Rita Brown - Whiskers in the Dark

“Can’t send them back to Virginia.” He figured they were runaways. “But they can go to our side of the Potomac. Won’t take a day.”

“Yes, sir. They’re learning their way here and I can spare them. We’re turning most of the horses out. We’ll keep a few in light work but won’t be long before the weather turns on us.”

“No. Mr. Gulick up in Northern Virginia wants a Studebaker cart. Selling him mine. I’ll get a letter off. Bad as the mail is, this shouldn’t take forever. When I receive a reply with a date, you can send them on.”

“And the horses?”

“Gulick can bring his own. They can unhitch ours and hitch his to the cart, or just drag the cart on the ferry and Gulick’s man can do it on the other side. They’ll figure it out.”

“It’s a very good cart, sir.”

“Indeed it is. I doubled my money and ordered two more.” A very large smile creased his face, for Mr. Finney loved a profit. “We’ll have two sturdy carts for the price of one.”

“Yes, sir.” Ard smiled back, and as he walked to the stables he marveled at his boss’s ease in making money.

This was a gift he had not inherited, nor had he ever learned the secrets of finance, as he liked to think of it. He earned by the sweat of his brow. Then again, so did most men.

On this same brisk day, Ewing Garth paid a call to Maureen Selisse Holloway. He felt the first introduction of “the problem,” as he now thought of it, should come from him.

Given the beauty of the day, the temperature now in the low fifties, the Blue Ridge vibrant with color, her own maples flaming red, Maureen suggested the two briefly walk around Big Rawly, then repair to the house for more warmth and a bit of food and drink.

A beautiful shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she slipped her arm through Ewing’s. Maureen liked to walk this way with a gentleman. Women did like to feel a man’s arm under his coat, and no gentleman would ever refuse a lady. The dance of politeness had its pleasures, most especially in the South.

“I hear your husband is entertaining Gerald Lawson from Charleston. The man owns half of Charleston, I believe. Has that huge plantation on the Cooper River.” Ewing mentioned a former colonist made wealthy by rice, not the easiest crop either.

She smiled. “He’s down there with my Jeffrey discussing not one carriage but a city carriage and a country one. Mr. Lawson has definite ideas. Jeffrey’s reputation is growing.”

“And well it should. His work is as good as anyone in England or France or wherever. I mention Europe because they always believe they are superior to us.”

“M-m-m. Excuse me for being direct, my dear Ewing, but have you secured your holdings in France?”

He sighed. “I don’t think one can secure anything in France until the government attends to its debts.”

“Yes.” She drew out the word. “As you probably have surmised, I have moved whatever monies I had from Paris to London. My experience with the Bank of England has been excellent over the years. I do think it important to keep some funds in Europe as it is so much easier to move them from place to place, to purchase those necessities we cannot buy or manufacture here yet.”

“It will come,” Ewing said with finality. “But as always, you are prescient.”

She stopped for a moment, sweeping her right arm toward the mountains. “These higher pastures are exposed to more wind. I sowed them with corn, as you know, but the wind blew the corn flat. So I have returned it to pasture, but I would like to grow something a bit more profitable. Unlike your extraordinary daughter, I really can’t breed horses. I don’t have the knowledge or the eye.”

He patted her hand. “She is a wonder.” Then he removed her hand from his arm for a moment, striding out on the pastures. She’d given him the perfect opening.

He knelt down, pulled up a bit of native fescue, and smelled it, inhaling the earthen sweet odor. Then he replaced it, tapping it down with his foot.

Returning to an attentive hostess, he bent his head toward her as he took her hand. “This is good soil.”

“Yes.” She was expectant.

“You could again grow corn, but you would need to plant fast-growing evergreens, which would take you about five years before they would be of service to you, but they might well protect your corn from the wind.”

“I see. Time-consuming and possibly costly.” She placed her hand on his arm again as they renewed their stroll.

“You might consider an orchard. Again, you would need to wait at least three years before the fruits would be suitable to sell, but trees can withstand wind better and apples like this type of place. Pears and peaches need a bit more protection but, given your soil, you have choices.”

She looked upward at him. “You are most helpful.”

“I like farming.”

They walked along, stopping at Jeffrey’s shop. Mr. Lawson proved a bundle of enthusiasm, which meant he’d put in a big order and was now laying out exactly what he wanted. Jeffrey, too, was enthusiastic.

The two neighbors repaired to the house where, true to her word, Maureen had prepared a light, lovely lunch. Not too light, for it was growing colder.

“Where did you find a melon?” Ewing was astonished to find a slice of melon to freshen the repast.

“My secret.”

Her female kitchen slaves glided in and out. Ewing noticed while the women, modest and becoming, performed their duties graciously, no one was truly beautiful. Clearly, Maureen would never trust a beautiful slave woman as long as she lived.

The main course, thinly sliced veal, so thin it seemed transparent, simmered in a marvelous sauce that had paprika in it.

“My dear, this is exquisite.”

She beamed. “When I was in Italy I made the acquaintance of a Hungarian noble who bequeathed to me a few of the culinary secrets of his mysterious country.”

“I have always wanted to visit, but my tour, after my father deemed I was educated or educated enough, stopped in Germany.”

“England, France, Italy.” She winked, a habit from her youth that disarmed many men.

“Yes.” He noticed the silver on the hunt board gleaming, tons of it, big tureens with it. “Father overlooked Central Europe. We do, you know.”

“We do. My father used to tell me Poland was the most civilized nation in Europe in the seventeenth century when everyone was killing one another.”

“My father used the Thirty Years’ War as a warning to me not to indulge in, in his words, ‘religious enthusiasm.’ ”

She chuckled lightly. “You appear to have obeyed your father.”

Ewing laughed out loud. “Well—yes. You spoil me with your company and with such food. I come to you with news and with it, choices.”

Her manicured eyebrows lifted. “Indeed.”

“Your DoRe has asked for the hand of my Bettina.”

A pause followed this information. “I see. True marriage? A Christian ceremony?”

“Yes. Of course, I will underwrite all expenses as in essence I am not exactly her father but the man in charge. With your permission, I would like to have this sacrament performed at Cloverfields. Might you allow some of your people to attend and might you and your husband also attend?”

“Of course, my dear Ewing. Jeffrey and I would be delighted. DoRe has been faithful to me.”

“Yes, he has. He is a good man. But this union brings with it, oh, let’s not call it problems, but rather decisions that we must make. I hope you and I can find a way to smooth the way, so to speak.”

“Yes.” As always, she revealed very little.

“Like any two people in love, they wish to live together.”

“That can be arranged if we both make a bit of change. As DoRe is critical to my operations and Bettina an outstanding cook, neither one of us can give up our dependent.” Maureen would never use the word “slave.”