A Hiss Before Dying

April 3, 1786 Monday

Rose sunlight filled the breakfast nook at Big Rawly. Maureen and the late Francisco had added Caribbean touches to the interior of the large house. For the breakfast room this took the form of interior shutters the length of the huge windows. When the sunlight became too strong, one closed the shutters but tipped the louvers for a bit of light. The color, a soft petal pink, added to the charm. A low fire gave off heat in the ornate fireplace.

Maureen, glad of the warmth as she swept into the room, flicked her right hand behind her, lifting up the silky morning robe as she sat down on a painted chair.

No sooner had her bottom brushed the chair than a young house girl brought in steaming chicory coffee, followed by another young woman bearing bread, jams, butter.

The lady of the house had taken the precaution of only allowing average-looking women to serve. No more raving beauties.

She reached over her plate, then noticed a light blue envelope, her name emblazoned on the front in Jeffrey’s bold, attractive script. Picking it up, she ran her fingernail under the sealed back, carefully lifted it out, and read.

“Henry!” She bellowed.

The older, thin fellow appeared. “Yes, Missus.”

“When was this put on my plate?” she demanded.

“I don’t know, Ma’am.”

Slamming the envelope down, she shouted at him, “Get me DoRe, get me DoRe right now.”

Sheba sidled into the room.

Maureen pointed a finger at her before she could speak. “Pack my valise this instant. Do you understand?”

“What dresses—”

“The emerald-green and the shell-pink and gray cloak. Now! Now, are you deaf?”

Sheba shot out of the room.

As Maureen shoved the envelope between her bosoms, they could easily hold paper, she nearly ran for her closet, then stopped because she needed to see DoRe first.

“He may be crippled, but he can still move!” She rapped the table with her knuckles, then headed for the porch and side door since she figured he’d come up that way.

—

While she waited, John Schuyler heard hoofbeats drumming up the long Cloverfields driveway. Young, light, Milton Fahrney charged toward John and Catherine’s house, skidding, dismounting before the horse—one of Maureen’s good blooded ones—had stopped. John was hardly three steps out the door, going to work again on the back bridge. Charles, hearing the commotion, rose from his desk to look out the window.

“Mr. John, begging your pardon,” Milton breathlessly apologized, handing him a light blue envelope.

John took the offered missive, opened it. “Good God.”

Catherine reached for the letter, which he gave to her.

She, too, exclaimed, “He’s lost his mind.”

John asked, “Did Mr. Holloway send you?”

“Yes, Sir, he did.”

“Does Mrs. Holloway know you are here?”

“No, Sir, I left before sunup.”

Catherine, seeing the horse’s heaving flanks, told the young fellow, “Take this horse to Jeddie and Ralston. Let them cool him out. Then you go to the kitchen in the big house and tell Bettina and Serena that I’ve sent you. Eat a good breakfast. Go on now, the horse needs attention.”

“Yes, Miss Catherine.” He bowed to her, took the reins, walking the horse down to the stables.

“What now?” She grasped her husband’s forearm.

“He’ll get killed.” John’s color drained a bit. “He’ll get himself killed unless I can get there in time to delay or stop this.”

“If he left at sunup, he’s no doubt down by the river now. I expect he’ll go by river. He isn’t going to drive a cart or coach and he won’t be riding. If he had, Milton would have mentioned it, I think.”

“Yes, yes.” John rubbed his chin. “If I leave now, I may be able to reach Richmond an hour or two behind him.” He reread the letter.

“Two days?”

He nodded. “Perhaps a day and a half if the current is strong, but that brings up other problems. At least I know where he’s headed, I think.” He took a deep breath. “He’s a fool but he asked me to be his second. I must do what I can.”

“Darling, I’ll pack a few things. You go on down and tell Barker O. to drive you on down to Scottsville. And I’ll have Bettina put together a basket.” She disappeared back into the house as John trotted over to the barn.

Rachel, having also heard the flying hoofbeats, saw Milton walking the gelding to the barn. She called over her shoulder, “Charles, something’s amiss at Big Rawly.”

“What?”

“Milton flew up our road to John and Catherine. I’m going over to the house.”

“I’ll go with you.” He tossed on a jacket, Piglet at his heels, and they briskly walked to the duplicate white-framed two-story house.

“Catherine!” Rachel opened the back door. “It’s Charles and myself.”

“Come in. I’m upstairs packing for John.”

Two sets of feet rang out as they climbed the wooden stairway with Piglet’s nails clicking behind.

“What’s happened?”

“Jeffrey Holloway has left for Richmond to personally challenge Yancy Grant. Grant made so much about the women for hire that night at our party. How does Yancy know so much? Jeffrey can’t wait for Grant to return from Richmond. He wrote he can’t sustain the attempt to dishonor him for any longer.”

“Dear God.” Charles shook his head.

“Throw in a shirt or two, socks,” Rachel suggested.

“And my old pistol,” Charles said.

“Why?” Catherine’s eyes widened.

“Just in case.”

“But if Grant does accept the challenge and he does choose pistols, Jeffrey won’t be able to use yours…well, John’s.”

Rachel dryly added, “The family pistol. True, he will have to choose from the two shown him in the box by Grant’s second.”

“Jeffrey must have a second who can inspect the firearms.” Charles exhaled. “This is madness. Noonday sun madness.”

“Well, that it is.” Catherine had calmed down. “But none of us has been accused of sleeping with nightingales.”

Charles turned to go back out. “Rachel, I’ll pack myself. Catherine, if you see John before I get to the stables, tell him to wait. I won’t be long. This may take two of us.”

“Then I’m going too.” Piglet dashed after his master.

The sisters looked at each other.

Rachel said, “Men are fools. To die because of low gossip.”

Catherine inhaled deeply. “What choice do they have? Who will do business with Jeffrey if he is dishonored? And even if they do because of his newfound riches, he will never have any respect. We wouldn’t fight a duel but we don’t need to. We have nothing to prove and little is expected of us. You and I can work in our husbands’ shadows and who will know what we do or do not do?”

“Catherine, you can’t hide your abilities.” Rachel wasn’t having any of it.

“Not completely, but I can certainly disarm men. They can only try to beat one another down.”

“Our husbands aren’t like that.” Rachel’s lower lip stuck out.

“Rachel, my husband is a war hero and yours proved himself at Saratoga. It wasn’t his fault he was captured. Only a deranged man would challenge our husbands, because they are who they are, they could shrug it off. Or they could magnanimously refuse, citing their skills at firearms and fencing due to their military training.”

“I never thought of that,” Rachel admitted.

“Here, let’s go to the stable. I’ve got what he needs.”

As they walked out in the cool early spring air, Rachel wondered, “Do you think John and Charles can get there in time?”

“They just might. Even if Jeffrey finds Yancy and delivers his challenge via a letter or slapping Yancy in the face with his gloves, it would take at least a day to arrange the duel, find a quiet place to have it. There is some hope.”

“What if Jeffrey kills Yancy?” Rachel inquired.

“Unlikely.”

“I don’t much care for Yancy. He’s pompous.”

“He can be,” Catherine agreed. “But don’t forget during the war he risked his fortune, he openly worked against the king. Had we lost he would have been hung along with our father. He is worth some consideration. But yes, Jeffrey is far more likeable and even this wild behavior is understandable.”

“I suppose.”

They reached the stable as Charles, small travel bag slung over his shoulder and Piglet racing in front of him, emerged from the house.

John looked up as Serena came down with a big basket of goods.

Catherine stepped inside. “Charles wants to go with you. He’s packed.”

“Good.” John smiled. “Ralston, will you run up to the big house? Tell Mr. Ewing what happened.”

Ralston tore out of the stable.

Catherine ordered Serena, “Go along. Tell Father we’re down here.”

She curtseyed, ran out of the stable.

Barker O. and Jeddie rapidly hooked up the simple wooden cart, painted a dark blue, harness all set. They drove around to the front and Jeddie hopped down. As he did so, Ewing puffed down from the big house.

On reaching the stable, the older man handed Charles a second lovely gun. “I have pieces of the story.”

“Father, we will tell you all, but our husbands haven’t a moment to spare.”

The sisters kissed their husbands, who then swung up into the cart.

Ewing, deeply troubled, ordered Jeddie, “Go with Barker O., Jeddie.” He then handed the two men brass passes, Number One and Number Four, having had the presence of mind to grab them.

As the cart rumbled down the packed dirt road, up at the main house cobblestones had been laid, Catherine and Rachel gave their father the details.

“To think this started at our house.” He shook his head.

“Father, you aren’t responsible for Yancy drinking too much and having a loose tongue.”

“I know.” He hung his head a moment, then looked up. “But what he said was designed to hurt Mrs. Holloway and inflame Jeffrey. Even drunk, he had to know a bit of what he was saying.”

“You approve of dueling, Father?” Rachel took his hand.

“No, but I see no other way. Go to court for slander? A man would be a laughingstock. Gentlemen use lawyers for business, not for matters of honor.”

“No honor in the courtroom?” Catherine’s eyebrows lifted upward.

“Precisely.” He half closed his eyes.