Read Online Now Face to Face by Karleen Koen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karleen Koen
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woman would pull in his—or her—horns and live small.”
“Would she?” Barbara smiled at him. He was kind to warn her. “Thank you for your advice.”
“Not my advice, simply my opinion. Tobacco grows best on virgin land. We grow perhaps three years of crops upon a field before moving on to clear others, leaving old fields to rest. That is why only a portion of this plantation is planted. Jordan was looking to his tomorrow, to the tobacco he would need to raise four and five years from now. Tell me the news of England. Are the South Sea directors fined yet?”
“Parliament was determining the final amounts of the fines when I left England.”
“I read a great hatred of Robert Walpole in my letters. Do you think he will last as a minister to the King?”
“He was my late husband’s dear friend, and my husband always said that Robert is a rock around which the water must flow.”
“Even with his defense of the King’s ministers over this South Sea debacle? The writers of my letters say the people despise him, that King George must eventually dismiss him.”
Barbara shrugged.
“Will the Pretender invade?” he asked.
This was the second time within days that this question had been voiced. Surely this was just old men playing soldier, yet Colonel Perry’s words disturbed her now, as the Governor’s had not. The clans had risen in Scotland at the end of 1714. James had landed and been declared king. Would he attempt invasion again?
“He had not done so when I left.”
“I see from your face you think he will not. Yet my letters from England are filled with nothing but talk of how unhappy all are with King George and his ministers. It would be the perfect time.”
“Do not say so.”
“You are for King George?”
“I am for no one I love being hurt by war.”
“Very wise.”
Later, Barbara stood out in the yard, seeing them off. It was quite a sight: restless horses, barking dogs, lanterns being lighted, Mrs. Cox being helped into the cart. She said to Barbara, “You won’t find a better neighbor or finer friend than Edward Perry, Lady Devane.”
A moment later, Colonel Perry looked down at Barbara from his horse.
“You won’t find a better neighbor or finer friend than Margaret Cox,” he said. “I will call upon you tomorrow to see how you do.”
The cart was moving off in the dark, its entourage with it.
“If you don’t have enough meat in your smokehouse,” called Mrs. Cox, “you let us know. My boys can kill anything moving.”
Walking into the house, Barbara said to Thérèse, “Who is it Colonel Ferry reminds me of? I cannot put my finger upon it.”
Thérèse looked at her in surprise and didn’t answer.
“You know. Tell me.”
“Lord Devane.”
Roger? Roger had been the handsomest man who ever lived, time doing nothing more than frost and refine that which was already beautiful. Everybody had said that he was ageless.
“The color of the eyes, the shape of the mouth, his gestures, his manners,” said Thérèse. “If Lord Devane were seventy-and-something—I think so, madame.”
The eyes, thought Barbara. His eyes are like Roger’s, that same color of faded sapphire. Her heart ached its familiar ache. There would never be someone like Roger again. How could there be?
“Digges seed,” she said, aloud.
“What?” said Thérèse.
“Nothing, just something I was thinking.” She’d grow tobacco to get over Roger.
Were they safe at home? They must be. They were her talismans, her dears. Were they in danger?
Of course not. Spotswood’s talk, Colonel Perry’s: just old men playing soldier. Yet in her mind was a memory of Italy, of the Jacobite court there with its backbiting and ennui, the fatal flaws of a court in exile. Yet within that milieu had been bold and committed men who could take back a throne. She’d flirted with one of them in a garden, and thought, If there were ten thousand like you, King George would sail back to Hanover
“Would she?” Barbara smiled at him. He was kind to warn her. “Thank you for your advice.”
“Not my advice, simply my opinion. Tobacco grows best on virgin land. We grow perhaps three years of crops upon a field before moving on to clear others, leaving old fields to rest. That is why only a portion of this plantation is planted. Jordan was looking to his tomorrow, to the tobacco he would need to raise four and five years from now. Tell me the news of England. Are the South Sea directors fined yet?”
“Parliament was determining the final amounts of the fines when I left England.”
“I read a great hatred of Robert Walpole in my letters. Do you think he will last as a minister to the King?”
“He was my late husband’s dear friend, and my husband always said that Robert is a rock around which the water must flow.”
“Even with his defense of the King’s ministers over this South Sea debacle? The writers of my letters say the people despise him, that King George must eventually dismiss him.”
Barbara shrugged.
“Will the Pretender invade?” he asked.
This was the second time within days that this question had been voiced. Surely this was just old men playing soldier, yet Colonel Perry’s words disturbed her now, as the Governor’s had not. The clans had risen in Scotland at the end of 1714. James had landed and been declared king. Would he attempt invasion again?
“He had not done so when I left.”
“I see from your face you think he will not. Yet my letters from England are filled with nothing but talk of how unhappy all are with King George and his ministers. It would be the perfect time.”
“Do not say so.”
“You are for King George?”
“I am for no one I love being hurt by war.”
“Very wise.”
Later, Barbara stood out in the yard, seeing them off. It was quite a sight: restless horses, barking dogs, lanterns being lighted, Mrs. Cox being helped into the cart. She said to Barbara, “You won’t find a better neighbor or finer friend than Edward Perry, Lady Devane.”
A moment later, Colonel Perry looked down at Barbara from his horse.
“You won’t find a better neighbor or finer friend than Margaret Cox,” he said. “I will call upon you tomorrow to see how you do.”
The cart was moving off in the dark, its entourage with it.
“If you don’t have enough meat in your smokehouse,” called Mrs. Cox, “you let us know. My boys can kill anything moving.”
Walking into the house, Barbara said to Thérèse, “Who is it Colonel Ferry reminds me of? I cannot put my finger upon it.”
Thérèse looked at her in surprise and didn’t answer.
“You know. Tell me.”
“Lord Devane.”
Roger? Roger had been the handsomest man who ever lived, time doing nothing more than frost and refine that which was already beautiful. Everybody had said that he was ageless.
“The color of the eyes, the shape of the mouth, his gestures, his manners,” said Thérèse. “If Lord Devane were seventy-and-something—I think so, madame.”
The eyes, thought Barbara. His eyes are like Roger’s, that same color of faded sapphire. Her heart ached its familiar ache. There would never be someone like Roger again. How could there be?
“Digges seed,” she said, aloud.
“What?” said Thérèse.
“Nothing, just something I was thinking.” She’d grow tobacco to get over Roger.
Were they safe at home? They must be. They were her talismans, her dears. Were they in danger?
Of course not. Spotswood’s talk, Colonel Perry’s: just old men playing soldier. Yet in her mind was a memory of Italy, of the Jacobite court there with its backbiting and ennui, the fatal flaws of a court in exile. Yet within that milieu had been bold and committed men who could take back a throne. She’d flirted with one of them in a garden, and thought, If there were ten thousand like you, King George would sail back to Hanover
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