The Light in the Darkness (9 page)

Jennifer stared at her blankly. “Tea?”

“Certainly Have you never drunk tea before?”

The girl shook her head silently. Tea was imported from England, and was so expensive that it was usually kept in a locked box. Someone of her social station rarely had an opportunity to drink it. She seated herself on the ivory damask seat of a heavily carved chair and watched as Catherine prepared the tea on a mahogany Queen Anne tea table with legs so long and slender that it reminded Jennifer of a gawky colt. Valuable commodity that it was, the tea was kept in a canister in a locked chest, along with a
larger sugar box and other tea accessories, such as sugar tongs and teaspoons.

Once the tea had steeped, Catherine poured it from a chased silver teapot into gorgeous botanical china cups of the same pattern Jennifer had seen the night before. She poured it through a strainer spoon, a special spoon with a pierced bowl, which prevented tea leaves from accumulating in the cup. “Do you want sugar?”

Wordlessly, Jennifer nodded.

Sugar, another item that, like tea, could not be produced in the colony, was shipped to Virginia in cones, which were then broken up in the kitchen. Catherine picked up a chunk of sugar using sugar tongs and presented the cup to Jennifer, who stirred it with a teaspoon, the back of which was stamped with the picture of a ship with its sails flying. She had never seen such a fine spoon, accustomed as she was to crude pewter tableware, and she admired the stunning workmanship for a few moments before remembering to sip her tea.

“Do not slurp your tea in that fashion,” Catherine corrected her at once. “Sip it quietly.”

Chastened, Jennifer tried to sip less noisily. It seemed that she could do nothing here without being criticized. Everything was so different! She had not realized what a ceremony the rich made of the simple act of drinking tea. The tea was delicious, sweet and warm, wonderfully pleasant on a day that was slightly chilly.

While she sipped her tea, she studied the parlor surreptitiously. Everything in the chamber bespoke the enormous wealth of the Greysons, from the superlative Oriental carpet that adorned the wide-planked floor, to the Kirckman harpsichord that stood in the corner with two silver branches of candles atop it. The matched pair of black walnut bookcases against the opposite wall had glass doors covered on the inside with curtains, as was customary to prevent light from fading the leather bindings of the valuable books within. Even to her unsophisticated eyes, it was
evident that every piece of furniture in the room had been made by master craftsmen.

With surprise, she noted that the fireplace mantel was painted black, signifying that the family was in mourning. She recalled that the other mantels she had seen throughout the house had been black as well. Did Grey still consider himself to be in mourning for Diana after seven years?

Considering the scene she had witnessed last night, it seemed all too likely.

Her eyes were drawn to the portrait over the fireplace. A woman with unpowdered hair, black as a raven’s wing, and piercing gray eyes stared out over the room. She was smiling, but it was not a pleasant smile. She was beautiful, yet she looked self-absorbed.

Seeing the girl’s curiosity, Catherine said quietly, “It is acceptable to make small talk while one drinks tea.”

“Who was she?” Jennifer nodded at the painting. Somehow she knew the woman portrayed was no longer alive. Everywhere she turned in this grand mansion there was a painting of a dead person. For the second time in two days it occurred to her that ghosts seemed to watch over the living at Greyhaven. The thought made her shudder.

“Our mother. And yes, she was as unkind as she looks. Father was cold, but she was intentionally vicious. Beautiful but cruel.”

Then Grey takes after both his parents, both cold
and
vicious.
Jennifer crushed the thought instantly. It was wrong, terribly wrong, to think such things about one’s husband.

“I’m the one who insisted on hanging the portraits of our parents,” Catherine added. “Grey despised Mother and Father both. He wanted to burn the paintings. I would not let him.”

How dreadful, Jennifer thought, that he should hate both his parents so much that he would want to destroy their portraits. She wondered what they had done to provoke his hatred. “Why?”

“Why did I stop him from burning them?”

“No. Why did ’e ’ate them?”

Catherine frowned into her teacup. “It’s hard to explain,” she said slowly. “As I’ve said, Father was cold. Indifferent. He cared for no one but himself. And Mother—she antagonized him purposely. They were always fighting. Mother had a talent for provoking arguments. There was never a moment’s peace in our house. I think that’s why Grey built the new house when they died.”

“Th ’new ’ouse?”

“Greyhaven was built by Grey,” Catherine explained. “When he inherited all of Father’s land nine years ago he swore he’d never live in the old house again. He built the new house on the same piece of land—he owns land all up and down the James River, but this is the best land, and the nearest to Williamsburg—and he tore the old house down, brick by brick. When we lived here as children the plantation was named Edgewood. He renamed it. He even furnished the house with new furniture and silver. He wanted nothing whatsoever to remind him of our parents.” She paused. “It’s almost as though our parents never lived at all. That’s why I insisted on keeping their portraits.”

Jennifer nodded solemnly. She could understand that. “I ‘ave naught ter remind me of my parents,” she volunteered, surprising Catherine. “I don’t even remember them.”

“When did they die?” Catherine inquired.

“I was nine.”

“And you don’t remember them at all?”

Jennifer shook her head. What little she could remember of her life before she came to live with her uncle in the Pine Tree Ordinary she firmly suppressed. She did not want to remember. But she did wish that she had something of her mother’s—a miniature, a piece of jewelry, something. Anything to remind her that she had once had a family that loved her.

How strange, Catherine thought. They actually had something in common. She, an aristocrat, a born-and-bred
lady, had something in common with this pitiful and abused girl. They had both experienced the loss of their parents. For the first time she thought of Jennifer as a person, rather than as simply a pawn in her ongoing war with Grey.

“My parents died when I was thirteen,” she said. “I remember them all too clearly. The screaming, the constant arguments … Even before they died, I thought of Grey as more of a parent than they ever were.” She saw Jennifer’s surprised glance, and added, “Grey was different then. More responsible. Kinder. Less self-absorbed. He was like a father to me, willing to fight my battles for me and to comfort me when I was hurting. I don’t know how I would have gotten through my childhood without him. He was always there for me.”

“There was no one there fer me,” Jennifer said in a barely audible voice.

Catherine’s eyes met hers squarely across the tea table. “There is now.”

So far as Catherine was concerned, Jennifer was now a member of the Greyson family, with all the rights and privileges that entailed. She bent her efforts and her considerable will to making Jennifer into a lady, one that the family might be proud of. The two young women, along with several of the house slaves, spent a great deal of time sewing new gowns for Jennifer, using bolts of cloth Catherine had intended to use for her own clothes, and cutting down older gowns found in the massive mahogany clothes-press into more fashionable styles. They used as their guide the little fashion dolls, called moppets, that were imported from England dressed in the current fashions.

Catherine also spent long, painful hours drilling Jennifer on her speech, trying to eradicate her lower-class accent. Later she would teach her to read and write, along with the other accomplishments so necessary to the education
of a lady. Recognizing that she could not instantly erase every trace of Jennifer’s origin, she focused her early efforts on simply transforming Jennifer’s appearance.

The more ladylike Jennifer became, Catherine noticed, the more irritable Grey became at dinner. She took this as a good sign.

Two weeks after Jennifer’s arrival at Greyhaven, on a sunny and unseasonably warm February day, Moses, the liveried butler, found Catherine in the garden and told her there was a visitor waiting in the parlor. At the mention of the woman’s name, Catherine stared at him for a moment in disbelief, then limped to the parlor with unladylike haste.

“Mistress Lightfoot,” she said in a decidedly uncivil tone. “What are you doing here?”

Melissa Lightfoot, seated on the settee, smiled at her without getting up. “Why, Catherine, dear,” she said in a silky voice. “What an unfriendly greeting. Aren’t you going to offer me refreshment?”

“No,” Catherine said tersely. “I want you out of my parlor.”

“
Your
parlor?” Melissa rose to her feet and looked stubbornly at Catherine, smiling sweetly but dangerously. “On the contrary, I believe Grey’s wife is now the mistress of Greyhaven. Christopher and I have come to meet her and to extend her the courtesy of a visit.”

“Indeed. And where, might I ask, is your husband?”

“He’ll be here in just a moment. He’s watching the slaves to make certain they tie the horses up properly. You do get so
few
guests here, after all.”

Catherine forced her features to remain passive, but her hand gripped the silver head of her cane so tightly that her knuckles whitened.

“And since I am a, well, special friend of the family,” Melissa went on, “I would like to meet Grey’s wife. Jenny, isn’t that her name?”

“Jennifer,” Catherine quickly corrected, noting the
thinly disguised scorn in Melissa’s voice. She stood looking at the other woman for a moment, her mind racing furiously as she tried to find a way out of this predicament. Of all the people for Jennifer to meet first! At last, seeing no alternative, she spoke courteously. “Of course I will let Jennifer know you and your husband are here to see her, Mistress Lightfoot. Won’t you sit down? I’ll have the slaves bring some refreshments.”

Victorious, Melissa settled back onto the settee, arranging her topaz skirts around her artistically.

Catherine made her way up the stairs and knocked at Jennifer’s door. “Jennifer,” she said, a faint tinge of nervousness evident beneath her usual hauteur, “please come downstairs. There are—visitors—who would like to meet you.” She wanted to warn Jennifer that Melissa was Grey’s mistress, but she held her tongue, knowing that the knowledge would only distress Jennifer. Better that she tell Jennifer later.

Wondering at the anxiety in the other woman’s voice, Jennifer rose to her feet in automatic response. She still felt herself to be a servant, and Catherine seemed to treat her as one. Although her requests were always phrased politely, there was invariably a trace of authority in her tone. Nonetheless, Jennifer’s initial dislike for the woman had faded into a more charitable emotion.

The girl smoothed her new gown. It was of deep blue silk that emphasized the warm honey tone of her skin and her dark blond hair. The panniers were comparatively narrow, but hoops of any kind still felt strange. On the front of the bodice was a stomacher, a stiffened panel of triangular shape that was finely embroidered. The boned stomacher, as well as the still-unfamiliar stays, made it virtually impossible for Jennifer to slouch. She followed the other woman down the stairs, her head held high, hesitating at the parlor door but then stepping into the chamber.

Seated on the high-backed settee were a fashionably attired couple. Their eyes instantly riveted on Jennifer with avid curiosity. Somewhat taken aback by their stares, she
paused and regarded them. The man was perhaps Grey’s age, though he seemed younger, with an easy grin quite unlike Greys habitual sullen expression. He was handsome, very handsome indeed, with features perhaps more regular but less striking than Grey’s. His nose was straight and patrician, his mouth full and sensual. His dark blue eyes followed her every move with a strange intensity. Though he was undeniably, classically attractive, he lacked Grey’s aura of strength and startling masculinity. Jennifer realized with dismay that she was comparing the man to Grey, to his detriment, and switched her attention to the woman.

The lady sat straight-backed on the settee. She was more strikingly attractive than the man, with deep brown hair contrasting stunningly with perfect, pale skin. A shocking expanse of creamy flesh swelled above the low-cut, square neckline of her topaz gown. Dark brows arched over golden brown eyes the color of fine sherry, which stared at Jennifer assessingly.

Apparently recalling his manners, the man jumped to his feet and regarded Jennifer with open admiration. She saw that he was rather short, especially when compared to Grey. “Remarkable,” he said softly, as though to himself.

The woman stood gracefully, smiling at Jennifer in a manner that could be interpreted as either friendly or condescending. Jennifer was inclined to believe the latter. “We’d heard Grey married,” she said coolly, “and we just had to come see for ourselves. How lovely you are, my dear. I can’t imagine a more
suitable
addition to the Greyson family.”

From the slight stiffening of Catherine’s body, Jennifer realized that the apparent compliment was an insult. She faintly understood the veiled insult—a drunkard, a cripple, and a tavern wench. But anger, or emotion of any kind, was foreign to her nature. She said nothing, as was her way, only regarded the other woman with clear green eyes. Catherine stepped in.

“Jennifer,” she said, and her voice was as calm and polite
as though the insult to her family had completely escaped her, “this is Christopher Lightfoot, and his wife, Melissa. They live on the neighboring plantation, which is known as the Cove.”

Observing her sister-in-law’s poise, Jennifer concluded that a lady must politely disregard insults. Clearly this creature with the golden brown eyes was no lady, despite her low-cut gown and elegant coiffure. Far better that she model her behavior after Catherine’s. “Pleased t’meet ye,” she murmured, executing an extremely clumsy curtsy and mentally cursing whoever had invented side hoops.