Lost Lady (James River Trilogy 2)

After a while of slow, easy sailing, they came to another break in the trees. An enormous wharf with more ships could be seen in the distance.

“This isn’t another plantation, is it?” she asked, moving to stand beside Travis. This looked many times larger than Clay’s place, so surely

this was a town.

“It certainly is!” Travis said with a big smile.

“Do you know the owners of this place?” As they sailed nearer she could see that this plantation looked like a blown-up version of Clay’s. By the wharf was a building as large as Clay’s house. “What is that?” she pointed.

“It’s the ship’s store and the warehouse. The captains can replace sails and damaged gear at the store, and goods waiting transport are stored in the warehouse. The assessor’s house is that smaller building.”

There were three small craft tied at the wharf, two barges, and four shallops as Travis called them. To her bewilderment Travis steered the little boat to this wharf.

“I thought we were going home,” she said in consternation. “Do you want to see friends here?”

Travis leaped onto the wharf and pulled her up before she could say another word. Taking her chin in his warm hand, he lifted her face to meet his. “This,” he said quietly, his eyes locked on hers, “is my plantation.”

For a moment she was too stunned to speak. “All…all of it?” she whispered.

“Every blade of grass. Now come on and let me show you your new home.”

Those were the last words they were allowed each other before a mob of people descended on them. Shouts of “Travis!” and “Mr. Stanford!” echoed from one building to another. Travis never released Regan’s hand as he shook hands with what seemed like hundreds of people who came running from every corner of the plantation. And he introduced her to every person, saying this man was head carpenter, this one the second assistant gardener, this woman third upstairs maid. On and on the list went, and all Regan could do was to stand and nod at them while her mind kept repeating, They are all employees. They all work for Travis—and for me.

Somewhere during all the introducing, Travis declared the day a holiday, and before long the field hands were coming to greet Travis too. Great, thick, muscle-bound men came laughing and smiling, teasing Travis that he’d probably gotten soft while he was away. A swift wave of pride shot through Regan as she saw that none of the men was any more muscular than her husband.

As they started walking away from the river, greeting people along the way, some of the employees began asking questions. It seemed that half the plantation was falling apart.

“Where’s Wes?” Travis demanded, walking so fast Regan was nearly running.

“Your Uncle Thomas died in Boston, and Wes had to go to straighten out his affairs,” said a man who was an overseer.

“And what about Margo?” Travis frowned. “She could have handled some of these problems.”

“About twenty of her cows are down with some sort of disease,” the man answered.

“Travis,” said a sturdy, red-haired woman. “Three of the looms are down, and every time I tell a man to fix them he says it’s not his job.”

“And Travis,” another woman said. “The Backes have some new chickens from the East. Could you authorize some money to buy some?”

“Travis,” said a man smoking a pipe. “Something’s got to be done about that smallest sloop. Either it has to be repaired or scrapped.”

Suddenly, Travis stopped and held up his hands. “All of you stop right here. Tomorrow I’ll answer all your questions. No!” he said, his eyes lighting and reaching for Regan’s hand. “I have a wife, and tomorrow she’ll take over the women’s duties. Carolyn, you ask her about the looms, and Susan, you ask my wife about chickens. I’m sure she knows more about them than I do.”

Regan was glad Travis was holding her hand, because otherwise she might have turned and run away. What did she know about looms and chickens?

“Now,” Travis continued. “I plan to show my bride my house, and if I get asked one more question today I will call off the holiday,” he said in mock fierceness.

If Regan hadn’t been so depressed, she would have laughed at the speed with which the people left them, all except for one old man standing quietly in the background.

“This is Elias,” Travis said with pride. “He’s the best gardener in Virginia.”

“I brought something for your new missus,” Elias replied, and held out a flower such as Regan had never seen before. It was a shade of purple that was at once bright and soft. The center was a sort of frilled horn with large tear-shaped petals behind it.

Putting out her hand, she was almost afraid to touch it.

“It’s an orchid, ma’am,” said Elias. “The first Mrs. Stanford had them brought to her whenever the captains went to the South Seas. Maybe you would like to see the glasshouses when you have time.”

“Yes,” she answered, wondering if this place of Travis’s did without anything. After thanking him, she followed Travis as he kept walking away from the river, and for the first time she noticed the tall, sprawling brick house rising before them. Even from this distance it looked as if you could put Weston Manor and Clay’s Arundel Hall in one wing.