Chesapeake (47 page)

‘It’s extremely difficult, Rosalind, to reconcile belief with human passion.’ She hesitated, frowned, and fell silent.

‘What example were you about to give?’

‘Is thee competent to hear?’

‘I am.’

‘I’m sixty-nine …’

‘And that excuses your frankness?’

‘I think so.’

‘Then tell me the unpleasantness.’

‘It’s not unpleasant, Rosalind. It’s the kind of problem by which God tests us.’

‘For example.’

‘I think thee must assume responsibility for thy husband’s other children.’

Without altering the even tone of her voice, Rosalind asked, ‘Where are they now?’

‘In the marsh,’ Ruth Brinton replied. ‘In the swamps of human despair.’

‘What marsh?’

‘The Turlock marsh—the one around the bend of the Choptank.’

And she proceeded to instruct Rosalind in a subject which had never been alluded to at Devon. ‘A prisoner named Turlock escaped to the marsh many years ago, before Edward and I reached here.’

‘What did he do there?’

‘He bred. With any woman he could lay hands on he bred an assembly of infamous children—halfwits, criminals, devious young people … and some worthy of salvation.’

‘Why should I become involved with these children?’

‘Because …’ She hesitated, then said quickly on a new tack, ‘Old Turlock found a Swedish woman somewhere, and she had a slattern daughter named Flora, and Flora had a slattern named Nelly, and it’s this Nelly …’

‘Where did my husband meet her?’ Rosalind asked quietly.

‘In the marsh.’ The old woman spoke with no condemnation. ‘He’s not to blame, Rosalind. As thee undoubtedly knows, his wife was a poor thing, able to perform only one job, the production of two handsome children. Evelyn’s fine, as thee knows, but Mark is a champion. So their father drifted to the marsh, and that’s where his three children are.’

‘Was this long ago?’

‘It’s now. One’s a mere babe.’

For some inexplicable reason, Ruth Brinton was able to divulge a fact like this without appearing to be scandal-mongering; perhaps it was because she offered witness with such unfaltering integrity. At any rate,
she informed Rosalind of the prolonged liaison and of the children that had resulted. It was these children and not the behavior of the parents which concerned the old moralist.

‘Nelly Turlock’s not qualified to rear them. With her they’ll become marsh deer.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Beautiful, of course.’

‘Did she ever live at Devon?’

‘Heavens, no! Fitzhugh would no more think of allowing her on the place … It’s as if she were one of his slaves. He might lie with her, but he certainly would never …’

‘You’ve given me much to think of,’ Rosalind said.

‘Thee will live a long time on this river,’ the old woman said, ‘and encounter many obligations. Thy husband. His children. Thy own. Life consists of sending everything forward. Everything.’

‘I came to see your house,’ Rosalind said as she bade the old Quaker goodbye, ‘but what I saw was my own.’

On the sail back to Devon she tried to evaluate what she had learned, seeking to formulate some kind of rational response: Evelyn Steed was an admirable child worthy of deepest love, and Mark, whom she still had not met, promised to be her equal; Fitzhugh was revealing himself to be exactly as represented, a self-indulgent, moderately capable man content to simulate the management of either a plantation or a marriage; her own child gave promise of being intelligent, and on him, plus the others that might follow, she would have to rely. She could see nothing to be gained by confronting Fitzhugh with her knowledge of his conduct, nor was she distraught by this uncovering of his behavior. On plantations in Virginia owners often became embroiled with pretty, nubile slaves, and prudent wives had learned that ignoring the problem was the sanest way to handle it, and the most efficacious; the infatuation rarely lasted long enough to become publicly embarrassing, and if children did result, they could either be masked in the general plantation population or quietly sold off farther south.

She would survive Nelly Turlock, except for one ugly word used by Mrs. Paxmore. Rosalind had asked whether Fitzhugh’s relationship with the Turlock girl had occurred long ago, and Ruth Brinton had replied, ‘It’s now.’ She thought: If it’s continuing, with me in the house as his wife … And she began to construct an edifice of moral outrage, augmented by her sudden recollection that Mrs. Paxmore had said that one of the marsh children was a mere baby: It must have been conceived while I was living with him! Her fury started to mount, but soon she burst into robust laughter. Damn my stupidity! I argue myself into believing it’s nothing more serious than bedding down with a slave … what happened in the past was no responsibility of mine. But because
it’s happening in the present, I’m outraged. I shall ignore it equally.

And it was with these thoughts that she began her long retreat from Fitzhugh Steed. If he preferred to frolic in the marsh rather than live seriously at the plantation, and if he needed the transient beauty of this wild creature rather than the stately assurance of an educated wife, so much the worse for him. She began building those sturdy defenses with which women protect themselves from the debacles of the bedroom. Henceforth her focus would be on gardens.

The launching of her famous garden was delayed, for as she began to stake out its paths she chanced to look up, and there stood her daughter Evelyn, now seventeen and blooming like the lovely flowers of autumn. ‘How awful!’ Rosalind cried impulsively, rising to embrace her daughter. ‘I’m worrying about a garden and ignoring the most precious blossom of them all.’ She kissed Evelyn, and at table that night told Fitzhugh, ‘Tomorrow we start to find a husband for this girl.’ And he replied, ‘No worry. I’ve sent across the bay to fetch the Claxton boy.’

But when the Steed slaves reached Annapolis with the invitation, the young man told them, ‘I’d not like to cross the Chesapeake till the weather settles,’ and they returned without the Claxtons.

When this heroic response was repeated at table, Evelyn blushed; she had sailed the Choptank in all weathers. Rosalind said angrily, ‘Good heavens! If I were a young man about to meet my love for the first time …’ She paused to calculate what she might do, then added slowly, ‘I do believe I’d head into the heart of a hurricane.’

‘I think you would,’ Fitzhugh agreed. ‘But Regis will arrive in good time, and our chick will be married.’ Two weeks later, when the bay was calm, a boat arrived from Annapolis bringing not Claxton but Father Darnley, who informed the Steeds that ‘young Regis and his mother will be crossing any day now.’

‘A sorry situation,’ Rosalind grumbled. ‘The priest appearing before the prospective bridegroom.’ But Fitzhugh reminded her, ‘The Claxtons are an important family and must be treated with respect.’

‘Why in damnation does a boy have to be brought to his wedding by his mother?’ No one responded, for Evelyn was mortified and Fitzhugh was irritated by his wife’s outspokenness, and Father Darnley, who served the Claxtons as their priest, deemed it prudent to convey nothing of his thoughts on the matter.

‘Very good soup,’ he said, and when Rosalind tried to catch his eye, hoping to enroll him in her cause, he stared at his plate. But when the meal ended he could not escape, for as he headed for his evening prayers in the inglenook, she grasped him by the hand and muttered, ‘Father, this wedding must not take place.’ Still he said nothing.

So when the bay was calm, like a pond protected by woods, the Claxtons came over, but their meeting with the Steeds was not congenial. Mrs. Claxton, from an upstart family with ample lands, led her chinless son Regis up the path from the Devon wharf and shoved him in position to be greeted by his intended bride. He simpered in embarrassment and mistook Rosalind, his future mother-in-law, for Evelyn; the vast discrepancies in their beauty seemed not to register, and when his mother corrected him he simpered again.

Could such a one come seriously to court my daughter? Rosalind thought, and she began the maneuvers which were intended to send this ungracious pair home empty-handed. ‘Do come in,’ she said expansively. ‘This is my husband, Fitzhugh, and I’m sure you know from Fithians’ letters that this must be Evelyn.’ She lavished praise upon the Claxtons, assuring them that their fame had circulated throughout the Eastern Shore. ‘You’re known as one of the really great families of Maryland, and we’re honored that you’ve come to visit us. Father Darnley told us of your piety, too.’

Evelyn, of course, saw that her mother was teasing the Claxtons into fatuous reactions, and they complied. ‘We’re really not one of the principal families. The Dashiells own a much larger plantation.’

Rosalind paid special attention to the young man, showering him with ironic flattery, against which he could not defend himself. At one point she said, ‘Father Darnley told us you’re an outstanding huntsman,’ and he replied, ‘One day I shot three rabbits,’ and she said, ‘Remarkable!’

That first afternoon had been painful enough, but as the visit progressed, things deteriorated. Mrs. Claxton showed herself to be a ninny, and her son seemed determined to prove that he had inherited her salient qualities. Even Evelyn, once so hopeful that Regis might be the one to lead her to a new life across the bay, surrendered such dreams and confided to her mother, ‘He is really impossible.’

But during supper on the evening before the wedding was to take place, Fitzhugh coughed impressively and said, ‘Mrs. Claxton, I think you and your son should prepare to drink a toast.’

‘To what?’ the giddy visitor asked.

‘To tomorrow. When Father Darnley marries Regis and Evelyn.’

This blunt announcement, which the Steed women had not been invited to discuss, caused a flurry, and Regis had the good grace to get up and move to Evelyn’s side, where he took her hand and kissed her awkwardly.

Rosalind noticed that when this happened, the girl flinched, so that night in Evelyn’s room she said harshly, ‘You cannot allow this wrongful thing to proceed.’

‘I am powerless to stop it.’

Rosalind shook her. ‘You are never entitled to use that excuse. Any human being with strong character can oppose wrong.’

‘I’m seventeen!’ Evelyn wailed. ‘And Father worked hard to arrange this marriage.’

Rosalind broke into ridiculing laughter. ‘Dearest child, age is nothing. Your father’s vanity is nothing. All that matters is that you build the best life possible. That you become the best human being possible. With Regis Claxton you’ll have no possibilities. The wastage will be appalling.’

‘But I might never marry. Here there are no Catholics.’

‘There were no Catholics for your father, either, and he took me. Believe me, Evelyn, you’re a special girl. You have a particular beauty. Men will seek you out, and there’s no law which says they have to be Catholics.’

‘He was the only one Fithians could find.’

‘Fithians! God damn Fithians.’

The force with which Rosalind uttered these words startled the girl, and she turned to ask her mother directly, ‘Has it been so bad?’

‘Not as you think,’ Rosalind replied. ‘Your father’s been most kind, Evelyn, as you’ve had opportunity to witness. But the system! This writing of letters of application to Fithians in London! This stupid arranging of lives according to external patterns …’ Rosalind began to stalk about the room, a towering figure of rebellion.

‘Is it Nelly Turlock?’ Evelyn asked.

Rosalind stopped abruptly and stood at some distance from the bed, her arms akimbo. She had never spoken of Nelly to her daughter, for she had not been sure that the girl knew of her father’s misbehavior, but now the subject had been broached. ‘Who bothers a moment about Nelly Turlock? Your father’s found a certain comfort in the marshes, and I’m unconcerned.’ She paused. ‘Have you seen the children?’

‘They’re adorable. The loveliest white hair. I suppose you’ve heard what they’re saying about Nelly?’

‘I’ve heard all the dismal stories, Evelyn, and they impress me little. When you marry there’ll be the big house where you live with your husband, and there’ll be the little house where he lives with one of the slaves or one of the Turlocks and the two need never meet.’

‘I doubt that Regis would take one of the slaves.’

‘That’s what’s wrong with him,’ Rosalind said. ‘In fact, everything’s wrong with him, and I plead with you not to marry him.’

‘He’s my best chance,’ the girl cried in true anguish, stuffing her face into her pillow.

Now Rosalind took the sobbing Evelyn into her arms. ‘We’re talking of a human life. Yours. You’ll live many more years, and they must account for something. You must be a woman of character.’

It was clear that these words meant nothing to the bewildered girl, so Rosalind shook her, making her attend. ‘Two images flood my mind, and
I want them to flood yours, too. The first concerns my sisters, Missy and Letty. They were lovely girls, much like you, and they had untold possibilities, but they scurried into meaningless marriages, with meaningless young men, and now they lead meaningless lives. I could weep with pity when I think of them. The other image involves a woman you know, Mrs. Paxmore.’

‘The old woman who rants about slavery?’

‘No. The old woman who has never feared to testify concerning life. As a consequence, she has a beautiful home, fine children and better grandchildren. And most important of all, a beautiful soul. Be like her, don’t be like my sisters.’

At last Rosalind had said something that Evelyn could comprehend. ‘Are you trying to become like Mrs. Paxmore?’ she asked.

Rosalind considered this. Never before had she expressed her intentions openly, for she had known no one with whom she could talk sensibly, but now she recognized the relevance of Evelyn’s question. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I suppose I do want to be like her.’ Then her voice became harsh. ‘And tomorrow you can judge whether I have succeeded.’

When Evelyn tried to probe the meaning of this threat, Rosalind bent down and kissed her. ‘You are infinitely precious to me, and I cannot stand idle and watch you waste your talents on a dunderhead. Indeed, I cannot.’