Chapter Thirty-One

News of Fanny Coulter's death arrived at Morrisania in a series of letters. First, a stiff note from Jack to Mr. Morris, simply apprising them of the death in the family. Next, a tear-stained letter to Nancy from Judy.

"Her handwriting betrays her," Nancy said, leaning across the tea table to show Mr. Morris. "She talks of meeting Fanny again in the afterlife almost with longing. I wish we could persuade her to leave Bizarre and live in a more companionable setting. If I thought for a moment she would come to us—"

"Nothing you've told me about your sister makes me think that would be a good idea," he replied, his eyebrows lifting. "And besides. You will have no time for other people's woes and worries soon." His eyes fell to her stomach, where her other hand cradled the surprise blessing of their marriage, expected within a week or two.

"That's true." Nancy let thoughts of Fanny and Judy fade from her mind. They had not married with any hope or expectation of having children. God wouldn't bless a woman with her past with a child, she was certain, and when the first years of marriage slipped past, her belief was confirmed. She was thankful her marriage was happy, a strong partnership founded on friendship and attraction. She loved her husband, and he loved her. It was more, much more than she could have imagined, so that when she did fall pregnant, at the age of thirty-eight, she'd been shocked and afraid on many counts. She feared the child would not thrive. She doubted her own strength. She was undeserving. Mr. Morris was far from young — they had celebrated his sixtieth birthday over a year ago. She feared his reaction but should not have been concerned. He'd embraced her news and the prospect of fatherhood with his characteristic humor and vitality. If the child she carried had a fifth of its father's good-natured optimism and love for life, it would be blessed. But when it moved under her skin, she was crippled with anxiety. Memories rose up. Bizarre. Glentivar.

* * *

Another argument. Saint wanted her to find a new overseer — a man who might tolerate a deaf master — but Judy knew a fool's errand when she heard one. Such a person did not exist. Overseers were a rough class of men, and the few willing to run a small plantation in rural Virginia would never have the forbearance needed to work with Saint. Sending him overseas had been a mistake. He had come back thinking he was more than he was. It was past time he accepted the truth.

"It should be your Uncle Jack dealing with you, not me," she said when he paused his scribbling. This was how they argued now. Saint wrote down the words he could not say and read her lips for her reply. She was forced to look at him, but looking at him caused her distress. All she saw was the pink, damaged skin at his brows. It hurt to see it and pain sharpened her words. At Fanny's funeral, she'd come to a decision. Saint's future lay away from Bizarre. If she had to push him away, so be it. "I want you to go to Roanoke."

He wrote quickly, thrusting paper across the breakfast table. He wanted to work here. He had ideas. She stared at him blankly. What could she say that she hadn't said already?

He grabbed his notes, grunting, waving them in her face. Why couldn't he see that she was sick of it? Why couldn't he see that she had tried her best but found her best was not enough? He must leave. He must go to Roanoke and Jack, where at least they could fish and shoot and drink brandy — all things men seemed to be fond of doing with few words needed between them. But no, here he was, asking her to achieve impossible ends, to make miraculous changes and somehow overcome the fact that as a man and eldest son, he was a failure and always had been.

"I manage Bizarre," she said looking directly into his eyes. "I do. It is hard work, but I have done it, every day — every single day — since your father died. I don't need your help. I don't want your help. When Tudor is ready, he will run Bizarre." The pain in Saint's face was unmistakable, but this was a truth long overdue in the telling. "You're not fit for the life here. I don't know what life you are fit for. You're my son. You'll always have a roof over your head if you need one. But I won't pretend with you. You can't be the man you want to be. You can't inherit this land. The people who live and work here need a man — or woman — they can rely on and trust. You can't talk to them. You can't hear them. How can you understand them? Manage them? You know as well as I do that freed people are harder to manage than slaves." She shook her head, tears rising. "The best you can do is go and live at Roanoke with your uncle. Because this will be your brother's home, not yours, and I'm finished pretending otherwise."

The silence, when she finished, pulsed in her ears. She saw a range of emotions dance across his eyes — rage, hurt, anger, despair — but refused to react. It had to be done. It was a cruel kindness, the gift of the truth, unwanted but needed. She tried to see in his face and person that small, squalling being she had pushed from herself in the room upstairs with such desperate anxiety, such hopefulness and pride. But children were not who you made them. They were what they made of themselves. He had been dealt a terrible hand, it was true, but he should turn to the Reverend Rice and his teachings. That was where Saint's salvation lay.

"You must pray for strength."

"Pray?" The word sounded thick and ugly in his mouth. "Pray?" he asked again, louder now. He slapped his hands down on the table, rattling the cups in their saucers. For a moment, she thought he might grab her. He looked like he longed to shake her. Or worse.

Instead, he blundered from the room, slamming the door so hard, the whole house echoed with his rage.

* * *

The child was born in February. Nancy's labor was short, and the boy came squealing and twitching into the world, a mass of dark hair plastered to his head, his face red and his tiny tongue quivering as air rushed into his lungs. He announced his arrival with a shrill wail. Everything about the experience was so different than before. She had been terrified in the last days before the birth, but the moment she heard him, when she saw the beaming smile on his father's face, when she touched his soft, pink skin, ran her finger down his strong spine and pressed him to her chest, Nancy left the past behind.

From that day on, she reveled in the now. In her son. In her husband. In her own home and her own family. Everything about Bizarre, all her regrets and sorrows receded, replaced by the living, breathing reality of her own healthy son, dressed in white linen and cradled in her husband's arms.

* * *

It was cold in the Reverend Rice's prayer room. A small fire burned in the grate, but it gave off more smoke than heat and caught the back of Judy's throat. She ought to leave. Services were over for the day. Tasks awaited her back at Bizarre. Saint had been packing when she left, preparing for his move to Roanoke, which Jack, for all his faults, had supported. It hurt to see him go, as it had hurt to send Tudor off to Harvard. She prayed for strength. She had to let them go, she had to trust them, but the Lord knew, it was a struggle.

Everything was a struggle. Dark clouds had descended on her again when she received the news of her nephew's birth. She wished neither the child nor her sister any harm. She wasn't envious. When she had first heard from Nancy that she and old Mr. Morris were to have a child, all Judy felt was concerned. They were too old to be starting a family, even assuming Nancy would be able to carry the baby to term. Her sister must have worried about that. Judy recalled her own trepidation leading up to both her boys' births. She still thought of the child that had been stillborn at Molly's home so many years earlier and the babe she lost after Dick's trial. The pain was an echo of its former self, but women did not forget these things, and Judy was certain Nancy's head was full of thoughts of her and Theo's child as this new birth grew closer. On that count, Judy admitted she was resentful. She had spent years trying to forget Glentivar, forget Dick's trial, forget Nancy's letter admitting that there had been a child, after Judy had spent years convincing herself that there never was one. With Nancy expecting, it had all come rushing back.

Perhaps that was why she'd reacted so badly. Perhaps she had expected something to go wrong. Not wished for, or hoped for it, but expected it. An unhappy outcome. When Nancy wrote of her beautiful boy, healthy, strong, named Gouverneur after his famous father, Judy had to reframe her thoughts. Perhaps she was a little envious after all. Babies held such promise. So much hope.

The fire died down, and the temperature dropped even lower. Shadows fell across the room. A glance at the window told her it was time she returned to Bizarre. She straightened her skirts and placed her bible on the table by the door. She would return tomorrow, return every day until the peace she could not find at home settled into her bones. Outside, Ben paced the small graveyard, his hands behind his back and his head bowed. When he heard her close the door, however, he moved swiftly to her horse and carriage and pulled the step for her to climb up before taking his seat and setting the horse in motion.

"I'm sorry I was so long, Ben."

"No apologies needed, Mrs. Randolph."

It was a cold night, and she pulled a blanket over her skirts, rubbing her hands in its soft wool. She would need to rub her hands and feet with liniment when she was home, or the stiffness in the morning would be hard to bear. She closed her eyes and swayed a little with the roll of the carriage. She thought of Saint leaving in the morning. She'd have Sarah spend the afternoon scrubbing out his room with vinegar.

"Something's burning!" Ben broke into her thoughts, twisting in his seat and tilting his head back. "Do you smell it, Mrs. Randolph?"

"Yes. What can it be? How far are we from home?" She peered out at the trees lining the road, trying to get her bearings in the semi-darkness.

"Not far now. I don't like it, missus."

Judy scanned the trees and sky for a trail of smoke, but the road was narrow and pine trees towered over them on both sides.

The smell grew stronger as they reached the turn for Bizarre. Now, she saw smoke. Her mind raced with the possibilities. The smokehouse. The kitchen house. A fire in the stables. They turned the last corner.

Bizarre was on fire.

Ben halted the horse and carriage well away from the fire, pulling off the track and into grass before leaping from his perch and running to the house. Judy gasped, trying to take in the scene. Orange and red flames lapped at every window. Smoke plumed and belched its way into the dark sky. Figures ran across the grass, crisscrossing and weaving. Someone ran into the house itself, and others emerged, carrying bundles, chairs, a painting. She watched as the strong boxes from the study were tossed from man to man, joining a pile of belongings out of the fire's reach. Other men and women passed buckets in a line from the well, trying to save the house. The noise was terrible, and at first, the sounds and smell of her life burning kept her frozen in the carriage, gaping and aghast, her mind struggling to grasp the enormity of the nightmare before her.

Her belongings, clothes and letters, her meager jewelry, her fine china plates. Her eyes told her it was all already gone. She slowly climbed down from the carriage and felt a rush of air as men from nearby Farmville rode in to help. Someone, not recognizing her in the darkness, ordered her to hold their horses, and she did so mechanically, unable to rip her eyes from the burning house. Shouts and hollers filled the air, fighting to be heard against the crackle of fire and the whine of burning timber. Judy scanned the men and women trying to save her home. Where was Saint?

The thought galvanized her. She called to Sarah, who had left the line of water and backed away from the house, her eyes streaming from the smoke and her chest heaving.

"Hold these horses. And do not go near the house again. It's too dangerous. Now, tell me, where is my son?"

She didn't answer. Instead, Sarah pressed her lips closed and shook her head a little, her eyes wide and darting.

"Not in the house?"

She shook her head.

Men had dropped their lanterns by the well, and Judy picked one up, holding it high near her face so that she could see and be recognized. Giving the fire a wide berth, she took the side path toward the kitchen house and the vegetable garden. Everywhere was cast in an orange glow, and the noise of the fire echoed out across the empty fields. Where was he? She lowered her lantern, looking for a sign of light. Surely, he wasn't out in this darkness alone? In such a crisis. She struggled to make sense of it, halfway between anxiety for his safety and fury at his disappearance. She called his name, screamed his name, knowing it was futile to do so, unable to stop herself.

"God damn you, Saint! Show yourself." She checked the stables, where the horses paced and snorted, upset by the smoke swirling through the air. Saint was not there. He wasn't in the kitchen house. She needed Ben. He must find Saint. She panicked, fearing that he was in the house after all, and quickened her step. The sight of her home from the rear was every bit as devastating, and she paused, realizing the building was lost. She thought she might fall and put out a hand, leaning on the gate of the kitchen garden for support. A tiny light caught her eye. The flicker of a lantern inside the garden.

She raced to the source of the light. There he was. Her son. He sat on the bare earth with his legs crossed and the lantern settled before him. He didn't turn as she approached. Saint's eyes were fixed on the house, but his hands moved. She watched as he scooped earth with each hand and then brought the fistfuls together, rubbing the soil between his fingers as if he held a cloth and was drying his hands. Dirt fell. His breeches were covered in it, but she watched as he repeated the same action, grabbing the earth, rubbing his hands, letting the dirt fall all over him, all the while staring at the burning house. She crept a little closer, letting her own light fall on him, illuminating his face. What she saw staggered her. He was smiling.

With the horror of understanding blooming in her chest, Judy turned and fled.