A Hiss Before Dying

March 28, 1786 Tuesday

A week passed since the spring equinox. Daffodils swayed in the light breeze, buds swelled a dark red on trees, a few opened revealing fresh spring green color. Ewing decided a celebration was in order. He’d sent out handwritten invitations on creamy paper one week ago. Each invitation had been hand delivered by a well-dressed slave. Naturally, these tasks proved competitive as everyone wanted to travel, gossip with the other people on the various estates. Then again, being entrusted with such a mission, being well dressed, carried status, a lot of it.

Weymouth, Jeddie, Barker O., Serena, and Bettina performed this task. Bettina and Barker O. traveled together in the simple elegant low coach, which he drove. As Barker O. would also be inquiring about how long Maureen Selisse needed their borrowed elegant coach, Bettina could deliver the invitation to the big house along with some biscuits just to remind Maureen’s cook that she didn’t know squat. Tulli, for the very first time, wearing a smart cropped navy jacket, rode Sweet Potato while Jeddie rode Crown Prince. On a rawhide string around his neck Tulli wore his brass chit, Number Fifteen. It was the first time he was so entrusted.

Roger double-checked everyone before their journey. As the butler he would not be asked to deliver messages. A butler was not a messenger, no matter how pleasant the task may prove. Weymouth tucked Number Four in his pocket; Jeddie had Number Five; Barker O., Number Seven; Serena, Number Eleven; and Bettina, Number Twelve.

They spent all of the day and early evening delivering the messages, a drop of wax sealing the invitation envelope eagerly opened as the messenger stood there. An instant reply spared the recipient taking the time to send one of their people. Every single person accepted.

This meant today, March 28, a long line of carriages, phaetons, simple carts, riders on horses came down the tree-lined drive to Cloverfields. The boys in the barns took the carriages and horses after the guests disembarked at the main house. They’d wisely emptied out stalls, moving Cloverfields horses to the back pastures. They also moved some turned-out horses to the back pastures. Jeddie, Ralston, Tulli, and Barker O. didn’t have a minute to sit, dealing with each guest’s servant if one came along. Even Mr. Percy, Bumbee’s errant husband, was pressed into service. The good thing about the number of guests was that these men would enjoy tips, lots of tips.

Given the crush of people, the doors at the house remained open in the back, windows up. Everyone walked outside to see the sunset, a fan of flames edged in gold. The light shone on Isabelle’s tomb, the recumbent lamb with a cross across its forelegs.

Inside, the servants lit the chandeliers, the candles on the table, the sconces. As the temperature dropped, the fires flickered in the fireplaces; the guests, each lady on the arm of a gentleman, promenaded into the huge dining room. Bumbee organized the floral arrangements. The woman had a gift with color, shape, didn’t matter the element.

The governor sat on Ewing’s right, a wealthy visiting rice planter from Charleston, South Carolina, sat on the host’s left. At the opposite end of the table, Catherine acted as hostess. Rachel was two guests down from her sister. Their husbands sat where they could do the most good. Charles found himself next to Maureen Selisse, near Ewing, with Jeffrey across the table from her. When Catherine and Rachel planned the seating, ever a difficult chore, they made certain to keep Yancy Grant as far away from Jeffrey Holloway as possible.

Conversation flowed as freely as the wine, perhaps because of the wine.

“And did you see Beaumarchis’s latest play when you were in France?” Maureen inquired of Christopher Shippenworth, a guest from Philadelphia.

“I had the pleasure, Madam, but the news now is that he has gone too far,” the silk-clad fellow remarked.

All down the table, discussion of opera, poetry, horses, trade, new piers being built in New York City, the miserable condition of roads throughout the former colonies, expansion into the western territories, the chatter was punctuated with laughter, toasts. By the time dessert was served, an exquisite crème brûlée with a drizzle of raspberry sauce, everyone felt this was a spring party to be remembered.

Although the robins had arrived weeks before, Catherine, Rachel, and Bettina thought of this as their robin party.

Maureen tortured herself because she wanted to top this social event, but what cook could compare to Bettina? Well, she had to do it so she determined to hire a culinary wizard from France. Expensive but she just had to. The drizzle of raspberry and perhaps the last glass of wine inflamed her in this ambition. Where did Ewing get this wine?

The other guests, not fueling social ambitions, paid court to the governor and his wife as well as the people from Charleston and Philadelphia. One must ever expand one’s list of acquaintances.

In the main kitchen, the outside kitchen also in use, slaves bussed back and forth. Bettina, a general in the midst of battle, gave orders, walked between the kitchens, declared this needed a pinch of basil, that a dusting of powdered sugar, and the raspberry sauce, when dessert was served, she drizzled herself from a crystal pitcher, the sauce having been made on the estate, stored in the pantry like the canned foods.

Serena, hurrying as another round of dessert toasts were given, gushed, “Bettina, a triumph!”

Bettina, holding a special woven basket covered in a cloth, glowed. “Serena, where’s Grace?”

Just then, the young lithe girl, the one whose mother felt she should marry Jeddie, burst into the kitchen, “Oh, Bettina. Everyone sings your praises.”

“That’s always good to hear. Now, you take this basket to DoRe, he’s in the stable. And, Serena, they’ve all been fed?”

“Were and we even made sure the house folks had a set table. Even Sheba, who says she just has to talk to you about the stuffed capons. I told her you’d been in the kitchen since dawn.” Serena smiled.

“Ha!” Bettina laughed.

As the women in the kitchen began to damp down the stoves, put up what little food remained, the men servants waited for the guests to repair to the smoking room while the ladies would go to the east parlor. Once there, they’d enjoy one another, then join together for perhaps a half hour before their carriages rolled up to the front door. People would recall everything they could to one another on the journeys home.

Ewing picked a long broom straw out of a narrow brass can near the fireplace, leaned over to set it alight then touched it to his pipe, one long draw and the tobacco caught, a tendril of smoke floating upward. He threw the straw into the fire. Other men followed suit as Weymouth brought in extra decanters, placing them on the long hunt table.

Christopher Shippenworth talked to the governor across the room.

Basil Sasilieri, the Charleston planter, pipe also in his mouth, walked up to Ewing.

“Mr. Garth, beautiful ladies, excellent food, bracing companionship, thank you for your hospitality.”

“Basil, I’m just trying to catch up to you gentlemen from Charleston.” He chuckled. “Tell me, Sir, are these currency irregularities affecting business?”

Basil sucked one long puff, removed his pipe. “Affecting, I’d say depressing. Rice, as you know, is not an easy crop. One starts the season with one set of numbers and ends it with another, lower. I don’t see how we can continue. A man can’t expand, but I’m sure this affects each of us in the room.”

Ewing nodded, then observed Jeffrey Holloway pull out a heavy gold pocket watch, lift open the cover to check the time against the large grandfather clock.

Lowering his voice, Ewing remarked, “Why would any sensible man wish to be hagridden by minutes and hours? This incessant looking at new timepieces baffles me. It’s enough to have a clock in the house, but to carry one around.” He smiled slightly. “The times are changing but time is not.”

Basil nodded. “These things come and go. As for time, well, I feel it in the morning when I get out of bed.”

They laughed, treading the common ground of middle age.

Jeffrey Holloway, in rapt talk with Charles concerning design, architecture, halted a moment as Yancy Grant joined them. He nodded as custom dictated to Jeffrey, then spoke to Charles.

“Charles, your St. Luke’s covers much ground. The stonework will take a great deal of time.”

“That it will, but the foundation is dug, as you may have seen, and the two buildings at the end of what will be connected by arcades, that also is dug out. Now comes the real work.” He grinned. “Perhaps it’s because this is a church, but we work together, sing as we work, very different than what would occur in England.”

“Do you ever miss it?” Jeffrey asked.

“Sometimes, perhaps Christmas, I miss hearing the bells peal in the village, but gentlemen,” he looked from one to another, “my wife was worth crossing an ocean, fighting a war to find. Sometimes I wonder at my good fortune.”

Jeffrey smiled. “You are indeed fortunate.”

Yancy snorted. “You, too, Sir. You fell into the honeypot.”

Such rudeness startled both of the younger men.

“Charles, excuse me while I take my leave.” Jeffrey half bowed to Charles as Yancy grabbed his elbow.

“I know you’ve seen Sam Udall, the banker, and I know where you’ve seen him. How would your rich wife like that?”

“Yancy, that is enough.” Charles firmly stepped between the two men.

John, noticing the tension, walked over to his brother-in-law’s side. Yancy was either too drunk or too angry or both to care.

“Holloway, you’ve taken advantage of Maureen. You’re spending her money without a single idea of how to replenish it and you consort with whores in Richmond and—”

He didn’t finish because Jeffrey hit him with a right cross to the jaw. Yancy crumpled like a linen napkin.

Charles knelt over the unconscious man as others gathered around.

“I’ll kill him.” Jeffrey lunged for the supine man.

John, tall and enormously strong, put his hands on Jeffrey’s upper arms, clamped them to his sides. “You will not.”

Jeffrey, lifted up like a small boy, was carried out of the room. He had sense to be quiet. John carried him outside and in doing so, two of Cloverfields’ larger men swiftly hurried to John’s side.

“Let’s walk him down to the stables. DoRe can handle him,” John advised.

“I don’t need handling. That son of a bitch. He’s been after my wife’s money even while Francisco lived. Furthermore, I am not lying with whores in Richmond!” He was about to sputter more when John silenced him.

Tulli, lantern in hand, scurried out of the stable upon hearing John approach.

“Tulli, fetch some ice.” He then released his grip on Jeffrey’s left arm. “Steady. Steady. That’s what I used to tell my men as we marched toward fire. Your wife may have heard three or four versions of what happened before she arrives down here. Allow as how you lost your temper, how you can’t stand Grant’s overzealous desire toward her. If she asks questions, try to answer them. If not, especially if she asks about Richmond, say nothing. Forgive me for giving orders.”

“You are a major.” Jeffrey had regained his composure.

John smiled. “And I have been married longer than you. I expect Mrs. Holloway will be down shortly or DoRe will bring the coach up to the house if you so deem.”

“Sir.” Tulli led Jeffrey on.

“Put his hand in ice, Tulli,” John ordered.

—

Back in the house, Charles called Rachel from the ladies’ gathering, briefly told her of what had transpired, and suggested she wait with Maureen while DoRe brought up the coach.

Maureen, center of the drama although she wasn’t sure about it, did gather that her husband had belted Yancy Grant unconscious. This display of violence did not displease her.

Back at the carriage, the boys brought up the Selisse carriage from the carriage house, DoRe donned his livery. He tucked Bettina’s basket into a wooden box affixed to the side of the carriage, stepped up, felt the smooth reins in his hand, clucked, and they moved forward toward the house, Jeffrey in the carriage, his hand in a small bucket of ice.

Once at the front door, Rachel, now assisted by Sheba, brought up from the women’s servants quarters, stood with Maureen. Sheba already soaked up as much as she could. Finally she had a wedge she could drive between husband and wife. No one was going to control the Missus but Sheba.

Rachel walked down the steps, stood at the carriage door while one of the Cloverfields men, in Cloverfields’ livery, Prussian blue and gold, opened the door for Mrs. Selisse as he dropped the brass steps from the carriage for her.

“Thank you. What a wonderful feast.” Maureen squeezed Rachel’s hand.

She then held the footman’s gloved hand as he steadied her up the steps.

“Jeffrey, what have you done?”

“Something, my dear, I wish I had done months ago.”

Sheba sulked outside the carriage, then Maureen indicated she could climb in and the footman assisted her.

John, walking briskly up from the stables, reached Rachel just as Catherine walked outside for a moment wondering what was afoot.

“Shall I assume the gathering is aflame?” John laughed.

Catherine answered. “Great excitement. We couldn’t have asked for more.”

Rachel laughed along with her sister. “No one will forget this spring celebration.”

“Where is Yancy?” John felt the plunging temperature.

“Carried out to the brood mare barn and placed on a pallet in the tack room. He’s still out cold. A blessing,” Rachel answered.

A few snowflakes twirled down. They looked upward, seeing low clouds in the night sky. The snow in a minute began to fall faster.

“Good Lord,” Rachel exclaimed. “Snow on the daffodils.”

“We’d best inform our guests.” Catherine felt John’s strong arm around her waist, glad for his warmth, as they climbed the stairs. “What a surprise.”

There were more to come.