Chapter Eleven

Bizarre, Virginia, late October, 1792

"What exactly are they saying?"

Judy looked at her husband, standing in the doorway of Bizarre with Randy Harrison. It was early in the day for a social call, and Randy must have risen well before dawn to arrive at their house at this hour. Dick's voice was strained. And Randy? Confident, competent Randy was red in the face, his eyes not meeting hers.

"Is something wrong?" Judy slid her arm through Dick's.

"It's nonsense. Slave chatter. Nothing for you to worry about."

"You're wrong, Dick. She has a right to know. Mary has written to her. Here." Randy pulled a letter from his pocket, but Dick snatched it, even as her fingers closed on the paper.

"Dick!"

"We should talk inside," said Randy. "Where's Nancy? She must hear this too."

"She's walking with our sister, Patsy." Judy turned to Dick. "What is this, husband?" She read nothing in his face and flushed. "Well. I have no idea what ails you two, but this is no way to treat our friend and guest. Follow me, Randy." She led both men into the parlor and called for Lottie, watching the way Dick fiddled with the letter — her letter — in his hands. "Lottie will fetch Nancy and Patsy. I can't imagine what troubles you, but she is family too."

Randy stood in front of the fireplace, fooling with his hat, and Judy's patience snapped. "Sit down and gather yourself. At least tell me, is Mary in good health? The baby?" When he nodded, her shoulders relaxed. "And we are all well here. Surely, strong enough to bear whatever slave tale you may have to impart."

She sounded much calmer than she felt. They waited in silence for Nancy and Patsy, listening to the clock on the mantel tick and avoiding eye contact with one another.

Nancy blew into the room and stopped up short. "What is this?" she asked, looking at the three of them. Patsy, weighed down by pregnancy, entered more slowly.

"Randy has brought us some news. Unwelcome news, it appears. And insists we all hear it," said Judy.

"Well, how exciting!"

"Hardly that, Nancy." Dick snapped. "It's a piece of nonsense and should be treated as such."

"What is?" asked Nancy. "Randy?"

"It's not an easy thing to talk about. But I knew I had to come and tell you all. In person."

"Tell us what?"

"Nancy. Let him speak." Dick's voice had changed again, from anger to resignation almost. He stood by the window with his arms folded across his chest.

"It's about what happened at Glentivar, on your recent visit," Randy said.

"Nothing happened." Dick's voice was a low growl.

"Nancy was ill, nothing more," Judy said.

"That's not what people are saying."

"What people?" asked Patsy. Judy felt a burst of thankfulness she was present. Patsy didn't traffic in nonsense and gossip and would quickly settle this. Whatever this was.

"A rumor is circulating. It began with my slaves."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation." Dick looked ready to quit the room, but Patsy quickly moved to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Perhaps we should hear Randy out, brother."

Dick slumped into a chair. "Go ahead, then. Don't let me stop you."

"Not long after your last visit, I can't say for certain the date, one of the negro women spoke to Mary." Randy paused. "She told my wife that some of the slaves had found a body. The body of an infant."

"Impossible!" Judy said.

"I dismissed her. Ignored her story."

"But what had happened? Had one of the slaves given birth? Where was this body?" asked Patsy.

"She claimed the infant was found far from the house. She talked about a pile of shingles discarded between two logs. You know we've been building—" He paused again. "It was fair-skinned."

"There's not a word of truth in this." Dick shook his head. Judy wanted to catch his eye but could not.

"Very likely not," Randy agreed. "No one else saw it. And we all know how they talk. How things get blown up. Exaggerated."

"We know nothing of this," Judy said. "It has nothing to do with us." Pressure built in her chest.

"I thought nothing of it. I inspected the shingles and saw some marks, nothing more. At that point, I dismissed it out of hand. It was ludicrous to me. The idea that your sister . . ." his voice died away.

"My sister?"

"Nancy?" Patsy knelt before her and lifted her chin.

Judy watched Nancy purse her lips and shake her head. "What does this have to do with Nancy?"

In the silence that followed, Patsy turned to Randy. "Some crazed slave woman told you a tall tale. You ignored her and rightly so. What has changed?"

"I thought nothing more would come of it, but I was wrong. The rumor has spread beyond Glentivar."

"Slave chatter, nothing more," muttered Judy.

"My neighbor's wife asked Mary about it two days ago."

"Who? Which neighbor? Dick, give me that letter." Judy snatched the paper from Dick's hand and scanned it quickly. "Jane Bland. A gossip. Listening to her negroes and spreading filthy lies about our family. Dick, you should return with Randy and visit the Blands. Demand they stop defaming us at once. It would be laughable if it wasn't so vile."

"No," said Patsy. "That won't answer."

"Patsy's right," said Dick. "I say we don't dignify this slave gossip with a response. You're overreacting, Randy. Who would believe a slave's tale, over us? Over the Randolph family? I don't know why we're even discussing it."

Judy got to her feet. Dick had recovered himself. She would do so too. But she couldn't look at Nancy.

"Although," Patsy's voice was slow and thoughtful, "it might be worth hearing the worst of it. My father often says we must be bold in our pursuit of knowledge. That we should never fear the truth. Exactly what story are they spreading? They're saying the child belonged to Nancy?"

Judy lingered by the door, wanting — and not wanting — to hear Randy's reply.

"Yes. They're saying that the child was Nancy's. And that Dick took it and abandoned it, hoping an animal would take it. They say — I'm sorry Dick — that the child was also yours. And you left it to die there."

"They're saying I'm a murderer? Of my own child?"

Judy turned and looked at her husband. His eyes were wide, his surprise genuine. She thought of their five-month-old son, Saint, lying upstairs in his crib and straightened her back.

"As if anyone in his right mind could suggest such a thing about Dick Randolph," she said. "I think we have heard enough. Dick dearest, I'm going to check on Saint. Please ensure the conversation has moved on by the time I return." She flashed a smile at their visitors and left the room.

Judy walked briskly, her heels clacking on the wooden floor, but at the top of the stairs, she paused. Her shoulders dropped. She leaned her forehead against the wall. It was cool. She focused on her breathing. Randy's story was too ugly. It hurt her stomach. She would not think of it. She turned her mind to caring for their son.

He didn't stir in his crib as she entered. Her first thought was to check his breathing. Would she always have this lump of panic in her chest until she saw the gentle rise and fall of his tiny frame? The room was in shadows. He lay on his back with both arms raised and bent at the elbow, his hands in fists, his dark-lashed eyelids closed. Her own breathing relaxed as she watched him. A light whistle came from his tiny mouth, and his lips peeled open a fraction. She felt a fierce love and moved to gather him up in her arms but stopped herself.

Instead, she turned and closed the door behind her. Then she stepped back to stand beside the crib. Biting on her lips, Judy raised her hands. She brought them together in a resounding clap. Saint didn't stir.

She left the room with the taste of blood on her tongue.

* * *

Naturally, Patsy didn't let it go. Nancy tried to avoid being private with her, but her flame-haired friend was tenacious. Cornered at last by the stables, she steeled herself for the inevitable barrage of questions.

"Nancy. You must tell me exactly what went on at Glentivar."

"Nothing." She imagined the word spiraling up into the air and disappearing.

"You were ill. In what way ill?"

"Colic. You know how I suffer from it."

"And nothing more?"

"Of course not."

"You didn't say much about Randy's news."

She forced herself to look Patsy in the eye and even managed to smile. "It was such nonsense."

But Patsy was frowning, and she disarmed her by grabbing her hands and pulling her close. A muscle twitched in her neck.

"Sister, life is complicated. Mistakes can be made. Things can happen against our will." She colored a little. For a moment, Nancy saw what this cost her. Patsy always wanted life to be ordered and honest, even though they all knew it was not. "But you can trust me. I can keep a secret. Even from Tom."

Tom. With his name, Patsy brought Tuckahoe, the family and Father into Nancy's mind like a slap in the face. She blinked. "There is no secret, sister."

"You were never pregnant? When I was here in the summer, I did wonder . . ." Her voice trailed away, and she dropped Nancy's hands.

"I was never pregnant. I suffer from the colic. How could I be pregnant, sister? Theo is dead."

She stared at Patsy, daring her sister-in-law to contradict her. She did not. Instead, Patsy said, "I've spoken to Judy about these rumors. I've told her I think you should leave here."

Nancy's stomach clenched. "And what did she reply?"

"She said it would do more harm than good. That it would be seen as evidence of guilt when no one is guilty of anything."

Relief washed through her, and she nodded. "Then there is nothing more to be said."

Nancy turned on her heel and walked away. She was colder than ever. She would be firmer than ice. She was stone.

* * *

It was slave gossip. Dick had dismissed it. Judy was reassured. And yet in the weeks that followed, she turned again and again to Mary's letter. The details haunted her.

Judy had been excited to visit Glentivar, looking forward to time with Mary, who was also nursing a child. She sensed Dick needed more company too. Jack was with them, and since Theo's death, his visits were uncomfortable. With both brothers elsewhere, perhaps Dick fancied they were both still alive, but when Jack was at Bizarre without Theo, that fiction was impossible to maintain. These were her suppositions at any rate. Nancy had claimed she was unwell, but Judy overrode her objections. It would be rude to Mary and Randy, and they'd promised to collect their sister, Jenny, who had shuttled from house to house since their father's remarriage. And now, with Gabriella expecting? Judy didn't want to think about it. There had been much said on that subject in her sisters' letters. She offered up a prayer for the child's safe delivery. As for what happened in the family afterward? She chose not to consider it.

Nancy was quiet on the drive to Glentivar, sitting next to her slave girl, Phebe. Judy cradled Saint on her lap. He was placid — an easy baby, Sarah had said, looking over his crib with a slight frown between her brows. Why would anyone look at a sleeping child and frown? Judy turned her thoughts to the view. The weather was fair, and the men rode on ahead — Dick, Jack and their cousin, Archie, still trying to woo Nancy, although with no success, as far as she could tell.

Glentivar was roughly thirty miles from Bizarre, and Judy's back ached, and her hips complained when the coach wheels finally rolled to a stop and Randy handed the ladies down. She was swept along by Mary, revived by a glass of water, and with Saint asleep, they toured around outdoors and in to witness and admire a range of alterations and innovations since their last visit. Nancy professed to feeling unwell and spent the afternoon and evening upstairs in her room, sipping tea for an upset stomach. Jenny had been fascinated by Mary's baby, a round-faced ball of spit and gurgles who sat up and clapped his hands with such fervor and enthusiasm that the tufts of brown hair on his head quivered like plumage, and his heels drummed the floor. Judy had thought to raise her worries about Saint, only to find herself unable or unwilling to put the thoughts into words. In the end, she'd returned to Bizarre with no real confidence being exchanged. Jenny's constant presence had been a barrier, and then the fiasco overnight pushed thoughts of Saint to the back of Judy's head for the first time in weeks.

Her recollection of what transpired was not the clearest.

Dick's footsteps. Blood on the stair and in Nancy's bed. A memory of Phebe's face, her eyes wide with alarm. The sound of Nancy crying out. But all these fragments swirled in the fog of a few drops of laudanum, her only escape from the exhaustion of feeding Saint. The next day, Nancy had been pale but composed. It had been the colic. Terrible cramps. None of this was unusual. It was only the timing — their being away from home — that made the situation uncomfortable. Mary was understanding. Judy forgot about it. Until Randy's visit.

No one spoke of it after Patsy left. It was possible, at Bizarre, to forget the rest of Virginia even existed. Besides, she had much to do in preparation for the long months of winter ahead, as well as Saint to think of. One morning in early December, she waited until Sally had lit the fire in the parlor and Nancy was busy at the table, stitching a new dress for Jenny. With her back to Nancy, Judy bent over the fire and drew Mary's letter from her pocket. It was the right thing to do. She threw it into the flames and watched it burn. Christmas passed quietly, with only Aunt Page and her husband visiting. Nancy spent most of her time shut up in her room on some pretext or another, leaving Judy to enjoy their aunt's company. Glentivar was never mentioned.

But in late January, a letter arrived from Jack.

"From your brother?" she said to Dick as he joined her in the parlor and broke the seal on the letter. "I'm surprised." Jack had left them only a week before, after a lengthy and difficult visit. He had been sick in December with scarlet fever, and although he mended, the illness changed him. Dick had made some veiled remarks, and Jack had been different, particularly around Nancy. Where before, he'd tended to follow her around like a mooncalf, now he avoided her entirely. Oh, she still caught him staring at her sister, but the look in his eyes had changed, grown dark. Judy, when she thought of it, wasn't sorry. It did neither Jack nor Nancy any good. The idea of Nancy transferring her affections from Theo to Jack had crossed her mind and didn't please her. Helpful though Nancy was, Aunt Page was right. Nancy should be looking for a husband, and that meant spending time away from Bizarre. She watched Dick unfold Jack's letter and thought she might write to Lizzie. Nancy should take a visit to Richmond. Then again, she was so useful at Bizarre. Judy frowned, in two minds about what would suit her best — Nancy there or Nancy gone — but startled when Dick suddenly screwed up the paper and threw it on the fire.

"Damned lies!" he said, and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Later, when she asked what had upset him, he told her it was nothing. But the following day, there was another letter, this one from Mr. Tucker.

The story about Glentivar had spread far and wide. Jack had heard it in New York, Tucker in Williamsburg. Dick announced that they were going to stay with the Tuckers and decide what should be done. All of them. He would brook no delay.