Have you not noticed how understaffed we are? There is no one to spare for following me about. Over here.” Sena pulled her toward a market space and into a building filled with foods from the Caribbean. The ripe scent of tropical fruit teased Lark’s nose and made her mouth water. Her friend headed straight for the pineapples and purchased one with barely a pause before dashing out again.

  Casting only one longing look toward the oranges, Lark followed. Then halted. Her gaze landed on a row of Negroes near the docks, lined up along with assorted barrels and crates as men in fashionable dress walked the lengths of them, surveying them like horses.

  Her stomach clenched. Having grown up on a plantation, she understood the reality of slavery. She listened to her father debate the inhumanity of it with his neighbors, had heard him swear that he would free all they owned upon his death, and that importation of Africans ought to be illegal. But she had never given it serious thought, as it seemed an institution that would soon wither away. She had certainly never seen an auction before. Had never beheld the emotions rampaging across the slaves’ faces as they were bought and sold.

  A shackled mother gripped the hand of a child, as if willing Providence to uphold the bond. Perhaps they would remain together. She knew Papa made an effort to preserve families, though some of their neighbors deliberately broke them up for reasons she had never understood. This mother’s fear seemed to seep from the dock over to where Lark stood, churning and bubbling into her own deepest hurts until tears burned her eyes.

  How well she knew the terror of pending loneliness; but what must it feel like to fear one might never see one’s own child again? How much worse would that be than what she had suffered?

  “Lark?”

  She shook her head and made herself look away, back to Sena. Why, even in this land of freedom her brother had fought for, were so many denied the choice to pursue liberty? How could the same men who revolted against one tyrant play the part with others? Was her father right, that it would soon fade away? Or would the voices of opposition win the day?

  Lark met Sena’s gaze and found the girl sober and still. “I know,” her friend whispered, nodding toward the auction. “There is a reason we have so few in our employ. Papa abhors slavery, but our finances only permit a few paid servants. With him being at war so long, and getting paid so little for it, our family’s legacy is stretched thin. But we would all rather do without the help than further the slave trade.”

  Lark shook her head. “It is largely how things are on a plantation, though most Virginians admit it is a barbaric practice. I have heard them say it will die a natural death now that we are our own nation.”

  A strange little smile flitted over Sena’s mouth. “Let us hope so, though I have my doubts. Shall we go?”

  Arguing seemed petty now. Lark nodded. “Where, exactly, are we going?”

  Sena motioned to the area of town behind Middleton Tavern, which seemed to be a line between the wealthy and the smaller, dirtier homes. “My friend Alice lives right over there.”

  Lark didn’t mean to frown. But how did Sena know someone from that section of town?

  Her friend smiled. “You are wondering how I met her. She was my neighbor growing up, until she fell in love with a sailor and married him despite protests from her family. Society says I ought to pretend we were never friends, but I cannot do that to her. She lost enough of her past, thanks to her choice of husband. There is no reason for her to lose me, too, when I care little for what people think of our continued friendship.”

  Sena headed toward the left, where Middleton Tavern stretched long and red, its now-brown gardens extending behind it all the way to the water’s edge. Beyond it, the houses looked gloomy and tired under their inches of old snow, the air less crisp, and the people walking the streets nowhere near fashionable. Everyone appeared respectable enough, but…

  “Alice lives just over here.” Sena led her down an alleyway and up to a clapboard building. She knocked upon its rickety door but didn’t await a reply before entering. “Alice? ’Tis Sena.”

  “Back here.”

  Lark let her gaze wander as they entered. Though neat and tidy, the house was without the luxuries to which she was accustomed. It lacked the symmetry typical of a Federal-style home like hers and the Randels’; there was no style to the plaster, no shine to the wood. Sufficient, but a testament to how far from their social equal this Alice had fallen.

  A child squealed from somewhere in the back of the house, and the voice that had greeted them scolded gently. Sena grinned and strode toward a back room. The kitchen, Lark realized as they entered. At Endover, their kitchen was separate from the house and boasted a new cast-iron cookstove. Yet this was a cheerful little room, with its roaring fire and fragrantly bubbling cauldron, with its bread rising on the table and a little girl pouting at a plate of carrots.

  A woman stood at the hearth swinging the crane back over the fire. Obviously, this was Alice. But whatever Lark had expected, Alice was not that. She stood tall and statuesque, and though her clothing was plain and serviceable, it could not hide the perfect figure or grace of each movement. Just as the cotton mobcap could not dim the shine of the woma
n’s scarlet locks. Her face was stunning—was everyone beautiful but Lark?—and the smile that lit her countenance proved this was not where Alice belonged. Surely she could have married anyone she pleased. Why had she chosen a destitute seaman?

  “Sena.” Even in that single word of greeting, culture came through. “I hardly expected to see you again before Christmas. And bringing a visitor!”

  “This is Lark Benton, of Williamsburg.” Sena set the pineapple on the table, dropped a kiss upon the little girl’s head, and went to embrace Alice. “I wanted to drop in and check on you. Has Matty secured the new position?”

  Alice’s beautiful face went tight with concern. “We will not know until he gets back from this voyage. I pray so. If he were to captain the ferry, he would be home so much more—but then, I am not sure it would satisfy his love of seafaring.” She brightened again and smiled at Lark. “Forgive me, I should have greeted you first, Miss Benton. I am Mrs. Alice Mattimore.”

  “One of the dearest women in Maryland.” With a flash of dimples, Sena grinned and bent down on the opposite side of the table. When she stood again, she had a sleeping baby in her arms. “The little goldenhaired angel scowling at her vegetables is Callie. This precious sleeping bundle is little Hugh.”

  “I just put some coffee on. Please have a seat.”

  Lark pulled out a rough-hewn chair, offering a smile to Callie. The girl ignored her and poked at a carrot, her gaze on the pineapple. Lark could hardly blame her for that preference.

  While Sena and Alice chatted about acquaintances she had never met, Lark settled into the hard chair and surveyed the spartan kitchen. She wouldn’t have the first idea how to keep house in this fashion, with no servant in sight and the barest of necessities at hand. What had made this choice worth the consequences? Did Alice love this sailor-husband of hers so much? Surely her parents had not approved the marriage.

  The greatest rebellion Lark had ever made was in insisting they cancel the wedding and threatening to stay here past their agreed-on date to be sure of it. What would Papa and Mamma do if she did? They would be saddened, angry, perhaps come here to try to force her home. But they could not—would not—force her to marry against her will. And so they would forgive her, the strain would eventually dissipate, and she would live quietly at Endover the rest of her days.

  But to make a decision like Alice’s? One that would estrange her from her family forever?

  Lark traced a line of wood grain on the well-worn table. She was not at all sure she had the courage to stand for any belief at so great a cost.

  And was not at all sure that wasn’t a great lack on her part.

  Chapter Eight

  Emerson stretched out in his favorite leather chair, feet propped on a footstool, gaze locked on the crackling fireplace. Within those dancing flames he saw nothing but hope burning up like paper tossed into the blaze. In the other room his sisters all laughed as they hung evergreen boughs and mistletoe and gossiped about the wassailing in town, but he might as well have been a continent removed.

  Why celebrate this year, when he finally realized what gift he had held, only after he’d lost it?

  “There you are. Emerson, really, stop sulking. It is Christmas Eve.”

  He arched a brow at his mother. “Sulking? You call it sulking when one’s betrothed takes flight and her family refuses to share where she has gone?”

  Mother sighed and settled on the footstool beside his feet. Her hair was styled and powdered to receive the family that would be staying with them tonight, her dress ornate and new. She still cut an impressive figure, could still turn heads. She turned his father’s regularly, anyway.

  Why had he never paused to realize that was a crucial part of his parents’ relationship? Why had he never let his head be turned by Lark? Mother’s beauty wasn’t overt, but it went deep. As Lark’s surely did, had he ever bothered to look for it.

  He was an oaf. A fool. A veritable dunderhead.

  Mother sighed and patted his knee. “You must stop punishing yourself, Em. What’s done is done. The important thing is that when you find her, you make amends.”

  “‘When’? More like ‘if,’ I should think.”

  That spark of confidence in her eye could be nothing more than maternal love, for he surely had done nothing to earn it. “You will find her. And when you do…” She reached into the embroidery pocket of her skirt and pulled out a small box. “Her Christmas gift.”

  Emerson sighed even as he accepted it. When he removed the lid, he felt no surprise at the diamond bracelet that went along with the necklace Lark tried to refuse. Why would his mother think it would make any difference?

  His mind drifted back to her birthday disaster. Her rightly accusing him of not knowing what gift he gave, him adamantly denying it and then proving her right. A smile tugged at his lips. Had he ever seen such spirit from her as when she shoved the necklace into his stomach? Not since she was a child. At the time it had only baffled him, but now…

  She wasn’t so unlike Wiley, not if that were a glimpse of her true self. And Wiley had always been his closest friend. Why, then, could he not be her friend too? If she would hear him out, forgive him, they could start afresh with a solid foundation.

  His gaze dropped to the bracelet. Firelight sparkled in the heart of each gem and sent miniature rainbows dancing over the walls. It nearly lit a hope within him, until he realized these jewels represented part of the problem. Handed to him by his mother, as every other gift had been since Lark’s eighteenth birthday. Mother had invited him to pick out gifts from their most valuable pieces, but he had declined. Said he trusted her judgment.

  Hadn’t wanted to be bothered.

  Deuces, it was a wonder Lark hadn’t turned tail and run long ago. What kind of man couldn’t be bothered with gifts for his bride? What kind of man ignored her?

  Not the kind he wanted to be.

  He closed the box and handed it back to his mother with a smile. “Thank you, Mother. But if ever again Lark accepts a gift from my hand, it will be one I choose for her.”

  She nodded, as if that were exactly the response she had intended all along. Perhaps it was. “Good for you, Emerson. Good for you. Now.” She stood, lifted her chin, and gave him that look that had kept him in line as a boy. “Hie yourself into the drawing room with the rest of the family. There is holly to be hung.”

  * * * * *

  Loneliness crept in like fog along the James River. Lark did her best to ignore it through the church service, during the walk back to Randel House, but it hovered behind her shoulder all morning and pounced when she took a seat in the corner of the parlor.

  What was she doing away from her family on Christmas? Much as she liked the Randels, she was not one of them. As they passed around small gifts they had selected for one another with the greatest of care, she had to wonder if Wiley or Mamma had thought to bring out the ones she had made for everyone. As this family made the appropriate exclamations of excitement and gratitude, she envisioned her parents and Wiley and the Hendrickses gathered at Endover doing the same.

  And a mile away, Emerson would be with his kin too. He would make merry as if nothing had changed this year. As if he had not betrayed her, had not broken her heart.

  As if he weren’t the reason she was now a hundred fifty miles from home on this sacred day.

  Tears burned her eyes, forcing her to squeeze them shut to avoid crying before the entire Randel family. Perhaps she ought to make her excuses and retire to Sena’s room.

  When she sensed someone settling on the chair adjacent to hers, she knew the opportunity for escape had passed. Figuring it was either Sena or her mother who had come to investigate her silence and tightly shut eyes, Lark opened them again with a sigh, prepared to assure them she was well.

  But it was no Randel who sat smiling beside her. Edwinn Calvert and his sister had apparently arrived, for the gentleman was the one in the chair, giving her a look of such sympathetic concern she felt her cheeks flu
sh scarlet in response. “Oh, Mr. Calvert. I did not hear you come in.”

  He chuckled and waved a hand at the rumbustious boys. “I expect you could not, over the young Randels’ enthusiasm. Happy Christmas, Miss Benton. I hope you do not mind me claiming a seat so near you—it seemed the safest spot in the room.”

  “You are welcome, of course.” She smiled at him for a moment, though quickly directed it toward the gathering at large. Something about this man…his looks inspired her to gaze longer at him, and his expression was so kind, so inviting. She wanted to bask in his attention enough that she knew she mustn’t. At this point in time it would be nothing but a balm over the wound Emerson had inflicted, not appreciation of him for his own sake.

  Besides, the glance Sena sent his direction proved her friend was far more interested than she wanted to be as well.

  She could hardly be rude, though. “Have you and Kate enjoyed a pleasant morning thus far?”

  He hummed and rested both hands on the silver handle of his cane. “We have. Quiet until now, but nevertheless pleasant. Still, we are deeply moved to have been invited to Randel House.” His gaze locked on hers, earnest and sincere. “Miss Randel would have told you why the invitation was surprising.”

  Why did that make her flush again? It was not her business being discussed, nor her questions that had led to Sena sharing his story. And obviously he felt no need to be embarrassed about it, so why should she?

  Logic which did nothing to cool her cheeks. “You know her well enough to realize she likes little better than a good story.”

  He chuckled again, all bighearted humor, and sent his gaze Sena’s way. “And where one is not forthcoming, she has no qualms about creating one. But she and Kate are far too close for her to have exaggerated ours, I think. I am sure she gave you a fairer version than warranted.”