Patriot of the Lowcountry

It was mid-afternoon when we turned into the avenue of oaks that led to a sprawling brick house pleasantly situated overlooking the Ashepoo River. The instant Cato stopped the chaise, liveried servants hurried to attend to us. One offered a gloved hand to help me down, and another took my trunk. 

As we went inside, I handed the wool blanket I was using as a shawl to Jennie. She followed the footman upstairs, leaving me in a world I’d almost forgotten existed.

None of the looking glasses at Airy Hall were broken. There were no bullet holes in the walls, no rips in the upholstered furniture. Garlands of evergreen boughs brought a fresh, piney scent indoors, and from beyond closed French doors came the muted clink of silver and china as the servants laid the dining table.

Alerted by her butler, Elizabeth Smith met me in the great hall with a warm smile and clasped both my hands. “Eliza, how good it is to see you! Would you like refreshment, perhaps a glass of wine?”

“That would be lovely.” In response to her subtle gesture, a servant brought me a crystal glass of Madeira on a tray. I murmured my thanks and took a sip.

“We hear the Redcoats caused a great deal of trouble along the Stono. I trust all is well with your family?”

I forced a smile. “We have dealt with all manner of pests in the past, but I daresay there’s nothing worse than the Redcoats.”

Her laugh was gentle and ladylike. “Everyone has gone outdoors to enjoy the gardens. I would walk out with you, but I must oversee the preparations for tonight. Shall I call someone to escort you?”

“No thank you. I’ll find my way.”

Her silks rustled as she hurried away. Instead of going directly outside, I wandered from room to room, admiring the walnut paneling, silk portieres, and imported furnishings. I caught sight of myself in a full-length pier glass and paused to straighten my skirts and smooth my hair.

My family lived well, but not nearly so well as the Smiths and the Skirvings. Though I had been content at Toogoodoo with Joseph and on my own at Plainsfield, when I spied the library, I felt both envy and loss. Joseph’s collection of medical, philosophy, history, and religious books had been sold at the estate sale.

On the far side of the room I spied a dark-haired man on the settee by the window, engrossed in the book open before him. After the unwanted attention I’d received of late, someone who was unaware of my presence seemed like the perfect companion. I set my glass of wine aside, selected a book, and took a seat. At first I stole glances at him, but when I realized I could look at him as long as I cared to, I took the opportunity to compare him to the image of Joseph I held in my mind’s eye.

I remembered My husband as tall and well-formed, with a cheerful countenance and hair the color of dark amber honey. He was fond of bright waistcoats and well-tailored clothes, and he wore them well.

A few strands of the silent stranger’s black hair framed his forehead, and the rest was pulled back in an indifferent tail and tied with a knotted ribbon. He’d tossed his walnut-brown coat across the back of the settee. His linen was rumpled, his stock crooked, and he had a dirt smudge on his stocking where he rested his ankle on his other knee. He did not look dressed for a party. I glanced down at the everyday gown I wore. Perhaps I didn’t either.