My Name Is Resolute by Nancy E. Turner
I blamed Rafe MacAlister most for my suffering. I knew he had to have been at the bottom of it all. Next I blamed Patience, though she had wrought none of our misery; in the end she had deserted me to become the common-law wife of an Indian and live in the woods. If I ever saw her again I would spit in her face. I was also furious that the weather prohibited my travel, and prayed for spring as ardently as I had used to pray for escape. There were days it took much effort to hold the raging storms within my heart at bay, especially now that there was no Sister Joseph to scold me, no rock floor on which to kneel for penance.
Our days were indeed drear, though each one tried to lighten them in every way. Reading aloud, singing, or telling of some activity in town, we whiled away the time. To be a lady amidst gentlefolk was such lightness combined with such constraint, it made me almost wish for the freedom to flex all my limbs and do the dance of the loom, perched upon the bench.
* * *
Weeks passed and Ma had not written. One night as I slept, I saw Ma and Pa, floating faceup in Meager Bay, their hands clasped as if they had fallen in together; their faces smiled peacefully, and their clothing was that of their wedding portraits which had hung in our great room. I sat up, shuddering, weeping but not weeping; a groan escaped my lips, a sound of pain that came as if from the depth of my soul.
I lit a taper on the dressing table and looked in the mirror. I felt someone in the room behind me. I turned, calling, “Hello?” When I looked back to the mirror for a moment I saw my mother’s face reflected before it became my face. The shadows of the room closed about me. I lit a second candle and walked the room with it, assuring myself that the shadows held naught other than darkness. When I returned to my dressing stool, the thought gripped me that if Ma did not write, or if she had not survived without me, I might indeed be orphaned. Who am I if I am not Allan Talbot’s second daughter?
I spoke to my reflection. I pulled the candle closer to my face and studied the image in the pitted glass. “How shall I make myself into a woman? As I made an apron, as I made my own thread and turned it to a plaited cloth, hid my scree within, and then was abandoned by my only kin?” I had known both tenderness and a master’s whip. I had seen God both served and flaunted and men scourged without mercy. I had seen mercy from these people, common colonists, not gentry, mayhap no different than my pa, working with his hands alongside his own slaves. I wondered for the first time whether he beat them, or caused others to beat them.
That afternoon I dressed in a morning frock; a light woolen shawl crossed my bosom, which now pushed roundly against the front of my chemise. I tucked my hair up into my day cap. The cap was made of delicate linen, starched and fringed with expensive lace from Belgium. I tied it slowly, watching the movement in the mirror. My eyes traveled from the face in the mirror to my own hands, and I held them around the candle flame, so that each finger was lined with deep shadow. I wondered how my hands would appear when I grew old, if I were to grow old, that was, and not die this winter of some plague or fever.
I drew in a breath, sat up, and said, “You shall be these things, Resolute Catherine Eugenia Talbot. You shall not bow your head to any. You shall live your life always with an eye to being of great age and having no regrets for things done or undone. You shall never give your conscience for a piece of silver or a place to lay your head.” Tears blurred the image. “You shall bind no one as slave. You shall give of your hands generously but your heart sparingly. You shall never lie again. You will be a woman Ma would love for a sister and friend. You are your own.” My chest swelled with emotion.
A call came from downstairs. “Miss Talbot? Would you have tea?”
Feeling the brush of Ma’s hand against my hair, I raised my hand to touch hers. “Miss Talbot, late of Two Crowns Plantation, shall attend tea this afternoon with the family of the Selectman of Lexington, in the King’s Colony of Massachusetts. She shall do her mother proud, and even more, she shall be proud of herself.” I turned to the door. “Yes, thank you, I shall.”
* * *
In early December of 1735, during a blizzard that dropped a foot of snow that never melted, word arrived that guests would come for supper and would be staying not far away. Herbert and Henry went about the house that day with shirttails flapping and shoes untied in open rebellion to the law laid down by Mistress Roberts. The house had been decked for Christmas, but at every corner new candles appeared with stubs ready for lighting. The young ladies were decked and perfumed, and insisted I do the same in another new gown of green watered silk.
A great noise came from below, a calling of names and a near riotous banging of doors combined with the sound of a carriage and six passing over the cobbled carriageway. Betsy clasped her hands to her face and said, “He’s here!”
Serenity made a face. “Only that dreary old lord and his withering wife. Oh, and then, of course, young Master Spencer.”
“Wallace!” Betsy said. “Wallace Spencer is practically betrothed to Serenity!”
“He is not,” Serenity said. “But he does have a very well turned calf.”
“Too bad about the other leg!” Betsy replied. Serenity tossed a pillow in Betsy’s direction and both girls laughed.
I laughed, too, adding, “Betwixt the two of you I daresay he does not stand a chance.” The others had already descended the stairs; we followed, I between the two oldest young ladies of the house.
Lord Spencer was away, but Lady Spencer acknowledged us with a slight nod. She was impressive. Tall. Aloof. I saw fire in her eyes. When Mr. Roberts introduced me to Wallace Spencer, the young man took my hand and bowed over it, discreetly touching his lips to my fingers. My heart leaped. I felt my color rise and could not take my eyes off his countenance when he faced me. His jaw seemed chiseled from marble; indeed, all his features had been sculpted most aristocratically, perfect, yet masculine in every sense. Hair curled at his temples as if it, too, had as wanton a nature as my own. The weave of his coat and trousers I recognized as being of high quality. The fabric was imported from France, I thought immediately, and tailored here. I wished to see it done, making gentlemen’s clothing, for I knew about women’s things, and curiosity cooled my cheeks.
“What? Have I bored you already, Miss Talbot?” Wallace Spencer asked. His voice washed over the room like warm water. “For I saw you flattered then disenchanted in the same moment. Oh, dear. I was hoping to charm all the young ladies in this house.”
At dinner, Wallace Spencer sat next to his mother, opposite me. Thrice I caught him watching me. His eyes were warm. His lips smiled so easily in such a jaunty way, raised on the right side. That was proof to the world, said Mr. Roberts, that he was related to the Prescott and Davis families, old Boston, old grants, old Loyalists. I wrinkled my brow a little. I would let that information brew a while, and try to discover what those families meant to this one before I mused aloud.
Though none mistreated me and the days though short were merry, the house drew in upon itself with the confinement of winter. Wallace’s presence was the pleasantest diversion, and I looked forward to his coming as much, perhaps more, than Serenity did. I kept my feelings hidden, for Serenity spoke much about her understanding that they were intended. Often he strolled with Serenity and me over the snow-packed road, short distances meant to stir the blood a bit before returning to the house for steaming beef broth in cups, or chocolate, or tea and cream. Since I told no one my age, Mistress Roberts decided I was as fully woman as Serenity and therefore must be of the same age. Serenity at seventeen welcomed my company, as it relieved her of having her mother present, and I was more likely a conspirator if he should happen to take her arm or hold her hand. In truth, he held both our hands, for the road was often slippery. When he left us, he kissed both our hands. I could not tell whether he gave Serenity the same tender caress with his fingers that he gave to me. I believed some secret passed between us that day, and my face warmed to a ruddy hue when we entered the steaming house.
Christmas s
Christmas came with puddings and pies stuffed with roly-poly and venison, roasted goose and pork. The smell of dried fruits bubbling in a crock of mutton or pheasant filled the house for days. Their kitchen made the gloom of the gray days so much more bearable, to have the smell of damp clothes and moldy windowsills replaced with the perfume of crackling fat and apple pies. Mr. Roberts had hired musicians who brought by cart a harpsichord, two violins, a viola da gamba, and the musicians to play them. By evening, guests began arriving and brought with them even more meats and succulents. Such merriment! Jigs, tunes, and reels they played for three hours, no matter that we were too exhausted to dance, and the music went on and on.
The music struck up a chantey I remembered. These colonials knew not the words and thought it was only a jig with a smart dancing rhythm. I laughed, remembering pirates bawling it at the top of their lungs, always followed by “The Captain’s Tart.” Wallace danced with every female in the place, merrily and with good steps. He informed us that he and his family would be lodging in Lexington until after the New Year. Everyone expected him to propose to Serenity on Christmas Day and announce their engagement, but he did not. Serenity lay awake at night and consulted her sisters and me, about what might be keeping him from making a proposal.
The Roberts family kept faithful to the First Church. Near as I could tell without asking many questions, it was a Protestant version familiar to me. I listened with half an ear to the words but concentrated a great deal on how they may have shaped these people so I would not be caught in childish mistakes, singing improper songs, or behaving in any way other than they. My reputation, I vowed, I would guard as sacred. Hogmanay had given way to Mary-Mother-of-God Day, and now Epiphany. By Epiphany Wallace had made no promise to Serenity nor asked her for one.
Winter, on its dull and lead-gray path, was now brightened greatly by the presence of Wallace. He joined me on a couch in the parlor one drizzling afternoon while his and the Roberts family were engaged in games of whist. His father, Lord Spencer, had come. The man was indeed a stony relic from some past time and distant place. When the latest trump was called and everyone stood for the making of a mulled punch, Wallace leaned toward me and said, “If you would, Miss Talbot, I ask you to be the bearer of a little secret for me.”
“I should be pleased to do so,” I said, expecting it to be something about the date he had chosen for his proposal.
While everyone was engaged in noisy conversation about the game at the other end of the room, he said into my ear, “I find that I have fallen in love.”
“I should think that would surprise no one in this room, sir.”
“With you.”
I dropped the silver spoon from my saucer. The clatter it made upon the floor brought the room to silence. Both families turned to stare in our direction as I felt guilt and surprise color my cheeks. I stammered a moment, and then said, “Mr. Spencer has informed me that his winning the last hand has made him vainglorious. He wishes to be humbled by your having to, to listen to him sing.” My smile fixed, I turned to him.
He cast his eyes on mine with such fervor I lost composure, but then, smiling, he stood and clapped his hands. “Well, then, Miss Talbot, what shall I sing?”
I retrieved the spoon and went to the table of meats and puddings. “I care not, sir. Ask one of the others to choose for you.”
Betsy said, “Oh, do sing ‘Greensleeves.’ It is Serenity’s favorite.”
Though Serenity was in a near swoon, I doubt anyone could claim that Wallace’s rendition was a favorite, but at least he knew the words better than he carried the tune. Through it all he managed to keep up a merry smile and did not gaze upon me again with those eyes. Then, lacking any embarrassment whatsoever, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, one and all, I have decided to purchase an estate in Virginia. It is a plantation of some substance.”
The Robertses crowded around him then, asking a hundred small questions, which Wallace answered cheerfully though often with the words “I know not.” His parents were not surprised by the ploy, but had kept it for him to tell. I watched Lord Spencer. A more indifferent man I had never seen. I wondered why he was so often absent when Wallace and his mother visited us or we them. The word was that he had business in England. From the look on his face, I believed he was ponderously bored here.
Then Wallace said, “I will be leaving the first week of March to go south and see to the place. I expect to be gone two or three months at most.”
Wallace had just proclaimed that he loved me and he was leaving. This was March so he would return in May or June. I had meant to be in Jamaica by then, but could I wait for him? Oh, whatever would I do that long without him? I made my way to a corner of the room, bumping into a footman carrying a tray of sweetmeats for the party. I could not retire without taking leave, but I needed a moment to calm myself.
The footman asked, “Miss Talbot? Are you unwell?” The crowd turned their eyes toward me.
“I am quite well,” I said. I felt as if all eyes followed my every move. “Have I done something amiss?”
“No, no, my dear,” said Lady Spencer. “Nothing of the sort.” But her eyes went from Wallace to me and back to him.
I turned to Wallace and forced a lighthearted lilt to my voice. “What sort of plantation? What will be grown there?”
“What has always grown there, I suspect. Sugarcane and rice, but we are wasting Virginia soil not growing tobacco. Everyone else has. That is the future in the colonies. I plan to put in extra fields of tobacco immediately.”
Sugarcane. When he said those words the future bloomed before me, Wallace becoming a man like Pa, a warm and loving man, hardworking but gentle. My heart thudded yet I turned toward Serenity to see if his plan might affect her.
Serenity fought back tears. “A farmer? You are to become a farmer?”
“Not at all, Miss Roberts,” he said. “I shall own a plantation. Others will do the work. Better you concern yourself with your fine embroidery and the ladies’ arts.”
Serenity’s hand went to her embroidered collar, fingering my stitches there.
* * *
In March, snow became rain. Roads became mud. Serenity sang “Greensleeves” relentlessly, not realizing, I think, that the words of it depicted a jilted lover never to return. It filled me with guilt. I supposed that Wallace might write to me, or to her, and I would know his meaning by who received the first letter.
On a howling evening in late March, when the wind beat at the barren trees as if it would uproot them and gusts tormented the house so that the leaded windows bowed inward, I lit a candle in my room and said a prayer for my birthday. I knew not an exact date, only that between Michaelmas and Easter I was a year older. Seventeen thirty-six. I turned seventeen. Though they knew not my age, I knew that at sixteen a girl could enter betrothal. I was not betrothed to Wallace Spencer, I reminded myself.
I wrote a letter to Rachael Johansen. A few weeks later a letter came from her. She said as a sanctified person she was allowed correspondence. Then she told me news of everyone I had known. Her sister Christine had made her way in Montréal as a prostituée until she had been found raving and was locked in stocks. When she was released, she tried to stab a doctor conversing in the street with a priest, but managed only to damage his horse. Her father had tried to intervene and take her but she stabbed him, too. He was arrested for disturbing the peace but freed later, to disappear. She was hanged within a week. Reverend Johansen had died of a fever from an infected tooth, and Rach
My heart made a noise and sudden warmth shot through me. Would Wallace require of me that naked coiling as I had witnessed Patey and Lukas doing? Staring into the flame of my candle, I vowed that I would do what Wallace asked, even that, and give him children, as many as we would have. I let a vision drift before me of the one sugar plantation I knew, now removed to a place called Virginia, peopled with my children, my husband. And slaves.
I spoke aloud. “Allsy was a slave.” I had never believed that Old Poe was anything other than a trusted friend, a second mother, a dear aunt. The fact that she had “cost” Pa by her death had no meaning to me other than the grief that death cost me. Allsy was as close as any sister. Shared apples and great pox, separated by smallpox, Allsy was African and had been my slave and I never knew. How would a plantation be run without slavery? Yet, if Wallace was to be my husband, he must be told about my feelings. We would own no slaves. We would have to employ workers who had a choice and were paid for their labor and never, never beaten. That settled, I rose from my knees and lifted the candle as I turned toward the bed.
A chilling scream pierced the air. I exhaled so that I blew the candle out, and dropped it. I was engulfed in darkness before the next scream followed it, continuing on with a long wailing, a moan that seemed to come out of the storm itself. I felt my way toward the door, hearing the rush of wind but feeling as if I were in the darkened stairwell with Patience, water crashing about us, making our way to the arms of the Saracen pirates. I reached through the doorway and touched the warm softness of another human. I gave out with my own scream of purest terror, just as that person did, also.