Chapter Thirty-Two

Nancy's heart was full on the morning he was due to arrive. Tudor Randolph, her nephew, was expected at Morrisania for a stay of at least a week. What would he look like? The last time Nancy had seen him was in Richmond, seven years ago. He was little more than a child then, gawky, mischievous, impulsive, fond of anything sweet. Might he look like Dick? Judy had written that the resemblance, so strong when Tudor was a boy, had lessened as he reached manhood. Nancy wasn't sure if she was glad about that, or sorry.

"Cousin Tudor should be here soon, Gouverneur. Isn't it exciting?" She turned from the window and smiled at her young son who came toddling over to her, leaning forward, like a ship's figurehead, as he strained to keep his balance.

"Ma-ma." His first words had come recently, emerging from a stream of babble, squeaks and gestures that had his parents enraptured. He pulled at her skirts, demanding to be lifted to her knee.

"What can you see outside, little man? Can you see the trees? And there, the path down to the lake where you like to run? Look how blue the sky is this morning. Shall we go down and walk until we hear your cousin come?"

Gouverneur was happy to be carried downstairs and patient as she buttoned his short coat and tied a cap over her curls. "Now, let me find a shawl, and we will be quite prepared." She beamed down at him and was rewarded with a broad smile. Her hand went to her chest. The wonder of him. Her delight in his company increased daily. With her son, she saw the world through new eyes. She talked to him constantly, narrating their activities, bringing words into his life, much as she had once done with his cousin, Saint.

Her nephews had been in her thoughts a great deal, and for the umpteenth time, she wondered whether to speak to Tudor about the fire at Bizarre or to confine their conversation to safer topics. Seven years was a long time. It was longer still since Nancy had seen Judy or Saint, and she and Mr. Morris had only met with Jack once since their marriage, nearly five years previously. They had been in Washington, Mr. Morris seeking support for a canal project linking New York and Lake Erie, and she'd traveled with him, thrilled to meet Dolley Madison at the White House and tour the new Capitol Building. Jack was speaking on the floor when Nancy and Mr. Morris joined the throng in the congressional galleries. She'd known a rush of pride. He was a powerful orator, no one who heard him could argue it, and when they crossed paths in the halls of the Capitol later that day, she offered genuine compliments. Jack, in turn, was polite and welcoming. She'd delighted afterward to write to Mr. Tucker, describing their meeting and her pleasure in it.

Truly, there was every reason to suppose this visit from Tudor would be successful. When she looked at her little boy, she could not doubt it. Tudor was family. Gouverneur's and her family. She could not wait to welcome him into her home.

"Oss!" Somehow, Gouverneur heard the horses before she did.

"Yes! He is here!" She scooped up her son and hurried across the grass to meet the phaeton as it pulled to a halt at the wide front door. As Tudor alighted, Nancy's hand flew to her mouth. Not look like Dick? Judy's memory must be failing her.

"Nephew!" She stepped forward as he bowed. "It is my greatest pleasure to welcome you. And to introduce you to my little boy." They both smiled. Gouverneur had succumbed to a sudden attack of shyness and buried his face in his mother's shoulder. No amount of twisting or turning would prompt him to raise his eyes to his cousin.

"Perhaps young Mr. Morris will be pleased to get to know me later," Tudor said. "Somewhere in my baggage, I believe there is a drum and sticks that he might like to play with."

"A drum?" Nancy laughed. "I'm not sure that is a gift a parent might thank you for, although I believe a little boy of my acquaintance will be enchanted."

She swung Gouverneur onto her hip and tucked her free arm into Tudor's. "Come. Welcome to Morrisania. I've been looking forward to this moment so much."

For the most part, Nancy was happy with her visitor. He was polite and quick to smile. He appeared pleased with everything, from his room to his dinner, to Mr. Morris's pistols and the opportunity to snag a brace of partridge before breakfast — at least on the one day he was up early enough to partake of the sport. But she sensed Mr. Morris did not quite warm to him. They were never long over their port after dinner, and her husband said little about her nephew beyond admitting that he had pretty manners and "seemed yet young".

Saint was not mentioned after her initial inquiry after his health and Tudor's response that his brother was "tolerably well". What that might mean, Nancy did not wish to think. After the fire, Saint was sent to a doctor in Philadelphia. Reading between the lines, Nancy believed he was not there of his own free will. But Tudor proved as tight-lipped as his mother had always been on matters of personal importance, and Nancy left the question of Saint alone, preferring to look for ways the young man resembled his father in character as well as in his looks.

Certainly, he was capable of being delightful company. Gouverneur was swiftly enchanted with the gift of the drum, and Tudor seemed equally enamored, encouraging his walking, sitting on the floor, building blocks and rolling balls to him with such good humor that no mother, and certainly not one as partial as herself, could have failed to be moved. In all this, she saw the Dick she remembered: charming, playful and light of spirit. Tudor also had his father's love of fine things. He wandered Morrisania, openly admiring every room, every painting, every object and every view. He was, though, quick to contrast the luxuries of Morrisania with his mother's reduced circumstances. Since the fire, she had taken rooms near the Reverend Rice's family in Farmville. Tudor also described Jack's Roanoke Plantation in unflattering terms and bemoaned the long-ago sale of Matoax.

At mealtimes, his wine glass was quickly emptied, reminding her of Theo. Like his uncle, he'd no more favored topic of conversation than himself and his splendid future plans. Tudor had been at Harvard for over a year, but he grumbled of perceived wrongs and injustices, much as he had done as a boy in Richmond, and although Nancy knew he'd hounded Judy, Jack and Mr. Tucker into supporting his studies at Harvard, now, all his talk was of a tour of Europe. This, at least, was something Mr. Morris could discuss, having traveled extensively through France, but Tudor, in a manner she supposed was not unusual, didn't have half as much interest in another man's actual travels as he did in the imagined travels he planned for himself.

Tudor had been with them for two weeks when she detected an edge in her husband's voice when he spoke of their guest. She chose the dark warmth of their private room to sound out Mr. Morris about her nephew. It was their habit to share their bed with their young son. Convention called for the boy to sleep in his nursery, but he was too precious to both his parents for them to part with him when they were at home, and he often slumbered between them while they talked.

"Tell me honestly, dearest. What do you think of my nephew?"

"He is well enough."

"Well enough? That doesn't sound too encouraging."

"He's young. And has been indulged." He held up his hands as she opened her mouth to object. "I know. Tudor lost his father at a young age. And his older brother's difficulties—"

"—led Judy to spoil him. You're right. I saw it happen. Although now we have our own child, I understand her better." She smiled as her husband stroked their son's soft curls. "But Tudor is still young. Not yet nineteen. Surely there's hope for him?"

"There's always hope."

"What is it? Has he said something amiss?"

"Perhaps I'm oversensitive. Old-fashioned."

"What has he said?" Mr. Morris was not oversensitive. He was as rational a man as any and far from old-fashioned. He had an openness to, and a joy in the new that made the age difference between them disappear. She reached for his hand.

"I find him too familiar."

"Familiar?"

"I have something of a reputation, you're aware of it. So is your nephew."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing we haven't discussed. I'm talking about Adéla?de de Flahaut. Tudor knows of her. And thought it a fit topic to discuss with me."

"No!"

"Yes."

Anxiety fluttered in Nancy's stomach. Adéla?de had been her husband's lover in France. She'd been a major part of his life, a woman he had even been prepared to share, not only with her husband but with two other gentlemen. Nancy doubted Mr. Morris had told her everything from his past — and, the Lord knew, she had been careful with what she shared of her own — but he had been open, telling her of the important women in his life, emphasizing his decision to remain single and only trifle with married women, until he had met her. She had loved him for it and spoken as truthfully as she was able to about her own past and those dark days at Bizarre and Glentivar.

"I imagine he wished to present himself as a man of the world," her husband continued. "He certainly did so — although perhaps not with the positive connotations he expected. But he also . . . I must ask . . . do you think he has any knowledge of your past history?"

"Mine?"

"It's a feeling more than anything he said directly. I can't pinpoint his exact words, but he intimated we're well-matched. And he said so in the context of prior romantic experience, rather than temperament or character or anything else."

"Surely not! Surely neither Judy nor Jack would have spoken of it. Might he have heard of his father's trial in some manner? From some gossip or troublemaker? Good God, is it never to be forgot?"

"Calm yourself, dearest." He ran his thumb down her cheek. "Tudor cannot harm you, or us. What happened between you and Theo Randolph, what happened at Glentivar — it was an age ago. We agreed the past would not touch us." His hand went to her shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "We know who we are and what we mean to each other. That's what matters. I just don't want this young man being rude to you. You have a fondness for the boy he once was, that's understandable. But I'll be glad when he is on his way back north. I've probably read too much into it. I only wish you to be on your guard, nothing more." He touched his fingers to his lips and then pressed them to hers, their shared signal that talking was over for the night. Mr. Morris rolled on his side, and soon, she heard his breathing slow.

Nancy lay awake long into the night. Tudor's visit wasn't what she hoped. She thought of the money he had borrowed from her, and the way his eyes glittered as he threw back glass after glass of Mr. Morris's French wine. He would be gone soon, and she looked forward to it. They would have peace again, and all would be as it had been.

But two days later, Tudor came in from a ride, gasping for breath and gripping his chest. He pushed away offers of help and charged to his room, only to falter in the doorway and bend double as a torrent of blood spewed from his mouth. He fell limply on his bed, his face white, his breath labored.

Nancy sent Phebe for Mr. Morris. They got Tudor undressed and into bed, then waited anxiously for their doctor to arrive.

Later that evening, she wrote to Judy, the sister she had not seen in years.