Goodbye to Yesterday

By Nancy Loyan

An American historical saga rich with romance, family, history, change and conflict, set against the backdrop of the founding of a new nation. This is Jenny and Austin's love story from Williamsburg, through the American Revolution and after.

Jenny is a cooper's daughter who marries Austin, a wealthy planter, lawyer and Burgess. Her new life isn't a life of leisure, but one of challenge. A jilted suiter, ghosts of the past, secrets, the war for independence with her husband in battle, the founding of a new country, creates a new way of life.

The years march on, while they witness the birth of the nation, the growth and love of their family, and the security of home and hearth. Will their love survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Schuemann Enterprises LLC
• Release date: Dec 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990512535

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

1768, Virginia

There was nothing ordinary about Austin McGuire. While most planters would have been satisfied with a set of matched grays, his crested carriage was drawn by a pair of snowy white stallions. The horses had an air of untamed civility about them: tall, muscular, elegant, alert, with a will of their own. They were much like their owner.

Austin descended from his gleaming carriage, like a member of the monarchy, self-assured in his place in the Tidewater aristocracy. His navy broadcloth coat was finely tailored, accenting his broad shoulders, chest, trim waist and hips. Fawn breeches hugged firm thighs, and matching silk hose revealed calves, well defined from dancing, and hours spent on horseback.

He stood aside, as a sturdy black male in clean homespun, and scuffed leather shoes, stepped out of the carriage.

Imagine that, Jenny said under her breath, observing the scene before her, as she sat perched on the edge of her seat on the front porch of her family’s modest home. Her mother, seated nearby in a staved rocking chair, stopped peeling potatoes, and squinted at the men. A slave riding in his master’s carriage was unheard of, and the master’s rapt attention, friendly demeanor, and animated conversation with him, defied convention.

The planter patted the slave on the back, and both men laughed before turning to open the gate. They sauntered up the cobblestone walk leading to the front porch.

Master McGuire, Jenny’s mother greeted, bowing her head.

Good afternoon, ladies, Austin replied in a dusky voice, removing his tri-corn hat. He stood with one lean leg on the porch step, as his hand grasped a wooden post.

He flashed a smile, the likes of which Jenny had never seen, with teeth that were straight, and more ivory than the keys on a pianoforte. His hair was natural, not a wig, or curled and powdered like most members of the aristocracy. Wavy auburn hair, thick and full, was tied back neatly in a queu. It framed a ruggedly handsome face that reflected the character garnered from a life half lived. High cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and square jaw lent him sophistication. His eyes glinted with wisdom, tiny lines wrinkling at the corners. The eyes set him apart from other men. They were slightly upturned and as sparkling green as faceted emeralds. Cat’s eyes. His gaze was so intense and prolonged that she had to look away, her face warm and flush.

My husband has been expecting you, Master McGuire, Jenny’s mother said, casting a concerned glance from the man to her daughter. She cleared her throat. The shop is out back, behind our home.

Thank you, Madame. Austin turned to meet the elder woman’s gaze. I trust that Jacob will be a fine worker, as he apprentices with Master Smythe. Your husband is the finest cooper in Williamsburg. Ever since old Willy died, Belle Grove has been in need of a resident cooper. I will be paying Jacob’s expenses, and wages.

Your Jacob shall be trained well, Mrs. Smythe replied, adding, A slave’s expenses and wages?

I do not keep slaves, Madame. My workers are free men, paid for their service. My plantation is no longer operated on the blood of others, unlike most.

Jenny found the revelation startling. No one freed, and paid their slaves.

Austin turned to the hulking Jacob, and pointed to the building behind the frame home.

Pleasure meeting you, Mistress Smythe and Miss? Austin asked.

Jenny, she volunteered, meeting his gaze once more.

A pleasure, Miss Jenny.

He deeply bowed, and led Jacob toward the shop behind the home. Jenny’s gaze followed his elegant form, until he was out of sight.

Don’t be getting any ideas, Adele Smythe reprimanded her daughter.

Ideas? Jenny sighed, craning her neck for one last look.

No dreaming about James River planters. Your hand is already spoken for.

Whatever do you mean? Jenny turned to face her mother, a sinking feeling wrenching her gut.

Adele met her daughter’s startled gaze, and pursed her lips in a contented grin. John Rawles has asked for your hand in marriage.

My hand? Jenny asked. She swallowed hard. It was just like that scoundrel John to be planning something like this behind her back.

Quite a gentleman he was. Adele continued to peel potatoes.

John was far from being a gentleman. Seeing the sparkle in her mother’s eyes made Jenny nauseous. When did he ask?

This morning, while you were out doing seamstress work.

How convenient, Jenny muttered.

He came to your father’s shop and, after, visited here to tell me the good news.

So, father agreed?

Aye. Ever since you were children, it was hoped that you and John would marry. He is a fine young man with a noble craft, who can provide for you. He is set to inherit Rawles’ Forge. Your future, and that of your children will be secure.

Children! The thought of having children with John Rawles made her skin crawl. Jenny shuddered. John had been nothing more than an irritating childhood friend, with whom she was civil only because of their parents’ friendship. Ever since she had developed into maturity, John had pursued her like a bobcat stalking prey. He was always following her, visiting her, trying to hold her hand, or steal a kiss. The more she rebuffed him, the harder he tried. Asking for her hand in marriage was the last straw. In marriage, he would finally possess her. Her mother was a woman, surely, she would understand.

Do you approve, Mamma? Jenny asked, searching her mother’s steely gray eyes for some glimmer of disapproval. None was to be seen.

Instead, her mother looked down at her pot of potatoes, and said, You both are a prefect match.

I do not understand.

What, dear? Adele looked up from her peeling, and sighed.

Isn’t it of any concern that I do not approve? John did not ask me first. Jenny frowned at her mother. How could a mother who claimed to love her, be so willing to marry her off, as if she were chattel being sold to the highest bidder? Jenny’s nerves were like a boiling kettle, ready to explode.

John is being most proper. You should be pleased and content.

But, I am not.

John loves you.

I do not love him! Jenny jumped up from her chair, unable to contain her frustration, and anger. She stepped toward the porch railing, grasping a wooden post for support. Drawing a deep breath, she inhaled the sweet scent of spring. Until this moment she had so looked forward to spring in Williamsburg, with the blossoming trees and budding flowers, the birdsong. Wasn’t spring supposed to be the season of new beginnings? A time for renewal, new life, weddings. Weddings? She choked on the thought of marriage to John, and drew a hand to her mouth to settle the bile rising up in her throat.

Love grows with time, child, her mother said, as if sensing her discomfort. Marry John. ‘Tis better than living your life as a spinster, like your sister, Kathy. Heaven knows, she has had many an offer, but prefers to be lonely seamstress. I shall not have another daughter meet the same fate.

I would rather …

Her mother cut her off. The arrangements have been made. The wedding shall take place at noon exactly one month from today.

The next day, Jenny sat on the Palace Green, smoothing the folds of her coarse linen gown, as its yards of fabric billowed out over the carpet of grass. As she did so every Sunday after the morning worship service, she gathered with her sisters to do needlework and share secrets. With its budding catalpa trees towering over the lush lawn, and commanding view of the Governor’s Palace, the Green was a perfect meeting place.

Jenny surveyed the scenery around her. Rows of neat dwellings with weathered shutters, scalloped cypress roofs, and broad brick chimneys were surrounded by whitewashed picket fences and sculptured hedges. The sandy streets were a flurry of activity with citizens wending their way about the town. Gentry were driven in crested carriages, while farm families bounced in rickety wagons. Young men, attired in Sunday finery, rode astride spirited horses, while others escorted fashionable ladies on foot. Sabbath day was a day for visiting, and a day of rest.

What shall become of me when you are married? Abagail frowned, looking up from her intricate sampler.

I do not know what shall become of me, Jenny answered her younger sister, who was seated beside her.

What becomes of most married women? Kathy, her older sister asked, with pity in her wispy voice.

Jenny gazed at Kathy, suddenly jealous of her sister’s spinster status, and the freedom it brought. A quiet contentment shone in Kathy’s gray eyes.

Marriage? Kathy scoffed, setting aside her needlework. What is marriage but a mockery? A brief ceremony with a minister performing vows according to the Book of Common Prayer? A feast prepared by family and neighbors? Music and dancing lasting several days? A celebration for what? The end of a woman’s youth? An end to a woman’s life?

Aye. Marrying John will be like attending my own wake, Jenny lamented.

Indeed. Common law states that a woman is legally dead when she is married. She ceases to exist, for marriage makes her one with her husband. Only he has rights to everything she owns, and everything she is. That is why I shall have no part in it. ‘Tis better to live poor and alone, than married with nothing. I shall live my life on my own terms.

Surely, Kathy, not every man is a demon not to be trusted. I should like to think that men exist whom are caring and loving, Abagail added.

Perhaps. I have yet to encounter such a man. Kathy picked up her needlework, and began to stitch.

I do not understand how parents who profess to love me, can force me to marry a man I do not love? Jenny asked.

They think they have your best interests in mind, Kathy answered.

They do not know John Rawles.

Dear Jen, you must admit that John Rawles is the only prospect you have. No other men of means are pounding on the door for your hand, Kathy said.

I haven’t actually encouraged them, Jenny admitted.

We are not members of the gentry. We do have choices. We take what we can get, or take nothing at all. I chose the latter, Kathy said.

Mamma is intent that only one of her daughters remain a spinster. She would never permit two in one family, Jenny said.

Or, three, Abagail added.

Oh, why must I sacrifice my life to abide by Mamma’s wishes? Why couldn’t a man love me, whom I could love in return? If I must marry, why can I not marry for love?

Just then, the brass bell in the tower of Bruton Parish Church tolled the noon hour. Jenny stared at the distant salmon brick and whitewashed wooden steeple. Earlier in the day she had prayed within the church. She had felt selfish praying for such personal favors, such as preventing her impending marriage to John Rawles, for finding a man to truly love her, and to be that man’s equal partner, and not his property.

Look, Jenny, Maggie’s come to join us. Abagail’s raspy voice startled Jenny from her thoughts.

A tall lanky girl approached, her stride as ungainly as her appearance. Dark round eyes bulged from an angular face. A tattered straw hat did little to hide her stringy, mud-brown hair. At the sight of her best friend, Jenny’s eyes lit up.

I was able to get away, Maggie said.

Jenny rose, lifting her skirts with a swoosh, and was soon standing beside her towering friend.

We are so pleased you could join us, Jenny greeted, grabbing Maggie’s hand.

It wasn’t easy getting away. Sundays may be a day of rest for most folk, but not for my uncle. Maggie sighed.

Maggie’s uncle was Anthony Hay, owner and keeper of the Raleigh Tavern. Though most of his help were slaves, Maggie was the exception. He had provided her poor family a favor by keeping Maggie in his employ. She had proven herself a capable worker. Her stories of balls in the Apollo Room, visits by the gentry, news and town gossip, made her a welcome guest at the sisters’ Sunday gatherings.

"So, what good news do you have for us today, Maggie?’ Kathy asked.

Why must my news always be good? Maggie replied, as she eased herself down to the lawn, adjusting her faded cotton skirt, and tattered petticoats.

Jenny sat beside her. Any news from Maggie is worth hearing.

Oh poppycock, Maggie said raising her hands in protest. I do have a surprise, though.

A surprise? Abagail’s eyes widened with interest.

As you know, the Court will soon be in session, as will the General Assembly?

Of course. ‘Publick Times’ is when this town finally sparks to life. Abagail squirmed in giddy anticipation.

There will be the usual entertainments and balls, Maggie said with a teasing glint in her dark eyes.

Of which the midalin’ sort, like us may never attend, Kathy commented with a note of disdain.

Never attended, yet. Maggie cracked a smile.

Yet? Jenny asked, searching Maggie’s eyes.

What if I told you that I have gained four tickets to the ball, hosted by Monsieur and Madame La Fontaine, dance instructors, at the Raleigh Tavern, Saturday? Maggie announced.

It mustn’t be much of a ball if we may attend. Cooper’s daughters are far from being aristocrats.

Ah, Kathy, I have the tickets, and word that many a member of the gentry, young male gentry, shall be present, Maggie said, with a twinkle in her eyes.

Though her best friend worked there, the Raleigh Tavern remained a mystery to Jenny. Even with its respectable reputation, few ladies ever entered the tavern.

Customers were either local, or visiting men who gathered for social, business, or political activities. As with most taverns, it was a men’s club for conversation, drinks, billiards, and gambling. Only during balls and entertainments, were women welcomed.

Publick Times was the weekend before the General Assembly and Courts were to meet. Since Williamsburg was the capital of the colony of Virginia, twice a year the governing bodies of the colony convened. The House of Burgesses and the Privy Council met to produce legislation, which the Royal Governor would hopefully endorse, and forward to the British Parliament for approval. Jenny looked forward to all of the activity and life.

The Royal Governor, who resided in the Palace, was England’s representative in Virginia, its most prosperous colony. Unfortunately, Royal Governor Francis Fauquier recently died, and a replacement wasn’t expected until autumn. The acts of government, though, were to continue.

Soon, the taverns would be packed to overflowing as Williamsburg’s population doubled. The normally sleepy town was already beginning to awaken with visitors of every sort. There were farmers with produce and stock to sell, troupes of actors and entertainers, woodsmen, Indians, fashionable men and women from outlying plantations, and politicians and lawyers attending to their duties. Publick Times was the most important occasion for society and the local economy.

The Raleigh Tavern was the center of activity, and its ballroom, the Apollo Room, was the largest room in the tavern, and the most popular place to sponsor a ball. At ten shillings, the rectangular room was expensive to rent. Traveling dance instructors, like the La Fontaines sold tickets to cover their expenses. They hosted a ball to entertain, as well as to instruct in the latest minuet and dance techniques. Virginians loved to dance, and an opportunity to learn the latest steps was not to be missed.

The Smythe sisters, and Maggie Hay had a difficult time containing their excitement at this, their first ball. Attired in their Sunday’s best, they stood entranced at the tableau before them. Under the golden glow of wall sconces and glimmering brass chandeliers, gallant men in fine brocade led elegant ladies in a graceful minuet. The La Fontaines, poised like royalty, led the dancers in the intricate footwork and delicate hand movements.

It was a mistake for us to attend, Kathy commented with a smirk. Those who are gentry are dancing, while we who are not, must stand and watch.

Not everyone, Sis, Abagail said, and pointing with her closed fan, added, There is Iris Adams with the gunsmith’s son.

But look at them dance. Two left feet he has. They cannot compare to gentry. See the girl in the golden silk? Her hair is piled high and powdered. Her dainty feet glide on air. The gentleman with her is so dashing and genteel. Kathy frowned and with a sigh and added, This ball is nothing but an entertainment. They just want to prove how uncivilized we are.

I dare say you are jealous, Kathy, Jenny said, turning to her sister.

So, I am. Why cannot we all be gentry?

Because you must be born into it. Is that not right, Jenny? Abagail asked.

I beg to differ. Jenny opened her plumed fan, held it under her eyes and perused the dancers. If we had fine silk gowns, and curled and powdered hair, we would blend with the others. Mother, after all, was manor-born in England. She raised us to be learned and cultured. Her father may have lost his fortune, and she may have wed a cooper, but the blood of gentry flows in our veins, just as it flows in theirs.

Jenny couldn’t help but notice the eyes set upon her. Piercing green eyes gazed at her, their intensity and power penetrating her very being. Shivering, she wanted to look away as was proper, but instead, was drawn to them. The exchange made her blush, and she was grateful that the fan hid the bottom half of her face.

Jenny, are we really gentry? Abagail giggled.

Foolish girls, Kathy snapped.

Jenny ignored her sisters. Instead, she waved her fan and batted her lashes at Austin McGuire, who casually leaned his frame against the marble fireplace mantel. She had read about the art of flirtation in a book once. Though inappropriate behavior, she was in the mood to defy convention. She gasped, when the handsome planter winked at her in acknowledgement.

Here comes your intended, Jenny, Maggie announced, nudging Jenny from her clandestine exchange.

Jenny turned to see the towering, muscular bulk of John Rawles approach. His stride was long and confident. He was powerfully built, a sturdy and tanned animal. His curly hair was black, and his coal eyes glistened in a steady beam directed at Jenny. For all of his mass, he made a graceful bow in greeting.

What a pleasant surprise to see you here, my Jenny, John Rawles drawled.

A surprise, indeed. Jenny snapped her fan closed.

How are the other Smythe sisters? And, if it isn’t Maggie Hay, he greeted, flashing a jagged, yellow smile.

Very well, the girls replied in unison.

Shall we dance, my Jenny? he asked, grasping her arm, and pulling her toward the dance floor, where others were lining up for a country reel.

He stared down at her with his coal eyes, eyes as dark and burning as the fire with which he worked.

Jenny avoided his smoldering gaze, but could not escape his sooty scent, or his touch as he held her hands. His hands were like leather, bruised and callused against her delicate flesh. She likened his long fingers to talons sharply encircling her narrow hands. She was grateful that it was a country dance, for she could not tolerate his rough touch on other parts of her body.

What brings you here? he asked, his voice as rough as his hands.

Maggie had tickets.

Your parents approved?

Aye. What harm can come to four girls at the Raleigh, under Master Hay’s watchful eye?

Since I am your intended, you should have asked my permission.

She looked up at him, eyes glaring. Just as you consulted me, before requesting my hand in marriage?

He chuckled. You should be pleased that I want to marry you. After all, you are almost twenty, well beyond the desirable age.

What are you trying to say, John? She tried to remove her hands from his firm grip.

Girls your age are either wed with wee ones, or spinsters, like your sister. He cast a glance at Kathy, who stood watching them.

Billy, a slave and resident musician at the Raleigh, picked up his fiddle and began to play. With three other couples, Jenny and John formed a square. The couples circled together, passed partners, went swinging in couples, and marched in line.

As the dance progressed, and she switched partners with members of another square, Jenny couldn’t help but notice glittering green eyes focused on her. Austin McGuire had become her new partner. She looked up, drawn to his magnetic gaze.

Enchanted to meet you here, Jenny Smythe, he said, with a degree of familiarity she found unsettling.

Austin stood before her, impeccably attired in a gold embroidered waistcoat with cream coat and breeches. The ruffled collar and cuffs gave him a regal aura, that would have made a Royal Governor jealous. She couldn’t help but stare. The candlelight added a golden glow to his complexion, a gleam to his teeth when he smiled, and a flicker of fire in his eyes.

As he took her trembling hand, she thought she would surely faint. His grasp was gentle, his broad hands soft, the same feeling as when she donned kidskin gloves. With assured ease, he led her into the dance steps. He was a fine dancer, steady of foot, and graceful of form.

You have a way with a fan, though you do not require a fan to solicit a man’s attention, he commented, as they moved to the music. A fan has led many a maiden into a compromising position. Be careful to whom you speak with your fan.

Before she could respond, he spun her around, and handing her off to her next partner, disappeared to the end of the line of dancers.

John appeared, and Jenny found herself, once again, face-to-face with him.

How do I measure up to the stuffy gentlemen? John asked, puffing out his chest, and eyeing the men in embroidered broadcloth and silk.

You cannot, she wanted to say, but held her tongue. The music stopped, and dancers dispersed from the floor. She looked away to search the crowd for Austin, but didn’t see him. She turned back to John, who still held her hands, and stood firmly on the dance floor.

I reckon I’m not cut out for this sort of life, John said. Their ways are not my ways. Give me my hammer and anvil, an honest living. Planting and politics are not the games of real men.

I know. You play your own games, Jenny mumbled.

John grabbed her by her shoulders with his rough bear-paw hands, and gave her a not-so-gentle shake. I play to win. And, Jenny, I won you. You’re mine.

Dancers formed a line beside them on the floor, preparing for another round. Jenny wanted to run away, not dance. She longed to escape from John, his possessive words, and rough ways.

As the music began, John gripped her hands. As they circled and swayed with the up-tempo music, John stumbled and missed steps.

Jenny was grateful when handed off to other partners. One hand met hers with a gentle, knowing grip. Smooth hands held hers, with the gentleness of a caress.

We meet again, Austin said, turning her hands palm-up. You are distressed. Your hands are trembling, and are as cold as ice.

She looked away from his furrowed brows, and concerned gaze.

He rubbed her hands briskly in his. I hope it is not I that causes such concern?

No, not at all. She forced a smile, trying not to think of John, and looked up at him.

A fair young maiden, such as yourself should have a happy heart, not a heavy one.

How did he know? Was it that obvious? Her mother always told her that she wore her emotions so openly.

His hand encircled her waist in step. She gasped at the intimate touch of his hand, and slender fingers around her waist. His scent of spice and leather was as intoxicating as his glittering eyes, and fine manner.

When I call on your father’s shop to check on Jacob’s progress, I want to see a smile on your face. Life is far too short for unhappiness. He released his hand and twirled her.

What makes you think me unhappy? she asked, catching her breath.

One look at your face, when you are with the blacksmith’s son.

Before the music changed, Austin stopped dancing. He stood before her and bowed deeply as if she were a queen. Ignoring the dancers fluttering around them, he took her