Furmidable Foes Read online

  “You know if we can get a roof on, the sides will be easy tomorrow. I’ve built the struts for the roof. On the wagon over there. Two of you can haul one. I’ll drive the wagon in the middle, we can lift them up, you can nail them down, and then we can put in support posts. Not enough weight to sag. I know.” He smiled at DoRe. “I’m doing it backwards.”

  “Mr. Jeffrey, you can do anything.” DoRe climbed into the cart with Pete, a young man already on each of the heavy beams that would be the supports on the outside edges. The men had done quite a lot of work as they’d started at sunup, and it was late now, with sunset about two hours away.

  The swirl of light snow kept them all moving as fast as they could. The roof supports were fixed as the sun dipped below the Blue Ridge Mountains, turning indigo.

  “I’ll hand up these tarps. We can finish the roof tomorrow and the sides as well, I think,” Jeffrey advised. “Don’t want anyone working on a roof in the dark. If we can finish this by the end of the week, have the wood shingles on the roof and the clapboard on the side, we can load it with wood and refresh the woodpile by the door. Everyone got enough wood at home?”

  “Do.” DoRe spoke for all.

  “Seems like we spent half the summer cutting wood.” Norton wasn’t exactly complaining as much as noticing.

  “Gonna be a hard winter.” DoRe looked skyward. “Had enough hands to get up the corn, the oats, the wheat. You’re built for timber.” He smiled at Norton, muscular.

  Tarps secured, the young men headed to the barn to bring in the horses. The three worked with DoRe. No one was much of a rider but they could keep a horse fit. Cheerful fellows, DoRe thought them a lot easier to work with than William, who he had found to be a vain braggart.

  “DoRe”—Jeffrey started toward the barn, as that was where DoRe lived in special quarters to be close to the horses—“need more blankets?”

  “No. Bettina gave me a heavy one that Bumbee wove.”

  “You’ve asked a good woman for your hand.”

  A big, broad smile covered DoRe’s face. “Yes, sir.”

  “My wife never talks about Sheba to me. Do you think she stole that necklace?”

  “I do. I think she’d been planning her escape for years. Sheba doted on the Missus and the Missus would tell her all about Francisco. Women talk. Sheba thought she should be as grand as her Mistress. She could lie and smile at you. She would tell the Missus on all of us. Truth is, we all hated her.”

  “I can understand that. What about her mother?”

  “She filled Sheba’s head full of how powerful they’d been in whatever island they lived on. She lived, I don’t know, long enough to have gray hair and then she dropped. In the house carrying that big silver bowl.”

  “And she’s buried near where the woodshed will stand?”

  “Oh, Sheba cried, threw herself down, said she didn’t want her momma far away.” DoRe shrugged. “The Missus gave in. Sheba would lie down on her mother’s grave and then her brothers’, cry. Course she made sure the Missus saw her doing it.” He shook his head. “A cobra in a skirt, that one. She’d shine on Francisco but reported everything he did to his wife. Sheba had hidden power. She was a woman to be feared.”

  “Glad I didn’t know her. While I’m here, let me look at the horses so I can tell my wife how good they look.”

  “Thank you.” DoRe meant it, for Maureen could turn on anyone in a second.

  The young fellows pulled blankets on them. A few were blooded. Others were good riding horses, as both Jeffrey and Maureen liked a bracing ride.

  “No horses were missing when Sheba ran off?” Jeffrey quizzed.

  “No, sir. I think she had someone helping her. Someone who met her on the road. The Missus was gone. But I don’t believe Sheba could have walked far, as she was wearing a gown. Always was. Had to be someone in on it.”

  “A lover?”

  “No. I expect she promised whoever some of those jewels. She was shrewd. Everyone wants to get to Pennsylvania or Vermont. I figure Sheba headed that way or used some of the money to pay for passage to France. Missus always talking about France. Bad as Sheba treated all of us, she figured a way out of here. She’d talk French to her mother and brothers and the Missus, too, so we wouldn’t know nothing.”

  “How much do you think the necklace and earrings were worth?”

  “Lord, I don’t know. Francisco was rich. Liked to show that off. More money than I can imagine.”

  Jeffrey was glad of the bricks underfoot in the aisle and in the stalls. Herringbone laid, the bricks added symmetry, keeping the chill from coming up off packed earth and made it easier to clean the stalls and the aisles.

  “Sure you’re warm enough?”

  “Yes, Mr. Jeffrey.”

  “Think Sheba will ever turn up?”

  “Not in our lifetime.” DoRe opened the door to his living quarters so Jeffrey could feel the warmth.

  8

  May 28, 2019

  Tuesday

  Books piled on Harry’s desk in the tack room of the stable. She preferred her office there rather than in the house. The quiet of the tack room, interrupted by the sounds of the horses snorting, snoring, eating, helped her concentrate.

  Large, the glorious smell of oiled leather filling the air, clean saddle pads piled neatly on the floor, and one old tack trunk pushed against the wall added to the allure for her. The saddle rack against one wall held her two saddles and Fair’s one. The gleam from polished bits in bridles reflected the overhead light. On the desk, an old, heavy schoolhouse desk, squatted her computer. A pullout section for writing turned the desk into an L. The pullout was small, meant she didn’t need to move the desk computer. Most times she pushed the computer back. So much of what Harry needed could be found in old books.

  With the computer moved to the rear of the desktop, Harry crossed her legs in the large padded chair, rollers underneath. A notebook, opened to her right, meant she was serious.

  “Not a peep.” Pewter, sprawled on the fleece saddle pad, lifted her head.

  Mrs. Murphy, curled up next to her on the inviting fleece, yawned. “You know how she gets.”

  Two large gardening books sat to Harry’s left elbow, while a smaller book concerning gardens in the colonies was opened before her.

  Murmuring as she read, Harry lifted her head, speaking to her pets. “Who would have thought that gardens could be political?”

  Bursting through the dog/cat door, Tucker stopped, poked her head back through, facing into the aisle. “Ha.”

  “No fair,” Pirate, too large for the door, complained.

  “Please, my repose.” Pewter glared.

  Harry rose, walked over, opening the door so the ever-growing Pirate could enter.

  “I can outrun you.” Tucker was full of herself.

  Pirate plopped down. “You can outrun me? You can’t outrun me.”

  Pewter giggled. “Better watch out, Bubblebutt. The puppy is starting to talk back.”

  “He’s at that age. You never got out of it.”

  “Tucker, if I weren’t so comfortable, I’d get up and bloody that nose you stick in everybody’s business.”

  “Pipe down. I can’t hear myself think.” Harry returned to the smaller book. “Climbing roses. M-m-m, patriotic colors. Makes sense. Dolley Madison liked roses twirling around her columns. She must have been so much fun.” She looked down at Pirate, who seemed very interested in what his human was talking about. “It does make sense. Your garden signaled your political leanings to friends and passersby but a British soldier walking by would have no idea.”

  “What does a British soldier have to do with anything?” Pewter, irritated, grumbled.

  Mrs. Murphy, who often read over Harry’s shoulder, answered, “It takes time to change people’s minds. To organize change. The English ran t
he show.”

  “English?” Pirate’s ears lifted up. “What is an ‘English’?”

  “A form of human. Don’t worry about it.” Tucker thought that an excellent answer.

  “How many forms are there?” the innocent fellow inquired.

  “I’ll see if I can get Mother to take you to Walmart someday,” Tucker replied, putting her head on her paws.

  Making notes, Harry flipped pages, studied photographs and drawings.

  Picking up the phone, for she’d rather talk than text, she dialed. “What are you doing?”

  Susan’s voice came over the line. “Sitting in the sunroom with a cup of coffee to start the morning. Did you finish your chores?”

  “I did. Can’t believe we passed Memorial Day. Where does the time go?”

  “Goes fast. What are you doing?”

  “Looking at gardening books. Janice and Mags talked about eighteenth-century gardens.”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t think we should tear up the plants added after the building of the church. I can’t think of a way to be totally eighteenth-century without moving much of what we have. What we have is beautiful. St. Luke’s is under no obligation to uproot the work of generations.”

  Susan, voice firm, said, “I agree. It’s disrespectful. But neither of them has suggested uprooting.”

  “But I need to be reasonably well educated on the period, you know. The last thing I want is some kind of uproar because there’s no way to go backwards, my thinking, without destruction.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “Will you call Kat Imhoff and ask if we can visit the Montpelier gardens?”

  Mrs. Imhoff was the director of Montpelier.

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks. You know everyone better than I do.”

  “Ned. Helps to be married to a delegate.”

  “Yes, and it helps to be the granddaughter of a governor.”

  “Miss him. There are so many questions I wish I had asked.”

  “Funny, isn’t it? We all feel that way about mothers, fathers, relations, dear friends who have gone on. Stuff pops into your head and you think, ‘Dad will know.’ ”

  “Any special time you want to go over there?”

  “No. You pick or let Kat pick. Hey, what’s going on with the graves under the shed?”

  “We can’t do a thing. The sheriff’s department has to come out. If this doesn’t look like a pressing crime, then Grandmother and Mom can call the historical society and they can determine how they want to date and possibly identify the bones. It may well be that, even though these are probably one or two hundred years old, the medical examiner must still be contacted and take charge.”

  “Red tape.”

  Susan sighed deeply. “Tell me about it.”

  “Aren’t you surprised anything gets done?”

  Susan laughed. “Maybe that was by design. Our Founding Fathers figured those legislators would argue, slow down the entire process. Government by paralysis.”

  “Ha.” Harry reached over to pet Mrs. Murphy, who had leapt onto the desk. “Those brakes seem to be wearing out.”

  “Seems to be.” Susan changed the subject. “I wish we hadn’t found those skeletons. Big Rawly’s had enough turmoil over the centuries. It’s unfortunate they didn’t keep better records.”

  Harry took a breath. “There must be three bodies at least. I only saw three depressions. Three people were laid peacefully to rest. All with burial. However, if I don’t fortify myself with study, including any notes in St. Luke’s files of, say, bulb purchases, I may have a fight on my hands. Sorry, my usual non sequitur.”

  “Do you really think that many people will care about eighteenth-century authenticity?” Susan shrugged, long accustomed to Harry jumping from one subject to another.

  “Give anyone the chance to express himself and I truly believe no problem is so small it can’t be blown out of proportion.”

  9

  May 29, 2019

  Wednesday

  Looking over the horseshoe flower garden in back of the big house at Montpelier, Harry was struck by how simple yet elegant it was. A party was usually held on this lawn surrounded by the flowers on Dolley Madison’s birthday, May 20. The beloved lady was born in 1768.

  The kitchen garden in the distance testified to how practical President Madison had been. Distinguishing themselves from English garden imitations, he created semicircular terraces for vegetables and fruits.

  Carlton Sweeny, the young assistant gardener, stood with Harry and Susan, pointing out shade and sunlight, how the sun moved around the food garden and the more formal garden.

  “Dolley, like so many people, relaxed by gardening. Obviously she paid a great deal of attention to the sun, as did her gardeners.”

  “Odd. She was a Quaker, opposed to slavery, yet married a slave owner,” Susan, who loved history, replied.

  The handsome fellow, maybe early thirties, nodded. “He wasn’t happy with the situation either, but like so many, including in the North, they needed labor. It was the way of the times.” Carlton scanned the garden, which he adored.

  “Mr. Sweeny, what got you interested in horticulture?” Harry asked.

  “My mother and grandmother lived in our garden. Ever watch two grown women fight over begonias?” He laughed. “But I didn’t really know there was a future in it. I went to Tech, found my way to the forestry department. I wanted to dig in the dirt, I guess. So I was accepted at a horticultural college in England. If there’s one thing the English know, it’s gardening.” He beamed.

  “They’ve been at it longer than we have.” Harry smiled.

  Smiling back, he said, “Yes. Have either of you ever seen Versailles?” Both nodded so he continued. “The ultimate expression of our dominion over Nature, false though that idea may be. It’s stunning, but I belong with climbing roses, you know?” He grinned. “Dolley’s climbing roses.”

  “There are revolutions in every activity and gardening began to change thanks to Inigo Jones and Capability Brown down to Gertrude Jekyll.” Susan, as always, knew her history. “And here we are.”

  “Did you really study with the Duchess of Rutland?” Harry remembered what she’d been told.

  “She graciously endured me. Finding Capability Brown’s plans, his last big commission before his death, is one of those extraordinary moments. I learned so much. The duchess wrote a book, Capability Brown and Belvoir. It’s very good.”

  “Mr. Sweeny…”

  “Oh please, call me Carlton. I’m happy to be with two people who are serious gardeners.”

  “You must come to Big Rawly. There’s a lot remaining from the original plans.” Susan, who had met him in passing when at Montpelier, had not had the chance to really talk to him. Plus he was handsome. Of course, she loved her husband, but looking at a handsome man is ever so pleasurable.

  “Thank you. I’d be curious. Didn’t you all find skeletons in the last few days? I’m sure I read that, but it’s high spring here so a lot slips away. Intense work. Everything is waking up but, hey, no nematodes, no rust. Life’s good.” He felt a cool breeze cross his face. “Allyson, my boss, will be happy.” He mentioned Montpelier’s curator of horticulture.

  “We did find bones,” Susan answered. “Don’t know a thing yet and probably won’t for some time. I expect the Original Thirteen are filled with secrets. We must be walking over them every day.”

  “True enough. Religion was so important in those days. Giving someone a proper burial, no matter how poor, was the thing to do, which means an unattended grave, or one we don’t know, is a red flag.”

  “You never know what will happen next,” Susan rejoined, “or who will do it. Well, to change the subject, when do you think Dolley’s roses will open?”

  “M-m-m, a
nother ten days at the most. Even though it’s the end of May, we can’t discount a cold snap. It’s the nighttime temperatures that really cause the delay. Are your roses open yet?”

  Susan answered, “My tea roses are.”

  “Now, there’s an old, old rose.” He smiled.

  “Me, too,” Harry replied. “My lilacs were fabulous this year. Have both the old kind and the Italian. And last year they barely bloomed.”

  “You fertilize, I’m sure.” He spoke as though to a fellow gardener, which she was, but not at his level.

  “I use compost. Have horses.”

  “Ah.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “We try to use only what would have been available to the Madisons, but given the amount of people who visit here from all over the world, sometimes I’m tempted to dip into modern fertilizers. They do the job, no question, plus you don’t battle as many weeds. Let me take you all to the dependencies.” He started walking, then stopped to clarify. “Slave quarters.”

  They smiled at him. “We’re all Virginians. ‘Dependency’ is the eighteenth-century word.” Harry walked on his left side while Susan took up the right. “Were your people slaves here?”

  “They were. I think it’s one of the reasons I love it here. I feel close, I see their handiwork, and, to be fair, I see what the Madisons accomplished as well. Plus Montpelier has a gifted director in Kat Imhoff. She sees the big picture. The programs here include all manner of subjects, of people. Allyson leads twilight trail hikes in our Landmark Forest. Madison was our first environmentally alert president. It’s one of the reasons Montpelier differs from Mount Vernon and Monticello. Not that those men degraded the environment, but Madison truly thought about it. There isn’t a day that I don’t learn something new, and often from a visitor.”

  “It’s still a jolt for me to visit Montpelier with the wings taken off,” Harry confessed. “God bless the duPonts for saving Montpelier. Those were their wings.”

  Susan chimed in. “But to return all this to the time of the Madisons, well, it was probably the right thing to do, destroying the additions. Gives people an idea of what life was like.”