Chapter Twelve

"It's worse than we thought," said Mr. Tucker.

They were assembled in the blue-paneled room Dick's stepfather used for formal business. He stood by the fireplace, as somber as Judy had seen him. Her husband had flung himself into an armchair opposite Mr. Tucker's new wife, Lelia, but now, he straightened up and folded his hands in his lap. This was difficult for Dick, Judy knew. But then it was hardly easy for any of them.

"You had best tell us what happened. Honestly now. In the knowledge that not a word will leave this room."

"Nothing happened," said Dick.

"Nothing? You have made a long day's journey for this ‘nothing'."

"I didn't come to be hauled over the coals, sir. We want your help in scotching these damned rumors. Is that too much to ask?"

"Not at all. Nor is it too much to ask to be in possession of the facts. The best defense is based on knowledge and trust. Is it too much to ask my own son to tell me the truth of what happened at Glentivar?"

"I was unwell, sir," said Nancy.

Judy stiffened. "Nancy. It's not your place to speak."

But Mr. Tucker waved away her scruples. "We are family, my dear, and can be frank with each other. Go ahead, Nancy."

"I suffer from colic. The pain is extreme. Judy will vouch for it. I have suffered it for years. I had a bad bout. Randy and Mary were disturbed. They were sleeping downstairs with their child."

"Glentivar is a small home," said Dick. "Judy and I were to sleep in the room at the top of the stairs, with Nancy, little Jenny and Nancy's girl, Phebe, in the adjoining room." He turned to Lelia. "It was far from ideal, but with such distances between us all, we take what beds we can find. Jack and Archie laid up at the local inn. Judy slept heavily, but I was called by Jenny, upset to find her sister in so much pain."

"I took a sleeping draft," Judy said. "I haven't slept well since our son was born. My worries . . ." Lelia reached across and squeezed her hand.

Her touch warmed Judy. Lelia was such a contrast to Gabriella, who had recently been safely delivered of a son named Thomas Mann Randolph Jr. — their brother, Tom's exact name, even though Tom was still alive and well. Patsy's letter had been blunt on the point, and relations between Monticello and Tuckahoe had never been cooler. Judy envied the way Mr. Tucker's gaze brightened whenever he laid eyes on Lelia, but at least she could reassure herself that Dick's family was no less at odds than her own. Jack had made no secret of his disapproval of the new Mrs. Tucker. Dick dismissed it as immaturity and suggested there was still some aftershock over the loss of Theo. Everyone knew Jack to be temperamental. Judy released Lelia's hand and turned her attention back to Dick's stepfather.

"So, you have little to tell us," said Mr. Tucker. "Jenny is too young. What age is she now? Seven?" Judy nodded. "Explain what occurred then, Dick and Nancy. In as much detail as you can."

"Nancy fell ill early in the evening," Dick began. "She retired after dinner, taking Jenny with her. The girl, Phebe, was upstairs too. Judy followed soon after. Mary settled the baby while Randy and I smoked a pipe on their front porch. I'd no apprehension Nancy was anything more than under the weather until I said goodnight to Randy and went to retire myself. Phebe asked permission to go out to the kitchen and boil some water for fennel tea. While she was gone, Jenny took me in to see Nancy. I was mostly concerned that if Jenny started crying, the whole house would be disturbed. I sat with Nancy and tried to keep both her and Jenny calm. Phebe brought tea. It didn't help. In fact, Nancy vomited." He pulled a face. "At that point, I think I went down to find a basin, warm water and some towels. Phebe told me where to look. I ran back upstairs and gave the women what they needed. Judy woke up around then. I know Randy and Mary heard me on the stairs. The house is timber, and the stairs whine with every footfall. Mary was helpful. She gave Nancy some laudanum. That seemed to do the trick."

"The whole episode is embarrassing," said Nancy. "I wish I had stayed at Bizarre. I wanted to, but Judy said it would be rude—"

"It would have been. Randy and Mary expected us all. Although heaven knows, now, I wish you had stayed at home." Judy didn't glance in her sister's direction.

"And the blood on the stairs?" Mr. Tucker looked from Dick to Nancy. "We can't dismiss that as slave chatter. Randy Harrison confirmed it to me himself." He waved a hand at the desk behind him.

"You wrote to Randy?" asked Dick.

"I did." Mr. Tucker raised his eyebrows as Dick threw himself back in his chair. "The matter is serious."

"But it's nonsense! And insulting."

"Quite so, but we are family and must hold together, whatever the storm. I will ask you again, without emotion, and wish you to answer in kind. The Harrisons report there was blood on the stairs and in Nancy's bedclothes. It must be explained."

Dick turned to her sister. Judy tried to read his expression but could not.

"A nosebleed," Nancy said. "Brought on by the vomiting. Phebe tried to clear it up in the morning. We were afraid to make any further disturbance during the night." She bit her lips and looked down at her lap.

There was a moment's silence, and then Judy spoke up. "I wish I'd been more aware of what was happening. I saw nothing and heard little. But Nancy is certainly prone to nosebleeds. The story the slaves concocted is an outrage."

"Well, there we have it!" Lelia clapped her hands together and rose. "Mr. Tucker, dear, do you think I might take the ladies away for some refreshments? The children are keen for us to join them."

Her merry tone broke the tension. Judy smiled. She saw Nancy unclasp her hands and flex her fingers. Mr. Tucker extended a hand to Judy, and the ladies stood and shook out their skirts. They followed Lelia to the doorway with Mr. Tucker and Dick only a step behind. In the hallway, she heard the men talking.

"We will leave the matter for today, Dick," Mr. Tucker said. "But it is not enough to have your story straight, as I'm sure you know. We must work out what to do to stop the rumors."

"I know it, sir. That is why we are come, and I am grateful for your support."

"You have it. Rest assured. You, Judy, Nancy — all three. I will not fail you."

* * *

In early March, Judy and Dick were summoned from Williamsburg to Tuckahoe.

She was apprehensive. Dick said little, but he didn't need to — a Virginian's honor was as vital as his heartbeat. Jack wrote frequently, sparing no one's feelings and railing against the sly looks and jokes he claimed to be subjected to as the brother of the Randolphs of Bizarre. Even the name of their home was used against them, he declared, waxing lyrical about the aspersions being cast against Dick's character. Judy sensed Dick and Tucker's unease rise.

And now, this visit to Tuckahoe. Judy traveled alone in the coach while Dick rode ahead, thinking who knew what. She leaned her head against the doorframe and tried for optimism. Tuckahoe was her home. They were going to her father and her brothers. They must support them. Without Nancy there to antagonize, she would manage Gabriella. That left Dick to enlist the support of her father, Tom and William.

But the moment the carriage drew to a halt at the north door, it was evident that all was not well. No family stood on the steps to welcome them. Their arrival couldn't have gone unheard, and yet only James, her father's footman, was present, nodding to her driver and calling a boy to stable the horses. Judy looked at Dick, but his face was blank. She picked up her skirts and followed him into the house.

The Great Hall was empty and silent. Judy noted some changes — a new, bright carpet, matching sideboards at each window. She reached for Dick's hand, but he had turned to James.

"Is Mr. Randolph at home?" he asked, his voice tight.

"The family are in the dining room. They will receive you there."

The dining room. Judy sucked in her cheeks. Dick pulled off his hat and thrust it at James. "It appears we are all business today." He offered her his arm. "Come, Mrs. Randolph. Let us go and meet your family."

They were nearly all there. That was the next surprise. Father, Gabriella, Tom and William, along with Patsy and William's new wife, Lucy. Lizzie and her husband were absent, but Molly was there with her husband, David Meade Randolph, who Dick had never liked. Father was the only person to rise when they entered the room.

"Randolph. Judith," he said. "Please take a seat."

"What kind of greeting is this, Father?" She struggled to take in the implications of what she saw. No one looked at her. The table was bare of refreshments. They took their seats at the lower end of the table, with her father and Gabriella at the top and her siblings ranged down each side. She shrank inside her dress and tears pricked her eyes. Dick gripped the arms of his chair. Her father remained on his feet.

"You can be under no illusions as to why I required your presence here today," he said. "The family deserves answers. Do you dispute the facts of the case, Randolph?"

"There is no case, and there are no facts before me, sir. What would you have me say? What would you have me think of such a reception?" Dick stared down the table.

"I told you all how it would be!" William threw up his arms and leaned back in his chair. "To expect reasonable behavior from a man like this!"

"A man like me?" Dick was on his feet in an instant. "Sir, are you going to allow such rudeness to go unchecked?"

Her father threw a mild frown in William's direction. Judy saw it and quailed. It told her they were all ranged against them. Dick knew it too. She sensed his tension as clearly as if it were a hot ray of sun dancing across her skin.

"Let us remain civil and keep our emotions in check, shall we?" Father said. "William did not mean to offend, I am sure. And yet, you cannot have expected us to react to these rumors with anything other than great distress? Accusations of adultery? Murder? Come, Randolph, did you look for a warm welcome under such circumstances? I hardly think so."

"It's all lies."

Judy scanned the sea of grave faces. Light shining in from the west windows cast the figures on one side of the table in white light and buried those opposite in shadow. Lucy's mouth was downturned. Molly gazed at her hands. Patsy offered her a half-smile, but Tom had a bullish set to his jaw, and William glared at Dick in open disgust.

"There are many reputations at risk here," Tom said.

"Indeed, there are!" Dick placed his palms on the table. "Which is why I hope you will join me and my family in pushing back on the gossip wherever we hear it. This is a foul lie, conjured up in the foul minds of disgruntled slaves. Randy Harrison's slaves, not mine, you'll note. I hardly believed it could be possible for such mud to stick."

"What you believe is neither here nor there at this point," said David Meade Randolph. His meaty face was expressionless. Judy wanted to slap him.

"What matters to us most," said William, "is the damage done to our sister."

Judy's breath caught, and her heart expanded in her chest. She opened her mouth, but Tom chimed in before her.

"What is to become of Nancy, Randolph? That's what we are asking ourselves. You were trusted with the care of our sister. Our eighteen-year-old, unmarried sister. And yet here we are. It's not your reputation that concerns us, but hers. Nancy's. Nancy's reputation and Nancy's prospects. What can they be now?"

Judy put her hands to her cheeks. "Am I not your sister too, Tom?" She shook her head in confusion. "You bring me and my husband here to talk of Nancy?"

"Certainly. She is our primary concern," said Father. "A Virginian man is responsible for the safety and well-being for all who make their home with him — for his wife, his children, all his slaves, tenants and dependents. In offering my daughter, Nancy, a home, Dick, you became as a father to her. And now this!" Color rose in his cheeks for the first time. Gabriella reached out and touched his hand, but he waved her away. "We have discussed these events as a family—"

"What events? Father, there was no ‘event'. It is a misunderstanding. Gossip. As if my husband and my sister would—" Judy broke off, unable to say more. Her head throbbed; tears spilled forth. Molly's hand was on her elbow, and she allowed herself to be led from the room.

Her older sister tried to persuade her to lie down upstairs, but Judy would have none of it.

"No. Only give me a moment to compose myself. It's so unexpected. I thought we would find support here. It is not true, sister. None of it." She looked at Molly, but nothing in her expression reassured. Moments later, her father's voice boomed out so loudly that she heard every word.

"Whether there is any truth in the story or not, Richard Randolph, my daughters were in your care. One as your wife and the other, her sister, as a dependent, a girl, a young woman, whose entire future prospects are now blasted. Blasted, by this base narrative. I find that you are the responsible party here. You are the party at fault. Whatever the tawdry truth may or may not be, I do not care. Do you hear me? Whether it's all lies or every word is true, it is too damned late. You are equally dishonored in either case. Naturally, I would prefer that my son-in-law not be an adulterer, not be a child-murderer, not be a liar and a cheat. But even if you are as innocent as a babe against such charges, you are dishonored forever in this family. How could you let this happen? My daughters. In — I repeat — your care. And this is where we find ourselves? Our family, the subject of tavern gossip and street-corner laughter. The Randolph name become a source of merriment. Slaves whispering. Our friends, our fellow landowners whispering. This is where you have brought us, Richard Randolph. And all you can do is shrug your shoulders and tell me it's not true."

Judy opened the dining room door and watched. Dick was on his feet.

"You say it is too late, sir, that I have brought us here, but that is hardly fair or true. Can you seriously believe that slaves did this? That slave chatter could bring lies and gossip to such a fever and tumult that we are the talk of Virginia and beyond? No!" Dick's eyes glittered as he glared at them all. "This has been allowed to spread, has been perpetuated even by those who should stand our friends. By our own family. I have it on good authority that William here has been one of the worst. I'm told he has never defended my name. Worse, he's given the rumors credence, even spreading these foul slanders himself." He turned on William. "Do you deny it? Will you sit there and deny your part in this disaster?"

Judy saw William's eyes slide to his new wife, Lucy. She had not met the girl. Lucy was pretty, with large, dark eyes and a pert mouth. Her clothes looked costly. She read his expression — a mix of arrogance, coupled with a desire for approbation — and realized what had happened. William, lacking the optimism of Tom or the confident indifference of Father, had found his extended family plunged into scandal just as he tried to fix the interest of Lucy Bolling Randolph, daughter of Virginia's former governor. He'd repudiated his family at Bizarre, Judy was sure of it. How quickly he must have distanced himself from them, coward that he was.

"Try and spread the blame as you will, Randolph," replied William, "but there is no one here in doubt about who is at fault."

"Damn you, man! I tell you it is all talk, and yet you sneer at me? On my honor as a gentleman, I will not accept such treatment. I must have satisfaction."

"Here now, Dick." It was Tom's turn to intervene. "We can have no dueling in the family."

"What family? This is not how family are treated! My wife ignored. My honor insulted. Keep out of this, Tom. William? Give me your answer? Will you name your seconds?"

Again, Judy saw William glance at Lucy. Her eyes gave nothing away, but she certainly didn't look concerned that her new husband was being challenged to a pistol fight.

"Only gentlemen duel, Dick," came his slow reply. "Father, I don't intend to dignify this attack with a response. What say you?"

"I say that Richard Randolph needs to keep his temper in check and remember whose house he is in!" Judy's father thumped his right hand down on the dining table. "You are not here, young man, to force a fight on my son. I asked you here to discover how you intend to remove this scurrilous gossip from around my daughter Nancy's innocent head. And so far, you have failed."

Dick glowered at William, but something, perhaps the coldness in Father's tone, blunted his temper, and the high color faded from his cheeks. He sat down heavily. "If I might speak with you alone, sir?"

Father shrugged but nodded, and the family rose. Judy stepped into the room to return to Dick's side, but her husband shook his head. She was forced to funnel out with her siblings and their husbands and wives, none of whom — not even Patsy — acknowledged her, and who soon dispersed into the Great Hall, leaving her stranded in the hallway, a stranger in the home she grew up in.

She didn't have long to wait. In fewer than five minutes, Dick emerged. Judy looked past him, hoping her father would follow. But there was no sign of him, and when she went to the door, Dick blocked her path.

"Don't speak with him. It will make you no happier. We need to leave."

"Leave?" Her voice was a whisper. "How can we leave? This is my family. What about the horses?"

Dick put an arm around her and dug his fingers into her shoulder. "I will manage the horses, Judy. But I won't stay here a moment longer. Do you understand?"

She looked up. His handsome face was drawn. "Yes, husband," she said.

It was only later, miles from Tuckahoe, when they stopped at Providence Forge to change horses, that Judy found the courage to ask Dick what her father had said. They stood on a stone bridge, overlooking a gurgling stream, a short walk from the hostelry. Judy watched the water flow and churn.

"I asked him to help me sue anyone spreading these rumors for slander. He refused."

"What reason did he give?"

"The same as you heard him give when you were in the room. It is too late. The damage to my reputation is done. I — we — our cause is already lost. Your father wanted only to speak about Nancy. About what might be done to save Nancy."

Judy's hands curled into fists. "What did he suggest?"

"That she leave Bizarre and return to Tuckahoe. Which is, and believe me I pointed this out, the only certain way to damn us all to infamy for ever."

"Are you quite sure? Might it not be better for all of us if she were gone?"

"No! Nothing more surely indicates guilt. You said so yourself back in October. We have done nothing wrong. Nancy cannot leave Bizarre until the matter is put to rest. Then she can leave with her head held high, and we can get on with our lives."

"Promise me you won't do anything rash. When you called out William, I thought I might turn hysterical."

"Hysterical? I should be sorely disappointed if you did. No. I've had enough of this whole sorry saga."

"Please, Dick. Promise me you will let it go. We will wait. The gossip will fade. Surely it will." He didn't answer but stepped away from the bridge and stretched his back.

"Why don't you take a seat?" Earlier, he'd pointed out a stone bench on a patch of grass between the bridge and the hostelry. "I'll join you in a moment."

Nodding, Judy left his side and was almost out of sight when she thought of Lizzie. Lizzie had not been at Tuckahoe. Perhaps she might stand their friend still. She turned, thinking to share this hope with Dick, but he wasn't looking her way. She watched as he pulled some papers from his coat pocket, ripped them into pieces and flung the fragments out over the bridge wall. She took the last few steps to the bench and sat down. What had she seen?

Doubt gripped her. She had been queasy that morning, another sign, adding to her recently raised hope that she and Dick might have another child coming. She squeezed her eyes closed and breathed, slowly, deeply and deliberately. Their treatment at Tuckahoe had shaken her. Seeing Dick tear up that letter worried her. But she had her children to think about. There was no room for doubts.