other women cooed their approval.
“Then I must come and see for myself,” Mrs. Winthrop said, “for I am certain Mr. Moberly has not told me everything that would be of interest to ladies.” A proper hostess, Mrs. Winthrop now turned her attention to another guest. Yet her comments put an approving stamp on both Rachel and Papa’s business and their presence at this party.
Rachel cast a casual glance across the room and found Mr. Moberly staring at her. Her breath caught, and she hastily turned away. Her glance had also taken in the pleasant look Mr. Corwin sent her. Heat filled her cheeks. Why would these high-born gentlemen thus regard her? She recalled her mother’s cautions regarding men.
Outside the drawing room, a large commotion captured everyone’s attention. Servants hurried past the doorway, and soon the stout black butler entered to announce “Lady Augusta and Major Brigham.”
“Moberly.” Lady Augusta marched into the room with both hands extended toward him. “How good of you to invite us.”
While the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Johnson, released a sigh suggesting envy, Rachel almost gasped at the newcomer’s appearance. Perhaps ten years older than Rachel, Lady Augusta wore a tall, white-powdered wig and a green silk gown with broad panniers and a low-cut bodice. Her face, which seemed well-formed, bore a masklike covering of white. A single black dot, clearly not a blemish, had been placed to the right of her rouged lips, perhaps to suggest a dimple.
Rachel had seen a few ladies wear such a facade in Boston, but surely here in East Florida, the heat would melt that mask off of her face—if indeed the substance melted—before they sat down to dinner. And there stood her husband, dressed in his full regimental uniform, a glaring red banner of British pride emphasized by the haughty lift of his equine nose. Rachel shook away her distaste. She must do nothing to damage Papa’s favor among these people.
Mr. Moberly did all the proper honors to welcome the two latecomers. Their rank demanded that other guests be presented to the couple, so the company filed past them. Major Brigham languidly studied every person up and down through his quizzing glass, as though trying to decide if each were some sort of miscreant. Not one guest elicited a smile or even a polite nod from the officer or his wife.
Instead, Lady Augusta looped an arm around Mr. Moberly’s. “Dear Moberly,” she simpered, “you must show me your house. How clever of you to bring a bit of English country charm to this horrid jungle.”
“Of course, my lady. Come along. All of us shall go.” Mr. Moberly waved his free hand to take in the whole room.
Lady Augusta’s arrogant expression soured into a frown. Rachel could not help but wonder whether the woman had wanted to be alone with Mr. Moberly.
He guided his guests through the house’s ten rooms, each of which inspired Rachel’s admiration. While elegant in all appointments, the rooms were not ostentatious or gaudy. She particularly liked the library and would have been happy to spend the rest of the evening perusing the many books there. Lingering by the gentleman’s desk, she thought she spied a familiar pamphlet partially covered by a book. She longed to know what Mr. Moberly had been reading, but the party moved on, and propriety required her to follow them into the hallway.
“Shall we see the grounds?” Mr. Moberly addressed Lady Augusta, for everyone understood her approval alone would permit the expedition.
“Of course. I should not wish to miss anything.”
Mr. Moberly offered his arm to Lady Augusta, and Rachel noticed with surprise that Papa also offered his arm to Mrs. Winthrop.
The party moved outside, where a cool breeze from the east gave some relief as they walked along the narrow pathways among the plantation’s many trees. Mr. Moberly gave commentary as he showed them the sugar mill, the fields of sugar cane, cotton and indigo, and the fragrant, flourishing orange grove. He took them to the springhouse, a covered coquina cistern that caught water flowing from the earth’s depths, where a house servant dipped in a pitcher and filled goblets for the guests. From there, they moved to Bennington Creek, across which lay vast rice paddies.
As the party wended its way back to the house, Rachel noticed countless slaves, both men and women, at work in the fields, and her heart sank. How she despised slavery, an evil that had been abolished in Nantucket in 1773. Did Mr. Moberly approve of it or merely tolerate it by necessity?
Ahead Mr. Moberly was assisting Lady Augusta up the front steps. How courteously he behaved toward her, and even toward Rachel and his other guests of lower rank. But how did he treat his slaves? The men and women in the fields did not wear chains, but iron bands on some slaves’ ankles suggested they were chained at night. On the other hand, the black servants in the house seemed truly devoted to Mr. Moberly. In particular, Rachel had noticed the little slave girl who sat in the corner of the drawing room to wave the palm fans. The child had gazed at Mr. Moberly with clear adoration.
But despite Mr. Moberly’s frequent friendly glances in Rachel’s direction during the tour of his plantation, she came to know one thing. As proven by the ease with which he socialized with Lady Augusta, any kind attentions he gave Rachel were merely the actions of a gentleman displaying good manners. If she received them with any sort of expectation, she was nothing short of a fool.
In the dining room, they sat down to supper at a long, damask-covered oak table laden with exquisite bone china, delicate etched crystal and heavy silverware with an ornate floral pattern. A vast array of delicacies graced the board.
Rachel found herself seated between Señor Garcia and Reverend Johnson, neither of whom she could imagine to be the patriot. The Spaniard seemed to prefer eating to conversation, but the vicar made pleasant conversation.
“What do you think of the alligator, Miss Folger?”
“I find it surprisingly tasty, especially seasoned with these exotic herbs. And I should far rather eat alligator than for one to eat me. As we came by skiff from the coast, a large one bumped our vessel so hard I thought we would be swamped and devoured.” The memory made her shudder.
“How dreadful. Thank the Lord you were spared.”
Major Brigham and Lady Augusta, on either side of Mr. Moberly, spoke to no one but their host, although the officer seemed to take an inordinate number of opportunities to peruse the company through his quizzing glass. From his perpetual frown, Rachel guessed the haughty man might be having difficulty controlling his temper, but she heard and saw nothing to suggest why. When his stare fell on her, she stared back, and his frown deepened. But what did she care about the opinions of a rude British officer and his equally rude wife?
At the end of the meal, Mr. Moberly directed his guests to the drawing room, where rows of chairs faced the magnificent pianoforte in the corner. “Mrs. Winthrop, will you entertain us with your delightful playing?”
“Now, Mr. Moberly.” The lady shook her head. “Surely someone else can play better than I.” She gazed around the room. “Mrs. Johnson? Señora Garcia?”
All the ladies declined, denying any musical skill.
Standing beside Rachel, Papa looked down at her with a clear question in his eyes, but she warned him off with a frown. As much as she longed to play the beautiful instrument, she refused to put herself forward in this company, where Lady Augusta might ridicule her and who knew what Major Brigham might say.
“Very well, then.” Mrs. Winthrop sat down to play, and the other guests took their places.
