Now the icy dread froze inside me, for I’d never heard such a sure promise of violence in my life. And it came from the man that I’d married. The man I’d come to love. Trying to reason with him, I murmured, “But Theo is dead. He’s the one least likely to suffer for it. Maybe you should let him take the blame for the blot on your sister’s reputation.”
Tom slammed his hand to the tabletop. “Richard did it, Patsy! He did everything they’re saying he did. That creature seduced my sister—both my sisters. Then he killed an innocent babe. It isn’t gossip. I know it happened. I know it’s all true.”
Alarmed at the state he was working himself into, I put my hand on his cheek. “Tom, if it’s going to destroy your family, what does it matter if it’s true?”
At this question, my husband jerked away, his black eyes burning. “What sort of man do you take me for, Martha Jefferson Randolph?” He so seldom used my proper name that I stiffened. So did he. “If he pushes me to it, I’ll put a bullet in his heart, because I’m a gentleman of Virginia and cannot countenance a lie.”
To this day, I don’t know why his words provoked me so. Perhaps it was that like my mother before me, I’d heard my fill of supposedly high-minded ideals that rocked nations, put unhappy women in their graves, and somehow ended with people I loved being chased or captured to await execution.
Which would be exactly the fate of Richard and Nancy if their own kin wouldn’t come to their aid. Or it could end with a duel and my husband, the father of my babies, shot dead. I wouldn’t have it. I simply wouldn’t have it. “What sort of man do I take you for, Thomas Mann Randolph? Why, I suppose the sort of man who has enough sense to keep his mouth shut even if it costs him some pride.”
In reply, Tom screamed in my face, “You dare speak to me about the cost of pride? We were there at Bizarre when my sister’s bastard was conceived! There, where I took Nancy on your say-so. If Richard Randolph isn’t to blame for my sister’s disgrace, then I am. And everyone in Virginia seems to know it but you!”
I never saw the blow coming.
My husband’s backhand caught me high on the cheek and pain exploded behind my eye in a burst of tiny fireworks. I don’t remember falling, and for a second or two, I couldn’t fathom how I came to be on the floor. My vision swam with tears and black fuzzy cobwebs of pain.
No one had ever put violent hands on me. Never in my whole life. Not even a nun had so much as laid a strap across my knuckles. I think it was the shock of it, more than the pain, that left me trembling so badly I couldn’t rise to my knees. When I finally looked up, I saw that my husband looked just as shocked.
“Dear God,” Tom whispered, hoarsely, sinking to the floor beside me. He brought his shaking hand to my hair, and I flinched, refusing to let him tilt my face to his view. “Dear God, what have I done to you?”
I’m not sure what I’d have said had the door not flown open. But open it did, and there stood Sally, her kerchief tight on her head, her brow furrowing as she took in the scene.
“What do you think you’re doing, Sally?” Tom snapped. “No one called for you.”
She ought to have fled, but when her majestic eyes found me sprawled on the floor, she stubbornly set her jaw. “Thought I heard something fall . . . you all right, Miss Patsy?”
I couldn’t bear for Sally to know how I’d been disciplined by my husband. That he’d struck me, just as I’d once struck her. “Perfectly fine,” I said over the lump in my throat. “These long and clumsy legs of mine get tangled up sometimes. Tripped over that basket.”
If she knew I was lying, she gave nothing away. Pushing past my husband, she said, “I’ll help you up.”
But gently taking my forearms, Tom said, “No need. I have her now.”
I WAS ALMOST GLAD THAT HE’D HIT ME.
Glad because it absolved me of my guilt.
I’d fretted about my father’s reputation, but I’d given too little thought to Tom’s. I deserved to be slapped to my senses. Everyone would have thought so. Besides, the incident seemed to have shaken Tom to his foundations. The man who said his honor wouldn’t countenance a lie hadn’t contradicted the story I told Sally. He’d taken me to our bedroom and suffered no one else to tend me, bringing me a cold wet cloth for my face and my supper tray with a bouquet of springtime flowers from the gardens.
Now he sat at my bedside, kissing my hand again and again, wetting it with his tears. “Forgive me, Patsy, though I don’t deserve it. Please, forgive me for lifting a hand against you. What a wretched man I am. Heartless, just like my father.”
“You aren’t wretched or heartless,” I said softly, reminding myself that I’d no right to speak to him the way I did and that he had every right to correct me for it. “I’ll gladly forgive your lifting a hand against me if you forgive me for having given such offense to have occasioned it.”
His voice was still shaky, his thumb reaching to brush the rising bruise underneath my eye. “There’s nothing you could say to justify my leaving such a mark on you. I’ve hurt you. My adored wife.”