Chapter Twenty-Eight

Whenever Judy's beloved Tudor returned from school, he ran wild. He took a gun and went out shooting rabbits, returning muddy and bloodied with a string of shattered carcasses hung over one shoulder. He took food from the kitchen from under Sarah's nose without a please or thank you. He missed meals, left his room in disarray and rolled his eyeballs through Judy's lectures. He pulled Lottie's daughter's hair and disturbed the animals. He slammed doors and upset piles of folded mending, pulling out a shirt he wanted from the bottom of the pile and leaving the rest scattered on the floor. He collected bugs in jars and released them in his mother's bedroom. He trailed muddy boots into the parlor, sending Judy into a cleaning frenzy. One afternoon, Tudor stole brandy from the study — now Jack's domain — and was found by Sarah Ellis being sick behind the smokehouse.

If that were not enough for her to contend with, Jack arrived unexpectedly, muttering about his congressional colleagues, his ambitions and some petty insult inflicted by her brother, Tom. Whatever Tom had done, it clearly rankled, despite all Jack's protestations to the contrary. For a few days, he barely seemed aware of Tudor's waywardness, but then a commotion arose in the henhouse. Tudor was discovered throwing corn at the hens instead of collecting eggs as instructed. Jack took him by the collar, manhandled the miscreant into the parlor and deposited him opposite Judy.

"Well?" Jack demanded.

"What?" Tudor thrust his chin at his uncle. A mistake. Jack cuffed him across the back of his head.

"Jack!"

"What? The boy deserves it and will have worse if he doesn't mind his manners. If you don't want to be treated like an animal, Tudor, stop acting like one. Tell your mother what I found you doing."

"It was nothing." Tudor's eyes were on Jack's hands, calculating the risk of another slap. "I was just teasing the chickens. They're so stupid and noisy—"

"And essential to the running of the household," said Judy. "Sarah needs those hens to put food on the table for us, for everyone. You know that." She threw Jack a despairing glance.

"Tudor?" Jack stared at his nephew.

"I'm sorry." Silence followed. Judy thought about resuming her sewing. But Tudor wasn't finished. Apparently deciding that the physical threat from his uncle had dissipated, he threw himself into the armchair opposite his mother and flung back his head. "At least, I'm sorry you caught me, but you must expect me to get up to some lark or other. It's so dull here, I don't know how either of you stand it."

"Tudor!"

"What? I'm only being honest! Richmond is much more entertaining. Here, there is nothing to do and no one to do it with. I even miss stupid Saint — if you can believe it."

"Tudor!"

"For goodness' sake, woman. If you can do no more than say the boy's name over and over again like a bleating sheep, it's no wonder he doesn't heed you."

Tudor's eyes danced, and so she surprised him by smiling. "Tudor. I see I have been mistaken. I thought you were tired from your studies in Richmond and in need of rest. There is always work to be done on a plantation, and no need for idle pranks. Your uncle and I will discuss how you might usefully spend your time. Come," she stood and reached a hand to him. He took it, his mouth a thin line, his brows lowered. "You will be a man before we know it. All at Bizarre will look to you as their master. Is that not a fine prospect?"

Tudor shifted from one foot to the other. "I suppose."

Jack clapped Tudor's shoulder, but in a friendly fashion now. "Go and brush down Star. We will take her and Thunder over to Roanoke tomorrow. Then fetch some firewood. No—"

Tudor had opened his mouth to object, but Jack forestalled him.

"Hush, boy. Fetch some firewood down to the clearing by the riverbank. We'll fish this afternoon, and what you catch, we'll cook. I'll show you how. And we will have a talk, man to man, about your future and what it means to be a Randolph."

Jack spoke to the air over Tudor's head, but Judy's eyes were fixed on her son's face. She saw the nod and the smile he gave his uncle. But as Tudor turned to leave the room he twisted, and his face found hers. His eyes were angry. This is you, he seemed to say to her. This is all your fault.

* * *

For as long as Jack remained at Bizarre, Tudor behaved well. He went about with his uncle and listened to all his lessons and strictures with every appearance of interest and respect. But he avoided his mother.

Judy was at a loss. She had a sense of scrabbling for time, of trying to hold onto her child even as he slipped through her fingers like sand. She was physically drawn to him, but when she reached for him, he leaned away, refusing to let her as much as ruffle his hair or button his coat. Every rejection made her long more for the past, particularly his earliest years when her only respite from mourning Dick was folding Tudor in her arms, knowing that he was the flesh of her flesh, their bond stronger than any other she had known. The dark moods that flowed through her, unpredictable, yet as inevitable as the seasons ever since the loss of that first child, re-emerged. Her bones weighed her down. She imagined her blood pooling in her fingertips, dragging at her shoulders, sucking her to the earth, giving way to a sense of emptiness that blanked out all other thoughts.

One evening, as she sat out on the porch alone, Judy heard singing coming through the trees from the slave houses. She had given permission for Billy Ellis to return from Roanake, bringing with him Ida Smith, one of Jack's slaves and a good needleworker. Sarah was happy to have Ida in her family, and tonight, they were celebrating their union.

She heard the scrape of the screen door behind her but said nothing as Jack lowered himself into a chair beside her. The glass of wine in his hand sparkled in the moonlight.

"You're surrounded by darkness, Sister. Should I fetch more candles?"

"No need. I will go upstairs soon. I like to hear them sing." She wanted to say more, and the words formed in her mind but only to be dismissed.

She listened to her slaves and saw their torches flash darts of orange through the line of trees. She tried to think of her son, Saint, far away, in a country she would never see, perhaps learning to talk — but probably not. Saint would never amount to anything. Jack and Nancy could dress things up as they wished, but Judy was no fool. Saint was her punishment. Tudor was her hope. If only she could find a way to bind him to her.

The answer came soon. It came in Nancy's letter from Newport.

She was surprised to see her sister's handwriting. Since Nancy's rushed, final departure from Bizarre, they had exchanged letters only twice, and it was Judy's turn to write, a task she'd delayed because it brought her no pleasure, and there was so little to say. While Sally cleared the table, Judy propped the letter up against her teacup and contemplated its thickness. Her writing was slightly altered. If Nancy had written while upset, Judy wasn't sure she wanted to read it. She got up and left the room.

This was a mistake.

After an hour of checking the stores in the smokehouse and dairy with Sarah, she was ready to tackle whatever her sister might wish to say. She walked wearily to the dining room but heard voices and was surprised to find Jack and Tudor in the room, in possession of her letter.

"What's going on?" She looked from one to the other. Tudor hung his head. Jack's expression was grave.

"The boy has opened your letter. And read it."

"No!" Judy snatched it and pressed it to her chest. "Tudor, how could you? What made you do such a thing?"

"His motivation is not the pertinent issue, Sister," said Jack. "You, boy, go to your room. I will consider what to do with you later." When the door closed, he sighed. "Judy, just read it. You may want to sit down."

She sank into the chair by the window. Her eyes narrowed as she read. Nancy had been feeling sorry for herself — that was quickly clear. She had left Virginia, never to return. Her tone was melodramatic, as it often was, and Judy had no patience for it. She quickly dismissed Nancy's pining for Tuckahoe and Bizarre, her love of plantation life and simple pleasures. Her fears, though, about a future alone up north did give Judy pause. She'd no envy for Nancy on that score, nor could she disagree with her sister's dismay at being at the mercy of their brothers' goodwill for any degree of comfort or security she might obtain. But then came strong words about Jack. And about David Meade Randolph and what Nancy termed his "attentions". Her handwriting grew erratic. Judy sensed worse was to follow. Her eyes scanned the next page, the word Glentivar leaping from the tangle of ink and causing the breath to catch in her throat. She closed her eyes to steady herself, and then she read it. Nancy's confession.

There had been a child. Stillborn, or too weak to survive, Nancy didn't make that clear. She was adamant, though, that it had been Theo's child, conceived in the firm belief that they were betrothed and would be married. He had been ill, yes, but she believed another trip to Bermuda would mend him, and she'd have the family she dreamed of. Dick had known. Helped her. Protected her. But she was ruined, nonetheless.

Judy threw the letter on the floor, her thoughts flying like sparks. A dead child. Months of lies. No. Years of lies. But not Dick. Not Dick. Disgust, relief, dismay, disbelief — she felt a rush of emotions, but relief most of all. She lifted her eyes to Jack. His expression was unreadable.

"She ruined us, do you see that? My brother was sick, and she tempted him. My other brother was honorable, and she disgraced him. I'm fortunate she only laughed at me, even though it cost me a wife. If she were here, I'd put my hands around her white throat and choke her."

"Jack!"

"She'll never enter this house again. I'll not be in the same room as the witch in this life. Is that clear? The boys must not be contaminated by her."

"My God. Tudor read this?" Judy's hand flew to her mouth. "What must I say to him? Should I lie? Perhaps say the letter is not hers?"

"Why do that? Why protect her?" Jack stooped to pick up the sheets from the floor. "She has damned herself in her own hand. She ruined the last years of Tudor's father's life. Who knows how different things might have been had she not ensnared him in her troubles and used him for protection? When I think of that trial, of Dick and Tucker forcing it, all to protect that whore's reputation, I could go mad!"

He flung himself into a chair and covered his face with his hands. Judy thought he might weep, and the idea of it brought sudden order to her thoughts. She must be calm. She must think of her son. She left the room and went upstairs to Tudor.

He didn't respond when she knocked, so Judy pushed open his bedroom door. He lay on his bed, curled on one side with his back to her. The sight of him, the tangle of dark hair, his long legs, his narrow hips and half-boy, half-man form, made her heart clench. She perched by his back and stretched out her hand to touch his shoulder.

"Mother!" Tudor twisted under her touch, but instead of shrinking from her he turned and threw himself into her arms, burying his face in the folds of her apron. "Mother, is this all true? What my aunt wrote? That she and my uncle Theo . . . that there was a baby?"

"It seems so. I cannot think why she would write it if it were a lie."

He moved back, scrambling to sit upright with his arms wrapped around his knees. He looked both young and old at the same moment. "Uncle Jack hates her."

"He feels that your father was ill-used."

"Jack told me about the trial."

"He did?" Judy clenched her teeth. Jack had lost his head over the letter. Was this something else she'd have to explain, dredging up memories, feeling the old scars tingle, taking Tudor's knowledge of their family's disgrace as another set of weights on her shoulders? Before she could form any kind of coherent answer, Tudor moved again, swinging out his legs and shifting closer to her on the bed. His hand found hers. Her heart rose to her throat.

"It must have been terrible for you, Mother," he said.

Later, in her own bed with the hangings closed, with her prayers said and the house quiet, she acknowledged his sympathy had undone her. No one — not Dick, Jack, not the Tuckers, certainly not her own father or brothers — had ever expressed concern for how she lived with it all. And yet here was a boy, not yet twelve years old, a boy she loved and longed to be close to, holding her hand, speaking softly, showing her sympathy and concern. His opening of her letter was forgotten. Instead, she wept, and then, when the tears abated, she talked, and he drank in her words and begged for more. Judy had never told even her close friends — not even Cousin Mary — her story of it all. Never in her wildest imaginings would she have thought of telling it all to Tudor. But when she spoke, his hand stayed in hers. His head leaned on her shoulder. His gaze, locking with hers, was warm and encouraging. It was not ideal to have spoken of her sister in this way, Judy knew, but the bitterness danced on her tongue. The duplicity. To be pregnant and have kept it hidden. The lies she told. The deceit. Judy spared Dick, but not Nancy. All the family's trials and difficulties were laid at Nancy's door, all caused by her actions and the steps taken to protect her reputation. Dick became her victim, so too Jack, Judy and by extension, Saint and Tudor. With every grievance named, she felt her boy's fingers press on hers. She watched him frown at every mention of her sister's name.

In the days that followed, he asked her about it all again and again. God forgive her, she could not stop herself. It was a sweet release.

Jack took a different approach. With Judy and Tudor beside him, he sat down and wrote to friends in Newport. Nancy would not find safe harbor there.

"If we can't have peace, why the hell should she?"

* * *

Jack ruined Newport for Nancy. She knew it and wrote to Mr. Tucker in Williamsburg, begging him for advice. At first, she thought she was imagining it — the shoulders turning, a change in eye contact, sudden silences, groups fragmenting the moment she approached — but confirmation came with the loss of the teaching post she had so recently secured. That particular interview was too painful to dwell on. It lit a fire of anger in her, and she marched to the house of her relation, Richard Randolph, who at least had the decency to look embarrassed when he admitted he and many other leading families in the town had received letters from Jack, all warning of her "corrupting influence".

A few days after her dismissal, Nancy's landlord called at her door. When he told her he wished to negotiate a higher payment for her lodgings, Nancy begged for time. Without her teaching income, her ability to pay on the current terms was in doubt. She was no fool. It was an eviction, dressed up in false shrugs and excuses. Newport would not employ her, and Tom's money was not enough. After several hours shut up in her room with Phebe, Nancy ventured out alone.

She walked the length of Spring Street without seeing a soul she knew. It was October, and the pavements were wet with tawny leaves, the air thick with salt spray from the harbor and the cries of gulls wheeling and swooping overhead. She turned to the bridge. From the Long Wharf, she looked out toward Goat Island, listening to the waves crash, and trying to think.

It wasn't the first time she had come here. It wasn't even the first time she thought of dying here. Optimism was impossible, happiness unimaginable. Remaining at Bizarre with Judy had been her penance. She'd been occupied — with the gardening, with the sewing and mending, with Tudor and dear Saint. She contemplated the horizon, where gray water met the darkening sky, and tried to picture her nephew in a school in London, with other afflicted young men. Had he found peace? Had he learned to speak? If she were to fall into the water, she might never know. But even if she wearied on, she had little guarantee of seeing Saint again. Her rash letter to Bizarre had brought no response from Judy. And perhaps, when all was said and done, it was only what she deserved. It all seemed so impossibly long ago. And yet the echo of its consequences never faded. Where should she go if not into the sea? Where was the chance of improvement in her circumstance? She was tired, gnawed by constant hunger, sick with loneliness, weighted by despair. Her jaw and shoulders ached. The water invited her. How deep was it? How cold?

She shivered and rubbed hard at her arms, feeling the thin cotton of her old coat graze her skin and the press of her fingers on her bones. She wouldn't do it. Not today, and likely not any day. Thinking was not doing. Besides, it wasn't death that she longed for, it was a break in the road or a change of circumstance. She longed to escape her own life story, her own mistakes and her dependence on family members who bore the burden of her with patience and kindness but not with love or warmth — only duty and an eye to their own honor and dignity. She must find a way to be independent, for herself and for Phebe. She must escape from being Nancy Randolph — a grotesque figure, a byword for scandal and disgrace. She needed to leave Nancy Randolph in Newport and become someone else. The question was how?

A light cough startled her. She turned, and in the fading light, made out two figures: a maid and a young woman she knew, a Miss Pollock, recently Nancy's student in needlework at the Newport school that now found her too scandalous to employ.

"Miss Pollock! You have quite surprised me."

"Miss Randolph, it is you! I'm so glad. When I saw a figure standing so close to the fencing, I took the most horrid fancy that you might be about to leap!"

"Leap? Me?" Nancy forced out a laugh. "No, no, no. I am only here to clear a headache. The sea air is so restorative. But I'm surprised to find you still in Newport." Nancy searched the younger woman's face. Jane Pollock had left the school before Nancy's abrupt removal. Perhaps she was unaware of this new disgrace. Perhaps they might converse as if none of Nancy's woes existed, and perhaps, for those few moments, she could forget them herself.

"I'm happy to have this moment to speak with you," Miss Pollock said, stretching out a hand. "I hope I can speak frankly?"

"Of course."

"I'm leaving Newport tomorrow for Fairfield, Connecticut. My mother will meet me at the inn there. She's taken rooms for a few days — a break from the city for her. You will not be aware, but she runs a boarding house in New York City for gentlewomen seeking work and in need somewhere clean and safe to live. I wondered if you might like to come to Fairfield with me to meet her. You were the kindest teacher to me, Miss Randolph."

"I—" Nancy's mind was a storm of half-thoughts. "I fear if you knew—"

Miss Pollock's grip on Nancy's hand tightened. "I do know," she said.

"But I have no funds—"

"Nor do you need any. You would be our guest in Fairfield. You can meet my mother and talk with her. You have so many skills, and I can tell her myself how diligent you are. I'm sure that in a different place . . ."

Her eyes were kind, soft and warm, but also mischievous and excited. It was infectious. Nancy found herself smiling.

"So you will come?"

She nodded.

The next morning, she and Phebe left Newport with Jane Pollock. She didn't think of the dark water that had pulled at her. She had made a different kind of leap. Only now, she had no idea of where she might land.