“Something tells me the council is not the only place you’re headed,” she called after him as she veered toward the milk house. “Rarely do you wear such a handsome lawn shirt and doublet.”
He let that pass without comment and sought the stables, beset by last-minute doubts.
How would his would-be bride receive him?
Leagues later, his arrival in James Towne left him wishing he’d taken his smallest shallop instead, his dawn bath in the river a distant memory. The pleated falling band encircling his neck was little more than a damp rag, and a fine powdering of early July dust coated all that he wore. But the refined sandalwood scent was intact. Though he was not a vainglorious man, today, the hour that might well decide his future, he wanted to look his best.
He hobbled his horse in New Towne’s pasture and skirted Pitch and Tar Swamp to reach the governor’s residence, which doubled as a statehouse. The brick dwelling was spared the spiking heat by the cluster of elms providing deep shade. Was he late?
A few of those invited took their seats. Two places remained empty—his own and Ustis Hopewell’s. Such did not bode well.
Xander’s disquiet didn’t settle when Governor Harvey opened the meeting with a lengthy prayer, his clipped English tones a drone in the still room, save the mosquitoes buzzing. “We beseech Thee, O heavenly Father, giver of life and health, to comfort and relieve Your sick servants, and give Your power of healing to those who minister to their needs...”
Xander felt a chill. A foreboding. Had Ustis sickened again? He had little time to consider the matter as they delved directly into the all-important exchange, the Naturals expected on Monday next.
Xander had been tasked to handle the proceedings. As translator, having taken part in such affairs since the earliest days of James Towne, he had been delegated all details. With Claibourne and Laurent absent, there were but a few dissenting voices regarding how and where the exchange should occur. These were hammered out to the satisfaction of all in an unprecedented hour, and the meeting adjourned in the forenoon.
Thirsty, belly rumbling, Xander passed outside in the elms’ rustling shade and returned his hat to his head.
“Let us take the noon meal at Swan’s, aye?” His friend Emanuel Murray began walking that way.
“My stomach will offer no complaint.” Xander fell into step beside him. “’Tis good to see you again. My heartiest congratulations on your nuptials at Charles Cittie.”
“Mistress Murray and I both thank you for sending round that salted ham with your felicitations.” Murray’s walking stick tapped a merry beat on the cobblestone path. “She’s expressed a desire to meet you.”
“Rose-n-Vale’s doors are always open to you and your bride.”
“Expect it, then. I deeply regret your resigning from council, which means we shall see you seldom. But I suppose your recent acquisition of further acreage requires you to be more at home than here.”
“A trifling matter soon forgotten.”
“Trifling?” Murray’s laugh held mockery. “I would notcall a parceling of land that makes you owner of an entire western shire a small matter. Especially since Virginia has but eight of them.”
“An entire shire is an exaggeration.” Still, Xander felt a beat of pride. “But what is land without indentures to work it?”
“I admire your unwillingness to enslave Africans. ’Tis becoming commonplace.” Frowning, Murray kicked at a stone in his path. “My new wife brought several Ashanti to our marriage. House servants. A far cry from indentures.”
“I’d rather speak of Ustis Hopewell.” Xander tipped his hat to a passing matron. “Do you ken any particulars regarding his health?”
“Only that he’s been quite ill the last sennight or so. Much as he was this past winter.”
With a sinking inside him, Xander eyed the sign of the swan swaying in the wind above the door they sought. The ordinary’s well-kept brick façade with four interior rooms made it the most genteel offering in James Towne. And blessedly close to the Hopewells’.
Several heads turned and hats lifted as the two men entered. Yet Xander felt uneasy anticipating a meal and a pint when a good man lay ill.
He turned his plan for the afternoon over in his mind as they ordered and then ate, the rumble of men’s voices around them. Talk was heated regarding the latest furor over the current tobacco inspector, an irascible Welshman who burned more hogsheads in the warehouse kiln than he approved.
“Hard to market the very crop Priddy disdains,” Murray said as the object of their ire came into the Swan.
“Ardent smoker he is not,” Xander replied, returning his attention to his mutton pie.
“’Twas Priddy who swayed the governor to limit our tobacco cultivation to fifteen hundred plants per grower.” Murray lowered his voice. “What are we to make of that?”
“Petition to plant north of the York River on virgin soil that hasn’t been depleted.”
“North as in Northumberland?”
“Aye. ’Tis our future. The future of tobacco in Virginia.”
