Chapter Twenty

It was a difficult pregnancy, and later, Judy wondered if the fault in Tudor began there, before he was even born, in her bitterness, her unhappiness and her doubt.

But who would not be bitter, left in Judy's shoes? It was her fourth pregnancy and would likely be her last. Dick did not love her, that much was clear. This was her fault, not his. Physical love had seemed so important, so necessary, but the reality of it had proven uncomfortable and unpleasant. She'd even thought, years back, when she'd been pregnant with that first precious child, the one Dick had mourned and forgotten with such expediency, that if he took a mistress one day, she would tolerate it. Why should he be deprived of something he enjoyed simply because she did not? Judy believed herself a fair-minded person. She believed in marriage, in God and in her duty. There were other ways to love a husband. She was sure she'd fail him in no other way. And yet she had. She lacked his spontaneity. His love of society and chatter. His love of fine wine and splendid dishes. His joy in riding and in a life spent out of doors. But still, she had believed in their marriage. She'd believed in his loyalty. She'd believed him over the nonsense at Glentivar. She believed Dick had been maligned by slave chatter and the refusal of her family to speak up in his defense.

When had her doubts begun? She remembered the letter he had ripped to pieces on the way back to Williamsburg from their disastrous visit to Tuckahoe. What could it have said? And then there was the trial. Oh, Patrick Henry might have had the courtroom in convulsions, poking fun at Aunt Page, but her testimony weighed upon Judy. She could not set it aside. Aunt Page had said she had seen Nancy in a state of undress and believed she had been with child. Patsy had thought so too. If that was true, then who was its father? When was it conceived, and what had happened to it? It was torture to think about, but she couldn't stop herself.

She might force the truth from Phebe. She lost count of the number of times she resolved to do so, only to change her mind. Her dignity, her pride, her upbringing forbade it. Asking a slave for her sister's secrets was beneath the mistress of Bizarre, beneath a daughter of Ann Cary Randolph. She longed for her mother often, mostly at night, when the house was quiet and she tossed and turned alone.

Judy thought back to Theo's last months. He had been weak, feverish, barely able to rise from his bed. But if there was a child, surely Theo was the father? And it would be so like Nancy to involve Dick in her subterfuge afterward. Judy saw how it might have been. Theo dead. Nancy in trouble. A stillbirth. Or a live birth and the baby taken — where? — somewhere, not kept, but safe and healthy. Yes. She could see Dick shouldering his responsibilities toward the child of his dead brother, of his wife's sister. That much she could imagine. The rest? The rest was too dark, too distressing and involved too great a betrayal.

Yet there had been that letter. And those witnesses. Friends who talked of the closeness between her sister and her husband, who implied a relationship beyond what was appropriate. The refused examination. Her thoughts were slow poison.

What if the truth was as bad as she could imagine? What if it began with a man tired of his wife? He'd brought her younger sister into their home, not with the intention of betrayal perhaps, or at least not consciously, but still, bringing in someone younger, prettier, impressionable. Bringing in a girl who admired and flattered the tired husband. A girl who was jealous of her sister. Self-centered. Or lascivious. Or both. A girl who might be a little in love with her sister's man. Perhaps the wife bore some responsibility. She had pushed her husband away, been too cold, too lost in her own grief and disappointment. Certainly, she'd been na?ve. She had been trusting. She had been betrayed. Was she a fool who sat in her parlor while her husband and sister laughed behind her back? A blighted woman, giving birth to a flawed son, a punishment from God for his father's waywardness? What if the younger girl had found herself pregnant? The guilty couple had no path forward but concealment. The child had either been born dead or sent elsewhere. Even in her worst imaginings, Judy couldn't countenance the suggestion there had been an infant's body on the shingle pile at Glentivar. No. No one had believed that for a moment. Blood perhaps. But not a body. The father of this new life inside her might be an adulterer. But not a murderer. No.

From the day they returned from the Cumberland courthouse to the day that Tudor was born, Judy watched them. Where was Dick, and where was Nancy? Were they together or apart? Did they glance at each other, touch or smile? If they were too distant, that was grounds for concern. Evidence that they were trying to cover their tracks. As Judy's waistline grew, she watched her sister. Nancy seemed devoted only to Saint and her ambitions of teaching him to read and write. Well, she might do as she wished there. Judy was determined to bring a new, healthy, perfect child to her home.

To achieve that goal, she needed rest and peace of mind. In the week that she felt that first flutter of movement inside her, Dick received a letter. Judy believed it was a godsend. His cousin, Anna Dudley, needed help. A widow with two small children, she hoped to pass a year or two lodging with family while leasing out her farm. Dick rubbed at his temples as he read her letter aloud to Judy and Nancy.

"Poor woman," he said. "But are we in a position to help?"

"Certainly we are, Dick," Judy spoke up at once. "Invite her to stay. It's the right thing to do."

"What do you say, Nancy?"

"I—"

"What she thinks is not the issue here, Husband."

"She lives here too, Judy. I'd wish my decision to be one we're all comfortable with." The look he gave her was far from friendly. "Nancy?"

"If Judy wishes it."

"I do."

"And it will not be too much trouble? Given everything?" Dick waved his hand in Judy's general direction, his eyes falling on her waist.

"No trouble at all. She will be company for us all. Perhaps, exactly what we all need."

* * *

Anna Dudley and her two children arrived a month later. She fell in with the household's routines easily, which pleased Judy, but wherever Nancy turned, there was Anna Dudley. She was a small woman, with smooth black hair, threaded with silver strands. Her skin was pale and freckled, and there was a hardened look about her, as if she had faced some troubles, which, considering the loss of her husband, was perhaps to be expected. She was loudly glad to be at Bizarre — outwardly pleased with everything and everyone and full of compliments and exclamations of her admiration — but from the first, Nancy knew herself appraised and measured. She'd hoped for companionship, believed an additional person might break up the tension in the household, but Anna Dudley wasn't the answer. She was sharp with her own children and barely acknowledged Saint. Several times, Anna Dudley picked up a book Nancy had been reading, examined it, and sniffed. When Nancy found herself repeatedly left alone with her in the parlor in the evenings — Judy claiming tiredness and Dick preferring to drink alone in his library — she braced herself for trouble. The silence between them was never comfortable. And then, within weeks of arriving, Anna Dudley set Nancy against her irrevocably.

"I wonder that you would stay on here," she began. "Given everything that has happened."

Nancy took a sip of wine and threw Anna Dudley a challenging look and said nothing. If the older woman noticed, she did not care.

"Indeed. Such a terrible scandal. The talk of Virginia and beyond, I heard. Of course, I discounted it. Those people are born liars."

"Those people?"

"The Harrisons should have more control over their slaves, I say. But still, I wonder that you have remained at Bizarre for so long."

"Where would you have me go, Cousin?"

Anna Dudley was silent, but not for long. "True. There is no good solution to your difficulties. Marriage is likely out of the question now."

Nancy gritted her teeth. "If you say so."

"You will soon learn I am not one to gild the lily, Nancy. I like plain speaking. No point in pretending otherwise. Your options are sadly limited."

There was a difference, Nancy found, of knowing something to be true in your head and hearing it confirmed out loud by someone else. "Which perhaps is why you find me still here," she said.

"Yes, yes. But for how much longer? Would you be your sister's unpaid maid? I suppose you are helpful with the boy."

The boy. Yet another person who treated Saint like less than a person. She'd indulged in a daydream of late. She pictured herself and Saint leaving Bizarre together. Judy, caught up with her new child, God willing, stood at the door, waving them away. The harder leave-taking took place later. In her imagining, Nancy and Saint stood at the railing of their ship waving farewell to Dick with the taste of salt tears on her lips. She was taking her nephew to Scotland, to a new country and new people. To help for Saint and for herself, who knew, but the face of Leslie Alexander, although smudged in feature and made hazy in the years since she had seen him, had a romantic appeal.

"The boy will grow up. And you will have no society. You're a good-looking girl, still. There might be a widower prepared to overlook your history. But you won't find such a one in Cumberland County."

Nancy remembered the old general Gabriella tried to foist on her. "I don't dream of marriage."

"Which shows some wisdom. I respect that. And realism. I'd like my children to be realists. When they are as disappointed in life as I have been, I hope they will, at least, be as resilient."

"You've been disappointed?"

"I lost my husband. I'm left with debts. My father hasn't given me so much as a horse these past four years. Your father — Lord rest his soul — at least settled some money upon you. In that, you have an advantage I lack. Of course, our positions are dissimilar in most aspects." She paused. "But we are both dependent on the goodwill of others, are we not?" When Nancy only nodded, Anna Dudley prattled on. "Although the status of a widow will always be much better than a spinster. I know you won't mind my bald terms. I have my children. Such a blessing. Both healthy. And whole, unlike poor Saint . . . well, least said, soonest mended I always say. I admire your effort with him. Although, likely, the afflicted child will never amount to much. How your sister must pray every night for a safe delivery! I'm glad to be here to help her. As a mother myself, I will know what to expect. Whereas you—" Anna Dudley broke off and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, now, what have I said?" Her eyes were wide, but there was something rehearsed about it.

Nancy managed to put her glass back down on the table, although her fingers trembled. "I am not sure what you have said, or what you meant by it, Cousin. But I think all topics have been exhausted between us, would you not agree? I will bid you goodnight. I trust you will put the guard on the fire?" As she rose, her heart thumped in her chest. Her eyes stung. She dared not blink in case tears came. She must not give Anna Dudley that satisfaction. She would not.

Somehow, she made it upstairs to her room, brushing past Phebe and burying her head in her pillow. What had the woman tried to insinuate? That Nancy would never have a child because she could never marry? Or was she implying she believed the gossip about Glentivar was true? That Nancy had been a mother, even though it had ended in despair? In many ways, it didn't matter. The truth was as bad as the gossip, if not worse. She had harmed her unborn baby. Poisoned it with Patsy's colic remedies. Anna Dudley was right. There was no husband in Nancy's future. No infant sleeping in her lap. She'd always be alone. It was no more than she deserved.