“We have got to petition the state to build roads, good roads.” Karl clapped his hand on Gunther Swartzman’s back.
“Ya. Ya, but where’s the money?” Gunther agreed totally with Karl.
“That’s the problem. We have engineers, we have men who want to work but all we hear from our delegates is how poor we are. Is New York this poor or Pennsylvania with rich Philadelphia?”
“Ah, Philadelphia.” Charles smiled. “They managed to make money while occupied and make money after the British withdrew. We’d better pay attention to those Quakers.”
The others laughed, but most Quakers did succeed at any form of business. The Quakers in Virginia, not as numerous as those in Pennsylvania, suffered during the war since they did not believe in war or violence. They persevered and slowly were making their way back into society.
“If a man fails at business and is a Quaker, do they not reject him?” Michael Taylor, looking a bit too thin, asked.
“They do. They do. Perhaps that’s what spurs a man to succeed against all odds.” Gunther smiled as Big Billy Bosum joined them.
Nearing thirty, the tall fellow had served in the American Navy but was sent to a French ship as an exchange sailor, a kind of noncommissioned officer liaison. He learned a great deal, as did the Frenchman, on the U.S. ships. As the ships were built in different state ports those states petitioned the new government for some repayment, some help to bolster faltering state budgets. No monies were forthcoming and states fought one another in the national legislature. The congressmen barely worked with one another, each state trying to get what it could for itself alone. Things were going from bad to worse.
Charles filled him in. “We were talking about building roads.”
“Roads. Ships!” Billy raised his voice. “Every year the firepower increases, the accuracy increases. The French are building more ships. The English intend to encircle the globe. We do nothing. We have nothing!”
This provoked a full discussion concerning the lack of central leadership. Each state could commission an Army and a Navy, but not the national Congress, which was, however, the only body that could declare war.
As the men deliberated this mess, the women spoke of Maureen Selisse’s continuing problems with her people, as they referred to the slaves.
“Well, I heard another woman ran off. Sheba caught her stealing pearls,” Jutta Rogan declared. “Not that I believe it.”
“How can you?” Billy’s wife, Lillian, replied. “First of all, no woman over there at Big Rawly would be stupid enough to steal anything.”
The others nodded.
Rachel innocently asked, “Who was it that ran off?”
“Mignon,” Jutta answered. “The little woman, tiny like a house wren, youngish, I’d say. Certainly younger than Maureen, who wants us all to believe she’s still twenty-eight.”
The others laughed.
“Maybe a woman is only as old as the man she marries.” Rebecca Smythers unwound her scarf for the small stove made the vestibule comfortable unlike the big potbellied stove inside.
The room, filled with cherrywood’s sweet burning odor, proved more pleasant than the big interior room. Chairs lined the walls and many took advantage of them, the elderly women being seated first.
“He is a handsome young man,” Jutta wistfully remarked.
Gunther Swartzman’s wife smiled, looking at Rachel. “What is it you horsemen say? Your sister says it, pretty…” She paused.
Rachel filled in the expression. “Pretty is as pretty does.”
—
As the ladies enjoyed one another’s company, Catherine, John, and Ewing Garth were engaged in similar discussions at the small clapboard Episcopal church east of Ivy Creek, on the high hill that looked down on the creek.
As it had taken this long for the rutted roads to be somewhat passable, business proved a lively discussion just as it was at St. Luke’s. The ladies did not refer to a missing slave from Big Rawly, as all were too excited that Elizabeth Hart had become engaged to Roger Davis, a young man on the way up politically. Everyone declared it a brilliant match.
As the churches throughout Albemarle County were filled with people glad to get out finally, Mignon slipped away from Cloverfields.
Bumbee, Bettina, Ruth, Grace, Liddy, and the other women provided her with layers of clothing, plus a sturdy pair of shoes, as hers had been ruined in the blizzard. Bettina wrapped biscuits and cold ham in a dish towel along with a small cup so the runaway could drink water. Father Gabe gave her a good knife.
They watched her as she made her way down the steep wooded path to the creek.
“I hope she makes it to Richmond. There’s enough people there that she can disappear. Maybe she can get on a boat bound for Philadelphia,” Bumbee murmured.
“No point heading north. They’ll be looking for that. Charleston, that would be good, or Savannah. Work at a shop down by the ships,” Bettina wisely said.
“That’s a long way,” Father Gabe quietly replied.
“I wish I could have given her a chit,” Serena, who also helped make extra food, said.
Bettina quickly replied, “And if she’s caught, we would all be in trouble. Mr. Garth would be questioned. We would be questioned and the constable, in particular, would blame us. Serena, think.”
“Yes, Bettina.”
The powerful cook softened for a moment. “Chile, much as we want to help someone, we have to stick together first. Always think of Cloverfields.”
“I pray she makes it. I fear she won’t,” Ruth whispered.
“And if she doesn’t?” Serena’s eyebrows raised.
“You know as well as I do. She will be returned to Maureen and she will be dead within a year. An accident, of course.” Bumbee’s voice was sharp. “I pray that someday, some way, I will be able to kill Sheba and Maureen for what they did to Ailee.” Her bosom heaved. “I pray for vengeance.”
“Ah, Bumbee, vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” Father Gabe touched her arm.
“The Lord is mighty slow,” Bumbee grumbled.
October 31, 2016 Monday
Marvella Rice Lawson, informed of her brother’s murder Friday by the Richmond chief of police, sat on her divan, hands folded. The fact that the chief of police personally delivered the news bore testimony to how important the Lawsons were. Marvella’s husband, Tinsdale, was partner in one of the most powerful law firms in the Mid-Atlantic. The Lawsons entertained on a lavish scale and were entertained in turn by Virginia’s governor, her two senators, the mayor of Richmond, and other people of note.
Rick sat across from the elegant woman, late fifties, as did Cooper, notebook in hand.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Lawson,” Rick opened.
“Of course. Anything I can do to assist in finding my brother’s murderer, I want to do it.” She spoke with the precision of a well-educated woman who moves in the highest circles.
“Did he ever discuss his business with you?” Rick asked.
“Sometimes after a job had ended, but usually, no. He would tease me and say what I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. Now I think perhaps he wasn’t teasing.” She leaned back slightly as her maid entered with a tray of tea and shortbread cookies. As Rick and Cooper were on duty, they couldn’t drink liquor, but tea sounded good on a cold Halloween day.