True Heart (6 page)

She fairly preened, for she knew he was speaking of her. “I meant to say that Virginia will favor the MacKenzies in physical appearance.”

She knew when to retreat. Cameron grinned. “In that event, I pray she favors Lady Juliet.”

The humor faded from Agnes's eyes. “I pray she has Mama's strength.”

She meant fortitude, and she referred to Lady Juliet, Virginia's mother and the woman who had raised Agnes. Even Lachian MacKenzie knew better than to cross his duchess. But Virginia had been closer to her father. He'd taken her everywhere, taught her to ride as soon as she could stand. He'd formally given her to Cameron on her tenth birthday. He'd also given her up for dead.

“If you truly believed she is dead, why have you kept that tobacco cask?”

Too late Cameron realized Agnes had tricked him into thinking casually about Virginia. He also knew when to retreat. “You should rest,” he said. “I promised your husband you wouldn't tire yourself.”

“I'm fine, but I will leave you to fret over your future and Captain Brown's helmsmanship.”

Brown stiffened formally. “You needn't have a care about that, my lady. I know this river as well as I know the buttons of my shirt.”

She turned on the charm. “I fear that's not enough to assuage poor Cameron and his crew, but the MacKenzies are indebted to you, sir.”

As the object of her attention, Brown almost groveled. “You will remember me to your father, Lady Agnes,” he said. “Best man o' the Highlands is how Lachian MacKenzie's known.”

“That he is. You can be sure I'll tell him that you led us to Virginia.” She slid Cameron a challenging glance, but her attention was fixed on Brown. “I believe, however, that he'll thank you himself. He cannot be more than a day or two behind us.”

As a result of her three-day forced bed rest, the messenger had surely reached her father at his home in Tain before Cameron had set sail. Lachian MacKenzie would make haste to follow. The rest of the family had probably already arrived in Glasgow, for the hallmark was the strongest lead to Virginia they'd had in over five years.

Brown acknowledged a passing ship, but his interest clearly lay with the conversation. “Every Scot in the Chesapeake will turn out for a chance to see the Highland rogue in the flesh.”

Cameron had to say, “What if she isn't here, Agnes?”

Her smile faded and stone would have melted beneath her gaze. Without a word, she strolled across the deck and down the companionway.

Cameron said, “She's yours, Brown.”

“Oh, no. I know better than to rile that MacKenzie female. They say she took a bowshot to save Edward Napier.”

Cameron had been speaking of the ship, but Brown had a point. “She did indeed save his life, but her husband swears he prevails in their disputes.”

“Smartest man in the isles ought to know his way around MacKenzie's firstborn lass.”

“Aye, Agnes and Napier are well paired.”

They shared an agreeable glance, then Cameron moved to the bow.

In the ship's wake, waterfowl took flight, and deer dashed for safety in the lush landscape. Rain clouds hovered in the northern sky, moving westward and leaving the James bathed in sunshine. Riverboats stacked high with hogsheads of tobacco lumbered past. Swift passenger ships and slave sloops scurried around the
Maiden Virginia
like skitterbugs on a smooth lake. In the distance, an occasional chimney fire streamed upward, the smoke clinging like a beard to the face of the forest. The sails snapped in the breeze. The damp air smelled ripe with spring.

Anticipation sat like a stone in Cameron's belly, and he gripped the bulwark to push the feeling away. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop thinking about the past. He remembered a girl who'd despaired because her younger sister, Lily, had gotten a love letter first. He thought of the spring they'd found a wounded badger and nursed it back to health. She'd stood beside him in this very spot. He'd been a brash and cocky youth. Virginia had been reasonable and honest but not always truthful, he corrected, recalling the time they'd dressed in servants' garb and gone to the docks without permission. Her father had caught them, and when the duke accused the older Cameron of corrupting Virginia, she'd looked her father in the eye and sworn the fault was hers. What the duke could not see was her hand and the odd fist she made when telling a lie. Only Cameron knew about that habit of hers among many others.

The old ache seeped into his soul. On its heels would come hope. Then disappointment more bitter than before.

Virginia Mackenzie had been the joy of his youth and often his savior. If he fell asleep in church, she always awakened him. She'd been the perfect friend for a headstrong lad with more swagger than sense.

That she would one day become his wife had been a foregone conclusion. They'd even picked out names for their children.

“Look a port bow, Cunningham. Poplar Knoll, ho!”

A newly refurbished dock came into view, the piers carved with doves. A brick path, laid out in herringbone design, led to a gabled mansion as fine as any he'd seen on the river.

*  *  *

“It's another ship, Virginia,” said Mrs. Parker-Jones.

They were upstairs in Virginia's room. The mistress of Poplar Knoll stood at the window. Virginia sat in a chair, her back stiff and straight, a result of the new stays. She rubbed a tender spot beneath her breasts and wondered why free women abided the things.

“Virginia, how many ships is that today?”

Virginia went back to the dress she was hemming. “I've lost count.”

She'd been treated with every kindness since moving to the main house. Before leaving this morning for Richmond to attend the tenth anniversary ceremony of the moving of the capital, Mr. Parker-Jones had apologized again and wished her luck should her family arrive before he returned. She'd asked him to give her back her indenture papers and the twelve pounds, sixteen shillings she was due. He'd signed the document and, to her surprise, given her one hundred pounds. She'd contemplated leaving—going to Williamsburg or Norfolk in anticipation of Cameron's arrival. But he must not learn the truth of her life here. Those years and the private hell that accompanied them were hers alone.

“The ship's docking, and it—” Mrs. Parker-Jones gasped. “Sweet Jesus. It bears your name.”

Virginia sprang from the chair, her mind suddenly blank with fear. For three days she had vacillated between joy and melancholy. For three nights, she'd walked the floor.

“Will you come down with me?”

As if to emphasize the moment, the plantation bell pealed, announcing the arrival of visitors. Pain squeezed Virginia's chest, but she forced herself to choose a path.

Moving to the window, she looked at her hands. Her nails were now groomed, but the dye stains had not faded. There'd been no time to sew gloves and Mrs. Parker-Jones's hands were much smaller than Virginia's. Her old smock had been given to another servant, and she had altered several of the mistress's dresses. The feel of soft cotton against her skin should have given her confidence; it confused her more, for it was a constant reminder of how mean her life had been.

“Will you come downstairs with me?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.”

In the sunlight, Mrs. Parker-Jones looked younger than her years and deeply troubled. “They are not strangers, you know.”

But Virginia was a stranger to them. For ten years, their lives had been as different from hers as cold to warmth, freedom to servitude. If they knew the details of her life, her family would hold themselves responsible.

The blame and the burden were hers alone to bear.

On that fateful day ten years ago, when she'd learned that Cameron had already sailed, she'd willingly boarded MacGowan's ship. She'd believed his lie about taking her to France and Cameron.

Sparing her friends and family grief was also within Virginia's power. She had changed. Would they recognize her? Would they pity her?

As other questions rose in her mind, she watched the dockmen moor Cameron's ship. The
Maiden Virginia
rested at her doorstep. How many times in the early years had she pictured his ship sailing around the bend, her knight come to rescue her? Too many times, and that fanciful notion sobered her to the reality of the moment.

When the gangplank was secured, she strained to better see the two men and one woman who moved to disembark. The woman wore a yellow gown and matching gloves. Fair and light on her feet, she came first. She couldn't be Cameron's sister; Sibeal had red hair. Had Cameron married? Virginia had often imagined that. The knowledge would hurt more now, for it would prove that he'd forgotten her, but not by any fault of his own. He'd take her to her family and go home to his own. Virginia would embark on a new life.

But as God was her witness, she would not allow Cameron or anyone else to pity her.

Next onto the quay was a man she remembered well. MacAdoo Dundas's flaxen hair was unmistakable. An instant later, Cameron Cunningham stepped into view. Virginia drank in the sight of him. Beneath a tricorn hat with a red plume, his blond hair was tied with a cord at the nape, and he carried the tobacco cask she'd branded.

Tall and slender, he wore the lively red, black, and white tartan of his mother's people, the Lochiel Camerons. Only in portraits in his family home had Virginia seen the colors of his clan. Worn in the old style, the tartan was pleated and belted at his waist, with one end of the cloth thrown over his shoulder and pinned there with a brooch. Virginia knew the story of his mother's sacrifice to save the plaids. But wearing—even possessing the tartans or their patterns—was outlawed as a treasonous offense. Did Cameron defy an order of the crown, or had England forgiven the Jacobites?

Where was Papa? Her gaze flew back to the ship. Ordinary seamen roamed the deck. Lachian MacKenzie had not come. Her mother had not come. What if they were dead?

The cruelty cut too deeply, and she turned her attention to the woman beside Cameron. She couldn't be Sarah, for Sarah had always been tall like Cameron. They moved onto the brick path leading to the front door, which faced the river. With energetic strides, the woman easily kept pace with her male companions.

“Who is she?” asked Mrs. Parker-Jones.

Virginia's childhood had been surrounded with females. Faces she could no longer recall. Cora's hair had been fair. Lily's too. And Sarah and Agnes. But this woman didn't look seven and twenty, the age Agnes and her sisters would be. It was so long ago, and this woman could be Cameron's wife. “I do not know.”

“She's beautiful, and if that man carrying the cask is Cameron Cunningham, you are lucky indeed. He's very handsome.”

Virginia's heart swelled with pride. “He's Cam.”

“Then we'd better greet them.”

Pain squeezed Virginia's chest. Assuming Cameron had taken a wife, he'd probably feel guilty. All of Virginia's family would, especially if they knew the truth about her life the last ten years. She'd spoken of that often with Mrs. Parker-Jones during the days of waiting.

Virginia forced herself to chose a course of action. “Tell them what we discussed yesterday at supper.” They had discussed so many possibilities, Virginia had grown weary.

Resignation saddened Mrs. Parker-Jones. “If you are sure that is what you want me to say to them.”

If poor choices were wealth, Virginia was rich beyond the counting. “They must not know the truth, not the whole of it. Will you go along with the story?”

Their eyes met. Virginia smiled encouragingly. “It's best all the way 'round.”

“I've no talent for the dramatic. What if I bungle it?”

“You'll do fine. It's better they think Moreland died.”

On a sob, Mrs. Parker-Jones hugged Virginia. “So will you, Virginia MacKenzie.”

Just as she moved to step away from the window, Virginia saw the woman in the yellow dress stumble.

*  *  *

Cameron steadied Agnes before she could fall, but almost dropped the cask, so discomfited did he feel. If asked why he'd brought the hogshead, he wasn't sure he could give a reasonable answer. His mind saw it as proof. His heart told a different tale. Since finding it, he'd taken odd comfort in keeping the thing near.

Agnes held onto him. “My stomach's all aflutter, and my wits have gone praying.”

“She was only a lass, and it's been ten years,” MacAdoo said.

Climbing the steps, Cameron counted off just how long it had been.

MacAdoo adjusted his waistcoat. “She probably won't know us.”

“I hadn't considered that.” Agnes looked up at Cameron. “What will we do?”

Think the worst. But Agnes wouldn't follow that advice. Thanks to her constant discussions about Virginia, neither would MacAdoo.

Shoring up his courage, Cameron took the last step. “What will we do? Beyond wondering why there are no poplar trees in the yard at Poplar Knoll, I haven't a notion.”

“Cameron!” She elbowed him in the ribs.

He winced and rapped the doorknocker, a fine casting of doves in bronze. Seriously, he said, “We'll keep our horses
before
our cart.”

“She's here. I can feel it in my soul.”

A white-haired, very poised butler opened the door. “Welcome to Poplar Knoll. My name is Merriweather. May I be of service?”

Cameron shifted the cask. “I'm Cameron Cunningham. We've come seeking information about this design if the master of the house will see us.”

Agnes said, “We haven't an appointment, but our mission is of the utmost importance. We've come from Glasgow.”

Blinking at her boldness, the butler nodded and stepped back. He spoke to Cameron as he waved them inside. “Mr. Parker-Jones is away in Richmond, but the mistress is here. Come in please. May I take your hats?”