Early in the morning the mate was sent to procure a barge while the ship was docked and unloaded. The personal belongings of the captain and his passengers were then loaded onto the smaller vessel, and after a quick breakfast at a dockside inn in the wee hours of daybreak, they were moving along again. This time Alicia’s attention was more rapt than before, taking in the very breath of the land. The river gradually narrowed and was flanked by trees that formed a canopy over the shore. Every few miles a huge brick mansion rose out of the earth, and the land had been cleared to the shore.
The barge crept into a spacious dock and she could see another mansion, some distance from the river, settled back into the trees. Her breath caught at the sight; this was their home.
A Negro ran from the wooded beach to the shore and began to ring a huge bell. More people appeared as the barge moved sluggishly into its port and all hands threw ropes to tie up the little boat.
Preston presented his arm to help Alicia move across a narrow but sturdy plank and finally onto solid ground. An exquisite barouche pulled down the road through the trees, the driver jumping down without a word to help Alicia into it.
"Send a cart down for our things. We’ll go straight to the house," Preston directed.
Alicia was silent and speculative, her eyes taking in the land, the road, and the looming house before her. Her heart pounded mercilessly within her breast as she tried to steady herself to face them: her family.
It was only moments before the barouche came to stop before the huge brick house, which had a vast porch stretching the length of the house on the front. Large polished oaken doors marked its entry and a tremendous circular drive wound up to the front of the house. It appeared as rich a structure as any English country manor she had seen. Little black faces peeked around the sides of the building to see who had arrived. Alicia looked at them queerly. She had seen a blackamoor before, but never so many at once.
She turned to look at Preston and found that he was not moving to get out and he was frowning. "It surprises me that no one has come out to meet us," he said. "At least Etta should be here."
"Etta?" That was a name she hadn’t heard.
"The housekeeper," he explained as he climbed past her out of the coach. "She rarely leaves the house and is the first one to know who’s come to call."
Alicia stepped onto the porch on shaky legs, holding her trembling hands together in front of her. She worried over her appearance. She had tried to select a conservative, high-necked gown, something she imagined a daughter would wear. She’d let her hair fall loosely over her shoulders, hoping she looked innocent.
Preston held open the door and she meekly walked through, finding herself in an entry hall from which there stretched a long, high staircase to a second floor. Preston looked around the entry. Something was different from the picture she had painted for herself. This was not a busy, bustling household filled with many people, but was morbidly quiet.
She jumped in surprise as a woman of about fifty came flying around the comer with an armful of linens. "Preston!" she gasped.
"Madam," he smiled with a half bow.
"You barely made it in time," she said, resuming her quick pace to the stairs. "It’s Brianna..."
"Her time?" he asked, astonished.
"In moments," she said, heading up the stairs so swiftly that Preston took them two at a time behind her. Alicia was certain she had not even been seen, though she stood directly beside her brother. She heard a door open and close above her and found herself to be completely alone in the large entryway.
There were two straight-backed chairs and a table in the generous hall. She walked slowly over to one of the chairs and took a seat. She was curious about the house, but didn’t dare look around without at least an introduction. The woman, she thought, might be Etta...but then Preston would not call Etta madam. She must be Marguerite: her mother.
It seemed a very long time before the door opened and closed again and she heard the sound of footsteps coming back down the stairs. Alicia felt herself stiffen and her heart pounded anew.
As Marguerite descended, she pulled down her rolled-up sleeves and buttoned them at the wrists. Her hair, a mousy, brownish gray, was pulled back in a tight bun, but wisps of it fell down her cheeks and back. She looked as if she had worked hard. And she was smiling.
"There," she said in a breath. "A fine boy. A fine welcome-home present."
Alicia nodded and watched her face.
"I hadn’t forgotten about you, dear. Preston brought you?"
Again she nodded. Words failed her completely.
"Did he bring any others?" she asked.
Alicia was confused and her brow wrinkled. She responded, though she didn’t understand the purpose of the question. "No, madam. I don’t think so."
"Well," Marguerite continued, her voice businesslike but warm, "I don’t know how you got here and we don’t have to talk about that immediately, but I can briefly tell you the rules of the household."
"Yes, madam," Alicia said as politely as possible. My goodness, she thought, there certainly will be no wondering about my place.
"You’re very polite. I like that. And young. Perhaps we can find some things in the house for you; you look a bit too frail for fieldwork."
"I wouldn’t mind, madam," Alicia said, eager to please. "I like being out of doors."
"That’s very nice of you, dear, but we do need help in the house. Lord, the family grows out of all reality." She laughed lightly. "It’s a blessing I like a large family. I certainly have one!"
"I’m glad you do, madam. And I’ll do anything in the house you ask of me."
Marguerite looked at her queerly. She was not accustomed to new servants speaking to her. They were usually a little more frightened, and it had become Marguerite’s job to allay their fears and show them they would be treated kindly and fairly in return for good service.
"I think you should know one thing," Marguerite said. "I’ll give you a chance to settle yourself into our household and make some new friends without pressure from Mr. Tilden and me, but in due time you’ll be expected to give us the personal details of your past. I have to know where my girls have been and what they’ve been through if I’m to help them start—"
She stopped abruptly at the sound of a slamming door in the back of the house and turned to smile at the large, bearded man who entered. His linen shirt was wet with perspiration and his riding boots were caked with mud. His hair was graying, his cheeks were pink from the sun, and there was an anxious look in his eyes.
"A boy, Wesley," she said to him, smiling. "And Brianna is fine. She’s a strong woman."
Without a word, the man turned and looked at Alicia. Marguerite followed his gaze.
"And Preston is back! He arrived just in time for his son’s birth and is upstairs with Brianna now."
Wesley’s eyes appeared slightly glazed as he looked at Alicia. She felt the penetrating warmth and understanding coming from him. He could not remove his eyes from her face, nor could he seem to close his mouth.
"Preston’s brought this girl and I was explaining the rules of our household just as you—Wesley, I think it impolite to stare so—"
He looked back at Marguerite and then again at Alicia.
"Preston’s brought her?"
"Aye, and I told her we’d keep her in the house. She seems a bit slight to be working outside, though she’s content with any—"
"Marguerite," he said, his voice slow and tender, "have you looked at her?"
Marguerite sensed nothing amiss. She smiled with sincerity at Alicia. "Yes. You are lovely, my dear."
"Marguerite, Preston brought her. Have you asked her name?"
"My heavens," she said, aghast at her own bad manners. "I’m sorry! The birth and all the excitement and Preston’s return—"
"Your name?" Wesley interrupted, slipping a strong arm about his wife’s waist and waiting expectantly.
Alicia looked past them and saw Preston slowly
making his way down the stairs, obviously having heard the very last of this conversation.
"Alicia," she replied very quietly.
"Oh, my," Marguerite said. "Why that was our daughter’s—" And then she stopped short and covered her mouth. She looked at Wesley, who had finally managed a smile of recognition, and back to Alicia. Preston came quickly to his mother’s other side. "Alicia?" she questioned in a weak, disbelieving voice.
"You could not see her resemblance to you?" Preston asked.
"Fortunately I saw it," Wesley said, "before Marguerite had her waxing floors and chopping vegetables."
Marguerite still could not smile, nor could she move closer. She stood shaking her head and staring. Alicia sensed that her mother’s discomfort was even greater than her own and she rose from her seat. "I’m pleased to meet you," she said, her voice quiet and tense.
"Pleased to..." Marguerite mimicked, shaking her head in wonder. Finally the smile and the tears came and she carefully embraced her daughter with trembling arms. "Fifteen years of thinking you dead," she cried. "And you are pleased to meet me..."
"And I’ll be glad to do any work you—"
"Hush," Marguerite said, embracing her more fiercely. "I’ve waited for years just to hold you again." But she let go suddenly and looked at her son. "Preston, are you sure?" she asked cautiously.
"Positively. You have only to look at her."
And it was true, Alicia greatly resembled her mother. It was what had stopped Wesley short in his tracks. Alicia could have been brought out of the past and been the twin of his bride.
"I cannot believe you’re alive," Marguerite breathed.
Alicia could not speak; she felt awkward and was fighting her own tears.
"Alive, well, and returned," Wesley said. "Well, mother, let’s feed her, show her the house, and give her her list of chores."
Preston explained that the house was always under construction because as the family expanded additional rooms were needed. No such addition was necessary for Alicia, however. There was a single bedroom, generous in size, that was immediately allotted to her. And for the remainder of that first day she was with her parents, Marguerite was especially reluctant to leave her side. In fact, she insisted on tucking her into bed that night, as if she had her little girl again.
"Fifteen years," Marguerite sighed. "And you realize, when Wesley’s couriers could find no trace of you, I was forced to accept your death."
"And I had to accept yours," Alicia reminded her.
"Of course, you did. I just don’t know how you’ve survived it all—family after family, working you to death in a tavern. Why, I hardly know you at all. Alicia, before you left England, were there gentlemen calling?"
"Madam?" she asked.
"Had you been thinking of your marriage? Is there a young man in England whom you love?"
Alicia sighed heavily. "Oh, madam, I’ve talked so much of my life already, I can scarce think of another thing to tell you. No, there were no gentlemen."
"Surely someone courted you."
"I had no dowry, madam." Alicia suspected that would end the subject.
"Well, you have one now. And you will see, darling. There will be gentlemen."
And she kissed her daughter’s forehead and blew out the candle in her bedroom. The only thing Alicia thought about before drifting to sleep was that it would be most unfair for her to accept a dowry. She still possessed, carefully tucked away in her belongings, a hundred pounds. She felt she had well earned every farthing.
The Sunday after her arrival was the first day that the entire family was pulled together, for a lavish dinner party. She met all her brothers and their wives and children. They approached her carefully at first, but gradually they—the women especially—found her stories about the many families she had lived with and her work in a country tavern to sound wildly adventurous. "I promise you, it was not adventurous," Alicia proclaimed. "If Preston had not found me, I would be married to a poor old farmer now; my only usefulness would be in my ability to clean and cook for him and produce many children."
As that statement left her lips, she caught sight of Preston out of the comer of her eye. He raised one brow, smiled knowingly, and rose to leave the room lest he laugh out loud.
"I am surprised it didn’t happen already," Marguerite said. "You are much older than most country girls are when they marry."
Alicia made no comment, but she was aware that it was the second time Marguerite had referred to her marriageability and the absence of suitors.
Alicia’s mind was in a whirl over the activity in the house when just the family was together; when Wesley announced that invitations had been sent to neighbors and friends for a party at which Alicia could be introduced to the entire community, her head began to spin. And so the wives and children of her older brothers stayed on in the big house and helped with all the preparations, while the men rode off to oversee their mills and crops, intending to return for the festivities.
Under the heat of a summer sun, carriages and barges full of guests converged on the Tilden home. Pits were set to roasting pigs and beef, and chickens were boiled, stuffed, and baked. Long tables of food were set up on the lawns, and Wesley Tilden put out some of his best and closely protected home brew. Neighbor after neighbor paused before Alicia for introductions, and it did not even occur to her until the sun was nearly setting that she’d met many more single men than single women. And she might never have realized the reason if Preston hadn’t told her.
"Are there not many women of my age in Virginia?" she asked.
"Of course, there are many: the daughters of plantation owners and visiting cousins and friends and—there," he said pointing. "Gloria; have you met her?"
Alicia followed his finger. "No," she replied, looking toward the pretty young woman standing with a young man under a tree, a parasol over her head.
"Well, I don’t doubt it. I imagine the women are a trifle jealous. They’ll come around."
And bearing that in mind when she looked, she spotted several other pretty young women who were keeping their distance. Some of them she had met, but on recollection she remembered them to be somewhat cool toward her. But the men had not.
"Alicia, at last you’re unprotected," Bryson Warner said. "And I can have a minute of your time."
"Of course, Bryson," she said sweetly. Alicia did not even pretend to dislike the attention. She looked over her shoulder toward her mother. Marguerite sat with a group of women who were straining toward their needlework in the setting sun. She watched her daughter. And gave a slight nod.
"I think since we’re neighbors, we should see more of each other," Bryson said solicitously. "There’s a dance next Saturday, and I’d like to take you."
Bryson had taken her arm and began walking with her. She went along because it seemed the natural thing to do. "I should discuss that with my parents," she said. "And I think I should tell you, I’ve never been to a dance—"
Bryson laughed and assured her she’d be the most beautiful there. He was a tall, good-looking man in his early twenties, and of the several she’d met that day, he was the most aggressive. "I have my own home, my own farm, and over a hundred Negroes," he was saying, listing his assets. "That’s very nice, Bryson," she commented. "And I’ve invested heavily in some Tilden ships—but of course, they would be Tilden ships..."
"You must be very wealthy," she sighed, somewhat bored with his monologue.
"Not rich, mind you, but I’m capable of getting mighty rich someday. And with the right woman at my side..." And he went on and on and on. Alicia knew that what she was hearing was a downright good bid for the Tilden dowry that would be laid on her head. She knew how she would have felt had she been present when King Charles put the Bellamy inheritance on the block. But she could not encourage Bryson. It would be a very long time before she would have the courage to pass herself off as a bride to any of these young settlers.
"The truth is, Alicia," he said, stopping
her under a tree well away from the close scrutiny of the other guests, "I think you’re the most beautiful woman in Virginia—and mind you, I’ve seen them all. I’d be honored if you’d allow me to call and—"
"Bryson, you’re sweet to be so kind to me, but I don’t think you should make any plans. I’m new and—"
"Alicia, I won’t let you put me off. I won’t wait in line behind all the bungling fops that will come begging for your favors. I’m the richest bachelor for hundreds of miles, and if anyone is going to court you, it’s going to be me."
"I’ve only been here a short time!" she snapped. She was not at all ready for a rush of suitors.
He maneuvered her so that her back was against the tree, and he placed his hands on her waist. When she looked into his dark, earnest eyes, she could clearly see that he was serious about wanting her. And he was kind and handsome, but she was not the least bit moved.
"I know that, darling, and I’ll give you time, honestly I will. But I won’t back away and let the other men trample you in their ardent courtship."
"Courtship?" she questioned. "Are women to court so scarce here?"
"Oh, sweetheart," he laughed. "You are precious..."
She frowned as he stole a kiss on her cheek. She was anything but innocent, she knew that. And she resented his solicitous behavior. It would be different if she felt any attraction to him.
But apparently the feeling of her flesh on his lips had inflamed him, for he pulled away from her cheek looking slightly flushed and glassy eyed. "Alicia, I must see you again. Soon."
"I’m not sure that—"
She was stopped in her response by his lips on hers, seeking some passionate kiss that she did not have the energy or desire to give him. She tested the lips, opening cautiously for a deeper kiss, but she felt nothing. She was a little repulsed and pushed at him, but he refused to release her.
"There is a better way to control you," came the memory of Geoffrey’s voice beating in her mind. And the feelings within her when she was scooped into his unyielding embrace and had tasted of his passion threatened to come back to her. She gave Bryson a hefty shove, unlocking their kiss.