A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [120]
“Quite,” Thumson said enigmatically.
Lizzie intervened. “Have you tried the syllabub, Mrs. Thumson?”
The colonel’s wife responded with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Yes, it’s very good, quite delicious.”
“I’m so glad. Syllabub can so easily go wrong.”
Jay knew that Lizzie could not care less about syllabub; she was trying to move the conversation away from politics. But he had not finished. “I must say I’m surprised by some of your attitudes, Colonel,” he said.
“Ah, I see Dr. Finch—I must have a word with him,” Thumson said, and moved smoothly, with his wife, to another group.
Bill Delahaye said: “You’ve only just arrived, Jamisson. You may find that living here for a while gives you a different perspective.”
His tone was not unkind, but he was saying Jay did not yet know enough to have a view of his own. Jay was offended. “I trust, sir, that my loyalty to my sovereign will be unshaken, no matter where I may choose to live.”
Delahaye’s face darkened. “No doubt,” he said, and he too moved away, taking his wife with him.
Roderick Armstead said, “I must try this syllabub,” and turned to the table, leaving Jay and Lizzie with his drunk brother.
“Politics and religion,” said John Armstead. “Never talk about politics and religion at a party.” And with that he leaned backward, closed his eyes and fell flat.
Jay came down to breakfast at midday. He had a headache.
He had not seen Lizzie: they had adjoining bed rooms, a luxury they had not been able to afford in London. However, he found her eating grilled ham while the house slaves cleaned up after the ball.
There was a letter for him. He sat down and opened it, but before he could read it Lizzie glared at him and said: “Why on earth did you start that quarrel last night?”
“What quarrel?”
“With Thumson and Delahaye, of course.”
“It wasn’t a quarrel, it was a discussion.”
“You’ve offended our nearest neighbors.”
“Then they’re too easily offended.”
“You practically called Colonel Thumson a traitor!”
“It seems to me he probably is a traitor.”
“He’s a landowner, a member of the House of Burgesses, and a retired officer—how in the name of heaven can he be a traitor?”
“You heard him talk.”
“That’s obviously normal here.”
“Well, it’s never going to be normal in my house.”
Sarah, the cook, came in, interrupting the argument. Jay ordered tea and toast.
Lizzie got the last word, as always. “After spending all that money to get to know our neighbors you succeeded in making them dislike you.” She resumed eating.
Jay looked at his letter. It was from a lawyer in Williamsburg.
Duke of Gloucester Street
Williamsburg
29 August 1768
I am commanded to write to you, dear Mr Jamisson, by your father, Sir George. I welcome you to Virginia and hope that we shall soon have the pleasure of seeing you here in the colonial capital.
Jay was surprised. This was uncharacteristically thoughtful of his father. Would he start to be kind, now that Jay was half a world away?
Until then, please let me know if I may be of any assistance. I know that you have taken over a plantation in difficulties, and that you may choose to seek financial help. Allow me to offer my services should you require a mortgage. I am sure a lender could be found without difficulty. I remain, Sir,
your most humble and obedient servant—
Matthew Murchman.
Jay smiled. This was just what he needed. The repair and redecoration of the house, and the lavish party, had already put him up to his neck in debt with local merchants; and Sowerby kept asking for supplies: seed, new tools, clothes for the slaves, rope, paint, the list was endless. “Well, you needn’t worry about money any longer,” he said to Lizzie as he put down the letter.
She looked skeptical.
“I’m going to Williamsburg,” he said.
28
WHILE JAY WAS IN WILLIAMSBURG LIZZIE GOT A LETTER from her mother. The first thing that struck her about it was the