Chapter Twenty-Seven

Summer in Richmond was a hot, sultry affair. Soft brown earth baked dry. Grass yellowed. Dust flew. Mr. Pryor's Haymarket Pleasure Garden business thrived, especially busy in the evenings, when the heat of the day was blunted. Raucous voices battled with cicadas to dominate the night air. Pleasure seekers arrived with a thirst on them that only grew as they tried to slake it. It was no place for single women to wander, and Nancy kept to her room at night. During the day, when she wasn't busy working for Mrs. Pryor, she took long walks, seeking shady tree-lined pathways out of the harsh heat of the sun. She avoided the main shopping thoroughfares, having quickly found there were only so many snubs she could stomach. Richmond was full of familiar faces, and few were friendly. Gabriella for one. Judy's good friend, Maria, for another.

Her thoughts went inexorably to some challenging times at Bizarre. Judy had taken no small delight in telling Nancy she'd spoiled Jack's prospects with Maria, however unwittingly. She shook her head and sought happier memories. There was Tudor to think of. The boys at Mr. King's school were given free hours on Sundays after church service. Nancy had enticed Tudor to join her once or twice, with a promise of stained-glass candies in cherry and lemon. Every penny was precious to her, but that one hour a week with her nephew offered a different kind of sustenance. He was so much Dick's son. He had his father's thick dark hair, flopping over his forehead, and the same brown eyes with long lashes young girls might envy. He was quick to smile but also to frown, and his prattle was often of schoolboy quarrels, the unfairness of his masters and the trials he was put to, learning his Latin and mathematics.

"I'd rather be back at Bizarre, riding with Uncle Jack," he told her more than once. "But they won't have me back home. Jack said I was running wild and needed some polish — but if being a gentleman is all bookwork and sitting still, I'm not sure I want to be one. Jack says I will run the plantation one day, but he makes it seem like dull work, don't you think?"

"I think Uncle Jack is telling you what your own father would have said if he were here," she replied. "Although you sound much more like your uncle Theo at this moment, and I'm not sure that a good dose of hard work might not have helped him. Too much pleasure can be bad for a man's health, Tudor."

"Do you wish he had lived? Would you have married him? Mother said you might."

"I thought I might. But it wasn't to be."

"Will you marry someone else?"

"No." She looked down at his sharp face and experienced a twist of sadness. He was growing up, this boy she had nursed through fevers and agues, whose knees she had bandaged, whose hair she had cut and whose shirts she had made. What would he make of her story? And what version of its truth would he be told? He was thick as thieves with his Uncle Jack, hardly Nancy's friend.

Because of that, she had a sense that their Sunday meetings would not last, and when Jack Randolph arrived in Richmond to take his place on the jury for the trial of Aaron Burr, she was quickly proved correct.

The trial was held in the Hall of the House of Delegates, inside the State Capitol on Shockoe Hill, the white neo-classical building, designed by Patsy's father, that towered over Richmond's busy streets. Nancy thought little of it. Aaron Burr's alleged treason was of little interest to her. Feeding herself and Phebe, eking out her small stipend from Tom and keeping Mrs. Pryor happy and smiling were her daily concerns. And yet, she couldn't ignore it altogether. John Marshall, who with Patrick Henry had defended Dick at the Cumberland courthouse some fourteen years earlier, was now the nation's Supreme Justice, presiding over the trial. Jack and Gabriella's husband were both jurymen.

Her first intimation of trouble came in a note from Tudor. Mrs. Pryor gave it to her, along with a pile of mending, teasing that from the handwriting, she must have a new, and rather young, admirer. But its contents made Nancy frown. Tudor would no longer be able to meet with her later that day. He'd been advised that more time should be spent on his studies. Such a command could only have come from Jack. And sure enough, at the hour Nancy had planned to meet with Tudor, his uncle arrived at her lodgings.

In the years Nancy had known him, Jack had changed greatly. The thin, awkward youth she remembered had grown into a man with a keen sense of his own consequence. Nothing he did was unplanned or unstudied, and he carried himself with confidence, earned from his success in politics. He had been a member of the House of Representatives for eight years and proven himself — according to Tom and William at least — to be a politician through and through, condemning slavery but arguing that abolition would be ruinous for all and falling out with Patsy's father the moment it proved politically expedient to do so.

"Nancy." He stood in the doorway to her chamber, his eyes roaming the room and up and down her person. He didn't smile. "I see you're well."

"I am, sir, but a little disappointed that my nephew, Tudor, was unable to keep his appointment with me today."

Jack placed his hat on her writing desk and drew out the chair. "You don't mind if I sit, do you?" After he waved away her offers of refreshment, Nancy perched on the edge of her bed and waited.

"I'll be candid with you. I don't like this—" he pouted a little, "this situation."

"In what regard?"

"In every regard."

"The room was secured for me by my brother-in-law, Mr. David Meade Randolph. If he approved, why should you not?"

"I have no opinion of the man," said Jack. "Although I hear he is a great favorite of yours."

"You are misinformed."

"Am I?"

She thought he would say more, but he was silent, and she began to feel anxious. "I've had much pleasure in seeing Tudor these last months," she said. "I'm sure it does us both good to see a familiar face from home. Have you seen him since you arrived in town?"

"Naturally."

"And you are pleased with him?"

"Of course." They lapsed into another silence.

"Are you sure I can't bring you something to eat or drink?"

"Thank you, no."

"How was my sister when you saw her last?"

"Suffering with her stomach still. And perhaps finding life without her sons a little quiet for her taste."

"Does she go to the Springs at all?"

"I've no notion of her movements."

Something in his tone, the slowness of his drawl, his self-appointed superiority or the way he lounged in the chair while she perched stiff-backed, finally goaded Nancy. "Why are you here, Jack?"

His nose wrinkled. "Because you are the subject of gossip. Again."

"How so? How unjust!"

"Is it though? I wonder."

"Who speaks ill of me?"

"Your sister, Molly, for one."

"Molly? Why?"

"Because her husband's visits here are well known. Of course, she defends you publicly. But you may imagine my reaction. Yet another fool ensnared by you."

"Another? Are you keeping a list, perhaps?"

He disliked that — as she hoped he would.

"You deny there's anything between yourself and David Meade Randolph?"

"Certainly, I deny it! I will speak to Molly myself if I must. This is unjust, Jack." She waited, watching him run his teeth across his lower lip.

"There is a school of thought that you might be happier living elsewhere."

"I see."

"I'm not sure you do."

"Oh, I think I do. Let me see if I can populate this ‘school' of thinkers you describe. I'd guess at Gabriella Brockenhurst for one. Then there is Maria Ward, as was. Remind me, who did she marry?" It was cruel, but he deserved it.

"I cannot speak for Mrs. Peyton," he didn't take his eyes off hers, "although yes, she is friendly with the Brockenhursts, as am I. John Brockenhurst has been on the Burr jury with me. And yes, we discussed your situation here."

"There's nothing wrong with my ‘situation', as you call it. This is a proper household, quite separate from the pleasure garden. Mr. Pryor is respectable, is he not?"

"He is, and so is his wife. But then—" He paused and picked at an invisible speck on his coat. "Their lodger is not."

"In whose eyes, and according to whose word? My brothers support me. A woman's reputation depends on the support of her family. But have you supported me? Defended me? Jack?"

"I? Why should I?" He jumped to his feet, and she shrank a little. "A woman's reputation, you say? A man's is no less fragile! And yet my brother had to suffer his reputation being dragged through the mud. Dick was the talk of the state of Virginia and beyond! When I recall that sham of a trial in Cumberland County, when I think of what he went through, of how diminished he was, and with only three years left to him—"

Jack paced the room, visibly upset, even more than she had seen him at Bizarre in those last ugly days.

"And you blame me for that?" His back was to her, and she stood and tried to reach out a hand.

He spun around and pushed his face into hers. "Who else should I blame?"

Nancy dropped her eyes first. "No one."

Jack moved away abruptly and retook his seat by her desk. "I want you to leave Richmond." He was composed again, the sparkle of threatened tears gone from his eyes.

"Where would you have me go?"

"Out of Virginia. North. South. I don't care which. I thought having you out of Bizarre would be enough, but it is not."

"I see." She sat again on the edge of the bed and stared at her fingers. "And if I remain?"

"You will never see Tudor. You will not be accepted into society."

"Is that fair?"

"Fair? What is ever fair, Nancy? Is it fair that my brothers are dead? Is it fair that Saint is deaf?"

"Those things are not my fault."

"Are they not? I'm not so sure. Sometimes, I think the devil is in you."

He looked at her then, and she saw he was not lying, or even exaggerating, but speaking plainly.

"You hate me," she said.

"Have you not given me cause?"

For that, she had no answer, and in the silence that fell between them, Jack rose and picked up his hat and jacket. He paused at the door.

"Will you leave then?" His voice was calm, almost gentle.

"I will think on it."

"Please do. I hope never to hear your name or see your face again."

She said nothing. As the door closed behind him, Nancy curled on her bed with her face to the wall.

A little later, Phebe returned. Nancy heard her snuff the candles and unroll her blankets, but she didn't respond to her whispered inquiries, preferring to pretend to be asleep. She lay in the darkness with her eyes open and dry until, at length, sleep claimed her. Her dreams were unsettling, full of doors closing in houses she didn't recognize. In the morning, she went to see Molly.

* * *

Newport, Rhode Island. Not Virginia. Let that be enough for Jack Randolph. No one saw her leave. Lizzie had no time to spare, none of her brothers were in town, Tudor was forbidden to see her, and Molly made it clear that helping Nancy leave Richmond was the last support she was prepared to offer. It hadn't mattered that she believed Nancy had done nothing to encourage David Meade Randolph's visits. Molly's pride was wounded. Her marriage was the subject of gossip. She waved away Nancy's attempt to explain things but provided a letter of introduction to several families in Newport and arranged for a relation living there, a Richard Randolph, to find Nancy cheap lodgings. With that, Molly washed her hands of her.

The journey north was the most uncomfortable Nancy had ever known. She was unsure of her destination, nervous and jittery. Everyone but Phebe was a stranger. She didn't sleep for days. Men leered at her. Women ignored her. The press of people in the stagecoach made her hot. Sweat curled her hair. She itched for fresh air and fresh smells. Her back ached, and her legs cramped. She ate little and drank less, conscious of the small number of coins in her purse and how limited her methods were to replace them. If only the people of Newport would let her work. She pinned her hopes on this yet unseen relative, yet another Randolph. When they halted overnight near Philadelphia, she dreamed of Dick and Theo and of Bizarre.

In the morning, resuming her seat in the coach, she gazed out of the window, but it was Judy she saw, alone now, sitting in the parlor in Bizarre where they had once been so full of laughter, so young, so free and so entirely blind to the future that lay before them. She pictured the downturned lines at the corners of her sister's mouth, her thinning hair and the frown line that had burrowed between her brows. She pictured Judy's face when she heard the accusations about Nancy and David Meade Randolph.

Bitterness settled in her chest. Ten penitent years had brought her no forgiveness, only more allegations. Glentivar, Billy Ellis, now Molly's husband. She brooded from Richmond to Newport. Anger sat behind her modest smiles and thanks when old Richard Randolph handed her down from the stage and took her to a small boarding house, not far from the wharf. Outwardly, she was the same — taking tea with her newest landlady, enquiring about local teaching positions through which she might pad out her meager funds. But she returned to it all at night, in a cold room where she lay down, fully dressed, and wept into a threadbare blanket, feeling the cold bite at her fingers and numb the tip of her nose. Resentment was the heat that helped her raise her head from the pillow. It was the fuel that sent her out into the streets of an unknown town to find employment.

She'd never been allowed to defend herself. Not by Dick, who refused to use her letter. Not by Mr. Tucker, who always thought he knew what was best. Not by Judy, who never spoke of Dick's trial again after that terrible drive back to Bizarre. For years, Nancy had crushed any impulse to fight back, for how could she? How could she defend the indefensible? And yet now, out of Virginia, she felt differently. There was a truth that she and Dick had agreed on. A truth she was entitled to, all these years later. It was a good lie. A lie that deserved to be believed. A lie so nearly true. Phebe told her not to write, but Nancy refused to listen. She wrote to Judy. She wrote about what happened at Glentivar.