Surrender the Wind Page 4

  So much has happened in my short life. Things I cannot tell you until I see you again. You must send me word of your decision, and hopefully your arrival.

  Your devoted sister, Caroline

  When Mr. Stowefield returned, Seth sat in the chair with the letter in his hand. Contemplative thoughts stirred his mind and he felt them expressed upon his face. The setting sun spread the copper light of twilight inside the room, and for a moment, he watched it play over the wood furnishings.

  “Mr. Stowefield,” he said. “I need time to think.”

  “I understand that principle, sir.” Stowefield tucked his spectacles inside his waistcoat pocket and sighed. “But if you think too long and hard on the matter, you’ll find a way to talk yourself out of it.”

  “Wisdom demands caution, sir,” Seth replied. “A man who makes his steps too hasty and bases his decisions on feelings may fall into a pit.”

  Stowefield chuckled. “You’re a farmer and a scholar.”

  “I’m not good at either profession. Nonetheless, I thank you for the compliment.”

  “Forgive me for asking, young man. But doesn’t it feel grand to have become so wealthy?”

  “No, I feel doubtful.”

  At once Stowefield's brows shot up. “That's most incredible, sir.”

  Seth stood and picked up his hat. “I must be leaving. Direct me to a cheap inn if you know one.”

  Stowefield threw back his shoulders. “I’ll do nothing of the kind. My house is large and I’d be honored if you’d be my guest.”

  “I cannot impose upon you.”

  “Why waste your money on an inn? You’ll not find a finer table than mine, nor better conversation.”

  Though reluctant, Seth agreed to stay. Partridge told him she was pleased to wait upon him, and showed him upstairs before dinner. The glow of the candle fanned out before them as they climbed the staircase. The room stood at the far end of the house.

  “Have you a good coat with you, sir?” Partridge's voice was motherly, her gray hair spying out from beneath her white mobcap. “The wise gentleman brings a good coat with him when away from home. If you give me your traveling suit I’ll brush it for you and polish your boots.”

  Seth pulled off his boots and handed them over, then his coat. She was short, stout about the middle, and waddled over to him to take them in hand. “These are fine, Mr. Braxton.” She held them out and studied them. “Soon you’ll have finer.”

  “I can’t be sure of that, madam,” Seth told her.

  “No one knows what the future may hold, Mr. Braxton, save for the good Lord. We hope for the best.” She headed through the door and turned back to close it. “I’ll put your boots out here in a half hour, so as not to disturb you.”

  That night the windows in Stowefield's house stood open. The boxwood and roses from the garden scented the tepid air, and candlelight bathed the room in a haze of gold. The interior of the house was stuffy and warm, with that musty smell old houses seem to have.

  As he descended the staircase, Seth heard laughter. Dressed in his best navy blue jacket and beige breeches, he entered the dining room. Stowefield introduced him to his guests and he bowed. They were Stowefield's generation, some fat, some lean, gray, and wrinkled. The ladies wore heavy powder upon their faces, and the gentlemen dressed as natural men, a trend admired in Ben Franklin when he won the hearts of the Parisians.

  They supped together on a simple yet delicious meal of roasted chicken, pole beans, and potatoes. Partridge stood back near the door and wrung her hands while she watched Mr. Stowefield carve the birds she had prepared. They were burned on the outside, and she fretted they were spoiled.

  “I fear they’re ruined, Mr. Stowefield.”

  “In spite of their charred appearance,” Stowefield said as he popped a piece into his mouth, “the meat is delicious and succulent, Partridge. Nothing to fear.”

  Still, Partridge bit her lower lip and wiped her hands over the front of her apron as Stowefield placed the chicken on his plate.

  “It's a fine table you set, Mrs. Partridge,” said Seth, tasting the bounty. “I’ve not had food this good in a long time.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She dipped with a broad smile and left the room looking happy.

  “I imagine camp food was not to a man's liking,” said Stowefield.

  “Not to mine, sir, the little we had.”

  “It was the same in the French and Indian War, I assure you. Bread as hard and tasteless as wood, and not a good ale to wash it down with.”

  “You served in that war, Mr. Stowefield?”

  “Indeed I did, and I have a few scars to prove it. I shall not tell where.”

  The group laughed. The middle-aged woman to Stowefield's left, Mrs. Jenny Bayberry tapped him on the shoulder with her spoon.

  “We’ve heard the stories a thousand times over, John Stowefield, so much so that we know them by heart. Let us talk of other things.”

  “Well, all right. Our young guest, ladies and gentlemen, served in the Revolution,” said Stowefield. “Is that not so, Seth?”

  “I was among a group of Virginia sharpshooters, sir.”

  “Virginia is proud of her sons.” Stowefield drained his glass of wine and lifted the decanter in front of him to refill it. “As is Maryland. Our Frederick riflemen were praised as the best sharpshooters of the war.”

  “A hero sits among us,” Mrs. Bayberry exclaimed. She was a widow, and older than Stowefield by her look, her eyes gray and misty with cataracts, her face a collage of wrinkles.

  “Ah, ma’am, I would not say that.” Seth smiled. “I did my duty, that's all.”

  “You’re too modest, Seth Braxton. Our Mr. Stowefield was a rich lawyer before the Revolution. Dedicated to The Glorious Cause, he forfeited his plenty to aid the rebels in their struggle for independence. You no doubt gave up much as well.”

  Seth bowed his head to the lady. “We all did, ma’am.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Braxton. I lost two sons in the Revolution and my husband. I warned he was too old to go off fighting. A stubborn man was he. I rued the day he and my boys left. I’m sure your mother is glad you lived.”

  The memory of his mother caused Seth's smile to waver. “My mother died before the war, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Bayberry's expression was empathetic. “Well, fortunate for you, you have a sister. But no wife? What a pity. For you’re young and handsome. You cannot deny ladies wait upon your attentions.”

  “I can deny it with confidence.”

  He did not enjoy such open conversations regarding love and hoped the subject would change. His experience with women was his own, private, something he felt a man should not boast about. Still, he had not known what it felt like to be in love.

  Mrs. Bayberry's mouth fell open. “Perhaps you simply have your eyes closed to it. You’ll have them opened in due time. We should be grateful our infant country and England are on good terms, else no one would inherit a smidgen from their relations on the other side of the ocean. Some of us would’ve been cast off.”

  Stowefield cleared his throat and looked up from his plate of food. “Shall we have a toast to our brave lads?” He raised his glass.

  With a gentle acknowledgment of their revolutionary heroes, the guests drank, and then coughed from its strength. Seth remained quiet during the rest of the meal, but politely answered every question directed at him. Most came from Mrs. Bayberry, the spokesperson for the group. He was not in the mood for chitchat with strangers, and the conversation put him in a sullen mood, thinking about his parents, the war, his sister, and the decision he faced.

  Afterward, tables were set up for card playing. Moodily, Seth stood by the window. Over the mantle hung a group portrait, and when his eyes met those of the woman in it, he was struck by the beauty and skill of the painting. The color of the eyes, the way the artist caused them to glisten and express feminine joy, captivated the viewer.

  The subject was unlike any he had seen. She wore a slight smile
upon a face naturally beautiful. No powder, rouge, or wig concealed her. Her hair, long and dark, brown as the color of oak leaves in autumn, lay soft across one shoulder. Her left hand held the flow of hair at her breast. A band of blue ribbon pulled her heavy locks together near her forehead, and from under the front of the ribbon, delicate curls framed her face.

  A gown of white linen, accented with blue taffeta ribbon at the belled sleeves, graced her feminine frame. Her shoulders, round and smooth, were bare. Her right hand lay in her lap, touched by a flow of soft creamy lace. Within it, she held a spray of purple heather.

  Then there were the eyes, the depths of which drew the admirer. The artist's attempt to capture the facets of color held Seth's gaze in rapt attention. Sparkling full of spirit, clear amber struck Seth with the noonday sun. He wondered how they would appear in real life. Would the light play over them and her soul be revealed?

  Stowefield drew up beside him. “I see you admire the painting.”

  Seth's eyes remained transfixed, as he studied the contours of the woman's face. “Who is she?”

  “My niece Juleah. Lovely creature, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, she's pretty.”

  “Mather Brown produced the painting earlier this year in London. He painted John Adams and his daughter Nabby's portraits.”

  “I’ve heard of Mr. Brown.”

  Stowefield turned and lifted his brows. “Have you?”

  “Even Virginian planters can be kept abreast in the arts. Who are the children beside her?”

  “Ah, her sister, Jane, and brother, Thomas. Jane is a fine girl, and I daresay she shall be as pretty as Juleah. Thomas will be a strapping young man when he's older.”

  “Do you see them from time to time?”

  “No, but we correspond throughout the year. Juleah will not forget her uncle. I commissioned the portrait a year ago and received it this week. I had no idea she had grown so lovely, and with womanly wisdom showing in her eyes.”

  Seth studied Juleah's face deeper and discovered how quick his heart was to beat. “Yes, except there is no true smile there, but a sadness.”

  Stowefield pinched his eyebrows together. He drew off his spectacles, held them out before him, and leaned in for a closer examination. “I had not noticed.”

  “You can see it in her eyes. She may have smiled for Mr. Brown, but the expression in her eyes shows pretense.”

  “You may be right. Most likely she was bored sitting. Or, she may have been thinking of some unrequited love.”

  Seth turned away. His manner was cool, but beneath it, his blood raced. It disturbed him that Juleah's image had such a strong effect upon him. Her beauty and natural allure were undeniable, and he thought about the possibility he might meet her in England … if he were to go.

  “Caroline mentioned your niece in her letter,” he said.

  “Yes, they are great friends,” Stowefield replied. “If you do go to Britain, perhaps Juleah will be of comfort to you also, as she is to your good sister.”

  At this, Seth stiffened and set his mouth. His genial smile vanished, and he could feel, down to his marrow, the cold and pained look that flooded his eyes. “I doubt there's a woman so lovely or modest, or graced with enough womanly wisdom to be of any comfort to me, sir. Women do not wish for friendship in a man.”

  Stowefield let out a laugh. “On the contrary. My late wife was my best friend and I hers, right from the start of our courtship.”

  “My father spoke the same of my mother. I hope I’m as blessed, but I doubt it.”

  He excused himself, and wished Mr. Stowefield and his guests a good night. He went upstairs to the guest room and pulled off his boots. That night, Seth lay in bed staring at the pattern the moonlight made against the ceiling. He thought to no end, torn between two worlds.

  He needed to see his sister again to be sure she was well and to set his affairs in England in order. It was his duty. Then he envisioned those yearning eyes that belonged to Juleah Fallowes.

  Frustrated with it all, a prisoner to obligation and conscience, he asked what care did he have for England, for his grandfather's estate, for the love of a woman?

  3

  Ten Width, September 17, 1784

  I love thee, I love but thee with a love that shall not die

  Till the sun grows cold and the stars are old

  And the leaves of the judgment book unfold

  —Bayard Taylor

  Aknot gripped Seth's stomach. After a long sea voyage, he stood on English soil in the port town of Penzance in Cornwall, in the land of his ancestors, long dead, long forgotten. The sun ruled the zenith, touched upon his face. Its caress warmed his skin, chased off the chilly wind that blew across the southern harbor, but that was all.

  After he handed up his ticket to the coachman, he stepped inside the bleak interior of the coach. He was glad to see he was the sole occupant, with as much room as the cabin he slept in crossing the Atlantic. Only this smelled of people instead of seawater.

  He pulled off his tricorn and set it next to him. The whalebone buttons on the bands of his breeches were cold against his knees. He hoped his cloak would keep him warm into the night.

  The door shut, and Seth, seated to the right and forward, leaned toward the window. A magenta light peeked through the clouds, while veils of mist fell over frost-laden fields. From the chimneys of houses blew smoke from hearth fires.

  What kind of reception would he receive at Ten Width? A strange name was this for a manor. He had been told Ten Width was founded upon rich farmland, banked by thick forests teeming with game and a blue lake to the east. The house was old, built in 1603. Originally, the acres were ten miles in width, thus the name Ten Width.

  Would he find the house in ruins? Crumbling walls, no doubt, broken windows, lichen-covered stone, airless, unused rooms smelling of age. Yes, the house would be dark and bleak, and he dreaded it.

  These troubling visions made him frown, and he cursed his obligation as Benjamin's heir to a house he had never seen, in a country he had not been born to. During his journey over sea and land, he had come to realize that other magnets drew him to England. Those eyes, the parted mouth, drew him to a woman he had not met in the flesh, but in paint and canvas in a candlelit room. The lips, even now in his memory, whispered. The eyes cast a suggestion; the face enticed.

  Seth rebuked his foolishness to dwell on an image, an interpretation of an artist's brush. For all he knew Juleah Fallowes was not as her portrait. What did he care? Outward beauty was fleeting. What mattered lay inward.

  Four miles east of Penzance, the coach rolled over the sandy highway situated atop the hills above Marazion. Below, Seth saw the spire of the Church of Saint Hilary jutting skyward. The coach wheels drowned out the sigh of wind. The tide had gone out in Mount's Bay, and from the highest point on land, Seth gazed at the granite island of St. Michael's Mount rising out of the sea. The sun spread a plane of sapphire across the water, alighted lances against the rocks and the ancient castle atop the island. What kind of person would live in such a place? It would be lonely, and to be surrounded by the sea, depressing. He preferred fields of wheat and corn, deep forests, the whisper of the Potomac. In a castle surrounded by rock and water, a man would go mad, or fat and idle. He’d have no fields to plow; life would be dull and listless, absent of singing birds, replaced by screeching gulls, no great bass to fish from the river, no deer to hunt.

  Soon the island passed out of view. The coach swayed and dipped along a road lined with villages and headed inland to cross the barren heathlands of Bodmin Moor on to northern Devonshire.

  At nightfall, the coach slowed, came to a halt in front of an inn outside of Baxworthy. The sign outside the black lacquered door read The Black Mare, and it swayed with the breeze upon rusty hinges.

  The coachman jumped down from his perch, and a moment later a woman ordered him to go easy with her baggage. Under the glare of the coach lamps, he opened the door, pulled down the step, and handed the
lady up, followed by a boy and his sister. The woman wore a large bonnet clustered with blue ribbons and a thick bow beneath her chin. She plopped into the seat across from Seth and gathered her children to each side of her.

  “Good eve, sir.” Her breath hurried, and she gathered her cloak closer about her. “My, it is fine weather to travel in, is it not? Chilly, but fine.”

  “Yes, madam,” replied Seth. A snap of the reins and the horses moved off into the center of the road and headed on. The left wheel dipped into a pothole and the coach lurched to the side and soon righted.

  The lady passenger, now Seth's companion for the journey, glanced at him somewhat puzzled. Fidgeting, she wished to break the silence between them.

  “My children and I are not far from home. I shall be happy to sit before my own fire. We have come from my sister's house, Lowery Cottage, just outside of Milford. Are you familiar with Lowery Cottage, sir?”

  Seth lifted his hand from under his chin. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh? Well, it is a fine place to be sure. My sister's husband is the vicar there, and the church sits nearby in a pretty glade. May I ask where it is you are journeying to?”

  “I’m on my way to Ten Width.”

  The lady sighed. “Ten Width?”

  “You know this place, ma’am?”

  “Know it? Indeed, sir, I do.”

  “Is it far from here?”

  “Within the hour, I’d say. Did not the coachman say as much?”

  “He said we would arrive in daylight. I see now he was wrong.”

  “That is true. The coach was an hour late picking us up.”

  “I hope your family shall not worry,” Seth said.

  “I am sure my husband is anxious to see us home. Ten Width is known well within our county. The squire died last November, and so mysterious a man he was in his later years. There were no parties at Ten Width like in years past. Everything was kept quiet.”