Chapter 4

"Anne Amelia," said her stepmother the next morning, "there is a proper young gentleman coming to visit us, actually coming to see you this afternoon. He's from down near my farm. I want you to put on a good dress, brush your hair, keep your chin up and be polite to him. No smart arse, understand? Oh, and ear bobs, if you please, the gold ones."

Anne sighed, chewing her dry toast. "Who is he?"

"Thomas Vanmeter. I think you've met. He certainly thinks highly of you. He and his parents were at the wedding, very old family, slave trade mostly. Not sure now, but prosperous."

Anne shook her head, tumbling her long and unruly curls. "Never heard of him."

"He has asked your father to pay you court."

"Who, this Vanmeter person, he wants to marry me?" Her voice broke, squeaked in her throat, and she gritted her teeth, embarrassed.

The woman smiled briefly at the girl's discomfort. "Indeed, he might. He is from a very good family. His father is a planter with a slew of mills and his grandfather was a ship builder I believe, down on the Pocomoke. His uncle by marriage knows your father I'm sure, was some kin to Governor Eden's wife."

"Is father home?'

"He has gone to meet with some men, some loyal men of course, at the courthouse I believe, something about taxes."

Anne finished her tea and pushed back her chair. "I do not wish to see this gentleman, madam, this Van-whatever-his-name-is. When father returns, please tell him I would like to talk with him. I will be in my room."

"Sit," snapped the woman, quite loudly, jabbing her forefinger at the girl after slapping the table loudly. "You will do as you have been told, miss. And you will be polite if not charming. You will come when called, no dilly-dallying, and sit up straight and converse, politely. No sulking, no snuffling or thumb-sucking either. Understand? I will not have it."

Anne backed up a step, tipping over the chair. Her father's wife picked up her small bell and rang it. "Sit!" she said again. When the young black maid appeared, she said, "Have one of the boys go cut me some switches, althea will do. Long ones."

Anne ran from the dining room and galloped up the stairs, skirts flying, her heart beating rapidly, bile in her mouth, refusing to cry, not sure whether she was furious or frightened.

At two that afternoon, wearing her ice-blue gown with an edge of ruffled lace across her freckled chest and a pair of antique combs in her unruly red hair, Anne Conroy curtsied and let the fat man with the fancy waistcoat hold her hand and smile at her. She said she was pleased to meet him, and he answered with a small bow that he was honored and asked after her father's health. Her stepmother led them to the sitting room where Anne perched on the front two inches of a wobbly chair with her hands folded in her lap, sitting up very straight, heels together, and the gentleman lounged on the settee and crossed his silk-stockinged legs. His low-heeled shoes displayed very large, silver buckles and there were others at his knees. His wrinkled neckcloth was wide and lace trimmed, and his cuffs had a wad of heavy lace dangling from them.

"I'll be back directly," Mrs. Conroy said with a smile, "while you get acquainted."

"Fine wedding, eh?" said the uneasy man, doing his best to look pleasant. Thomas Vanmeter was the wastrel son of a wealthy father and befuddled mother, a pudgy young man who had bedded a number of his family's younger slaves, associated regularly with variously-colored whores and courtesans in Annapolis and Georgetown, and who had unsuccessfully courted several wealthy young women on the Shore and in southern Maryland's tobacco plantations. Some called him a degenerate; others dismissed him as a burr. There were embroidered rumors about his weakness for slim boys and his taste for coca leaves.

Anne nodded and looked at her slippered toes, controlling both her temper and her breathing, amused by the man's trifling bar wig and quite aware of his assessing gaze and round belly.

"Dulany's a good man, bright fellow."

"You think so?" Anne licked her lips, ready to spar. "Struck me as a dull sort. He simpers and snorts continuously."