A Place Called Freedom (1995)

“I came to see you,” she said. “If you wash your face you can walk out with me—that is, if you don’t have to go to tea with any fine ladies.”

He must have appeared doubtful, for she added: “Don’t look so startled. You probably think I’m a whore, but I’m not, except in desperation.”

He took his sliver of soap and went down to the standpipe in the yard. Cora followed him and watched as he stripped to the waist and washed the coal dust from his skin and hair. He borrowed a clean shirt from Dermot, put on his coat and hat, and took Cora’s arm.

They walked west, through the heart of the city. In London, Mack had learned, people walked the streets for recreation the way they walked the hills in Scotland. He enjoyed having Cora on his arm. He liked the way her hips swayed so that she touched him every now and again. Because of her striking coloring and her dashing clothes she attracted a lot of attention, and Mack got envious looks from other men.

They went into a tavern and ordered oysters, bread and the strong beer called porter. Cora ate with gusto, swallowing the oysters whole and washing them down with drafts of dark ale.

When they went out again the weather had changed. It was still cool, but there was a little weak sunshine. They strolled into the rich residential district called Mayfair.

In his first twenty-two years Mack had seen only two palatial homes, Jamisson Castle and High Glen House. In this neighborhood there were two such houses on every street, and another fifty only a little less magnificent. London’s wealth never ceased to astonish him.

Outside one of the very grandest a series of carriages was drawing up and depositing guests as if for a party. On the pavement either side was a small crowd of passersby and servants from neighboring houses, and people were looking out from their doors and windows. The house was a blaze of light, although it was midafter noon, and the entrance was decorated with flowers. “It must be a wedding,” Cora said.

As they watched another carriage drew up and a familiar figure stepped out. Mack gave a start as he recognized Jay Jamisson. Jay handed his bride down from the carriage, and the bystanders cheered and clapped.

“She’s pretty,” Cora said.

Lizzie smiled and looked around, acknowledging the applause. Her eyes met Mack’s, and for a moment she froze. He smiled and waved. She averted her eyes quickly and hurried inside.

It had taken only a fraction of a second, but the sharp-eyed Cora had not missed it. “Do you know her?”

“She’s the one gave me the fur,” Mack said.

“I hope her husband doesn’t know she gives presents to coal heavers.”

“She’s throwing herself away on Jay Jamisson—he’s a handsome weakling.”

“I suppose you think she’d be better off marrying you,” Cora said sarcastically.

“She would, too,” Mack said seriously. “Shall we go to the theater?”

Late that evening Lizzie and Jay sat up in bed in the bridal chamber, wearing their nightclothes, surrounded by giggling relations and friends, all more or less drunk. The older generation had long since left the room, but custom insisted that wedding guests should hang on, tormenting the couple, who were assumed to be in a desperate hurry to consummate their marriage.

The day had passed in a whirl. Lizzie had hardly thought about Jay’s betrayal, his apology, her pardon, and their future in Virginia. There had been no time to ask herself whether she had made the right decision.

Chip Marlborough came in carrying a jug of posset. Pinned to his hat was one of Lizzie’s garters. He proceeded to fill everyone’s glasses. “A toast!” he said.

“A final toast!” said Jay, but they all laughed and jeered.

Lizzie sipped her drink, a mixture of wine, milk and egg yolk with sugar and cinnamon. She was exhausted. It had been a long day, from the morning’s terrible quarrel and its surprisingly happy ending, through the church service, the wedding dinner, music and dancing, and now the final comic ritual.

Katie Drome, a Jamisson relation, sat on the end of the bed with one of Jay’s white silk stockings in her hand and threw it backward over her head. If it hit Jay, the superstition said, then she would soon be married. She threw wildly but Jay good-humoredly reached out and caught the stocking and placed it on his head as if it had landed there, and everyone clapped.

A drunken man called Peter McKay sat on the bed beside Lizzie. “Virginia,” he said. “Hamish Drome went to Virginia, you know, after he was cheated out of his inheritance by Robert’s mother.”

Lizzie was startled. The family legend was that Robert’s mother, Olive, had nursed a bachelor cousin while he was dying, and he had changed his will in her favor out of gratitude.

Jay heard the remark. “Cheated?” he said.

“Olive forged that will, of course,” McKay said. “But Hamish could never prove it, so he had to accept it. Went to Virginia and was never heard of again.”

Jay laughed. “Ha! The saintly Olive—a forger!”

“Hush!” said McKay. “Sir George will kill us all if he hears!”