Chapter Twenty-Five

She had never been alone with David Meade Randolph before, yet now, Nancy found herself in a closed carriage with him, being driven from Tuckahoe to a lodging in Richmond that he had found for her. Molly's husband was someone she knew, of course, someone whose home she had stayed in on many occasions, yet she couldn't recall a single conversation she'd had with him. He was heavy-set and not tall, with a broad chest and arms so short, his hands threatened to disappear up his coat sleeves. At least his distinctive, braying laugh was not in evidence. Instead, he was quiet, likely wishing himself otherwise occupied. He and Molly were both much older than Nancy. She imagined herself of as little interest to him as he was to her.

Phebe's presence was reassuring. Nancy had been afraid she'd ask to remain at Bizarre, tempted by the possibility of a marriage to Billy Ellis, or with her family at Tuckahoe, but she'd simply nodded when Nancy told her they were going to Richmond. Randolph raised his eyebrows a little when Nancy directed her maid to climb into the coach with them, but he didn't argue when she pointed to the dark rain clouds over their heads. As they rolled into Richmond, a heavy drum of rainfall assaulted their ears. At least it removed the need for conversation.

But once at the lodging, David Meade Randolph was in no rush to depart. He appeared to be on good terms with the lady of the house — Mrs. Booth, a wide-hipped woman in a low-cut muslin that needed a neckerchief to be properly modest, and blind to the clear deficiencies Nancy saw in her new accommodation. The room was almost bare of furniture. There was a bed, yes, but later, when she lay on it, the mattress proved to be no more than a pile of sacking, tucked in a rough blanket that scratched her skin. There was no press for her clothes, such as they were, and the basin in the washstand was cracked and stained. Worse was the damp. Nancy smelled it as soon as she entered, a musty odor that prompted her to run her hand along the wall and shiver at the moisture she touched there. But David Meade Randolph would have none of it, busying himself with laying a fire in the small hearth and promising she would be warm in a moment. After he took his leave, she noticed his carriage remained outside for some time, and an unkind suspicion crossed her mind about the nature of her brother-in-law's connection to her landlady.

The next morning, Nancy dressed, drank a cup of bitter coffee, nibbled on a stale slice of bread left at their door by a maid of work and prepared to visit her Richmond relations. The sight of Molly's familiar home on Cary Street brightened her hopes. Employment would be her answer — her route to independence and lodgings that, at the least, were warm and dry.

Molly was in the kitchen with her women, and the smell of meat roasting on the spit made Nancy's mouth water. But her imaginings of a comfortable cup of tea in the parlor with her sister, discussing what her first steps might be in finding employment, proved illusory. Molly was short with her, clearly shouldering difficulties of her own. She brushed off her hands on her apron and led Nancy out into the hallway.

"I've no time for you today, Sister, as you can see. Perhaps next week? I'm sure you are busy getting settled."

Nancy realized Molly was leading her to the door. "Wait. I need your advice, sister. Where am I to find work? How do I go about it? Might I not be of use to you? Perhaps I might lodge here and be of use to you?"

"Lodge here?" Molly's frown spoke volumes. "When my David has been to the trouble of securing you a place for the next three months?"

"Three months? Molly, I cannot stay there above three nights. The damp is shocking. I fear for my health!"

"Nonsense. You're being far too particular. I cannot have you here." She strained her neck, looking around. "Mr. Randolph's business ventures do not prosper, Nancy. The plantation is sold. We are much reduced here and have our children to think of. You must contrive to find employment."

"And I mean to, Sister, but where? What do you recommend?"

Molly shuddered. "As if I do not have enough to bear already. Try the schools. The Academy. You could teach, could you not? That would be respectable enough, I suppose."

But within a week of arriving in Richmond, Nancy knew she was in trouble. Her letters to educational establishments went unanswered. She could find no hint of any family who needed a genteel, unmarried lady to teach their children at home, and letters from her brothers, Tom and William, were full of their opinions on what work she certainly must not consider, without any suggestion of what she should do instead. No one bearing the name Randolph could consider work in any kind of shop or eating establishment. Setting herself up as a milliner or seamstress required supplies and materials she had no means of purchasing. Her sister, Lizzie, invited her to tea, but never, she noted, when other Richmond ladies were present. With an unwilling hand, Nancy wrote to Gabriella, thanking her for allowing her to visit Tuckahoe, before making it known that she was now in the city. Her stepmother sent a three-line reply and did not suggest a meeting.

When Phebe began coughing, Nancy knew they needed to move. She sent a note to Molly with an urgent request for David Meade Randolph to come to her aid. He'd been mistaken in the room he had found. He'd seen it only briefly and at night. She was sure in daylight, he would see it would not do. Black mold climbed the walls. Phebe was already ill, Nancy sure to join her. On his second visit, he was less conciliatory.

"The room is not the best." He studied the mold around the window and sniffed. "I thought you might have cleaned it up a little."

"And I thought you might have found me somewhere more suitable."

"You have little means, Nancy Randolph, and are reliant on the goodwill of your relations. You might remember that."

"There's no need to represent to me the difficulties of my position. Believe me, I am quite aware. But I cannot stay here. It's unhealthy."

For a moment, they stared at each other. He dropped his gaze first. "Very well. The younger Whiting daughter — you are familiar with the Whitings?" Nancy shook her head. "No matter. Their younger daughter is now a Mrs. Pryor. Her husband runs the Haymarket Pleasure Gardens. They have need of some help in the house. She will offer you a room at a low price if you will assist her in the kitchen and so on."

"They're respectable people? And their home is clean and dry?"

"Very respectable indeed. The pleasure garden is popular, but the house is away from all that — quite enclosed and separate. John Pryor is well-liked in Richmond. Fought in the war. Successful in business."

"I'll take it then. And I can take Phebe with me?"

"Indeed you may. Molly says you will have even less reputation if you do not keep your maid! If that were possible." He laughed his awful laugh and Nancy's stomach dropped.

"And you will deal with Mrs. Booth? Recover Tom's money? I'm so distressed she was given three months' rent in advance. Had anyone seen the place, they could not have thought it sensible."

Since they both knew David Meade Randolph had paid over the money himself, she was not surprised when he glared, but she didn't care. The less he liked her, the sooner he might leave her in peace.

But it was soon clear the last thing on David Meade Randolph's mind was leaving Nancy Randolph in peace. At first, he visited her in her new room on the pretext of his attempts on her behalf to secure a refund from Mrs. Booth. Instead of realizing how he had let Nancy down in that regard, he implied their troubles with Mrs. Booth had brought them together in adversity. He made himself at home in a way that made her uncomfortable. He filled the room to the point where she could barely breathe, and she made sure to keep Phebe with her whenever he stopped by. On the evening he finally admitted defeat over Mrs. Booth and the three months' rent, he arrived with a bottle of wine and looked disappointed when she refused to take any. After downing several glasses in quick succession, he began to talk.

"You will have heard, I suppose, that I had to sell the plantation? Damnable state of affairs. My father is turning in his grave, I'm sure. And what do I get from Mrs. Randolph? A list of complaints."

"From Molly? She seemed happily busy when I saw her last."

"Busy? Yes, she is busy. Calls it ‘making the best of things' and invokes her mother fifteen times a day."

Nancy smiled — a mistake — her brother-in-law took it for encouragement.

"Oh, she puts on a good show, I'll give her that. Never lets the side down in public. But, between us, she's been the devil to live with of late. Never a kind word. Little barbs here and there. When all a man wants of an evening is to sit peacefully with a pretty, restful woman to bear him some companionship."

Nancy had been thinking of Judy's little barbs, but his soft expression brought her focus keenly back to the present. He was about to pour more wine, but she forestalled him.

"I must bid you goodnight now, unfortunately, Mr. Randolph," she said, standing. "The family across the hallway are most particular that there should be no noise at this hour, and I have to be up and helping Mrs. Pryor early tomorrow morning. But thank you for visiting. Phebe, can you pass Mr. Randolph his hat?"

With the door closed behind him and his steps echoing down the stairs, Nancy turned to Phebe. "Whatever can I do to stop these visits?"

Every morning, Nancy rose early and oversaw the Pryors' servants in the making of breakfast, making the coffee herself and carrying the pot to the family dining room. Mr. Pryor said little, his face buried in the newspaper when he wasn't eating his bacon, but Mrs. Pryor was always cheerful, and Nancy enjoyed feeling useful. She thought of Saint often. It was hard to imagine him so far away from home.

A few days later, in the evening, David Meade Randolph returned, bearing another bottle of wine. Nancy had been ruminating all day on Mrs. Booth and the waste of Tom's money. She pressed him on the subject again.

"Let it go, will you," he said. "The woman is quite within her rights. You chose to leave."

"But I heard from Mrs. Pryor that Mrs. Booth has plans to rent the room to another person. If she has new income, she has no grounds for keeping what we paid her."

"I'm telling you the money is gone. Forget it. You are better situated here, are you not?" He waved his arm and smiled, as if the room they sat in was as pleasant as any he might see. She thought of all she could say. That the room had no fireplace. That the light was poor, and she'd no money to pay for extra candles. That her bed was behind a screen and had no hangings, such as she was used to, that her two chairs needed new cushions, and the little table by the window had such a wobble, she'd been forced to pull out the end pages of two of her favorite novels to prop up its one short leg. She pictured his comfortable home on Cary Street and her sister, with whom he should so clearly be, instead of with her.

"How is Molly? I thought I might call on her tomorrow. Might you take her a note from me?"

"Me? I hardly think so. She would find it most odd."

"But surely she knows you are visiting here?"

He leaned back further now and even laughed. "Not for a moment. Molly thinks I'm meeting with a prospective business partner. She is always on at me, don't you see? Money, money, money. No appreciation for how hard I work. No. This is our secret, yours and mine. A little oasis of peace for me. You don't begrudge it now, do you? I don't suppose you have many visitors, and don't they say a friendly face is always welcome?"

"You are my family, sir, and of course, welcome to visit," Nancy hesitated, and her cheeks grew warm. "But I would be happier if my sister knew of it. Your kindness is her kindness after all."

"Her kindness? My dear, do you know your sister? Kindness is not a word that springs to mind when one speaks of her. I could give you a few other words — but as a gentleman, I shall not."

"But your protection on the road from Tuckahoe. Your help with finding lodgings. I must be grateful to my sister, sir."

"I'm not sure you should. If you had seen her and Lizzie, all of a twitter when they heard your plan to come to Richmond, I doubt you'd be grateful at all. But then, it's often the way, isn't it? Women can be so hard on each other. And so careful of their own standing and reputations."

Nancy rubbed at her temples. "Are you telling me that my sisters didn't want me in Richmond?"

"Not a bit! But Tom was set on it, and William agreed. And simply because a woman makes a mistake, I'm certainly not one to judge her for it."

"Mr. Randolph! I don't know to what you refer but this conversation should end."

His face twisted then. He managed to look both incredulous and knowing at the same time. He turned to Phebe and tossed her a few coins. "Go down into the pleasure garden. I've a fancy for some hot chestnuts. Buy enough for yourself. No need to rush."

Nancy watched in near disbelief as Phebe drew her shawl about her shoulders and slipped from the room. Randolph poured himself another glass of wine.

"You're sure you won't join me?"

"No. And I must tell you that I am not comfortable with your manner of speaking. Perhaps I'm mistaken, but—"

"I doubt it. You're no fool, Nancy. No one could spend two minutes in your company without seeing it. And good looking. The prettiest Randolph girl, they always said. But sadly ruined." He talked like she was something left out in the rain. "I won't insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise. I was thinking of taking another one of the Pryor's rooms. Below here. A slightly bigger apartment, with no enquiring neighbors across the hall. What do you say?"

"I say you must not!"

"No? And yet the advantages to us both must be obvious."

His casual approach, his arrogance, his ugly, wide face — Nancy didn't know what angered her more.

"The advantage to you might be clear, but for me, I tell you plainly, there is none!"

"No?"

"What must you think of me to even make such a suggestion?"

"I think only what everyone must think. You're a single woman. Unmarriageable, but damned attractive. Someone will pluck you; why not me?"

"Perhaps because you are married to my sister!" Nancy strode to the window and laid her palms on the cold glass. There was silence for a beat.

"That didn't concern you in the past."

Nancy stared at her reflection in the windowpane. Was this how it would be for her? Was this what she deserved? Even now? After all those painful, long years at Bizarre?

She heard the door open. Phebe returning. She kept her gaze on the glass. "Don't close the door, Phebe. Mr. Randolph was about to leave."

He said nothing, but she heard the shrug of material as he drew on his coat, a rustle as he affixed his hat, the thud of the door closing and the rasp of the bolt as Phebe slid it into place. And still, she stared at herself in the window. The room smelled of roasted chestnuts. She had no appetite.