Chapter Twenty-Two

Judy woke with a feeling of dread. Tudor was well, sleeping soundly in his cot, and the house was quiet. Light rain drummed at her window. Dick had been sick for four days. She slipped out of bed and made her way down the hall to her husband's room.

The smell only increased the worry in the pit of her stomach. There was a rotten sweetness in the air and a stillness that made her rush to Dick's bed and lean over, listening for his breath. For a horrible moment, she heard nothing. But then he wheezed, and a bubble of breath, half air, half liquid, escaped from him. He was alive, but Judy feared for him. She put her hand to his head. Still hot, warming her palm and damp with sweat. His pillow was soaked. The room was dark. Nancy, curled on the chair by the bed, had not been disturbed by Judy's entrance. She was disheveled — hair escaping her cap, one sleeve rolled past her elbow and the other pulled up only a little above her thin wrist. Judy felt a spark of fondness, quickly extinguished by thoughts of Anna Dudley. Unhappiness weighed on her like a stone on her chest. She closed her eyes.

But a moment was all she could spare. She drew the curtains, letting light spill across the room. Nancy stirred, stretched her neck and got to her feet. Judy went to stand by her. In the light, Dick's face looked waxy. Unnatural.

"We must call in Alves again. Must we write to Jack?"

Nancy bent forward and laid her hand across Dick's forehead. He showed no sign of wakening. "Yes."

Judy took Nancy's hand in hers. She remembered waiting together at their mother's bedside. She needed her mother's strength now, but her mind swayed with strange thoughts — of her sons left fatherless, of herself alone on the porch downstairs, wrapped in a shawl but shivering with cold, of her sister weeping, of Dick as he had been when he had ridden up to Tuckahoe, of him lying on the grass, laughing with his two brothers, and of Mr. Tucker staring at his adopted son, sitting in a courtroom with his head bowed.

"Go and write to Jack and Mr. Tucker now, please. After sending Ben for Dr. Alves. Ask Lottie to mind Tudor. Sarah will spare her."

"And Anna Dudley?"

Judy's eyes remained fixed on Dick. "Tell her to stay out of my way."

Nancy squeezed her hand and then let go. Still, Judy stared at Dick, his features sharpened by illness, his hair damp and disordered, his face, even his lips, drained of color.

Slowly, she lowered herself into the chair by the bed. She leaned forward, propped her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands. "Please, God," she whispered. "Please do not take my husband. For my son's sake, if not for mine. For my boy. For both my boys. Please. Hear me. Help me. For I do not know how we can manage without him."

She was still praying a few hours later when Dr. Alves returned and bled Dick once again. Judy remained by Dick's side through the day and into the small hours of the night. Nancy had Ben bring in another chair and sat near the foot of Dick's bed. Syphax stood at the door. The sisters barely spoke. Whatever Judy requested, Nancy or Syphax supplied — more butterfly-weed tea, wet cloths, candles, a towel, a glass to hold above Dick's lips to check his breathing.

Somewhere in the night, long before dawn, she shifted in her chair and moved forward, lifting the candle at her elbow to shed more light on Dick. Shadows shifted and resettled as her hand trembled.

"The glass," she said, holding out her hand. Holding her breath, she held it over Dick's lips and then brought it to the candle. The glass was clear. She blew out the light and set the candle down on the floor. "He has gone," she said in the darkness. "It is over. My husband is dead. May God have mercy on his soul."

* * *

Nancy was upstairs when Jack arrived two days later. He leaped from his horse and strode directly into the parlor, calling over his shoulder for Ben to take his horse.

She ran down in time to watch in the parlor doorway as Jack stumbled across the room and knelt next to his older brother's coffin. The fog of Nancy's own distress shifted a little. Her heart hurt for him. Jack had lost both his older brothers in the space of a few years. She watched in silence as he bowed his head and wept. She understood his grief. For two days, she had been numb, barely able to sleep, her mind trying to accept a reality that it longed to reject.

"Jack," she stepped into the room and placed a hand on his shoulder, keeping her eyes on him, not daring to test her self-control by looking at Dick's ashen face.

He fumbled for a handkerchief and slowly got to his feet.

"What the hell happened? I should have been here." Emotion unmade his features; his eyes were wide, his cheeks slack, his mouth trembling. He had never looked more like his nephew, Saint.

"Pneumonia."

"When?"

"He died on Monday. He came home soaked to the skin last Wednesday. At first, we thought little of it." She ran a hand over her forehead. "A week ago. It feels like a lifetime. He caught a chill that went straight to his chest. We called Dr. Alves and sat with him day and night."

"I should have been here. You should have written last Wednesday."

"I am sorry, Brother."

"Sorry?" Jack's face hardened. His lip curled, and his nostrils flared. "I race here. I walk into this. All the time he's already—" He half-nodded back at Dick's body. "And you are sorry?" Color rose in his face, and his voice rose. "Sorry?"

Jack grabbed Nancy by the shoulders. She almost thought he would crush her into his chest, but no, he pushed her from the room and slammed the door in her face. For a moment, she simply stood there, trying to take in what had happened. And then, she heard a movement to her left. Anna Dudley, standing in the doorway to the house with her hands on her hips, her daughter and son beside her.

"I expect that what Mr. Randolph needs now is his family. His kin." She patted her children's shoulders. "His blood. I will go to him. I suggest you go and tell Mrs. Randolph that her brother-in-law has arrived."

She opened the parlor door and ushered the children in. In the coolness and quiet of the hallway, Nancy waited. She expected Anna Dudley to receive no better treatment from Jack than she had. But all was quiet. She shook her head and went upstairs to find Judy.

Thankfully, Mr. Tucker arrived the next day and took Jack in hand. Nancy saw them disappear for long walks and ride over the plantation several times, as well as taking a day or two at the Roanoke property, some miles distant. The funeral was a quiet affair. Dick had never quite regained the status lost three years previously, despite his acquittal at the Cumberland courthouse. Friends came, of course: Randy and Mary, the Taylors, the Creeds, a few other plantation owners, Tom and Patsy. Dick's half-sister, Fanny, arrived with her friend, Maria Ward, both closer friends with Judy than with Nancy. Letters arrived from Lizzie and Molly. Nancy knew Judy had received a brief note of condolence from Gabriella, now remarried and become Mrs. John Brockenhurst, and William managed a bare two lines to her on the subject. One light in the darkness was that Judy told Anna Dudley to pack her bags the day after Dick was buried.

Her sister had barely spoken since it happened. She remained in her room, focusing on Tudor. Nancy watched Jack climb the stairs to see Judy, only to plod back down again within minutes. He didn't catch her eye but chose to sweep Saint up into his arms and take him for a ride. She was thankful Jack found solace in his nephew and grateful for time alone to compose herself.

Judy was Dick's widow — the loss was hers. But in her own room at night, Nancy took the ring from her neck chain, slid it on the finger of her left hand and cried herself to sleep. He was gone. The dream was gone. Only memories remained. She would protect those, protect him, protect her sister and protect their sons. It was the only way.

A few days after the funeral, Nancy found herself alone on the porch with Mr. Tucker for the first time since his arrival.

"I must tell you, my dearest Mr. Tucker, how valuable your correspondence has been to me these past three years." It was a glorious summer morning. The air was alive with the sound of birds calling, and a slight breeze stirred the leaves in the line of poplar trees that led to the river. No matter what happened, the seasons kept turning. The thought made her chest heavy.

"I told you I thought of you as a daughter, do you remember?"

She nodded. His voice was soft as always, but he'd aged since the trial. Deep lines fanned his cheeks. She saw his grief over Dick's death in the downturn of his mouth and the way he sank into his chair.

"Have you thought of the future, Nancy?"

"I will remain here with my sister."

"Is that for the best?"

"I believe so. She will need support. There is Saint to consider. And Tudor."

"She'll have Jack's help. And you are still so young."

She gave a half-smile. "Jack is only twenty-three. What burdens he must shoulder. He will rely upon you, I am sure."

"It will be hard on him. He has some ambitions that must be laid to one side, at least for now."

"Ambitions?"

"Politics."

"Really? I'd no idea. Although I know he has strong opinions."

"Which he is often willing to express." Tucker let out a soft chuckle. "Well, time will tell. He will finish his current studies and return to Bizarre to manage the family's interests. He has a great love for Saint and will feel the same for Tudor, I am sure."

"I still hope Saint may be able to go to school in England. In time, anyway."

"Perhaps, but not soon. There are the costs to be considered. And how certain can we be of the results? You believe he can be taught to speak?"

"I have high hopes for it. He makes great strides in his reading and writing, even at such a young age. I must continue to teach him. I cannot think of leaving Bizarre."

"But what about a family of your own, Nancy? Have you no thoughts of that?"

"None."

"You are young. That may change."

"But my situation will not." She bit her lip and looked down at her lap. "Believe me, sir, I have given it much consideration. Where would you have me go? You have a full household. I would never impose myself."

"You would be welcome, Nancy. Mrs. Tucker and I would welcome you."

"I know. But you would regret it. No—" she raised a hand to forestall his interruption. "My reputation is lost. We all know it. I might, perhaps, accept an offer from one of my brothers, should they be willing to take in such a cuckoo as I, but if my own family cannot stomach the humiliation of association with me, how can I ask yours to?"

"I say again, Nancy. You are a daughter to me."

Tears threatened. "You must care for those already under your roof, not add another, whose tawdry history might besmirch them by association." She shook her head and put a finger to her lips. More kind words might break her. "Anna Dudley made my position plain to me. I will not marry. I will not have my own children. I won't be independent. I won't run my own household. I'm beholden to Judy and will do my best to support her and Dick's children. There's nothing I won't do for them. Do you see?"

Tucker nodded but was silent.

Behind her, at the doorway to the house, Nancy heard the creak of wood under a light footstep. Then Judy's voice.

"I am glad to hear it, Sister. This is where you belong. Here. With me."

Nancy didn't turn, but she nodded her head.

Yes, she thought.

This is how it must be.