Рита Браун - Furmidable Foes

Weymouth smiled broadly. “Forthcoming.”

Serena, young, attractive, snuck up behind Weymouth with the whiskey decanter.

“Ah, please.”

She poured a dram. “Sir?”

“Oh just a thimbleful, my dear.” He smiled up at her. “Weymouth, bring a glass for your father. He’s been out in the cold today almost as much as I have.”

Sharing a bit of whiskey with Roger was not lost on either Roger’s son or Serena. Watch the men, watch what they did, to whom they spoke, and if given direction, take it. Roger was the most powerful slave on Cloverfields. Ewing was one of the most powerful men in Virginia. By extension, Roger’s power seeped out from Cloverfields.

When the two young people withdrew, Ewing took another sip, then asked about Weymouth’s lack of a wife. “Any luck?”

Roger shook his head.

“Perhaps in time. If he meets the right woman. He’s a good young man, Roger, but he lacks ambition.”

“I thought he could take over for me someday but he has no interest. He doesn’t memorize the names of important people who come here, the names of their family, their special interests. Their holdings are of no importance to him.”

“Don’t despair. Being a father presents many trials. And he is young.”

“When I was his age I shadowed Chibee.” Chibee was the butler before Roger. “I soaked up everything he told me. When we called on other landowners for gatherings or meetings, he would pull me to the side, tell me everything about everybody.”

“Very intelligent man. As are you, Roger. Really, don’t despair over Weymouth. Tell me what happened while I was at Big Rawly with the harpy.”

Roger laughed. “Inspected Jeddie’s cabin. He needs new boards on the porch. He’s a tidy man.”

“Catherine says he has wonderful hands on a horse. As does she. But don’t you find it odd, Roger, that Jeddie is down there by the weaving cabin, with no interest in the women. Unless I’m missing something?”

“None.” Roger sighed, for Weymouth had an interest, but in the wrong women.

“He seems manly enough.”

“Yes,” Roger simply responded.

“If there were anything amiss, wouldn’t we know by now, or at least you would know? You know everything.” Ewing laughed at Roger, who feigned ignorance.

“I don’t know a thing.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

A silence followed this. “If a man’s behavior compromised Cloverfields, I would. But I figure such things are people’s business. But I truly believe Jeddie evidences no interest in women. Now remember, Catherine cared nothing for men.”

“True. She met the right one and that was that. Well, for me, too. As I recall when we were young, Roger, you were more of a sampler of feminine beauty.”

Roger laughed, as did Ewing. “Took me longer but I found a good woman in the end. She’s still with me and every day she surprises me. Now she’s not worried at all about Weymouth.”

“Boys tend to be close to their mothers.”

“And vice versa. Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself.”

“Oh, my Isabelle was the same. I guess God gave us different gifts.”

“Well, he forgot some people. One thing I did hear is that Maureen has set a bounty on William’s head.”

“She didn’t tell me!”

“She wouldn’t.”

William, a runaway slave from Maureen’s Big Rawly, had also seduced Sulli, a pretty house servant about sixteen. Maureen, never wanting to lose a penny, flew into a rage. She had beaten anyone on her farm whom she suspected might know of something. Finally, Jeffrey, who had never asserted a husband’s assumed authority, stepped in and told her in no uncertain terms that that was enough and she was never to have anyone beaten again. Maureen, amazed at the transformation of her pretty boy, backed down.

“And what if the bounty hunters find him and Sulli, too? She’ll have two recalcitrant people in her farm stirring the pot. No good can come of any of this.”

“What if they find Ralston?”

This was a young man who worked in the stables with Jeddie. They hated each other. Then Ralston ran off with William. They succeeded in eluding their captors and crossed the Potomac, finding a place at a big horse farm owned by an Irishman who had made good in the new country.

As Ralston had started trouble and became aggressive toward the women, all were glad he ran off.

“He’ll stir up trouble, too. Ever notice how some people have no sense? They never come to a good end.”

True.

4

November 15, 1787

Thursday

The green and white Royal Oak sign, the letters in old gold script, swung on its hinges. The horses, snug in stalls, paid little mind to the increasing wind. The cattle huddled in their large barn. Thick red Hereford coats kept them warm.

The humans on this large working estate battled the elements, without the benefit of fur. Ralston, head down as he walked outside the stable to check on the gates, wore a hand-me-down leather jacket, a thick sweater, decent gloves, and an old skullcap pulled low. The farm manager, Ard Elgin, an Irishman like the owner, Mr. Finney, liked Ralston because he worked hard and thought ahead.

Ralston wrapped up the last chores of the day in enveloping darkness. He always checked and double-checked the horses before retreating to the unmarried men’s bunkhouse. One of the reasons Ard liked him was because the young man didn’t complain and learned everything he could.

Cloverfields, the stables well run by Catherine Garth Schuyler and Barker O, driver, head man, bred different kinds of horses than Mr. Finney bred. Ralston wanted to learn everything he could about horses, shoeing, catching problems early.

The wind now howled around his ears. He hurried to the bunkhouse, which should now be warm, as the other men preceded him by at least an hour.

Mr. Finney, and by extension Ard, hired men based on experience and ability. The younger you were, the lower on the ladder. Mr. Finney employed both white men, usually Irish or of Irish descent, and black men whom he never inquired as to how they reached him. Mr. Finney and Ard figured any worker not local, not born and bred on the northern shore of the Potomac River in Maryland, was most likely a runaway. Not only did they not care, they figured those men would be loyal. They were. The bunkhouse again was more divided by age than race, but mostly the younger fellows created their rules. The young men of color slept on the top bunks. A rough equality worked in this atmosphere. Chores for keeping the bunkhouse cleaned and warm were divided up. Shaving times also were specified; otherwise every man would be bumping another to stand in front of the mirror and scrape. Not that Mr. Finney forbade beards. He forbade sloppiness. If you were clean shaven, good. If you had a beard, tidy it up. The men’s clothing was washed and ironed, depending on the item, by the women workers. Mr. Finney loathed any form of what he deemed “unkempt.” This progressed to “bloody unkempt.”

Mr. Finney, late forties, was a hard man but a fair one. He proved generous at Christmas and encouraged his “boys” to embrace the One True Faith. But if a worker did not become a Catholic, he forgave them. Mr. Finney, although devout, thought religion the cause of endless unrest, that and stupidity, which never seemed in short supply.

Maryland, founded by Catholics, pleased Mr. Finney. Although the Catholic Church fostered slavery, it being mentioned many times by the Bible, Mr. Finney did not. A small but influential number of landowners questioned the practice.

Ralston, quiet, walked to the fireplace to sit and warm up a bit.

An older man, Sean, walked to sit beside him. “Snow, I think.”