This Juliet couldn’t deny. The syllabub had soured, only half the oysters had been delivered, flowers were wilting intheir vases due to a touch of frost, five invited guests had refused to fête the tobacco lord, and Hosea had fallen down the cellar steps that morn, one of the queen’s cakes with him. He was blessedly unhurt, but Rilla had to bake another cake.
Peace. Juliet craved peace, not the presence of a man she disdained who was sending them further into ruin with Father’s elaborate insistence on this extravagant entertainment. And now Mr. Buchanan had arrived early, though she could hardly blame him for that. The Ravenals always arrived early.
Standing at Royal Vale’s entrance, Juliet watched the six walking across the lawn, the women’s colorful skirts swirling in a gentle wind along with the men’s coattails. Frances Ravenal was laughing—dear, irrepressible Frances. Juliet would know that sound anywhere. Her lace-mitted hand was resting on the sleeve of a stranger she guessed was Buchanan, but Juliet refused to look closely at him as they began climbing the front steps.
Servants darted hither and yon, but all now seemed in order—a bountiful supper beautifully laid, the ballroom floor gleaming, endless candles flickering and perfuming the air. Father finally descended the staircase in back of her, Zipporah Payne on his arm. He’d been showing her the house. Juliet smiled at Zipporah, then turned back around to face the Ravenals and their houseguest.
The same man who’d been wearing an eye patch in the Apollo Room.
Surprise snatched all speech. Juliet stood to one side while Father managed introductions, trying to come to terms with what she’d said—and he’d said—at the Raleigh and if it would have any bearing on the present. And the present had him right in front of her, bowing like a seasoned courtier.
“Miss Catesby, I believe we’ve met.” Leith Buchanan took her hand and brought it to his lips before standing tall again,his gaze lingering. “You argue tobacco so well I’m surprised it’s not embroidered on the indigo shawl I saw you wearing.”
“And you’ve since shed your enigmatic eye patch, Mr. Buchanan.” Juliet managed a half smile as all her notions of this man being an aged, uncouth merchant collapsed completely. “I hardly recognize you.”
Father was looking on bemusedly as if wondering why she hadn’t told him about their prior meeting while Loveday was busy beaming at their guest with unfeigned interest. Few could resist her sister’s dimpled smile.
“Welcome to Royal Vale,” Father continued. “Allow me to introduce to you Mistress Payne, lately of Williamsburg from London.”
London? Juliet’s attention swiveled from Buchanan to the widow. Father had not mentioned it till now. A wealthy widow, perhaps. Her sumptuous claret-colored gown with its blond lace seemed to suggest so. Though past the first flush of youth, Zipporah was still a lovely woman and as warm and engaging as a spring day.
In moments they were moving as one toward the ballroom, Hosea lingering at the front doors to manage other arrivals. The noise of carriage wheels from neighbors who hadn’t come by river mingled with the music as the clock crept toward six. Guests were overflowing both front and back doors on their way to the ballroom.
As hostess, wanting Loveday to enjoy herself, Juliet kept to the ballroom’s shadows, intent on overseeing the evening. The ball opened with the French minuet—Lord Catlett partnering with the widowed Lady Norvell, their most prestigious guests—before moving to the more relaxed country dances. Mr. Buchanan partnered with the Ravenal sisters and, as the evening wore on, nearly every other woman present.
Except her.
Each time he came near, Juliet managed to slip into an alcove or weave between guests and disappear to the kitchen or pantry or hall. She was not in a dancing mood. Tonight she especially missed her mother, whose foremost gift had been hospitality. Royal Vale, even decorated and filled to the utmost, seemed empty without her.
Midnight found Juliet up in the cupola, blessedly alone, the moon’s lucent light a stark white. Hobbes trailed her, purring round her petticoats as if asking where his mistress was. Loveday remained below, neither she nor the musicians nor other couples showing any signs of tiring. The jaunty notes of the violins crested clear to the rafters. Here atop the house in the solitude, Juliet wouldn’t be missed.
Her crumpled thoughts seemed to iron out and a plan began to form. Once Father remarried and Loveday made a suitable match, she’d be free to make her own way, perhaps settle in Philadelphia with Aunt Damarus and continue the freedom work there. The thought was exciting, disconcerting, and something she’d not yet prayed about.
Hearing raised voices, Juliet hurried downstairs. There in the entrance hall were two inebriated burgesses, a Patriot and a Loyalist, calling for a duel at dawn over the former’s suit sporting “No Stamp Act” buttons. Before she could intervene, Nathaniel Ravenal, bless him, escorted them outside. Tonight there’d been entirely too much talk of tea and taxes and tobacco.
Nerves frayed, Juliet entered the ballroom, watching the dancers whirl and the punch bowl empty. Mr. Buchanan had been standing with a group of planters to one side by an array of Palladian windows when she left. Where was their guest of honor now?
Despite her feelings, was it not her task as hostess to find out?
13
These are the times that try men’s souls.
Thomas Paine
Leith left the ballroom, wanting to clear the color and confusion from his mind. Too many names and faces mixed with dancing, spirits, and incendiary politics were a potent combination. He stood in the cool silence by a boxwood hedge and noticed the skeletal outline of what appeared to be the beginning of a summerhouse.
All seemed a bit lacking, even threadbare, at Royal Vale. Though handsome, the place had peeling paint, cracked plasterwork, sagging floors, and crumbling brick. New World Virginia lacked the richness and grandeur of layered centuries of civilized Europe, but it didn’t deserve the slur ofrusticorbackcountryeither.
He walked a shell path away from the main house to what looked like a walled garden. Illuminated by hanging lanterns, the acre of space was of English design, the central fountain solid marble, its waterless basin strewn with leaves. Italianmade, he guessed, the waterworks reduced to a single spout, or jet d’eau, as the French called it.
He sat down on the fountain’s broad edge. Was no one else outside? As he thought it, into the lantern-lit darkness came a footfall. One of the Ravenals? He looked over his shoulder, surprised—and pleased.
Miss Juliet Catesby came to a stop a stone’s throw away. “Are you in the habit of worrying your hostess with your absence, Mr. Buchanan?”
“Worrying?” he answered. “Not the term I’d use when you’ve fled like a fox before hounds since my arrival.”
A startled hush ensued, and then she laughed—a low, rich, warmhearted sound. “Your Scots bluntness is, I must say, refreshingly welcome amid so much fawning and cringing going on inside.”
