“Only a name—Zipporah Payne.”
“Ah, rather lovely. How besotted is he, do you think?”
“Enough to spend nearly every waking hour in Williamsburg and whistle afterward.” Juliet rubbed her thundering brow. “As for second courtships, they are usually of short duration, especially at midlife.”
“You don’t think he’d elope.” Loveday looked perplexed. “I’m still trying to come to terms with his being in the arms of a woman other than Mama.”
Juliet tried not to think of that. “Perhaps the widow Payne is the one Providence is providing for him at this stage in life.”
“Why don’t we plan a trip to Williamsburg on the morrow and drive by the lady’s residence, at least.”
“Under what pretense?”
“Fripperies at the millinery or mantua-maker. Ink and pounce at the store. A headache powder from the apothecary.”
Pondering it, Juliet left her stool and walked to the stillroom’s open door. “I must first go see about the indigo.”
If the stench was any indication, this season’s next harvest would be unmatched. Hope took hold as Juliet dismountedfrom her mare and held a handkerchief to her nose. The first harvest was well underway, the indigo flowers no longer showy, their stalks cut and fermenting in the costly yet critical vats. The exquisitely hued dye was eventually bound for textile mills in Britain.
“Miss Catesby.” Nash pulled off his worn, blue-stained hat. He batted at a swarm of flies before leading her on the age-old ritual of inspecting the tubs.
A frenzy of motion was on all sides of them as fifty or so hands used wooden paddles to stir and beat the fermenting liquid. A few enslaved and indentured nodded to her, but most stayed intent on their work. Pushing her handkerchief into her pocket, she took the paddle Nash held out and all but attacked a vat, bespattering her oldest riding habit. She remained intent on the blue flecks that sank to the bottom and became coveted indigo mud. Next the mud was hung to dry. Packing it into barrels and shipping it across the Atlantic was weeks away.
“Matters look promising here,” she told him, surrendering the stained paddle. “I’ll check on the fields next to harvest tomorrow. Keep me apprised of any developments here.”
Though this year’s indigo seemed a success, neither fields nor field hands ever rested, forever preparing the soil for the next cycle. They fanned out for what seemed like miles, their bent backs a familiar sight as they worked beneath a merciless sun.
Again atop her mare, Juliet moved on to her next concern. Though beautiful, the carefully tended mulberry grove sent her spirits plummeting. Silk production was not a success in Virginia. After a decade of trying, she saw that they would never equal the perfection of Italian silk, a long-held dream. The white mulberry eggs they’d procured from Valenciahadn’t survived shipboard conditions, and that debt made their pockets more threadbare. Mulberries were striking trees, at least, brightening in autumn and dropping leaves like gold coins onto the sunburned ground.
As the silk overseer walked toward her in a heat shimmer, she took out her handkerchief to dab her upper lip and brow. “I’ve news,” she told him, remembering verbatim the latest letter in Father’s study. “Our trunks of silk have arrived in London but were detained at the customhouse awaiting valuers and silk inspectors. We should have more details by the next ship.”
“Fit for royalty, your factor said.” His heavily accented words, so confident, boosted her. “Have you any word on the silk engravings from Italy?”
“They’ve arrived and are being translated in Williamsburg.” She eyed her mare, as impatient to move on as she. “I’m also awaiting word from the managers of the Philadelphia Silk Filature on whether large-scale silk production is viable for us.”
Next she went to the rice in the lower fields nearer the James River, their least profitable venture. She listened as the overseer droned on about manuring with mud and how much more favorable the Carolina marshlands were for rice, then she returned to the house.
In need of a bath and fresh garments, Juliet felt she was melting as fast as the remaining ice in the icehouse. Surely Loveday didn’t expect her for tea. A hot beverage was not what she wanted, nor was the irritated voice coming from Father’s study off the foyer. She paused at the bottom of the staircase.
“Colonel Catesby.” The voice stopped her cold. The tobacco overseer, Riggs. “You need know that last night around ten o’ the clock, Billy, Peter, Tom, Jacob, and Armisteadran away, taking one of my guns and a bag of bullets and powder.”
“The youngest tobacco hands?” Father’s voice was infuriatingly calm compared to Riggs’s usual vehemence. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“The accursed thieves left in a scow on your very landing.”
“I’m sure you’ve sent minutemen after them,” Father continued calmly, though this was ever a concern. Runaway advertisements were thick in Virginia’s newspapers. Would he now listen to Juliet’s argument about employing only indentures instead?
“Indeed I have. There’s some nonsense abroad that these runaways want to join the ranks of jacks crewing for privateers like Captain Sharp and other deluded fools.”
I hardly blame them.She would certainly pray their brave getaway was a complete success.
Juliet came to stand in the doorway, ending their meeting. Seeing her, Riggs looked quite aggravated before withdrawing. Would Father comment on the runaways? Limping a bit, he began to search for the brandy decanter.
“I sent it to the kitchen for cleaning,” Juliet told him apologetically. “Wouldn’t a glass of cold lemonade do?”
“Nay, I need something to dull the pain. The gout has come upon me again, but perhaps a smoke will do as well.” He gestured to a handsome, unfamiliar box. Cigars? “A gift from Glasgow. Buchanan.”
Juliet regarded it with loathing. “The tobacco lord?”
