The first part of Georgiana’s journey had been, if not enjoyable, at least not wholly unpleasant. She was unaccustomed to the sea at first, but adjusted better than she herself would have predicted. By the time the ship arrived in Boston harbor she had even begun to almost enjoy her periodic strolls around the cramped deck space. She was fairly confident that the captain’s attempt at genteel speech and manners was a consequence of her father having paid the man to secure his behavior (along with that of his crew). Either way, Captain Jamieson afforded her every possible courtesy and for that she was grateful.
Her mother had worried about the voyage because she thought Georgiana too trusting, while her father had worried, rather, that his daughter was merely too adept at convincing others that she possessed that flaw. In reality, neither of her parents’ worries had much chance to manifest itself: the crew kept to themselves and Georgiana more or less did the same.
The remainder of her travels, however, was far from enjoyable. As a city, Boston stood in her eyes as a stark contrast with Georgiana’s native Richmond. From the moment she stepped off the gangplank she wanted nothing more than to make her exit as swiftly as possible. Fortunately, she found that the next coach was prepared to leave northward for the Vermont Republic in a few hours’ time. Her body told her to stay the night, but the inhospitable air of Boston drove her onward almost as forcefully as the desire to reach her uncle.
An endless procession of trees and farmhouses was interrupted only occasionally by the church steeple of some isolated hamlet. Quaint villages and even the most sprawling homestead, however, all lay under the pall of a dreary northeastern sky. Intermittent rain seemed determined to keep the roads in a constant state of muddiness that danced the line between passable and useless. It felt as if weeks had passed since she left Boston and as if the day she had left Richmond was a lifetime in the past by the time she finally arrived at her destination.
The clouds seemed to roll away just as the coach was arriving in Windsor, Vermont. Georgiana had arranged with the driver to take her directly to the boarding house where Uncle Joseph was staying and he was also kind enough to retrieve her trunk before driving the horses back down the street toward their stables.
Georgiana was admitted to the house by a girl who must have been about her same age. She wore an apron that seemed fit only for kitchen work and the sleeves on her blouse were rolled up past her elbows. She tucked a stray piece of flaxen hair behind her ear before speaking.
“Is that your trunk?” she asked, gesturing impatiently past Georgiana.
“Yes, it is.”
“You must be the lady from Virginia,” she said, almost as if Georgiana were not there. “I’ll have to go get my brother William to bring it in; he’s chopping wood out back right now. But you can come in and I’ll show you to your room.”
“Thank you, but before I settle in—and, oh, I hope you will forgive me for not asking your name—but first I would like to see my uncle.”
“My name is Lucy, ma’am.”
As she released the words, she also inadvertently released her grip on the rag she had been holding. A sigh of exasperation escaped her lips as she stooped to recover the rag.
She continued: “Mother won’t allow anyone in to see the gentleman unless she’s the one to let them in. I expect her to return to the house any minute now; she only just went two doors down to—well, here she comes now, in fact. I’ll send William around for the trunk.”
Before Georgiana could even take a breath, Lucy had disappeared inside the house, clearly somewhat relieved to have the responsibility of attending to this particular guest lifted from her shoulders. Turning to her left, Georgiana met the eyes of Lucy’s mother.
“Good afternoon, young lady. No doubt you are Ms. Burwell whom we have been awaiting. I am Anne Mayfield, but most of the townspeople have taken to calling me ‘the widow Mayfield’ since my husband died. Come this way and I’ll show you your room.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Mayfield. I certainly am eager to get to my room and rest awhile, but, if you please, I will not be able to rest peacefully until I have seen my uncle.”
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Mrs. Mayfield paused and studied Georgiana for a moment. Georgian studied her right back, taking note of the worry lines that creased the woman’s forehead and the two striking streaks of silver hair that swept back from her forehead and joined at the nape of her neck to form a functional bun of striated gray and darkest brown.
“Ms. Burwell, I hope you will not think I am overstepping my bounds as the lady of the house to say that you impress me as being of the same single-minded character as my Lucy. That being the case I know it would be futile to try to convince you to rest first and see your uncle later. This way.”
Georgiana sensed that there was an unspoken “Just don’t say that I didn’t warn you” left hanging in the air. She also sensed, however, that there would have been no malice in it.
The front door of the house opened into a foyer that was, in some ways, similar to that of her uncle’s house: serving the dual purpose of a functional and hospitable space. Sounds from the rear of the house indicated a kitchen in that direction. Where one might have expected a sitting room of some sort to her left was, instead, a room that seemed stuffed to the limit with tables and chairs, presumably a dining area. To her right was a room that seemed much more inviting, with a fireplace, a writing desk, and several comfortable-looking chairs. It was into that room that Mrs. Mayfield ushered her young guest.
“We moved him down here so that it would be easier for the physician to make visits. Dr. MacLean still manages to get around pretty well for a man of nigh seventy years, but the stairs take their toll and for a while there he was having to see to Mr. Randolph almost daily.”
They crossed to the back corner of the room where Georgiana noticed a door that was not visible from the foyer, situated, as it was, behind a screen. Mrs. Mayfield stood outside the door for a moment and listened before opening it very slowly and peering in.
She beckoned Georgiana with her hand, but also pressed a finger to her lips, imploring Georgiana to be quiet.
“He’s sleeping,” she whispered. “And it’s as peaceful a sleep as I’ve seen him have in what must be almost a week. There’s a chair by the bed, but I suggest you sit with him just for a minute or two.”
Georgiana slipped past Mrs. Mayfield and into the room as quietly as she could, hardly daring to breathe lest she disturb her uncle’s sleep. Without looking down at the bed she found her way to the chair and sat down, closing her eyes and composing herself with a deep breath.
When she opened her eyes and looked at the man who slept at her side, it was all Georgiana could do to keep herself from crying out. As she remembered him, her dear Uncle Joseph bore almost no resemblance to the pitiable creature who lay in the bed. This man looked at least twenty years older than her uncle, and although Joseph Randolph, even since childhood, had never been described as thickset, he now appeared to be on the verge of wasting away altogether. As gently as she could, Georgiana placed her hand on his, and she began to softly cry.
Whether a minute or an hour passed before Mrs. Mayfield returned, Georgiana could not have said. The older woman entered without disturbing uncle or niece and guided Georgiana gently by the shoulders out of the room. She felt herself glide up the stairs as if in a dream. Indeed, the transition from waking to sleep passed over her unnoticed.
It had been just before midday when the coach had deposited Georgiana and her belongings outside. When she awoke, however, it was the golden rays of late afternoon that poured in through the window. She estimated that she had slept for several hours at least. Though she found that her uncle’s plight still weighed on her mind, it seemed to rest somewhat less heavily after she had rested. Georgiana resolved to talk with Mrs. Mayfield about how best she could help and to ask to see the physician as soon as possible, but the need to write Camden was overwhelming. With Lucy’s assistance, Georgiana was soon seated at the small writing desk in the room with the fireplace downstairs.
> Dearest Cam,
>
> I scarcely know where to begin. My journey was at times exhilarating and at times most miserable. However, I am safely here now and not too much the worse for wear. The proprietor of the house, Mrs. Mayfield, has been most kind. In fact, when I first arrived and asked to be shown where Uncle Joseph was
Georgiana set her writing instrument to the side, unable to find the words to continue. Scarcely could she describe to herself the overwhelming flood of emotion she felt upon entering the room and seeing her beloved uncle in a state that still defied precise description. How she could adequately convey the situation to Camden left her at an utter loss; upon reflection she was not sure that she wanted to make her future husband feel exactly what she had felt.
She pondered the irony that the compelling need to write to Camden, it seemed, had been matched by a corresponding reluctance to actually carry out the task. However much time passed while she was lost in those thoughts, Georgiana was only revived from her contemplative state when Lucy came in to announce dinner. Ordinarily, the offer that she might dine by herself near the fireplace would have been a welcome invitation. As it was, however, she felt that the best tonic for her reverie might very well be the somewhat boisterous crowd that was just then sitting down for the evening meal in the dining area. She dried her eyes, took a deep breath, and then crossed the hall where dinner and company awaited. The letter would have to wait and with every step she took toward the rest of the guests, Georgiana became more convinced that that was the right thing to do.