Chapter Twenty-Nine

Mrs. Pollock showed no surprise at the sight of an unknown woman and her maid emerging from the carriage with her daughter in front of The Sun Tavern in Fairfield. A tall, spare woman with a ready smile and intelligent eyes, she embraced her daughter warmly. Nancy knew just by looking at her that Mrs. Pollock's establishment in the city would not be damp or cold or infested with mice. She'd learned a great deal from Jane during the long coach journey. Her mother was a well-connected widow with a large establishment on Greenwich Street. Jane's father, a lawyer and keen Federalist, had served under Alexander Hamilton during the war, but the yellow fever had taken him from them. Mrs. Pollock was visiting Fairfield with friends, and there would be quite the party of important New York families there, but Jane knew Nancy's impeccable manners meant she'd fit in perfectly. Unused to compliments, Nancy struggled for composure, all the while hoping fervently that no one in the party would have a connection to the state of Virginia.

Loud voices and laughter flooded the tavern entrance. "The gentlemen are in the taproom," said Mrs. Pollock with a wry smile. "They will join us in the parlor a little later. Please. Refresh yourselves upstairs and then join me for something to eat. The food here is excellent. Mrs. Penfield's reputation is well-deserved."

Nancy was swept up the stairs and given a narrow bed next to Jane's in a large chamber with room for past ten travelers. A serving girl followed them with a pitcher of steaming water and a dark-skinned boy with a limp carried both women's bags. Jane was so young and spirited, clearly happy to reunite with her mother, and as she had on the pier at Newport, Nancy found herself smiling. She resolved to forget the future — and the past — and simply enjoy an evening of good food and good company.

Downstairs, Mrs. Pollock and her friends proved affable and friendly without being inquisitive. She took a glass of wine and a chair near Mrs. Pollock, gradually finding the confidence to chime into the lively conversation and admitting she had, through her brother, a close connection to President Thomas Jefferson.

Mrs. Pollock and her friends were clearly well educated and comfortably settled in life. Nancy thought of her sister, Molly, who also talked of running a boarding house, and wondered if time and distance would soften her sister's attitude over the events that had pushed Nancy on the road north and her current state of near disaster. She took a deep mouthful of wine and scolded herself not to dwell on unhappiness, at least for this one evening. As she did so, the parlor door swung open. The men of the party joined them — among them, a man Nancy already knew.

Gouverneur Morris didn't recognize her. Why would he? His eyes scanned the room and rested on her, but only as they might on any stranger in a familiar throng, not with the light of recognition. Still, she noticed he looked at her more than once and guessed it would not be long before he made his way around the room and sought an introduction. For a wild moment, she thought of giving a false name. Most likely, he had been out of the country when it happened — hadn't he been about to depart for Europe when he danced with her at Tuckahoe all those years ago? — but he would still know her story, she was sure, and her spirits sank. The bubble of anonymity was about to burst. But perhaps he would be kind. He had been a friend of her father's, a lawyer, a man of principle, heavily involved in the writing of the Constitution. Perhaps he was too serious-minded for gossip and scandal. He had a merry, congenial look about him, however. He appeared light-hearted and sociable, smiling at all around him, unchanged from that meeting, twenty years earlier. How terribly old he'd seemed back then, at Dick and Judy's wedding. In all likelihood, he'd been little older than she was now.

Soon enough, he sought an introduction from Mrs. Pollock. She held her breath as her name was revealed to him, but his face, on realizing who she was, betrayed nothing but pleasure.

"But we are old acquaintances! Although Miss Randolph may not remember me, I believe we had the pleasure of dancing at her family home."

"You are right, sir, and I do remember, although I was young at the time. You were kind to a gawky girl."

"Not at all!" He waved away her compliment and turned to Mrs. Pollock. "She remembers me because of the leg, you know. When I first lost it, I thought it spelled the end for me with the ladies, but I discovered that for every ounce less handsome it made me, I gained as much by being memorable."

"Memorable you most certainly are, Mr. Morris." Mrs. Pollock laughed. "And do not pay any heed to his prattle, Miss Randolph. Mr. Morris is an accomplished flirt and will tell you fifty dramatic tales about how he lost his poor leg, none of them true. The real story remains a mystery."

She nodded and left room on the settle beside Nancy, a space Mr. Morris was pleased enough to occupy. There was no more nonsense about his wooden leg, which, as she had seen all those years ago, caused him no impediment. Instead, he asked after her family, particularly of Tom and William, before gently asking her what brought her to Fairfield. Nancy's face grew hot as she responded.

"I am here with Mrs. Pollock's daughter, Jane," she said. "I'm not sure for how long."

"You met in Newport?"

"I had the pleasure of teaching her."

"I see. And you plan to return to Rhode Island?"

"No!" said Nancy. "That is to say, I think not. But my plans are not settled."

"Then it is to be hoped a few enjoyable days in Fairfield will help you decide. And if I can be of any service — as an old friend of the family — it would be my pleasure to assist you." He smiled at her, his eyes kind and searching, but thankfully, he was far too much the gentleman to question her further. Instead, he suggested they examine the refreshment table.

"Tell Miss Pollock and Miss Randolph about the ‘Saxon delicacy' that you encountered in Europe, Morris," someone said. He didn't need to be asked twice.

"Ah yes! The candied beetle, if you can imagine. They resemble, in some respects, what in America we call the locust but are not so large and have a hard cover to their wings, which are a bright, brick-colored brown. How it should enter into people's heads to eat them, unless driven to it by famine, is hard to imagine."

"No!" Jane's eyes were like saucers. "Tell me you didn't eat them?"

"How could I not? The reputation of our young country rested on my shoulders. I dared not have them think Americans unsophisticated."

"Or cowardly," said Nancy.

"Exactly so," said Mr. Morris. "I've been accused of many things in my long life, but cowardly, I'm happy to say, is not one of them. I hope anyone here would have done the same. For America, of course."

"Oh, I know I could not have," said Jane. "But Nancy, would you? Could you?" Her face was so contorted, Nancy had to laugh.

"I'm sure I should, my dear. Why not? There are many worse things to tolerate in this life than a locust or two. I imagine they might have an enjoyable crunch." She lifted her eyebrows as she spoke and was rewarded with a burst of laughter from all around.

Later, in the darkness of their upstairs dormitory, Nancy succumbed to temptation. "Mr. Morris, Jane. He is a close friend to your mother?"

"Oh, yes, although not in the way you might think. She says he is a terrible rake — or he was. Now, he's a confirmed bachelor, and surely too old to be marrying anyone now, least of all Mother. She's quite done with all of that. Mr. Morris is her loyal friend and advisor. How funny to think you met him when you were young."

"Yes. Although to be honest, that feels like a whole different life, like something that happened to someone else entirely. Does that make sense?"

"No. But then I am so sleepy and not to be relied upon for sense. Goodnight, dear Miss Randolph. I'm glad you came with me today."

In the darkness, Nancy smiled. "So am I, Jane. So am I."

She stayed three days at The Sun Tavern with the Pollocks. After breakfast on her first morning, Mrs. Pollock drew her aside and talked about her plans. The older woman offered to help her find respectable employment in the city, and when Nancy expressed a willingness to travel, Mrs. Pollock suggested a post as an attendant to a family or lady traveling to England might be possible to obtain, in time. They agreed she and Phebe would take a room in Mrs. Pollock's establishment in Greenwich Street. Although money was not discussed, and Nancy dreaded writing another begging letter to Tom, for the first time since she left Bizarre new possibilities were opening up before her. It felt good — and when Mr. Morris sought her out in the parlor or on a walk around town or at a musical recital held in the nearby Burr Mansion, she welcomed his company, responded to his conversation and found herself laughing more than she had done in years.

On her last morning in Fairfield, he met her at breakfast and suggested a stroll. She agreed, but not without misgivings. The behavior of David Meade Randolph came to mind. She was neither a green girl nor a fool. There was a light in Mr. Morris's eye when he looked at her. He admired her. And she was drawn to him. He was a tall man with a figure and presence that must always attract attention. His hair might be white, deep lines might cut his face — he was more attractive than classically handsome, with a high forehead and thick brows that arched almost comically over his eyes — but his eyes were soft and intelligent. He was charming, generous and thoughtful. He was interested in art, in literature, in their country and its future growth. He was political without being a show-pony, like Jack, or a partisan, like Tom. Above all, he was engaged in life without being angry with it. He enjoyed himself, taking pleasure in small and large things: from the taste of an orange to plans for a great canal. At Tuckahoe, she'd considered him one of Father's contemporaries, but he was nearly a decade younger than Thomas Mann Randolph Sr. would have been now. She liked that he was good-humored and self-deprecating — he waved away any talk of his part in writing the Constitution, and while many of the tales he recounted involved mention of great men like Washington and Hamilton, he did so humbly and naturally. For Nancy, who had been let down by Patsy — believing her sister-in-law put her illustrious father's reputation above any desire or duty to help a sister in need — Mr. Morris was a model of what a man could and should be. And yet, she feared what he planned to say now.

They strolled south from The Sun Tavern, past the old burying ground and toward the sand dunes. The view of Long Island Sound, he promised her, was not to be missed. As they walked, he talked of his home, north of New York City.

"It's called Morrisania. Not my choice of name, before you ask."

"I think it a sensible name. My sister's property is called Bizarre. No one seems to know why. Perhaps some idea of sounding French and romantic?" She shrugged. "Do you have much land?"

"Enough. My main interest has lain in the property of late. I've made some improvements, but I'm in need of a housekeeper. The last woman wrote to me that she could no longer tolerate the ‘wild assortment' of staff I have in place."

"Whatever did she mean?"

"Oh, it's a fair appraisal. They're a motley crew. Two Irishwomen who speak so quickly, no one can comprehend them. A couple of lazy Frenchmen who fled here to evade Napoleon's conscription. Then there are two English immigrants running the stable. Rough types — she called them cutthroats. but to my knowledge, there are no dead bodies in my cellars. They may or may not still be there when I return. The rest are a family of Blacks — all free — and two quiet German girls, both maids."

"I think you would need someone with real gravitas to command such a tribe." She laughed. "I wish you good fortune in finding a suitable candidate."

They had walked beyond the houses of Fairfield, the road turning from mud brown to pale sandy beige. The wind lifted her skirts, and she smelled salt. She saw scrub and tall grass, the swell of a sand dune meeting the cloudless sky.

"I saw nothing like this in Virginia," she said.

"Wait till you see the Sound."

They continued, their path narrowing, growing sandier and softer until they crested the bank and could look down on the beach and out across the open water. Wind whipped her hair across her cheek and stung her eyes.

"Beautiful," she said.

"My home also has a prospect of the Long Island Sound." He pointed off into the distance. "Should you not find suitable employment in New York City—"

"Mr. Morris—"

"Hear me out. I mean you no insult or to suggest anything improper. I have need of a housekeeper. A woman with some strength of character who can command respect. You need employment. Security. Independence. I can offer you all three. That I enjoy your company, I cannot deny. But I don't ask for more. I live simply. I think of public affairs a little, read a little and sleep a great deal. I enjoy good air, the work of my good cook and some fine wine. I think you might be happy there."

She looked him in the eye. "I have been the subject of much gossip in my life, Mr. Morris." His expression didn't change. "What you offer me sounds like a dream. But how can I accept? What would people say?"

"They will say nothing. I am an old man. More than twenty years your senior."

His words were one thing, but the look he gave her said something else. There was feeling there, she saw it. When he spoke, his eyes were on her lips, and she found herself wondering.

"I—"

"Let us say nothing more." He stretched out a hand as if to touch her arm but then withdrew it. "Let us admire the view and the air and say nothing. You will go to the city with Mrs. Pollock. I will write to you. You will know no pressure from me. But I feel we have been friends here, Miss Randolph. May I call you my friend?"

She didn't turn her gaze from the water. So many shades of blue, so many shadows, so many sparkles of light. "Yes," she said. "I'd like us to be friends."

Once Nancy was established in Greenwich Street, Mrs. Pollock connected her with a family with six daughters who required training in all aspects of needlework and some respectable female conversation, as their mother had died, and their father, a lawyer, was much occupied with his business affairs. The work was undemanding and not unpleasant, but it didn't pay well, and Nancy suspected that Mrs. Pollock was charging her less than her normal room rate, perhaps because Mr. Morris was meeting the shortfall. He was a frequent visitor. She considered raising the matter with him. Every time they met, she intended to challenge him directly, but then his conduct was so exemplary, her suspicion seemed outrageous. Asking him might take their conversation down a path she feared to follow. She allowed herself to enjoy his company and a few months' respite from financial worries, hunger and anxious dependence on her brothers. Nancy was sure her best chance of independence would be to become a paid companion to some widow of means, preferably one who wanted to travel. Mr. Morris's stories of his European adventures — the horrors of the French Revolution notwithstanding — opened Nancy's eyes to all she had not seen or done, but Phebe was a sticking point. Paid companions did not travel with their own slaves, and Nancy smarted at a new appreciation of her own selfishness. She should never have taken Phebe with her when she left Bizarre. She might have been married to Billy Ellis by now, with a cabin and children of her own. With shame, she realized she'd never asked the other woman what she wanted, and she hesitated to do so, even now.

Uncertain of the future, Nancy found herself thinking more and more about the past. While she appreciated Mrs. Pollock's goodness, city life wasn't to her liking. She missed Virginia. She missed the trees and rolling hills, the long walks, the growing season, the rhythms of plantation life. In Greenwich Street, there was always noise: the rumble of carts, shouts and cries, the crash of boots on stairs, the clatter of boarders coming and going. City life did not offer nights on the porch, watching fireflies dance or the smell of tomatoes growing on the vine.

At night she wrote letters — to the Tuckers and her brothers and sisters, including Judy, who had never responded to Nancy's confessional letter. For a time, there was silence between them, but as her difficulties grew in Newport, Nancy had written again, acting as if her other letter had never been sent, and Judy had answered in kind. Regular correspondence had been reestablished, and although Judy's letters weren't of a confidential nature, they were precious to Nancy. Their connection was as important and necessary as the handrails on a bridge, and she reveled in any news of Saint and Tudor, or any aspect of life at Bizarre. Jack was often mentioned, and not always favorably, so that Nancy knew some moments of satisfaction, sensing she was not the only Randolph sister to ruffle Jack Randolph's easily disturbed feathers. Most recently, Judy was displeased that Jack was paying at least as much attention to his cousin, Anna Dudley's son, Theodore, as he was to Tudor. Theodore Dudley had been barely two years old when he'd lived at Bizarre, but Jack was close to the young man now, Judy wrote. She didn't need to explain it further to Nancy. Judy would not want anyone becoming more important to Jack than Tudor. And besides, disgust for Anna Dudley was the last thing Nancy and Judy had ever really agreed on. Nancy smiled, remembering how Judy sent her packing within hours of Dick's burial. No doubt, Jack delighted in needling Judy with praise of Theodore Dudley. Judy would hear every word as a criticism of her beloved Tudor, who, reading between the lines, was wilder than his doting mother wished him to be.

After she had been in New York for four months, Mr. Morris brought up his need for a housekeeper once again. He had driven her up to the library, and they had discussed books. She had picked up a copy of The Power of Sympathy on his recommendation. A tale of scandal and seduction, he said. Published anonymously. Everyone had read it. He looked forward to hearing her thoughts on the story. Now, they were on their way back to Greenwich Street, Nancy's protests that she could easily walk having been charmingly overridden.

Mr. Morris began with an amusing story about a fight between his French valet and an Irish laundry woman that had Nancy laughing, but there was nothing light-hearted in his tone when he asked if she remembered how he longed for a good woman to rescue him at Morrisania.

"Certainly, I remember it." They had stood so close to one another. They were close again now, in the privacy of his carriage.

"I still believe you're an excellent candidate for the position."

She thought he might take her hand, and her stomach lurched. She both wanted and did not want him to touch her, but instead of leaning nearer, he moved back and held up his hand in a gesture almost of surrender.

"You're concerned I mean something improper, I can tell, but nothing could be further from the truth. I have feelings for you, I won't deny it. But I've never taken an unwed woman to be my lover, and I'm not disposed to do so now."

This she believed. Nancy had learned a great deal about Mr. Morris since she first met him in Fairfield. He was well known to have had several lengthy love affairs — most notably, with a married Frenchwoman, who, according to Mrs. Pollock, had offered her favor to several gentlemen at a time, much to Mr. Morris's chagrin. Then there had been a married poetess in Boston, a well-known figure, although not familiar to Nancy.

"What more can I say to put your mind at ease? I've never had a housekeeper that I've approached with anything like desire, and while I admire you, I'm no rash youth. If you'll come to Morrisania, I will love you as little as I can." He leaned forward. "But I'll protect you from some of the storms of life you've suffered too much from already. I'll give you work you are fit for in a place where you will be respected and independent."

His words produced a flood of emotion. She saw herself at Morrisania, running his household. It was work she would do well and enjoy. He'd spoken often of his home, of his repairs and improvements, of his paintings and fine furniture collections, of his gardens, of the prospects and views. Had he done so with a salesman's calculated aim, he could not have been more successful — there was nowhere she could imagine enjoying living more.

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted," she said, with a shy smile. "You're so generous."

"Not a bit. You'd be rescuing me. We could be companionable. If I could only convince you that your virtue, your reputation, would be quite safe."

"You don't fear for your own reputation, Mr. Morris?"

"No."

He gazed at her with an expression so genuine, she found herself speaking frankly. "But you know my history. The name Nancy Randolph is not coupled with virtue."

"My dear." He took her hands in his. "I heard, it is true, of events which brought distress into your family. Don't dwell on it. If ever in the future you wish to speak of it, I will listen. Your tears will fall on my shoulder, and I will stand your friend. But don't tell me that Nancy Randolph is not virtuous. I know you. I don't talk of that tea-table sense of the word where a woman who has the malice of a dozen devils in her may be called virtuous. I'm talking about purity of heart, fortitude, grace and benevolence. I see all these things in you. I want to take you to Morrisania. Will you think it over?"

A single tear fell down her cheek. He stroked it away with his thumb.

"I will think about it," she said. "I promise."

A month later, with the best wishes of Mrs. Pollock and Jane, she and Phebe moved to Morrisania. It was March, with signs of spring visible in budding trees and brave bands of snowdrops and blue crocus. Nancy Randolph stepped out of his carriage and into a new and busy life.

Mr. Morris remained true to his word and did not take advantage of his attractive housekeeper. Instead, on Christmas Day, 1809, he married her.

"Did you ever think to see this day?" she asked Phebe, sitting at her dressing table and unfastening the chain and ring she had worn around her neck for over thirteen years. "He wanted to buy me a fine gown, but I choose to be married in my own dress. I can't forget what we've been through."

When Phebe left the room, Nancy remained still, gazing at her own reflection. She had been as honest with him as she knew how to be. Surely, surely, it was time to leave her past behind.