A Hiss Before Dying

January 3, 1786 Tuesday

Although noon, the dark sky gave no hope of relief from the snow, which started New Year’s Eve, light enough, then turned into a thumping snowstorm that wouldn’t end. Six men ate corn bread, freshly churned butter, fried chicken, diced potatoes in cream with parsley, and green peas preserved from the summer in a tavern blessed with a gifted cook. Preserving fruit proved far easier than vegetables, but some vegetables were put up. Always tasted flat. Some of the luncheon customers drank French wine. Yancy Grant, a horseman from Albemarle County, and his impromptu tablemate downed coffee, the best coffee in Richmond.

“What brings you to Richmond, Sir?” Yancy asked Milton Sevier.

The man, close to Yancy’s age, middle-aged, a full head of hair, no powdered wig, reached for corn bread. “Had I known this storm would prove so severe I would have waited to come to Richmond. Land contingent to my own has become available and I hope to work out terms with the seller’s attorney, based here instead of Williamsburg. The seller has become befuddled with age and his daughter does not feel she is adept at such a large business decision.”

“Might I ask what county, Sir?”

“Appomattox. And you?”

“Albemarle.”

Milton nodded. “Well, we will both need prayers to Hermes to arrive home safely.”

Just then the door opened and a young, handsome African man, bundled up, snow on his shoulders and cap, called out to the proprietress, “Miss Georgina. River’s freezing.”

Georgina, well padded, still attractive, nodded to Binky, who removed his cap, disappearing back to the kitchen. Wearing a lacy mobcap on her suspiciously red hair, Georgina stopped at each table. Usually the room was jammed for a midday meal, but now it was so quiet the men could hear one another at the separate tables.

Arriving at Yancy and Milton’s table, she beamed. “Two of my favorite gentlemen have met at last. Should travel become difficult, I will halve the rate for rooms. No one can control the weather and if you stay at Yorktown Victory Inn or down to Grace Street at Charlton’s Ordinary, the cost may be prohibitive if rooms are available. I have a feeling many a man is stranded today. I had hoped we’d endure some snow, that the worst of this would stay west of us, but no, snow, snow, snow.”

“You are most kind.” Yancy smiled up at a lady he’d known over the years. “I will avail myself of your generosity.”

Yancy had stayed at a small rooming house, but left this morning, thinking the storm would finally pass.

“And I thank you, Madam, but I am staying with my sister and her husband. I do think I would enjoy myself here, though.” He smiled broadly.

Georgina operated a fashionable house of pleasure. The tavern part of the house allowed businessmen to make appointments with other businessmen, thereby covering their tracks, should their wives wonder. Of course, wives were not to know such places even existed, but they did, pretending they did not.

The less gorgeous girls acted as waitresses for midday meals. Certainly attractive, but often not as truly stunning as the ladies reserved for the evening guests, they helped Georgina turn a profit.

“We both have distance to travel. Two days if all goes well. I came down by the river. What of you, Sir?” Yancy asked the round-faced fellow.

“Yes. Always easier to travel downriver than up, but the roads are impassable. Now I find the older I get the less I like being jostled in a coach.”

“Quite.” Yancy finished a delicious chicken breast. “May I inquire as to your business?”

“Tobacco. The land now available is good tobacco land. There are fingers of soil reaching almost up the James, which support the crop. Yes, the best land is in our southern counties, but I have been most fortunate in my Burley tobacco.”

“Let us pray,” Yancy said with a chuckle, “that our former adversaries never lose their taste for Virginia tobacco.”

“Or the French, the German principalities, the Swedes, and you will be surprised to learn I do a brisk business with Poland.”

“I am, Sir, indeed.”

“Coffeehouses now fill every European city and those gentlemen love to sip their coffee, smoke our tobacco, and discuss politics.”

“Our world is changing. I think perhaps we Virginians no longer discuss politics with the fervor we did before the war. We should, you know.”

“Yes. Banking is chaos. And I feel strongly that monies must be able to move freely between the states, between banks, between countries, really. As to goods, the same. It seems to me that everyone is so uncertain that no one can move forward.”

“I quite agree.”

“Mr. Grant, may I ask of your business?”

“Horses, Sir. Also barley, corn, oats. All is well until Mother Nature refuses to cooperate. These last years have proven good for crops. I am as dazed as every man concerning our political difficulties. Prices for grains fluctuate sometimes wildly, as do shipping costs. I try to sell close to home, and even there people are pulling back. Fortunately, I can store any excess, but for how long?”

“We are all in the same boat, are we not?”

“Yes, yes. I had hoped to create more stability through marriage. I was drawing close to Francisco Selisse’s widow. I knew them both well and after the murder I did what I could to be of service to her. She simply cannot run that large an estate and I fear her slaves have taken advantage of her.”

“All of Virginia, no, all of the original thirteen know of that murder. And the killers were never found. Of course, the estate— Old Rawly, is it not?” When Yancy nodded, Milton continued, “Is a large responsibility but I thought it had been well run.”

“It had. Francisco brooked no interference nor laziness. He babied his wife, just babied her, so when he was killed, she was helpless except for her lady-in-waiting, a slave called Sheba. It is my thought that this woman truly controls the estate.”

Milton’s brow wrinkled. “It would not be the first time. People can exert strange power over one another, regardless of station. But did the lady not remarry with somewhat indecent haste?”

Yancy breathed deeply. “To a man almost half her age. Handsome. A carpenter’s son. Between Jeffrey Holloway and Sheba I think Mrs. Selisse, I can’t call her Holloway, will come to ruin. The man knows nothing. Perhaps he could build you a cabinet but run a large estate, no. She will be bankrupt in a few years’ time, mark my words.”

“I do hope not, Mr. Grant, but I fear this may apply to many of us if we can’t straighten out the political morass in which we find ourselves.”

“Indeed,” agreed Yancy, who himself suffered financial reverses, not that he wished anyone to know. “How do you find your beef, Sir? This chicken is excellent.”

“Wonderful. Georgina excels at pleasures.” Milton allowed himself a double-edged statement.

They finished their meal with pound cake nestled in a little pouf of raspberry sauce for dessert. As Milton took his leave, Yancy wished him success with his land transaction and hoped to see him in the future. As for himself, this storm would delay his meeting with a gentleman, Sam Udall, he hoped would extend him funds against his land holdings. He also hoped he could find a way to discredit Jeffrey Holloway and make Maureen his own.

Not only had the mistress of Big Rawly shocked him by marrying a pretty boy far beneath her station, she had sold her young mare, Serenissima, to Catherine Schuyler. Francisco bred the mare, she was not quite one year of age when sold. He had a good eye, the late Francisco. Yancy had offered Maureen a good sum. He wanted to train and race Serenissima. Instead, the lady sold the horse to Catherine for the unbelievable sum of seven thousand dollars. Seven thousand dollars. Yancy suspected Sheba was behind keeping the mare from him. She, no doubt, received some money, as well. Seven thousand dollars. Did Sheba use Jeffrey as a cat’s paw? He knew Jeffrey had called upon Catherine to discuss horses, which sounded Yancy’s alarm. Jeffrey Holloway barely knew one end of a horse from another. Jeffrey was not yet married to Maureen. What he knew was that Maureen did not sell him the mare. As for Catherine, he bore her no ill will. She was a consummate horsewoman.

Once in the room, clean, one wooden chair, one high bed, one sturdy desk, a decent woven rug on the floor, he dropped in the chair. The fireplace, though small, kept the room warm enough, a pile of cut logs near it.

The flickering lantern was needed as the sky darkened. More snow as he looked out from the second story down below to the large yard, stables. The weather vane even held inches of snow, frozen.

He would try to secure a loan when all this snow, wind, cold diminished. He had to hang on until springtime, when he knew his horses could win some races. And he had to hang on for his revenge against Jeffrey Holloway.