Рита Браун - Furmidable Foes

“Men don’t.” Harry playfully pretended to slap his cheek. “You can count your lucky stars that I’ve always had a job.”

“You mean besides me?” he teased.

“You’re not a job. You’re an angel.”

He looked up at her, leaning over the table, stood up to give her a big kiss. “You always surprise me.”

“I try.” She kissed him back as he sank into his seat again.

“Potpie will be ready in a minute. You’re really tired. People don’t realize how physical a vet’s job can be.”

“Some days. Other days it’s easy.” He glanced at the TV. “Now there’s a wreck. Box truck carrying beer turned over and look at the cartons and broken bottles. I’m surprised people aren’t out there with straws.” He turned up the sound. “Booze is big business. Look at that mess.”

“Booze, prostitution, drugs. Big money. Look at the cars backed up on 64 because of the accident.”

A pileup on I-64, the main east-west corridor through the middle of the country, filled the screen. As 64 started in the southeast corner of Virginia, the traffic flowed heavily and fast. Someone was always smashing another vehicle or going off the road. Perhaps the interstates were a mixed blessing, although no one who lived before President Eisenhower had them built thought that—nothing mixed about it.

“Why would anyone steal specially brewed beer?” Harry wondered. “Or illegally brewed liquor?”

“Harry, I’m sure they can sell the stuff for three times as much in New York City.” He smiled slightly. “Probably only Bottoms Up’s truck was pilfered.”

“How about the craze for hard cider?” he then added. “Ten years ago there was only one distillery. You couldn’t give it away.”

“Fads. But I give all these brewers credit, legal or illegal. Nothing like the water running off the Blue Ridge Mountains.” She changed the subject. “Before I forget, is your tuxedo clean?”

“It is.”

“Remember we have to go to that big fundraiser Saturday night for AHIP. I expect the whole county will be there, including the sick, the lame, and the halt.” She used the old expression her grandfather used to use, a pipe, full of fragrant tobacco, jutting out from his jaw.

AHIP built houses for the needy, and renewed others. The “A” stood for Albemarle, the county. Albemarle Housing Improvement Program. In truth, the state needed to fund, really fund, such organizations in each county. Virginia, like all other states, had poverty, much of it hidden.

“If you see Bottoms Up beer, be suspicious.”

“Why?” she asked.

“With the explosion of breweries in Albemarle and Nelson Counties, if the organizers had picked one, war. Death.” He laughed.

3

November 14, 1787

Wednesday

“God put that woman on earth to punish me!” Ewing Garth held his arms back while his butler, Roger, removed his elegant, tightly woven wool coat.

Ewing then unwound his scarf, his gloves already in the pockets. The coat from London demonstrated why London was the center of male fashion. If any American brought up Paris, the listener sniffed. Paris did not impress English-speaking people as being worth imitating for men’s furnishings. Even if we did go to war against them, Ewing had rejoiced when all was over and he could once again order gentlemen’s haberdashery and much else.

Roger, twinkle in his eye, replied, “To punish us all.”

Ewing slapped Roger on the back. The two, children together on Cloverfields Estate, knew each other inside and out. One owned the place after his father passed, the other, enslaved, had become the butler. Roger possessed a rare understanding of power, place, and intelligence, and had even at eight years old. He proved invaluable to Ewing, who recognized his virtues. It never occurred to Ewing that Roger, whom he owned, might prefer another life. Roger kept his thoughts to himself.

Bettina, the head cook, bustled down the main hall, much of which she filled. “Mr. Ewing, hot Irish tea. I’ll bring it into the library.”

“Would you rope it for me?” He asked her to add a wee bit of spirits, whiskey.

“On a day like today, perhaps a bit more than wee.” She turned her back, singing as she walked down the polished hall.

The medium-height fellow, a tiny bit overweight but not much considering he was in his late fifties, dropped into a brocade-covered wing chair as Roger briefly disappeared.

Bettina returned and placed the small silver tray on the Hepplewhite stand next to the chair. Scones rested on a plate along with the tea.

“Thank you. You know, of course, I was at Maureen Selisse’s. Maureen Selisse Holloway. I can’t get used to her new married name.”

“Tell you what. She burnt the wind marrying that handsome young thing, Francisco not even cold in the grave.” Bettina put her hands on her hips.

“Bettina, he was cold long before he was dead.”

The two looked at each other, nodded in agreement.

“I do hope the Lord forgave his sins. I never will.” Bettina now folded her arms over her ample bosom.

“Indeed.” Ewing agreed.

She waited. He sighed. Roger returned.

Ewing took a deeply restorative sip for he had become chilled on the ride home, even though the carriage was enclosed. “She throws up one barrier after another. Now we all knew she would do that, but I must say that Gorgon betrays more imagination than I ever imagined. We are still negotiating over DoRe, as you might suspect, but now she wants breeding rights in perpetuity to Catherine’s two blooded stallions. Says she needs beautiful horses to show off her husband’s handiwork.”

DoRe, Maureen’s head of the stables, had proposed to Bettina, both of them middle-aged and widowed. It was a love match.

“Mr. Ewing”—Roger also addressed Ewing thus—“you will wear her down like water on rocks. Time. All in good time.”

“Wisely spoken.”

“Bettina.” Serena called from the kitchen.

“That girl.” Bettina had no wish to leave but Serena sounded in need.

She was. The pork roast had caught on fire in the large indoor oven built into the sides of the enormous brick fireplace in the large kitchen. A large pot hung on an iron pole over the fire, middle of the fireplace. Food preparation moved into the house when frosts came. Otherwise all roastings, frying, boiling pots were supervised outside in the summer kitchen.

Bettina grabbed a pan of sauce and tossed it over the pork, putting out the fire without subjecting the meat to water.

Back in the library, Ewing motioned for Roger to sit by the fire.

“Mail?”

“Two letters from France. One from Boston.”

“Well, nothing good is coming out of France right now. I’ll read them tomorrow. Maureen has so many ties to France and Spain. She asked me did I think the Treasurers would declare financial matters closed, since the state cannot pay its debts. I said I didn’t know and I don’t. There’s enough to concern us there. God knows what the French will do.”

“The way of the world.” Roger shifted his weight as he sat to the side of the fire on a shining bench.

“Was Mr. Jeffrey with Mrs. Selisse?”

“No. I walked down to his workshop. He has three carriages under construction. Three. He is a good fellow. She bought him that title, well you know all that. He doesn’t care but she says when they go to Europe he will. No one is anything over there without a title. I don’t see that working with one’s hands reduces one in society, but then again we live in a new world, or we’re trying to.”

Weymouth, Roger’s son, early twenties, came to the open door. “Bettina feels you need more tea.” He held the teapot.

Ewing waved him in. “Did she offer anything else?”