The Audacity of Hubris

By Scott Keller

Laced with historical figures and the cultural tensions of beautiful Blue Ridge piedmont region of colonial Virginia, The Audacity of Hubris reveals dark secrets of the land-grabbing ways of British aristocrats and colonial planters, including Lord Fairfax and George Washington.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Keller
• Release date: Feb 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218422776

Scott Keller

Born and raised in Virginia, Scott Keller graduated from Duke University and Columbia University's masters program. He has been an active horseman, rider and competitor his entire life. He lives in Virginia with his wife, dogs, cats and horses.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Part I

Ovoka

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Chesapeake Bay - 1752

The Spotswoods

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

Molly Morgan

Maidstone, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Maidstone, Virginia - 1752

Gap Run, Virginia - 1752

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia – 1765

Rev. Charles Green

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia – 1765

Ovoka, Virginia – 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Millwood, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Rev. Charles Green

Maidstone, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Maidstone, Virginia - 1765

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Part II

BUTTERLAND

Chesapeake Bay - 1752

Ovoka, Virginia - 1769

Maidstone, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Maidstone, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Maidstone, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Carter’s Run, Millwood

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Maidstone, Millwood & Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Near Winchester, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Maidstone & Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Maidstone, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Maidstone, Virginia

Ovoka & Maidstone, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka & Maidstone, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Maidstone & Ovoka,, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Maidstone & Millwood, Virginia

Nanzatico, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Maidstone, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka & Millwood, Virginia

Maidstone, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Maidstone, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Millwood, Virginia

Ovoka, Virginia

Nanzatico, Virginia

Historical Background

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 979-8-218-42276-9

eBook ISBN 979-8-218-42277-6

Copyright © 2023 Scott Keller

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

SLATE HILL PRESS

THE AUDACITY OF HUBRIS

Volume One

By

Scott Keller

by Rockwell Kent

∞

Part I

Ovoka

"Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing."

MacBeth, William Shakespeare

The Colepeper-Fairfax Northern Neck Proprietary – 1737

Ovoka, Virginia - 1765

Isaac Spotswood, that’s my name.

Some folks think it’s odd, a name like that, Spotswood. My father didn’t leave me much inheritance. A name, a pile of debts, not much else. To say my decisions were always right would be a lie, though that isn’t the whole truth. Selfish, maybe. You can judge for yourself, though your judgment isn’t what matters.

Looked out through my window at the Shenandoah, its source rising from springs deep in the slate blue hills. Ovoka, that’s what the natives called it. Ever-running waters. The river gave sustenance to everything along its banks, carried away the blood spilled into its brooks, cleansed the world of its sins.

Not all stories have happy endings. Some tales don’t even end with absolution. Heaven or hell? Didn’t matter to me. Got what pleases me most for all the time that’s left, my wife Molly.

Chesapeake Bay - 1752

A rising sun.

Low mist rolled over the ridge. Stillness everywhere. But for the creek waters spilling round its riverstones, the silence was near complete.

Chinn stared down at him. Wasn’t much left. Bones, meat, innards. Ravens circled overhead. Once a man, now a memory. They’d never find him. They’d never know the truth.

Every man’s got some bad in his heart. Some more than most. Chinn was no different. He’d long since learned how to harness his tendencies, which a more educated man may have called pernicious. The hangman wasn’t coming for him. Never would. Chinn wasn’t anything more than a good soldier who knew how to get through the day, come out better off.

Long as he got what he’d been promised, Chinn didn’t care about redemption. That was for others, the fearful ones. God’s eyes didn’t shine on him.

The Spotswoods

Millwood, Virginia - 1752

My arms near shook they’d heaved so much wheat onto the wagon. The afternoon sun scorched our backs. Sweat poured down our chests. Rest came when the others rested.

Father punished me by making me work alongside the slaves. With over a thousand acres to harvest, the toils never ended. But my labors weren’t punishment. To me, they were some of the finest hours of my youth. He couldn’t punish me. Whatever lessons he thought to teach, mine were learned from the men in the fields.

A young cavalier, twenty and one, an only child, an only heir—shirtless, drenched, exhausted. Proud of my defiant streak. My ring could bear no other crest. Nothing could break me.

Alexander Spotswood stood on the veranda, watched a carriage approach between the lush boxwoods that lined both sides of the drive which led from the road to the house. It passed the gatehouse, continued closer. The driver pulled to a halt. Carter Burwell stepped out, talked with his man, strode toward the house.

Spotswood descended the front steps. Greetings, Burwell.

Spotswood. Burwell nodded. They shook hands. Damn cold out here.

Good to see you, Burs. Thank you for dropping by.

Was there a choice? Burwell laughed. Come when summoned, no?

They walked into the house. Burwell removed his gloves, his coat, handed them to the house boy, followed Spotswood to the oak-paneled library where a fire burned in the hearth.

We’ve much to discuss. Spotswood stopped to stir the smoldering embers, tossed another log into the fireplace. Please, sit.

Burwell settled his magnificent corpulence into a winged chair beside the hearth. Thank God. He rubbed his legs. These breeches are too thin for this weather. Near froze to death on the way here.

Better have some warmer rugs made up. Spotswood walked to the cabinet, fetched a bottle of claret. He poured two glasses, handed one to his friend. Wouldn’t want you to freeze your bollocks.

Burwell laughed. My girls can scarcely knit a kerchief.

Spotswood shrugged, sat opposite. They raised glasses, drank.

Much better. Burwell set his glass on the side table. You know now that he’s squandered most of the family’s funds, that drunken buffoon Fairfax is coming from Kent to watch over us.

Had his mother not left him all this land to profit from, that castle would’ve long since crumbled to dust.

Thank God his father married a Colepeper. Burwell chuckled. Lady Fairfax must be howling in her grave.

How many siblings does the good lord have? Four or five? Spotswood smirked. Can’t have too many of one family. It will be their downfall.

A servant brought biscuits, left them on the table, departed.

We’re building an empire here, Burwell. You know that. We’ve nothing to lose, everything to gain. Fairfax be damned.

Preposterous, Spotswood. He’s close to the crown. He belched, drank more, reached for a biscuit. Between us, our lands reach further than one can see. How much more does one man need?

Our plans have little to do with how much, Burs. You know that. Rather, for how long. That’s where our ambition leads us.

Burwell chewed his biscuit, brushed crumbs from his half-buttoned waistcoat. You know, Spots, when my parents married, two great families were joined. No castles, no arms, but their vision built chapels, roads, plantations. Schools. They brought over masons, carpenters, teachers. All our true and faithful servants. The crown’s as well, of course.

Of course.

We’re forming a just society here in Virginia, are we not?

A just society? Spotswood scoffed. That’s for philosophers, my friend. Let me tell you how the world works. Prejudice, ambition, greed.

Revenge?

Revenge is for those who lost. Gluttons destined to lose again.

Burwell rubbed his belly, sighed. What else have you to eat in this pile of stones?

More biscuits? Spotswood laughed, rang the table bell for service.

Instead, Spotswood’s son Isaac appeared from the hallway. You rang, father? Good afternoon Mister Burwell.

Burwell nodded.

Isaac, you look a veritable mess. Spotswood glanced at the doorway. Why aren’t you in the fields? Where is everyone?

Seems there’s some trouble out back.

Isaac’s mother often reminded his father not to challenge his mulish arrogance, thought it would castrate his confidence. Spotswood thought his wife a soft woman, no different from most of her kind. Pampered, protected, wearisome. She coddled her boy. Spotswood’s methods were more intolerant. Resolve it.

Isaac nodded, departed.

You gentry. Burwell chuckled. No different from the commoners.

Baronets.

Ah, yes, noblesse oblige. Leeds, Oxford and all that.

Shall we remind ourselves that we are cut from the same cloth? The path from poorhouse to power is paved with hypocrisy, no?

As is the return. Burwell smirked. Apologies for not having been one to skulk around the stacks in Bodleian.

Laughed at his friend’s wit. Nonsense, Burwell. What’s learnt in books pales in comparison to being here amongst the savages.

We’ve nothing to prove. Burwell glanced toward the hallway. More to eat, eh?

Wait here, old man. Spotswood rose, went to the kitchen. Heard commotion outside, looked through the window.

Isaac stood between two angry fieldhands. Several others surrounded them, waiting for the first strike. His father shook his head, watched.

Despite an attempt by Isaac to intervene, the two shirtless men began to fight. Isaac stepped aside.

Burwell joined Spotswood at the window. Care to wager?

Hate to take your money, you inadequate excuse for a man. Again.

That scranny one looks the winner to me.

Think so?

Burwell pressed his belly against the bench, leaned toward the window. Most definitely.

Must say, my inclination is to let them battle on. Spotswood grinned. Though it may cost you dear.

A pound sterling?

Two.

Burwell agreed.

Ran to the yard, pushed the two men apart. What’s going on here?

They paused, stared at me, chests heaving. Neither spoke.

Didn’t you hear me? What’s this bother all about?

The one to my left paused. Well, sir, Samuel here gone messed with my woman.

Samuel?

Course it ain’t true. Samuel shook his head. He’s a damn liar.

Zachary?

Caught them myself, sir.

You’re a goddamn liar. Samuel stiffened his back, raised his chin. Your woman ain’t worth wasting my cock to fuck her with.

Tried to grab his arm but Zachary tore lose. He lunged, hurled Samuel to the ground. Samuel rolled, leapt to his feet, swung. Caught Zachary square on the jaw. Blood sprayed. Zachary staggered back a step. Samuel closed in, hit him hard in the gut. Hit him again, this time in the chin. Zachary gasped, moaned, fell. Chickens scattered away.

Might want to pick up your teeth. Samuel stood over Zachary as he curled on the ground. Fore you crawl on out of here.

Glanced at the fallen man, then at Samuel. Saw the overseer approaching from the stables.

Henderson was a girthy, green-eyed son of a lowcountry planter and some forgotten slave girl. Sixty, or thereabouts. Made his way through a hardscrabble life with dignity, diligence, loyalty. Lived in a patent house carved from a far corner of my father’s land. A man of few words, though those spoken carried weight, bore wisdom. Carried a coiled whip on his belt.

Pick yourself up, son. Henderson spoke to Zachary. Get on back to work.

Zachary rose to his knees. You ought to—

Ought to what? Henderson interrupted him.

Nothing, sir. Dusted himself off, fetched a tooth from the dirt, walked away.

All you boys get on back to work. Henderson barked at the others. Turned to Samuel. What do you have to say for yourself, son? Shameful.

Sorry, sir. Don’t mean no disrepect. Zachary, though, he gone too far this time.

Gone too far?

Samuel paused. Yessir. Samuel paused. Lies about most everything. Always looking for trouble. Been that way for a while now. Seems worse these days, though.

Henderson toed the ground, chose his words careful. Samuel, you been here a long time. Near ten years now. Don’t make today your last day with us.

Samuel looked away, looked down, looked Henderson in the eye. Yessir.

Alright. Go on now.

Samuel wiped blood from his knuckles onto a trouser leg, headed back toward the stables.

Henderson turned to me. Apologies, sir.

Thank you, Henderson. Glad you were here.

It’s my doing, not yours. They know you’re not near hard as your old man.

Glanced at the fields. Men’s lives. Turned back toward the house.

Henderson called to me. More like a benevolent uncle, he’d watched over me since my voice had changed from a choirboy’s chirping to something somewhat more virile.

Paused, waited for him.

You needn’t get involved in these disputes. He talked soft. Nothing good’ll come of that.

Father sent me out.

Time you started doing what’s best for you.

Smiled, shook my head. Can the fox outrun a wolf?

Smart one can. Henderson shrugged, smiled. You keep your eyes open.

Nodded, walked back to the house, entered through the kitchen door.

Burwell looked at me. That skinny bastard cost me two quid.

Two quid? Closed the door behind me. You got off light.

My father laughed. Everything was a game to him. Just another one to win. Who cared about right or wrong when there was a profit to be made?

Spotswood rode out to the fields. Sat on his horse atop the rise, surveyed the tobacco crops spread in rows across the gentle land. Beyond that, another fifty of corn. Another fifty of wheat. Isaac rode beside him.

He turned in the saddle towards his son. Perhaps we should build another mill by the creek. Quite certain Morgan would be interested. We’ll get Burwell to pay for it.

We’ll need more tenants, more help in the fields.

Of course we will. They’re coming across every month.

Isaac looked at his father, looked eastward across the river, across the valley. All this property. How much is too much?

Spotswood laughed. Is there such a thing?

Perhaps. Guess we’ll find out.

We weren’t put on this earth to tend sheep or mind a smithery. Spotswood scoffed at his son. We rose from conquerors. You know that. Let those impoverished witch-burning roundheads starve in their hovels. We’re the ones bound for glory, not those imbecile descendants of serfs up north.

They have Harvard.

Harvard? Spotswood laughed. Hardly Oxford, no?

The Spotswoods had arrived in Virginia with noble ambitions. The gentry would build a new aristocracy, no matter the cost. Spotswood’s grandfather, a baronet, would have approved. Curry favor with the king, unlike those addled peasants in Plymouth, Cavaliers had come prepared as masters, not pilgrims.

Two miles of riverfront. Isaac said. You’ve done well, father.

Not bad for a second son, indeed. All yours someday.

Isaac shifted weight in the saddle. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

What did he know, that libertine. Spotswood scoffed. You have doubts?

He remained quiet, paused. No, sir. None.

Spotswood ignored his son’s tone. My mother’s inheritance, as you well know, included all that Hermitage land, though little else. The baronetcy passed to her brother, Francis, of course. No matter. Wealth comes from land, not titles.

Our family’s past is no mystery.

You squander too much of your time, son. Reading books? What good will ever come of that? We’re landowners, not scholars. Landowners, something you must always remember. The tenants work for us. The village belongs to us. Our presence is why they are here, to serve our needs. If we went away, all this would vanish. They have no sovereign but me.

Shall we ask the smith to forge you a crown?

Spotswood laughed, dropped the reins, spread his arms wide. King of all we behold.

Yet not a kingdom.

A fiefdom, nevertheless.

Isaac laughed. Close enough.

Watch for foxes, will you? Perhaps we’ll go hunting tomorrow.

Mother asked for help planting her spring garden.

You’ll get nowhere with such womanly pursuits. She smothers you. Compliments, nothing but flattery. Give none, expect none in return. That’s the way, now isn’t it?

Isaac stayed silent. Knew a reply was neither needed nor required.

Which is better, son, power or wealth?

Isaac thought for a moment. Can’t have one without the other, no?

True enough. Spotswood halted his horse, faced his son. Each begets the other. Though given the choice, choose wealth. Monarchies don’t survive. They collapse under the weight of their own gluttony. These days, son, wealth buys power.

Hasn’t it always?

Of course not. Spotswood smirked. Back in the day, anyone with bullocks and a bigger stick was the winner. Now you can buy the stick.

You can’t buy souls, nor hearts.

Of course you can. God is an ambivalent auctioneer.

Isaac laughed. The highest bidder wins.

Finally, you’ve said something worth saying. His father laughed, too. Truth is never relevant. Only the appearance of it, that’s what matters. Cowering little lickspittles, they’re everywhere.

Living with the illusion of freedom.

Precisely the beauty of keeping all those poor souls in the dark. Who needs facts when you have fear at your disposal? All one needs is a bit of moral ambiguity.

Isaac urged his horse across a boggy patch in the field. Some are rather well educated, aren’t they? Magruder, especially so.

His father rode on, remained quiet. They deserve little more than what we give them, if that. Thought they’d come here, find oysters fat with pearls, live like kings.

Contemptuous of your authority, no?

Quarrelsome lot of desperadoes, here only because England wouldn’t have them.

Isaac smirked, let a moment pass. Our tenants in Millwood aren’t quite desperadoes.

Do you suppose any of those barbarians care about anything other than cards, drink or fornication?

Isaac laughed. Sounds rather like your friends.

The difference being rank and property. No connections, no manners, if it weren’t for our support they’d all be in irons in the hold of some privateer’s ship.

Really, father?

Look at Rome, starving for conquest. Spotswood continued on without once looking at his son. All they cared about was killing their neighbors, taking their land, enslaving their men. Thank God we’ve risen above such savagery.

Like our own monarchs.

Nonsense, son. His father sniggered. Rome, no different than Athens. Sodom and Gomorrah.

The Greeks might’ve disagreed.

The Greeks? Godless democrats. What could be worse? Heathens. Hang them from the bowsprits.

They entered a woody glen, tracked along a narrow path through the pine forest to the open fields beyond.

Did you hear? Isaac brushed away a low branch, ducked under another. Zachary’s run away.

Zachary?

Isaac sighed quiet to himself. The fight yesterday. The man Samuel pummeled, that was Zachary.

Ah, yes, the loser. Won two pounds from Burwell. Run away, has he? We’ll let the colonel know. Whitley’s keen on bounty.

Yes, sir.

Come, son, let’s race back. Spotswood turned, called over his shoulder. Devil take the hindmost.

They galloped along the river’s edge toward home. Isaac’s horse ran game, though not game enough. Spotswood patted his son’s shoulder when they dismounted. Almost.

Sunlight sparkled silver upon the river, mother of a thousand moons, as the natives called its waters. Deer grazed upon the opposing bank. Idyllic as it was, my thoughts turned to the tribes who lived in frontier valleys across the mountains that rose beyond the river to the west. The world’s bounties must have seemed endless to them.

We reached the house, both horses drenched with sweat despite the cool air.

Watched my father dismount. He seemed satisfied with our concurrent arrival at the gates. Almost. He grinned. But not today.

Laughed, handed my horse to a groom. Close counts as a win for me.

Mother waited at the door. She waved. Isaac, you’re needed in the house. Hurry along.

There’s only one winner, eh? My father smirked. Now go see what your mother wants.

Nodded, walked away, tried to breathe deep.

My father failed to accept that he was no longer the only man in the house. Hadn’t worn swaddling in twenty years—pulled on my breeches, buttoned up my shirt same as he did every day.

Mother waited at the door. Quiet, pensive. Her strength had waned, though her spirit remained strong. Guessed there were only so many melancholy nights one could endure before the heart began to rot.

Where have you and your father been? It’s near supper time.

Apologies, mother. We rode a good ways down the river.

Whatever for?

Shrugged. Entered the front hall, handed my coat to the house maid. Thanks, Patricia.

The front hall stood flanked by twin rooms. One, my father’s library. The other, a sitting room. Limestone hearths stood at either end of both rooms. A large central staircase ahead, hallways on each side, one to the kitchen, one to the dining room. A chandelier hung from the high, medallioned ceiling. Paintings of dead ancestors hung above the fireplaces.

Asked my mother how long till supper.

She smiled wan. We’ll eat when your father returns.

Can’t wait. Walked to the kitchen, interrupted the cook. What’s in the pots?

Husband and wife, Robert and Patricia. Been married since before my mother birthed me into the world. Patricia remained cheeky as she’d even been. Her husband always obliging of her sauciness.

Lamb stew. Robert answered me without turning, continued chopping herbs. He was quite serious about his cooking.

Won’t be but a bit. Patricia walked to the kitchen hearth, stirred the hanging pot. Long as the cook doesn’t keep pestering me.

Robert glanced at me. Getting sassier every day, isn’t she?

Wait till tomorrow. Patricia walked behind him, smacked his ass with the ladle.

Way you grumble through the night, these old bones’ll be lucky enough to see another sunrise.

Left them to their cooking, went out the kitchen door to the stable yard. Henderson was gathering eggs from the roost. He stopped, turned round, set down his basket.

Yes sir, Mister Isaac? He brushed his hands against his trousers, wiped them against each other. Damn chickenshit.

Wanted to ask about Zachary.

Still gone. Ain’t found him yet.

You know what happens when they catch a runaway.

Christian justice. Henderson nodded.

Laughed, though shouldn’t have. Whitley’s pastime.

That bullheaded cracker?

My father’s favorite henchman.

Either way, that boy Zachary deserves whatever he gets. Ain’t no cure for stupid, but there’s a price. Just the way it is.

Doesn’t matter. They’d better treat him right. Too many hangings.

Henderson looked me, shook his head slow. Son, ain’t never going to happen. You know that, not for boys like him. He’s nothing but chaff to your old man. Lose one, buy another.

My father, not me. Spoke firm. My skin’s thicker than his. He just hasn’t figured that out yet.

Lucky for you. Henderson laughed. But don’t matter which way you look at it, there’s always going to be a him. And there’s always going to be the rest of us.

Sighed, knew Henderson was right. Let me know if you hear anything about Zachary.

Yes, sir. Sure will. But don’t hold your breath.

Went back to the coop with him, helped him finish gathering the day’s eggs.

Spotswood Hall. Spotswood looked into the mirror above his chest of drawers, straightened his collar. Rather like the sound of that.

His wife sat on the settee at the foot of his bed, watched her husband tie his cravat. Spotswood Hall. She chewed the words. Yes, dear, quite fitting.

He turned round, faced her. Why the devil is Isaac so troubled? He’s angered by the slightest provocation. He speaks his mind without permission, convinced he must always be right about everything.

He isn’t troubled. She paused a moment, then another. He’s restless.

Restless? How is that even possible?

She sighed. You’ve never been frustrated by what’s not going your way?

Of course. Everyone has. But mutinous, that’s what he’s becoming.

You’re his father, dear. Not his master.

Spotswood scoffed, dismissed her with a wave.

She leaned forward to rise.

Wait. He leaned back against the dresser, folded his arms, sighed. We need to talk about his behavior, his utter lack of respect for my authority.

Isaac isn’t a child anymore. He needs more responsibility. Perhaps something he could be in charge of. He’s more mature than you think. Give him a chance to prove it.

Spotswood considered her words, turned to gaze through the window. You’re right. Let’s let him manage the Gap Run property. There’s a comfortable cottage with a summer kitchen. We can send one of the field bosses with him.

It might do you both some good. A bit of distance between the two of you.

Very well. Spotswood nodded. It’s settled then.

His wife stood, left the room.

Spotswood finished dressing, went to find Isaac.

My father’s decision surprised me. He’d come to me the day before, told me to pack my bag. Time to spread my wings, he’d said. Never thought that day would come. Not ever. Least not till he died, perhaps not even then. Wondered how much my mother’s influence had persuaded him, though each and every decision was his to make. That would never change.

Rode my horse through the village on my way to Gap Run. Samuel followed with the mule cart loaded with my trunks. He shouted more than once for me to slow the pace. We passed through Millwood, the tenant village. A few stone cottages stood clustered where the lane turned south. Tidy gardens flowered in the sun. Magruder’s garden, unkempt as it was, seemed ready to burst with every sort of produce imaginable.

We headed along the river’s western bank toward the bridge, then up the long but gentle climb over the ridge. The view from the Ashby gap never ceased to amaze me. Its piedmont valley spread before us with long views of rolling hills, verdant pastureland, winding creeks. Seemed to me the most beautiful land in Virginia.

Overseeing the Gap Run property had been a seasoned tenant’s job. His recent passing had been mourned, though brief. My father waited only a day to ask his widow to vacate the cottage, leave it broom swept clean. Hadn’t thought too much about the property, assumed some other tenant would take over running the planation. Hilly fields made working it more arduous than flatter bottomland. The new overseer would need a certain set of skills, the sort gained with callouses and sweat.

Now that was me. My skills were in shorter supply, with none gained from sweat nor callouses. Reading, watching, listening. Not by doing. Questioned whether my father was setting me up to succeed or fail. Least Samuel would be there. Plenty thankful for that.

My father’s strength, wondered where it came from. His need to win, his drive to feel admired. More than with what he was born, was that the goal? Seemed a poor excuse for a purpose. Mine? Guessed we’d all find out soon enough. Couldn’t wait.

We turned down east from the main road onto the winding lane that led to Gap Run. It curled uphill, then descended into a narrow vale that was bisected by the wandering run, which stretched toward rounded, slate blue mountains in the distance.

The cottage faced south, overlooked from a nestled hillside bowl. Bigger than most, though not by much. Two stories, two rooms, one up, one down. A small portico overhung the front door. A good well stood not far off. Low stacked walls defined a generous yard, which meandered up the hillside to a wooded stand of walnut, sycamore, maples.

Pulled up, turned to Samuel. Here we are. Our new home.

Samuel hopped down from the bench, tethered the reins. Yessir, he chuckled. Home away from home.

Your quarters are round back.

In the woods?

Laughed. Not unless you’d prefer tree limbs to a roof. There’s a cabin behind the cottage.

Where’s everyone else sleep?

Pointed toward the shed.

No sir, that ain’t right. Samuel loosened the batten straps, lifted a trunk from the cart. Happy to share with them.

You’ve earned your own place. Least you’ll have some privacy.

We carried the trunks inside.

A table with two chairs stood to one side. A long bench leaned along the back wall below the window. A ship ladder led upstairs where a bed and a small table were set against the gable wall. Wasn’t quite like my rooms back home, but who needed anything more? A place to eat, a place to read, a place to sleep. Two fireplaces, one up, one down. The privy was out back. My little corner of the kingdom.

We hoisted one of the trunks up the steep staircase, so narrow we had to carry it sideways. Scraped the wall more than once. Set it down at the foot of the bed.

Wiped sweat from my brow. Probably would’ve been easier if we’d taken the books out first.

No servants nor maids. Those days were over. Suited me fine. Promised myself never to look back.

Better get yourself a better broom. Samuel grinned, left me to unpack.

Stood in the bedroom, looked out through the window across the creek. Several deer grazed on the hillside in the afternoon light. Turned round, went downstairs. Two twelve-pane windows faced the front, one faced the rear, a large stone hearth on the side wall. Moved the table and chairs to the center of the room. An empty copper tub sat beside the hearth. Thought to split wood later.

My father’s house, the Hall as he now called it, with its many rooms, its high ceilings, its fine embroidered draperies—such a grand dwelling. The cottage was plenty enough for me. Even Samuel’s cabin would’ve been fine.

Looked round the house. Ceiling rafters seemed sound, no signs of wormholes or sawdust powder anywhere. Opened a trunk, looked at my books, closed it. A bold adventure was about to begin amidst this rich, magical land where magnolias perfumed the breeze.

Molly Morgan

Molly regarded herself in the mirror, turned one way, then the other, tilted her head. Long ginger hair, sinewy frame, pale blue eyes. She smiled. The new lavender gown fit well enough, though she planned to tailor the seams herself to better suit her narrow waist.

Her father looked up from his ledger as Molly entered the room. Lovely.

Thank you, father. Molly walked a circle round the kitchen. Shall we dance?

He laughed. Perhaps another time.

Oh, come now, Molly smiled, pulled him from his chair by an arm. Dance with me.

He stood. She hummed. They waltzed.

Very good. Her mother applauded. You’ll be quite the star tonight.

Molly curtsied. What time do we leave?

Her father glanced at the mantle clock. An hour from now.

Plenty of time for a few alterations Molly headed back toward the stairs. Won’t take long.

She hurried upstairs to her room, unbuttoned her gown, slipped it down below her waist, stepped out. Turned the dress inside out, laid it on the bed. Rummaged through her drawers, found scissors, needle, thread. She sat cross-legged atop the quilt, set to work. Though slender, nineteen years had ripened her well.

Her father drove the carriage, an old converted hay cart. A thick travel blanket covered the two women’s laps, protected their gowns. The drive to Spotswood Hall was brief as their horse stepped careful over the muddy lane. The carriage yawed more than once, though Molly’s father was adept at avoiding the deeper ruts.

Let me drive. Molly leaned against her father’s shoulder.

Keep your hands soft. He handed her the reins. Make haste with care.

She gathered the reins, loosened them, chirped twice, coaxed their horse to quicken its pace.

Easy now. Her mother frowned. We’re not late.

Her father grinned.

The road wound uphill along the rutted path between cleared fields. Spotswood Hall stood atop a crest in the distance, its columned portico lit by the evening sunset. Molly steered through the open iron gates, proceeded along the pebbled lane toward the house. A few other carriages stood parked out front.

Molly accompanied her mother to the door where two Spotswood servants waited. Her father followed them. Invisible to most guests, the father smiled, nodded to the doormen as he passed.

Molly had drawn her hair into a braided bun, thought it framed her face better. Glanced in the front hall mirror as she walked past. She’d woven a daisy chain braided into the braids, was quite pleased by its appearance.

The party consisted of several married couples from across the county, the Burwells last to arrive. They mingled quiet, moved with ease among the front rooms. Molly noticed only one other person her age or thereabouts. He stood with his back to her, spoke to another gentleman, one of generous proportions. The older gentleman, Burwell, noticed Molly looking in their direction, said something to his younger friend, who turned to see for himself. Molly looked away, unable to summon any thoughts at all. She gathered herself, looked back at him, smiled.

He smiled, excused himself from his company, approached. So glad you could join us. My mother mentioned that you might come over this evening.

Molly hesitated. This was the young squire. She had seen him often, though always from a distance, never face to face. Her breath sudden shortened. She hoped not noticeably.

Isaac. He smiled. If you’ve forgotten.

Certainly not. She looked down, then up again. Molly.

It’s a pleasure, Miss Morgan.

Felt her face redden, Molly drew in slow. Please, Molly.

Magruder taught both of us, didn’t he? Years ago.

He did, indeed.

Magruder lives near you, no?

Molly nodded. Next door.

How is he? Still hoarding his treasures?

Afraid so. She grinned. Some things never change.

He smiled, paused. Would you care to join me at the table?

Of course. Felt herself blush again. Though let me guess. We’re seated together?

Isaac laughed, nodded. Of course.

The table sat ten. Isaac to his mother’s left, Molly to his left. They remained quiet, listened while the others talked about nothing of much importance. A servant poured sherry.

Their host made an ornate toast. Molly noticed Isaac glance at her while his father rambled on. He rolled his eyes. She grinned. They all touched their crystal glasses.

He leaned toward Molly as the others returned to their conversations, whispered. We eat every meal like this.

Molly laughed. Doesn’t everyone?

Isaac laughed, too. Siblings?

A sister. She’s older. Married. She moved away with him. His name is Calvert, Nathaniel Calvert.

Your sister moved to Maryland?

She did.

The hinterlands.

Her husband is a planter there.

Isaac frowned. Hope she doesn’t get caught up with that Maryland crowd. They’re a rough bunch.

Nathaniel’s quite the charmer. Or so my sister claims. Her name’s Shelby.

That family, bunch of rogues they are. Scoundrels to the core.

Surely not every last one of them. Molly grinned. We do miss her, though. She hasn’t been home since they wed.

At least you’ve become princess of the house.

You’re not the prince of yours?

Isaac laughed. No, definitely not. More like Cain, least the way my father sees it.

Molly sipped her wine. A Cain with no brother to kill?

You’re quite clever, aren’t you?

Molly opened her mouth to reply. Her father, sitting opposite, tapped a butter knife on his glass, stood. She closed her mouth.

To our host, Spotswood, his wife, his son. Morgan paused. We raise a glass in honor. Thank you for all you do.

Hear, hear, a few mumbled round.

A servant appeared, Robert. Carried a large silver platter, topped with a roasted lamb. Another entered the dining room, Patricia. She carried a serving bowl of steaming vegetables.

Robert winked at me as he set the lamb in front of my father to carve. Knew that he’d sliced the meat before bringing it from the kitchen. Robert handed the knife to my father. All eyes were upon him. Quite sure that was how he expected it to be. Mine were not. Mine were elsewhere.

Stole a long look at Molly. She watched my father carve, as did the rest. Sensed my mother’s hand at play somehow, even if their invitation had no such purpose. She turned back to me. Her smile rivaled the bright intensity of her eyes.

Found myself wordless, a rare occasion.

She leaned a degree closer, lowered her voice. Your father’s quite smart with a knife. Made cutting the meat seem near effortless.

Laughed. Her wit surprised me. Ever the showman.

Plates were passed, dishes served. Nothing could have swayed my attention. All the rest, nothing but a blur in the background.

Mine’s quite the opposite, Molly replied. Rather plain, like wallpaper.

No brocade?

Scarce a hint of any pattern whatsoever.

Leaned back in my chair, grinned. My game’s not sharp enough.

She turned slight toward me. Your game?

Needs to be raised to a higher level if there’s any chance of courting you at all.

She smirked. Aren’t you doing that already?

My face may have blushed. Raising my game or courting you?

Why both, of course.

Perhaps. Certainly one, if not two.

Only one? Molly pouted. Which one?

They’re one and the same.

She leaned back in her chair, nodded. Very good, Isaac.

Raised my glass. Cheers, Miss Molly.

She raised hers, touched mine. Cheers.

As sons can do, sensed my mother’s stare beside me. Molly’s subtle glance over my shoulder may have helped. Turned.

Sorry, Isaac, don’t mean to interrupt, my mother said soft. Perhaps it’s your turn for a toast.

Nodded, cleared my throat, raised my glass. One day you’ll find that good fortune has passed, so live every day as if it’s your last.

Most laughed. Took my seat. Refilled Molly’s glass, then mine.

Molly leaned toward me. And how do you suggest we do that?

Leaned toward her. We shall see.

Shall we? She sipped her sherry. How so?

Perhaps a walk in the garden after supper. Boxwoods.

A maze?

Not quite yet. They’re only a few feet high. Promise you won’t get lost.

Too bad. Molly grinned.

The men rose, left the table for the library. My presence was expected as well. Whispered to Molly for her to stay with the ladies, then meet me on the rear portico in a few minutes.

Joined the men. We walked down the hall, entered the library. Robert had set out brandy, cigars, biscuits. Glanced at the biscuits, took one.

Burwell sat nearest to the hearth. He held a full glass of brandy, lifted it. "So here’s to the woman with little pink shoes who’ll steal all our money and drink all our booze. She’s not a virgin, but that’s not a sin, she’s still got the box the cherry came in."

My father laughed, continued the toast. "They bloom every month, they bear every nine, the only creatures this side of hell that can get juice from a nut without cracking the shell."

Had to admit, their humor was engaging. We all laughed. My father poured port for himself

Thank you for the supper, Spotswood. Burwell settled deep into his chair, released a trembling belch. Lamb, delicious.

My father nodded. Samuel does a fine job with the livestock.

If you ever decide to sell that brute of yours, do think of me.

Sorry, Burwell, he’s not for sale. Nor could you afford him if he were.

Nonsense. You know my wife’s dowry came with deep coffers.

Which you’ve done your best to deplete. My father smirked. In any event, he’s needed on the Gap Run property, which we’re planning to plant next season.

Noted that my new occupation wasn’t mentioned, stepped aside, looked out toward the gardens.

Molly’s father joined me at the window. Thank you for including my daughter in your conversation.

Smiled. May have been the other way round.

He frowned slight. She can be rather reserved, though likely gets that from me. You must’ve charmed her.

A skill which usually succeeds, but only with horses.

He laughed. Then you’ve expanded your influence, haven’t you?

Smiled, peeked through the window. Noticed the rear door open. Molly stepped outside, closed the door behind her, silhouetted in the evening twilight. Not for me to say, sir. But there’s always hope, isn’t there?

Excused myself, left the library to those whose better days were no longer yet to come. Walked through the butler’s pantry to the side door, went round the corner to the boxwood garden.

Molly snuck outside, closed the door quiet, walked to the garden. Looked back at the house. Its downstairs windows glowed with candlelight. She glanced toward the library window, saw Isaac speaking with her father. Thought to wave or signal him, though wondered whether he could see her in the dark. Waved, then felt silly for doing so.

Isaac came out a moment later. Sorry to keep you waiting.

Sorry to have torn you away from my father. Must have been scintillating.

Wouldn’t matter if it had been.

Molly knew she needn’t look away. Confident, are you?

Any reason not to be?

My, my. Grinned, shrugged. Perhaps one or two.

Touché. Nodded, gestured ahead. Let’s.

They walked together for a few minutes, though an arm’s length apart. No words, only crickets. Boxwoods lined both sides of the path.

Love their fragrance, Molly said.

Me, too. Very much. These were brought over when the house was built. Some of the bigger ones are over fifty years old. The gardener’s using their cuttings to grow more.

You must love living here. A fortunate son, you are.

It’s a double-edge sword. The trappings are the bait.

Bait?

To accept the burdens. Isaac shook his head. Believe me, they are many.

She considered his words. Seemed a different world to her. We all have our own crosses to bear.

Indeed, we do. Stopped, faced Molly. Meaningless without happiness, aren’t they?

You like being happy, don’t you?

It’s simply better than being sad. Makes having fun that much more fun.

She stopped, turned round sudden. Is that so? Molly held her hands tight behind her back. Catch me.

Isaac chased. She ran fast, though not fast enough. Took her soft by the elbow, whispered in her ear. You’ve been caught.

Smiled, knew she needn’t look away.

Isaac turned back. Let’s go back to the house before we’re missed.

Let’s walk a bit longer. It’s a beautiful evening.

He smiled, nodded.

They strolled the garden path. Though dusk had yielded to starry skies, a lingering glow remained above the distant ridge. Thunder rumbled somewhere far away, echoed faint across the valley. They returned to the house. No one seemed to notice or care that they had been outside together.

Burwell stood speaking about building mills with Isaac’s father at the front door. Patricia held an armful of coats, waited to help the guests into them. Isaac took Molly’s shawl from the housemaid, held it for Molly to wrap around her shoulders.

Thank you. Pulled the shawl tighter. This was lovely.

Isaac leaned close, spoke soft. Can’t wait to see you again.

Molly turned to face him, grinned. Soon.

She joined her parents, said their goodbyes to Isaac’s parents. Isaac waved to them all as they walked down the path toward the carriages.

Goodnight, Burs, Spotswood said to Burwell. Don’t forget your cane.

Never. Burwell laughed, withdrew it from the stand. It speeds my progress from drink to drink.

Spotswood closed the door behind Burwell and his wife. Isaac’s mother turned away, gathered her gown, headed upstairs.

Staying or going? Spotswood asked his son.

Isaac opened the door. Going.

Mind the roads, son. Sounds like a storm’s heading our way.

Isaac left the house, walked toward the stable.

Couldn’t see far, near neither. It was dark. Pale hint of a clouded moon lit the hilltops. Stone walls, dense woods, rolling fields. Followed the creek path most of the way toward Gap Run.

Lightning lit the western sky. Thunder boomed loud. My horse tensed, jigged a bit here and there. Didn’t matter whether the rains came, though. We were heading home.

The cottage appeared. Its walls caught the weakening moonlight different than the trees surrounding it. Rode up, untacked him at the pasture gate, turned him out for the night with the others.

Sat on the front steps, watched the thunderclouds approach. A gusting wind rose quick. Trees swayed. A few limbs snapped. Thought to head inside but wanted to feel the force of the coming storm on my face.

Stars began to disappear. A few at first, then many. Soon the skies turned black as coal. Wondered how long they’d keep shining, how long they’d live until all that light went out for good. Was anything forever? Doubted that anything was, no matter what the vicars preached. Only our deaths, no different than the leaf that falls. The quiet was immense, cold, beautiful.

Then the clouds unleased their rain.

Stood, hurried inside, closed the door.

Molly danced along the edges of every thought, became my only thought. Her quiet smile slew me, her subtle wit even more so. While its solitude had seemed appealing, the cottage felt lonely.

Climbed the stairs, went to bed. Listened to the rain on the roof.

Morning.

Met Samuel outside. Brought two fieldhands with him. They stood behind. Morning, Samuel.

Morning, Mister Isaac.

Plows ready?

Yessir, just need some sharpening. A few straps need replacing. They’ll be ready by tomorrow.

Nodded. Let’s get the front fields plowed by the end of the week.

Yessir, that’ll be fine. Samuel turned to the others. You two go get started. Make sure there’s no loose stitching on any of the harnesses.

They headed toward the shed.

Late night, eh? Samuel grinned. Heard you turning out your horse.

Sorry, tried not to make any noise. Dinner with my parents. They invited the Burwells, some others, too.

Smartest move Burwell ever made, marrying Carter’s daughter.

Don’t know what she saw in him.

Samuel laughed. There’s plenty of him to see, that’s for sure. Heard they had to put stronger axles on his carriage when the old ones broke.

Met a girl last night.

That so?

"Her name’s Molly. Molly Morgan.

Morgan’s daughter. Haven’t seen her since she wasn’t more than a little scrapper. You planning on marrying her?

Laughed. Maybe. Shrugged. Who knows?

Shook his head. Never going to understand you rich folks, marrying up like you do. Fuck when you need some, work when you don’t. Been my observation that marriage ain’t never like what you thought it was supposed to be.

Guess that’s where we’d disagree.

Samuel smirked. Ain’t my place to say, but you don’t know much about anything yet, especially women.

Know enough to know this one’s pretty special.

Might be. He shook his head. Love ain’t simple. You remember that.

Yes, sir. Will do.

Look at me, Samuel continued. White father, negro mother. Men like me, we can have a little, but we can’t have it all.

Someday.

Been that way forever. Always will be.

We spent the morning working on the plows. Used a winch to hoist them. Cleaned them, sharpened them. Did as much work as the others, tried to anyway. My hands benefitted from new gloves. Callouses loomed.

Took a break midday, sat with Samuel, the others, too. We drank water, passed the jug. Talked, shared bread, laughed. A lunch, that’s all it was. The same for all of us, though not the same.

Stood. Alright, back to work.

They stood.

Molly woke early that morning. Sat up in her bed, stretched, looked through the window. Dawn, though not much of it.

Her hair draped loose, curled around her shoulders, shiny, tangled. Rumpled nightshirt hung a hint askew on her bare left shoulder. Rolled from the bed, stood, glanced in the standing mirror, ran a hand through her hair. Wondered brief what Isaac might think. Glanced again, pouted for a moment, blushed to herself.

Crossed to her wash stand, freshened her face. Slipped out of her nightdress, walked back to the mirror, turned,