"How long have you been here?"
"How long have the Tildens been here?" she countered.
Alicia shrugged. She didn’t quite remember when her family first sailed for America.
"I’ve been here just as long. Lord Tilden bought my papers just about the time his first grandson was due to be born. I barely got a proper meal before someone was havin’ a baby. Missus talked mostly ‘bout you when she held her first grandchild. Aye, a long time ago."
"But you’re not indentured anymore," Alicia remarked. "Why haven’t you gone back to England?"
"Lass, there’s no more England for me. My family is all gone and this is my family now. No, all I remember of England is Newgate, and I’ve no need to see that again."
"Etta, was it horrible?" Alicia asked, remembering that her worst fear throughout the ordeal with Geoffrey had been imprisonment.
"Aye, it was grim. A foul nest. And I’d have been dead but for Lord Tilden. They planned to hang me."
"For what?" Alicia heard herself ask.
"God’s bones, has no one told you about old Etta? They said I killed my husband!"
Alicia let her mouth drop open as she stared at Etta. She was large and muscular and had a stem, gruff appearance. She looked as though she could have strangled a man her own size. "But you didn’t," Alicia insisted.
"Should have," Etta said, shaking out a napkin and placing it on Alicia’s lap for her. "He was a worthless old mutt."
"No more horror stories, Etta," Marguerite’s voice came. She entered the dining room with a cup of tea in her hand and sat at the table opposite Alicia. Etta mumbled something and went back to the kitchen.
"She didn’t," Alicia said to her mother.
Marguerite simply smiled and sighed. "I think Etta could defend herself or someone she loves by killing. But, no, I don’t think she did. I truthfully don’t care. She’s a good woman."
Alicia nodded and began to spoon the berries and cream into her mouth.
"What plans do you have for your day?" Marguerite asked.
"Nothing, madam. I can do whatever you need done."
"I have no chores for you, darling. But if you want the carriage for a drive, I can arrange it. Or is someone coming to call?"
"No one, to my knowledge, madam."
Marguerite’s eyes became sad. "Is there a reason why you won’t call me Mother?"
"No, madam, I—I’m sorry, Mother. I still feel a bit like a guest here."
"You needn’t. This is your home now. We are family."
"Thank you, Mother," she said solicitously.
"I think maybe the troubles with your father are smoothed over for now, Alicia. You were a trifle hard on him. He thinks only of your best interests."
"I know that," she said quietly. "I’m sorry."
"Is Bryson coming to call this week?"
Alicia sighed. "I’ve been hard on all of you," she said. "I should give Bryson more understanding."
"Not unless he is what you truly want, Alicia. Unlike your father, I do not consider your marriage of the greatest concern right now. But your father—"
"He only wants what’s best."
"No, that’s not the whole of it, dear. He doesn’t understand that there was more to your life than we know about. He doesn’t understand that there are things you have to forget about England before you can settle yourself to a new life in Virginia."
Alicia moved the berries to her mouth more slowly. There was indeed a great deal to forget, to undo, before she could consider romances—marriage. She wondered if she ever could.
She smiled at her mother, appreciative of the understanding, and put her spoon down to take a sip from her tea. She drank a little and replaced her cup, stretching her back and sighing.
"When do you expect your child will be born, Alicia?" Marguerite asked.
Alicia’s head snapped up in surprise and she stared at her mother with something akin to horror.
"I delivered six of my own children and have watched the grandchildren coming for several years. You are with child, aren’t you, dear?"
Alicia could not speak, but a tear gathered on her lashes and she simply shrugged at her mother, watching her through blurred vision.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" Marguerite asked.
Alicia dropped her head and looked down. Tell her mother that she was part of a bargain with Lord Seavers to gain a dowry she had no right to? That she’d lain with him, though it was not part of their agreement, and that there was nothing for her now but emptiness and pain?
"You don’t have to confide in me, Alicia. It’s your affair."
She looked up from her lap. "I’ve brought disgrace to your household. I can leave you and—"
"No, darling, I am not disgraced. And if you leave me now, my pain would triple what I felt fifteen years ago."
"But, madam, what am I to do?"
"Is there a man you would name responsible?"
Alicia shook her head. "I’m not unaware of the father, madam, but..."
"I see. Well there is a dowry and—"
"I’m sure he would be most grateful for that," Alicia said bitterly, sniffing back her tears.
"Alicia, I would not allow your marriage to a cruel and selfish man. If you do not love him, then the subject is closed. He won’t marry you. But I trust you will remember that love and passion are not always one and the same; willingness to provide for you and protect you can be a man’s greatest display of love."
"I do believe that, madam. I do."
"Then you will know what to do, Alicia. I have no fear."
But Alicia simply shook her head and let the tears flow. She didn’t have the vaguest idea what she should do: confront Seavers and let him inherit again through marriage; carry on the courtship with Bryson and let him carry Seavers’s debt; or simply bear her own disgrace and birth the child without naming a father.
"Alicia," her mother was saying, "it seems urgent, but it is not." She looked up at her mother. "You are already caught; a little while longer won’t matter much."
She nodded piteously, not sure whether offending her family with less than virtuous behavior, or her own dilemma, burdened her the more.
"You needn’t make a decision yet."
"But madam, I—"
"You have time, Alicia, and I mean for you to use it. Do nothing until you have thought this over. I can assure you, I am the only one to notice."
Marguerite rose from her seat and moved to Alicia’s side of the table, bending to place a kiss on her brow. "I think even you refused to notice until now."
"I had hoped it was not so," Alicia murmured.
"I know, darling. And I promise you, you are not the first maiden to be thusly burdened."
Marguerite left the dining room as quietly as she’d come, leaving behind only her wisdom and understanding. And as Alicia thought about her mother’s words, she could not say that she’d been criticized or reprimanded. But no matter how understanding her mother had been, she strongly doubted her father would be as sympathetic. She vowed to let very little time pass before coming to some decision.
And at this point, she preferred a life with Bryson to allowing Geoffrey to stumble upon another rich dowry.
Alicia spent the day in deep thought, coming to no conclusions at all. Etta brought her a cool drink in the afternoon and sat down on the veranda beside her, something Etta almost never did.
"That fancy Lord What’s-his-name been askin’ after you, lass. He’s waitin’ to know how yer doin’ now and I told him you’re a strong woman; no need for him to fret ‘n fear."
Alicia did not respond, hoping to discourage the discussion.
"That’s one fancy lord, that What’s-his-name—"
"Lord Seavers, Etta."
"Aye, Seavers. He’s thinkin’ about stayin’ on a long time, he is. He’s got his land here and—"
"His land is here?" Alicia said.
"Aye, as he tells it. That boy’s thinkin’ is mightly like all these
Tilden men: he’s thinkin’ ships ‘n’ fields and women." Etta laughed at herself. "I think he’s mighty interested in you."
Alicia stood up abruptly and brushed at her skirts. "And why should that surprise anyone, Etta? I’m sure one of the first things he heard about was the new Tilden woman with the dowry."
Etta simply cackled. "That dowry talk gettin’ in the way of your eyes, lass?"
"No, but it gets in the way of everyone else’s!" Alicia huffed, stepping down off the porch and starting to walk at a brisk pace. She moved quickly, cursing under her breath. Seavers only compounded her delicate problems. She turned once to see Etta finish her drink and go back into the house, back to her chores. And Alicia kept walking, trying to clear her head.
The wooded areas around the Tilden house reminded her of the land around the inn, the place she would dodge to, to keep out of sight when Armand thought of additional chores. And now she entered the wooded path to keep from having any more discussions about Seavers, marriage, and other such confusing topics. After she’d passed a little time plucking wildflowers and enjoying the trees, she was ready to face the house again, but as she would have approached it, she spied Geoffrey and Preston just rounding the corner to go inside. They saw her at exactly the same time and stopped to stare at her for a moment.
Alicia tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders and turned on her heel, heading back toward the river. But too late, for Preston called to her.
I will not turn, she silently vowed, taking longer strides. I will not.
She heard his footfalls as he came up behind her, and she also heard that he came alone, a fact that heightened her rage. And then she felt his hand on her arm to halt her, and she turned with a curse on her lips.
"Unhand me, you—"
"You shouldn’t be this far from the house alone, darling," Preston said. "Come on, I’ll take you back."
"I thought you were—"
"I know." He nodded toward the house and Alicia saw that Geoffrey stood on the veranda talking with Marguerite. "Don’t you think you should talk to him?"
"Not if I can avoid it," she muttered.
"He’s come to see you, of course," Preston said.
"And why did you let him? You knew I wished only to be free of him! Why didn’t you tell him to go away?"
Preston grabbed her by the arms and looked down into her eyes. "He is a friend of this family, not just me. And his land is just upriver: land he was granted by the king for his bravery in battle. If he chooses to stay in Virginia, in this house for the next year, he will be made welcome, Alicia."
"And so that bloody pirate and thief can be coddled by this whole family, while his only intention is to make me miserable."
Preston nodded. "Unless, of course, you wish to tell your parents what the scoundrel has done to you."
"Oh, certainly," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and turning with a pout.
"I feel certain they’d come to your colors."
"What do you imagine I could have done to him?" she asked tartly. "Could I have him gelded?"
Preston laughed heartily, draped an arm around her shoulders, and started her back toward the house. "More likely Father will insist he marry you. Legitimately, that is."
"Does he mean to make a great deal of trouble for me?" she asked her brother.
"I would guess," Preston said and shrugged.
"Well, what am I to do? I can’t tell them. And I can’t make him leave. And I can’t abide being in the same country with him!"
"You could tell them, if it comes to that."
"But I don’t want to! I like it the way it is; my past a private and forgotten affair and the future all left to my will."
"So be it," Preston said, walking.
She stopped suddenly and looked up at him, horror in her eyes. "Preston, he won’t tell them, will he?"
"I think he is less proud of the entire affair than you are. No, I don’t believe he’ll tell them." Alicia turned with a sigh of relief and continued back with Preston, deciding she couldn’t avoid passing Geoffrey from time to time. "But I tell you true: he’s come here to see you."
"Well, now he’s seen me, he can go," she said stiffly, walking up the road to the veranda. As she climbed the last step, Geoffrey bowed briefly before her. She nodded and attempted to pass.
"You’re looking a good deal better, madam," he said.
"Thank you, sir," she said.
"I’m a little disappointed," he said, unabashed that her own mother was standing right beside him. Alicia looked at him in awe.
"Disappointed?"
"Aye. I had my heart set on being present should you swoon again."
Alicia pursed her lips. "I assure you, my lord, I shan’t swoon again. I’ll trust my own legs to get me where I’m bound." And with that, she went into the house, her steps quick and sure.
The taverns at the wharves in Virginia were not unlike the ones in London, but perhaps just a little less crowded and a good deal newer and rougher in design. But like the ones in London, they were commonly visited by every sailor in port and every prostitute in the vicinity, and they were good places to gather information about people in the colony.
A tall, handsome, dark-haired man spent the better part of an afternoon in such a tavern, talking to various people, including the proprietor. He was a merchant from England who had booked passage to Virginia to investigate the trade. He called himself Samuel Tyler. And he asked after some of the people who monopolized the shipping trade.
"I’ve heard a great deal about the Tilden family," he said. "I’ve been told they have a fleet of merchant ships that now number twenty."
"At least that, friend. At the very least," the innkeeper told him. "They might be the richest folk here, and if not, damn close to it."
"All from shipping, no doubt."
"They own a couple hundred Negroes and run a decent farm as well. And they breed like rabbits; two grandchildren a year at least. Give ‘em twenty years and they’ll own the coast."
Tyler picked up his ale and pondered the mug. "A good many children, you say?"
"Five. Sons."
Tyler nodded and drank.
"Make that to be six—their daughter’s just come home from England. Been there since she was a baby, they say." The innkeeper leaned closer. "They say she was their lost baby, but won’t say where she’s been since."
Tyler raised a brow and looked at the proprietor. "What difference?"
"There’s talk." The innkeeper leaned closer. "The minute she turned up, old Tilden put a big dowry on the lass, like he’s trying to cover up for what she’s been. Folks around here are decent and God fearin’ and don’t much like the fuss over this girl, like she’s some kind of returned angel. By the looks of her, she’s been schooled real good. Real knowin’ around the men, and this is a decent, God fearin’ city."
Tyler looked around the tavern. The clientele was average for such a place: bawdy, reckless types, drinking too much, looking for illicit and temporary love, fighting whenever they were moved to. He looked back at the man he shared his conversation with. "Of course it is."
"Argh," the man scoffed. "What a man does in port don’t make no difference, but the folks that live here hold themselves as decent, God fearin’ types. And their children as well."
"Well," Tyler said, "I’m certain the Tildens are grateful to have their daughter home, whatever her circumstances before she was returned to them."
"I’d say so, if they lie for her, treat her like gold, and show her off to the whole of this country. They been havin’ parties for the lass, takin’ her t’church, lettin’ her court—"
"Court?" he asked.
Again the man scowled. "The men around here seem to forget the other women. They want a piece of that Tilden company. I got me a daughter t’get married and I been watchin’ her all my life. I know she’s decent and clean. But the Tildens don’t care a hoot for decency. They show her off like she’s some queen come callin’. I say it?
??s a dirty shame."
"You do?"
The man studied Tyler closely. "But I won’t be sayin’ that to any Tilden, you can be sure. And if anyone says I did, I’ll swear it’s a lie."
Tyler laughed. "They give you a bit of business here, eh?"
"A good bit, an’ I’ll learn to hold my tongue around strangers for the keepin’ of it."
"Not to worry, sir. I won’t be passing your gossip along. It’s safe with me."
"I thought the Tildens to be good folk; honest and decent. I just can’t cotton to lyin’ about their dealings.
They’re passin’ her off fast as they can, an’ it ain’t honest. No matter to me, what they do, but just the same…"
"Never mind, I know what you mean. But, good sir, you must understand how a man and woman feel when their lost child’s come home at last."
"Aye," he acquiesced.
"Then a part of you understands their position, I’m sure."
"I never said the Tildens were a bad bunch, Mr. Tyler. I just said it don’t sit well with me that they pass the girl off as decent when they won’t say a word about where she’s been all these years. They could clean up the gossip, but they don’t think they have to, see. Because they’re Tildens."
"Certainly, sir," he replied.
But as he sipped at his ale an appreciative smile grew on his lips, for the proprietor had said a great deal more than he even realized. So, Preston Tilden did bring her here as his lost sister, and the family accepted her as readily and faithfully as Charles had accepted her as Charlotte Bellamy. How refreshing he found the news.
Then, he wondered, who is the wench, in all truth? He had lain with her when she was a serving wench, danced with her in the king’s court, and would see her next as the daughter of a wealthy plantation lord.
England had not been saddened to see him go. His brother, the only family member to have held on to any money and title worth mentioning, would not help him any further. He accused him, as did Seavers, of killing his betrothed for her lack of inheritance. And King Charles had cast off his information in an angry and impatient move. Perry’d been told by every power he hoped would support him to push off and find his fortune some other way than through them.
His resources were low. There was no rich bride available for him to marry; no land grant and bonus for efforts in battle, because he had never fought; no bribes had come, since he had virtually no political power; and there was no trade he knew save courtly etiquette.