Chapter Two

Judy found the late-August heat oppressive. When the family dined in the winter, sharp gusts of cold air assaulted them whenever the slaves brought in a new dish. On summer nights like this, those chill days could not come fast enough.

Tom was away at Monticello visiting the Jeffersons, but William, Dick, Judy and Nancy were at the table, squinting in the candlelight, while Father brooded at its head. A neighbor, Colonel Harvie, had joined them with his daughter, Gabriella, a girl Judy's age. Having guests made her more than usually self-conscious about Dick. Everything he did was magnified as if she were as responsible for his words as she was for her own.

"And so, I'm back, staying at Matoax for the next few months," he explained. "Although my stepfather, Mr. Tucker, doesn't believe our future is in the land, I'm sorry to say."

"Tucker's a good man," said Father. "But when all's said and done, he's a lawyer and not a Randolph. Not born to the land as we are. We are family. Only distant cousins, yes, but descended from the same Warwickshire Randolphs, and we have stewarded Virginia honorably for over one hundred years. The land has made us who we are."

William cleared his throat. "Tobacco isn't the crop it was though, Father. I heard—"

"Don't speak on subjects you know nothing about."

William's face crumpled, and he pushed the meat on his plate with his fork.

"What do you say, William? Shall we bag some rabbit tomorrow?" asked Dick. "We could be up at dawn and show Tom we can do just as well without him. When does he come back from Monticello and charming the sophisticated Miss Patsy?"

Nancy giggled, but Judy frowned. To support William was one thing; to promote gossip about Tom in front of the Harvies was quite another. "He should be back tomorrow," she said. "Mr. Jefferson has taken an interest in Tom. It's an honor to the family."

"The Randolph family doesn't need honors from anyone." Father wiped his thin lips on his napkin. "I've a great deal of respect for Thomas Jefferson, but he's our equal, not our better. Remember, he spent his youth here. Learned his letters in the same schoolhouse where you and your siblings learned yours. Our families have looked out for each other for generations. Tom would be a good and fitting match for Patsy Jefferson, if he likes the look of her. It's time for some weddings in the family, I think. You can't live here at Tuckahoe all your days."

Judy saw Dick's fist clench on his fork. Father's approval of their match was obvious, but Mr. Tucker remained to be convinced.

A few weeks later, Dick arrived at Tuckahoe unexpectedly. He threw himself from his horse and stormed into the house, calling Judy's name. She ignored Nancy's raised eyebrows and rushed downstairs, flush with thankfulness that Father was not at home.

"What's happened? What's wrong?"

"It's exactly as I feared." He paced the hallway. "Tucker received your father's permission but will write and request we delay."

"Delay? Why?"

"Oh, because I am not steady enough. I lack purpose. I'm uncertain of my future plans."

"But that's not true!" She longed to grasp his hands.

"He wants to know how I'll support my wife and, in due course, our family. As if Matoax were nothing. As if I'm incapable of running a plantation. As if everyone must be a lawyer just because he is."

"How ridiculous!" She caught his arm. "And so terribly unfair."

He stilled, and his gaze fell on her lips. Judy's eyes widened as he pulled her to him and clamped his lips on hers.

She registered pain — the crushing of her lips against her teeth — then shock at the force of his tongue in her mouth. She stiffened, thought to pull away, but Dick drew back first. He was on the verge of tears. Real tears.

That changed everything. She pushed her lips to his. Again, Dick pulled back, a question in his eyes. She knew what he asked, and it might be wrong, but suddenly, it didn't feel wrong. How could it be wrong when they were promised to each other? Father approved of Dick, and Dick needed her. Besides, it had worked for Lizzie.

"Wait here," she whispered.

Nancy was where she'd left her, sitting by the window with her nose in a book.

"I need your help. We — Dick and I — we need your help."

"Why? What's happened?"

"We've had a disappointment. We must be alone together and uninterrupted. You understand, don't you? You know we love each other."

"Of course I do. You belong together."

"Oh, thank you for saying so!" She pulled Nancy to her and kissed her cheek. "I'm going to take him to the river. To our quiet spot. I need you to stand lookout for us. Say you'll do it. We mustn't be disturbed."

* * *

Nancy tied on her bonnet and followed her sister and Dick Randolph outside. Dick smiled and held the door for her, so normal and composed that had she not seen the color in Judy's cheeks or heard the urgency in her voice, she might have thought nothing unusual was afoot. They walked unhurriedly, but with purpose, avoiding the kitchen house and Plantation Street, turning instead to the fields and the path to the river. A group of slave children returning from the fields came toward them. One boy limped along behind while the others hurried past with their eyes on the ground. Dick stopped him.

"Where are you hurt?"

"Just my ankle, sir. It ain't nothing."

"Make sure you show it to your mama. And mind she takes you up to the house to see Miss Judy here if it's not better by morning." He patted the boy on the head, and they walked on.

"That was kind," Nancy murmured. "You will be a good master."

"I intend to be more than that. Judy knows. We will free our slaves." He stopped and looked back. They were beyond the view of anyone at the house. "Walk a little behind us, Nancy."

Heat rose in her face as they moved ahead. Dick tucked Judy's arm through his. Heads bent together, they spoke in whispers. They paused beside a wheel of exposed roots of a bitternut hickory pulled from the ground in a recent storm. Nancy thought of speaking, but what could be said? She turned her back and stared up the path back to the house.

Time slowed. She heard them stride out across the grass to the riverbank, but soon they were out of earshot, and other noises pricked her consciousness. A breeze rustled the leaves of a nearby line of trees. Birds called. She watched thin curls of pale clouds drift across the sky. What were they doing? It wasn't her concern. But suspicion made her lightheaded. Judy was such a good girl, such a determinedly good girl. Wasn't she?

Nancy had to know. She grabbed her skirts and stepped off the path. She navigated the long grass, moisture seeping through her shoes and stockings. Where the grass met a broad swathe of buttonbush covered in white pincushion flowers, she hesitated. She should go back and wait. She should leave them in peace down there, on that soft bank behind the buttonbush, with just space enough for two people to lie together.

Instead, she found a break in the bushes and pushed her way inside. She stepped warily, knowing the ground fell away on the other side, where rocks and broken earth made a wall above the riverbank. She pushed through the foliage until she saw them. Already, Judy lay on her back with her hips tilted up and her boots hooked around Dick Randolph's naked back. Her sister's eyes were closed, her eyebrows knitted in concentration — or discomfort — impossible to say which. Nancy turned her eyes on Dick — on his shoulder blades, on the dark hair on his thighs. She watched his muscles contract. And then he gasped and moaned.

Nancy bit her lip and stumbled backward. She waited, holding her breath until, hearing nothing, she judged it safe to creep away through the shrubs. Back in the pasture, she grabbed her skirts up above her knees and ran in great bounds through the grass to where they had left her. Everything was as it had been. Nothing was the same. She struggled for breath and composure, knowing if she saw anyone, she'd be unable to nod, far less speak. When at last Judy and Dick reappeared, Nancy set off toward the house, too fast for them to catch her. She couldn't bear to see their faces. She feared her own face would tell them what she'd seen. The image of Judy's boots and Dick Randolph's naked skin danced in her eyes, impossible to blink out of sight.

In the safety of the room she shared with Judy, Nancy pulled a shawl of her mother's from a chair. Wrapping herself in it, she lay on the bed with her back to the door and sobbed. Judy. Her good sister, Judy. This was all because Mother was gone. Memories of her — her eyes, her face, her voice — produced another wave of salty tears.

But she couldn't cry forever. The pillow grew cold beneath her cheek. Nancy opened her eyes and felt the weight of her damp lashes. Her nose was blocked, and her lips stung. Heroines in novels always benefited from tears, but crying for too long only made her head ache, and besides, the last thing she wanted to display now was a blotched and puffy face. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes and sat up. The bed creaked, but she heard another noise. A shuffling sound. From below.

Nancy dropped to the floor at once.

"Phebe!"

Jenny's nursemaid lay curled under the bed with her fist in her mouth.

"What on earth are you doing? What has happened?" The younger girl did nothing but shake, so she wriggled her way under the bed and rubbed her shoulder. "You must tell me. Let me help you."

Phebe, one of Old Cilla's granddaughters, was two years younger than Nancy, her thin face as familiar as her own in the looking glass. Years ago, Cilla had nursed Molly and Lizzie. Then Phebe's mother, Sal, had cared for Tom, William, Judy and Nancy. In the nursery, Sal's daughters, Mae and Phebe, felt like part of the family. Now, Cilla ran the house, Sal managed the laundry and Mae was nursemaid to Jane and John while Phebe tended to little Jenny.

"I must go," Phebe said after Nancy coaxed her out from under the bed. "I shouldn't be here. I only came in for a moment. I heard you on the stairs and tried to hide. I'll go now." She edged to the door, her eyes sliding away.

"Not until you tell me what has happened. Has someone upset you? Tell me who."

"No one knows. I promised not to say." Her face crumpled. "It's Mae."

Phebe's sister was expecting a child. Nancy had seen her the day before, walking down Plantation Street with her hand on her back, and marveled that the woman's long thin legs could support the swell of her belly. "She had the baby?"

"It died, Miss Nancy." Tears spilled down Phebe's cheeks. "Came out blue with the cord around its neck. And then Mae just bled away from us. Mama and I watched it. Tried everything. But she's gone." Her shoulders shook with the effort of speaking. Nancy drew her down to perch on the bed. The younger girl's frame was narrow, her body stiff to the touch.

"Hush. Take your time. I'm so sorry to hear about Mae."

"I'm sorry too, Miss Nancy. I don't want to be no trouble."

Nancy reached under her pillow and pulled out a handkerchief. "Take this. Sit as long as you need. I'll go and see Cilla. Has my father been told?"

Phebe shook her head. "The overseer said he'd see the master this afternoon when he gets back. There wasn't time this morning. You won't speak to anyone till then, will you? Mama'll say I let her down. I promised to work hard and hold my tongue. She's mighty broken up."

"I promise. I know how you feel, a little. It is not so long since I lost my mother after all. I don't know when it will feel better; I wish I did. But your family will help you, Phebe. And you will help them."

"Thank you, miss. I'll be fine now." She stood and held the crumpled handkerchief out for a moment before shaking her head and cramming it into her apron pocket. "I'll see it's cleaned and returned."

"Keep it. Keep it and know I am thinking of you. You can hide in here any time you need to."

"I'm not sure Miss Judy would agree, miss. She'd say it's not proper. And she'd be right."

Phebe looked anxious all over again, but Nancy waved away her concerns. "Leave Miss Judy to me," she said. "Besides — she has other things on her mind these days."