“I need ... a few hours’ quiet.” She eyed the shelves, feeling duplicitous. “And one of your headache remedies.”
“Well, a little rest should do you good, though it shan’t be the same without you.” Loveday moved toward a closet, disappeared into it, and then returned with something in hand. “Dr. Blair always says drinking hot citron water is most beneficial, but I’m partial to the cucupha—here’s one I’ve sewn with rosemary and lavender.”
“Thank you, sweet sister.” Taking the fragrant, quilted cap, Juliet made her way to the door that opened onto the kitchen garden. “Please excuse me to the Ravenals.”
And Leith Buchanan.
Half an hour with the cucupha and a cup of tea had Juliet on her feet again, this time at Royal Vale’s dyehouse. Situated near the bellhouse, it sat square like the other dependencies,with clapboard siding washed white, its gable roof and shutters green.
Loveday had harvested a great quantity of woad, and Juliet had been experimenting blending its blue dye with indigo. These trials were her favorite pastime—nay, obsession—but she’d not had much time for it of late given her other tasks. Leaving the door open, she moved toward the linen she’d dyed a fortnight ago, the hues astonishingly varied from violet to navy to sky blue.
The latest cakes of indigo, brought from the drying shed and laid out on her worktable, were from this year’s fifth harvest. She’d not yet decided whether to continue using limewater for the process or pure water as the Europeans did. As for which indigo was her favorite, she favored the flora plant instead of the violet plant, or gorge de pigeon. It fetched the best price for dyeing linen and wool, at least in the current market.
Humming a hymn, she took up a hand grinder and ground a dried indigo cake into a fine blue powder before mixing it in limewater to form a paste. A barrel of cold water was on hand and she removed the cover, then added potash and other ingredients to form a dye in which to dip the clean linen cloth on hand. ’Twas her favorite part of the process—
“Where is your father?”
Whirling around, she faced an unsmiling Riggs. His bulk crowded the doorframe, and she realized anew why so many feared him. He was a bull of a man, his temperament the same. Never an observer of common courtesy, he’d not removed his hat or apologized for startling her.
“My father should return soon.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she worked to keep her tone pleasant. “Why do you ask?”
“There’s an outbreak of fever among the tobacco hands.I need the doctor sent for—or at least your sister’s stillroom remedies.”
“I’ll see to both, then.” She replaced the cover on the barrel, abandoning her task. Outbreaks were common enough, especially after an exhaustive harvest. But the worrisome wordfevermight mean any number of maladies, including the dreaded pox. “Have you had the sick moved to the infirmary?”
“Nay.”
“Then please do so at once while I summon Dr. Cartwright and send word to my father.”
When he didn’t move, her alarm spiked. She faced him, still wiping her hands on her indigo-stained apron though they were already dry. “Is that all, Mr. Riggs?”
“Nay, not all by half.” His granite gaze held hers with sickening force. “I ken what you’re doing in the dark. And I vow to see it end.”
She groped for a reply, her long-simmering fury rivaled by fear. “You know nothing. And if you persist in this threat, I’ll see you put off Royal Vale by the sheriff, your reputation so ruined no other planter in Virginia will employ you.”
Bold words. Brazen words. She felt sick even saying them. To have countered a threat with a threat left her weak-kneed and wondering how he might retaliate.
He finally left, in no way cowed and seemingly more infuriated. She felt she’d stumbled into the wasp’s nest she’d just discovered under the stillroom eaves.
What would a man like Riggs do? What was he capable of?
15
Born and educated in this country, I glory in the name of Briton.
King George III
At Forrest Bend, Leith felt a bit out of his depth in the midst of such civility. Here there was no coarse talk or jesting. No swearing or drunkenness. Nary a misspoken word nor a foot put wrong. Everything was done in moderation with a sort of refined yet unpretentious dignity. Other than the Ravenal daughters paying him too much attention, he couldn’t find any fault with these particular Virginians. When he was with them, he nearly forgot his other life. There was only the colorful present with all its Americanisms and novelties.
Today was ninepins. These Americans improved upon it, playing outside on a bowling green. Despite the competition, he emerged the winner after several rounds, enduring a great deal of backslapping and handshaking. Far preferable to billiards and a fistfight in a smoky tavern. Syllabub—Virginians’ version of the victor’s drink—was served, butwhat he craved was a drink of spring water in Royal Vale’s garden at midnight.
The Catesbys were present, all but one, and cheered him on. When he finished the game he asked why Juliet was missing.
Loveday smiled, though the worried look in her eyes remained. “My sister is indisposed and sends her regrets.”
Indisposed? She hadn’t seemed sickly at Royal Vale. Nor was she fragile in spirit, given their forthright exchange at the Raleigh and then the ball. The tick of time was against him. He’d soon leave to visit Buchanan stores and settle business matters in various towns, a schedule hardly conducive to courting.
Only he wasn’t courting.
