March 31, 1786 Friday
The last day of March ended with high winds, brilliant sunshine. The fine snow of days before melted, puddles and mud everywhere.
People were glad to be back at their tasks, freed from winter’s last clutches. They hoped it was the last clutches.
“Did you remember a birthday present?” Bumbee asked Grace as both set before their looms.
“I’m not giving him a birthday present,” Grace immediately replied.
Liddy, stoking the fire, turned. “Why not?”
“He doesn’t call on me. Besides, what would I give him?”
“A scarf,” Bumbee advised.
“I’m not doing it.”
“I see.” Bumbee focused intently on the garment, expertly weaving a brilliant aqua thread through the navy blue.
Liddy took her place. “Grace, you’re sixteen. You’ll soon be an old maid.”
“Tosh.” Grace threw her head back.
Serena knocked on the door, entered when Bumbee called out, “Come in.”
“It’s so bright in here today.” Serena put down a large basket. “Bettina sent down some extra deviled eggs, cold ham, bread.”
“That was good of her.” Bumbee smiled.
Lifting up the towel, Serena enticed them. “Churned butter thanks to the muscle power of Tulli, who Bettina commandeered from the barn. Honey and strawberry jam, too. Brought knives, if you need them.” She sat on the bench by the stairs. “I’m so glad to see sunshine.”
“Gray, gray, gray. That has to be the last snow,” Liddy hoped.
“Mmm.” Serena launched into the news. “Mr. Holloway is up at the big house.”
“Are that witch and her handmaiden with him?” Bumbee minced no words.
“No.” Serena leaned forward. “The sun really is shining on us. One of these days Sheba will forget herself and give one of us orders. Ha. I’ll knock her down, I swear I will. You know what I think? She’s so hateful cause she’s got all that white blood. Always parading the light color of her skin. Hateful.”
The others laughed.
Liddy responded, “The question is, whose white blood?”
This sent them into more peals of laughter.
“I dare you to call her a clabberface,” Grace baited Serena.
“Oh, we can come up with something worse than that, but listen, Mr. Holloway sent a letter to Yancy Grant asking for satisfaction.”
Silence followed this.
Everyone stopped what they were doing. Bumbee rose from her bench, and sat next to Serena.
“Because of what he said at the party?”
Serena nodded. “But it gets better. Bettina and Roger brought in coffee, morning refreshments, and then Roger waited outside the door. He can be a real quiet sneak that Roger.”
“Well, between Roger and Bettina they know everything,” Liddy volunteered but without rancor.
“But why did Mr. Holloway come here?” Bumbee inquired.
“Because he doesn’t know about pistols. Yancy will get choice of weapons. So he came to ask Mr. Garth if he might come here and have John instruct him.”
“I see.” Bumbee brought her hand to her chin.
“He also wishes for John to be his second.”
“Well, if he shoots and kills Yancy Grant, fine. If not, then we have made an enemy,” the shrewd Bumbee noted.
No one said anything, then Grace piped up. “Is there no way to stop this?”
“Doubtful,” Serena said. “But there might be a bit of time because when DoRe delivered the letter asking for satisfaction, Yancy had already left for Richmond.”
“Well, he won’t refuse when he returns. Can’t. He’d look like a coward,” Bumbee said. “But if someone wishes, they might be able to bring them to terms and stop a duel.”
“At least a duel solves the problem once and for all,” Grace spoke.
“Oh, Grace.” Bumbee smoothed out her skirt. “Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t.”
“And what if Mr. Holloway is killed, which is more likely?” Liddy came over and plucked out an egg. “Then Maureen is a widow again and Sheba will be keeping her hand out to every suitor.”
“No!” Grace was shocked.
“Honey, you need to learn how the world works. She’s underhanded, greedy, and you’d better believe she will extract money and whatever else from the men lining up to marry that fortune. I can’t believe anyone really wants to marry Maureen.” Bumbee laughed.
“Maybe she’s different with men than with women,” Liddy posited.
“Aren’t most women?” Serena raised her eyebrows. “And the men believe whatever the women tell them.”
“Men hear what they want to hear. I can vouch from personal experience that Mr. Percy never heard a word I said.”
They all laughed.
“I’d better get back up there. You know how Bettina can get. She’s been flying all over the place this morning.” Serena stood up.
“Serena,” Grace asked, “do you think I’m going to be an old maid?”
“What brought that on?” the attractive young woman wondered.
“Liddy says I’m sixteen and I’m not married.”
“Liddy, are you holding out your man as an example of the sweetness of marriage?” Serena gave Liddy a little dig.
“He’s good to me.” Her lower lip jutted out.
“Girl, he’s good to some other women, too. Grace,” she turned to the younger woman, “you aren’t going to be an old maid and there are plenty worse things than not having a man. Men are work, I can tell you.”
“Hear, hear.” Bumbee grinned.
Liddy, still stinging from Serena’s unwelcome information, kept quiet.
“Sometimes it works, doesn’t it? I mean Momma and Poppa get along,” Grace remarked.
Serena softened. “Does. You’re too young to remember but Bettina had a good man. Mr. Garth and the Missus were a match and really so are the girls and their husbands. Sometimes it works but don’t go round looking for it. Let him find you.” With that she swept out the door.
Liddy returned to her task without a word.
“Liddy,” Bumbee took pity on her, “don’t take it to heart. It will pass.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” She rolled yarn, head down.
Hours later, Catherine, John, Ralston, Tulli, and Barker O. had wished Jeddie a happy nineteenth birthday. Bettina sent down a small chocolate cake. Horses as always remained the major topic of conversation but that slid into Jeffrey Holloway’s morning call, the news of which flickered through Cloverfields like fire.
“Mr. John, what will you do?” Tulli asked.
“What I can. The pistol Charles’s father gave him before the war is such a fine instrument, balanced, just the right resistance on the trigger. I’ll teach him with that if Yancy accepts the challenge.”
“How could he not?” Barker O.’s deep voice filled the tidy tack room.
“He could show himself to be a forgiving gentleman and admit he was under the influence of spirits,” Catherine answered.
“Oh, Miss Catherine, he might admit he was drunk as a skunk but I don’t know as he would admit he was wrong.” Ralston, an old mind in a young head, spoke.
John, next to his wife on a low bench, nodded. “I’m afraid he’s right, my angel.”
“Dear Lord, wasn’t it bad enough we killed the British and the British killed us, now we’re killing one another, our currencies are close to worthless, and,” she threw up her hands, “is the world falling apart?” Then she caught herself. “Well, not on your birthday, Jeddie. This is a good day.”
“Thank you, Miss Catherine.” He beamed.
The distant rattle of a harness alerted them.
Tulli ran out, then ran back. “DoRe!”
“Seems to be a Big Rawly day.” Catherine stood up, wrapped her shawl around herself, stepped outside with the men.