He purchased a bondswoman just to act as a caregiver for his daughter who had lost her mother.
But when he discovered what she was doing every night in secret, his life completely altered.
In the America of 1853, at the peak of antibbellum prosperity, men of southern high society met their household requirements by buying bonds people as though they were pieces of furniture.
Among plantation owners and wealthy traders, employing a bondswoman nurse was standard and convenient practice.
Colonel William Harrison Bowmont was anxious to find someone who would look after his three-year-old daughter after losing his wife during the delivery of their second child.
He purchased Catherine, a young 25-year-old bondswoman, expecting only that she would keep the girl fed and clean.
Catherine harbored secrets that went far beyond her assigned tasks.
What began as a strictly work-related connection transformed into something neither of them anticipated.
When William discovered that every night Catherine was teaching his daughter something prohibited by law, something that could cost both of them their freedom, but revealed a spirit so extraordinary that it made the colonel doubt everything he believed.
When the truth about Catherine’s background came to light, that she was not just a common bondswoman, but a woman with schooling that equaled his own, the controversy that followed shook the foundations of Charleston society.
The affection that developed between them challenged not only social norms, but the statutes of the land.
What happened when a powerful man discovered he had acquired not a servant but a tutor in disguise will illustrate how genuine love can bloom in the most unlikely settings and transform lives permanently.
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The slave market of Charleston, South Carolina was busy on the muggy morning of September 1853 when Colonel William Harrison Bowmont stepped down from his vehicle with a clear goal and a heavy feeling.
At 34 years old, he had become a widowerower just four months prior when his cherished wife Elizabeth died after issues in the birth of their second child, who also did not survive.
William looked around the market with a mix of disapproval and acceptance.
He had never needed to buy bonds people himself, always giving that job to his overseers at his cotton plantation up river.
But the situation was urgent.
His daughter Margaret, only 3 years old, had cried nonstop since her mother’s death.
She refused to eat properly and had sent away four nurses in a row with her difficult nature.
The child’s sadness showed up as outbursts, night terrors, and a firm refusal to accept comfort from anyone who tried to replace her mother.
The morning air was heavy with the scent of the port, salt and fish mixed with people packed too closely together.
William felt his stomach churn as he watched families being separated, children clutching their mothers, men being examined like livestock.
He had grown up surrounded by slavery, had inherited bonds people with his father’s plantation, but had never personally been involved in this specific trade.
His late wife, Elizabeth, had always managed the household workers, and he had been happy to remain unaware of the unpleasant details.
“I need a young woman, healthy, with background in caring for small children,” he said to the dealer, “A round and sweaty man named Theodore Marsh, who was known throughout Charleston for his selection of house servants, and who has endless patience.
My daughter is challenging.
She has gone through a terrible loss and needs someone with a gentle manner and a firm approach.
I have exactly what your honor requires, replied Theodore, his small eyes brightening at the chance of a large transaction.
He led William through the market to a more private section where the more costly items were kept, away from the typical field hands and dock workers.
A top piece, young, strong, very tidy, came from a plantation in Virginia, where she looked after the master’s children.
Light-skinned, refined features, knows how to behave in a gentleman’s home.
Worth every cent, I promise you.
Among a group of women sitting on wooden benches, William saw a young woman who stood out from the others, not only for her looks, but for her stance.
While the others kept their eyes down in submission, accepting their fate, this woman observed everything around her with a sharp intelligence that interested him right away.
There was something in her way of holding herself that implied she had not been born to this status, though he could not quite identify what gave him that impression.
Catherine was 25 years old, with light brown skin the color of caramel, black wavy hair tied in a simple braid that fell over one shoulder and hazel eyes that seemed to guard deep secrets.
She wore a faded blue cotton dress that had been repaired in several places, but was remarkably clean given the conditions.
Her hands, William noticed, were delicate and well-maintained, not the rough hands of someone who worked in the fields or even at heavy household chores.
Her nails were trimmed and neat.
When she changed position, her movements were graceful in a way that suggested training in proper conduct.
This here is Catherine, said Theodore, with the usual talk of a man who had sold hundreds of people.
25 years old, healthy as a mule, no bad habits, excellent with children, very obedient.
She was raised in a good Virginia household, knows all the correct ways, can also cook if needed, but her skill is looking after little ones.
The family that owned her faced difficult times, had to sell off their house stuff.
Their misfortune is your benefit, Colonel.
William moved closer, and Catherine raised her eyes to meet his.
For an instant he felt as if she could read his mind, as if those hazel eyes could see past his fine clothes and respected name, to the sorrow and despair he carried within him.
There was a depth in that look that made him uneasy, a cleverness that seemed wrong for someone in her position.
Bon’s people were expected to be simple, uneducated, unable of the kind of sharp observation he saw in her face.
“You have background in caring for small children?” he asked her directly, breaking the rule by speaking to her rather than talking only to the dealer.
“Yes, sir,” Catherine replied with a soft but steady voice that had a polished way of speaking he could not quite place.
It was neither the strong sound of the field bonds people, nor the fake talk of house servants trying to copy their masters.
I have cared for many children over the years from babies through their early schooling.
William observed how she worded her response, not just confirming experience, but giving extra information about the age range of her charges.
Most Bonds people would have simply answered yes or no.
Troublesome children, he pushed, who cry a lot, don’t want to eat, children who have lost their mothers.
He saw something move in her eyes, a shadow of pain that suggested personal experience with loss.
“Yes, sir,” she said softly.
“Children who are grieving require special attention.
They need patience, steadiness, and someone who understands that their behavior is not defiance, but sadness finding its way out.
The remark was so insightful, so exactly in line with what the doctor had told him about Margaret’s state, that William felt his breath stop.
He stared at Catherine, trying to figure out how a Bond’s woman could say what he himself had struggled to grasp.
“How did you know?” he asked quietly, forgetting for a moment that Theodore was listening.
“How did you know about my daughter’s situation?” “By the way you speak of the girl, sir,” Catherine said, her voice gentle, “and by the sorrow in your eyes.
A man does not come to buy a nurse with such speed unless his need is urgent, and that kind of urgency usually comes from love and loss combined.” Theodore shifted awkwardly, clearly not happy with his item speaking so openly.
“Now, Catherine, you just answer the gentleman’s questions without all the extra talk,” he said sharply.
But William held up a hand.
“No, let her speak.” He looked at Catherine closely.
“You understand sadness.
You have seen it in children before.
I have seen it in many forms, sir.
in children who have lost parents, in parents who have lost children.
Sadness is sadness, whether it wears fine clothing or rags.
The philosophical answer delivered with such simple dignity moved something in William’s chest.
This was no ordinary bondswoman, whatever her circumstances, however she had come to be standing on this selling platform, there was something special about her.
Theodore, sensing the sale was moving in his favor, pushed his benefit.
As you can see, Colonel, she’s well spoken and knows quality care.
A girl like this, she’ll fit right into your household, cause no trouble, and give your little daughter exactly what she needs.
How much? William asked, still looking at Catherine rather than the dealer.
$800.
Now, I know that seems high, but for a skilled nurse of her quality, trained in a proper household, it’s more than fair.
I could get a thousand for her easily from one of the families on Trade Street, but I like to see my items go to good homes, where they’ll be valued.
It was indeed a high price, almost double what a fieldand would cost, and significantly more than most house servants.
But William was desperate, and something about Catherine spoke to him on a level he could not quite express.
Perhaps it was the hope that this unusual woman might succeed where others had failed.
Perhaps it was simple desperation, or perhaps it was something else, something he was not yet ready to name.
“I’ll pay it,” he said.
“Have your clark prepare the documents.” Theodore’s face split into a broad grin.
Excellent choice, Colonel.
I promise you won’t regret it.
Catherine here will serve you well.
An hour later, William was leading Catherine to his carriage, her few belongings tied in a small cloth bundle.
As they walked through the market, Catherine kept her eyes straight ahead, her back straight, despite the shame of her situation.
William noticed how other Bonds people seemed to respect her.
How even in this terrible place she carried herself with a quiet self-respect that demanded respect.
The carriage was waiting on East Bay Street.
Williams driver, James, sat on the box.
James himself, a Bonds person who had been with the Bowmont family for 20 years, lifted his eyebrows when he saw Catherine, but said nothing, simply nodding respectfully as William helped her into the carriage.
During the ride to William’s mansion on King Street in the fashionable district south of Broad, William explained the situation in more detail.
The carriage rolled through the elegant streets lined with palm trees and fancy iron gates past the lovely homes of Charleston’s upper class.
“My daughter Margaret is 3 years old,” he began, watching Catherine’s face as he spoke.
“She lost her mother 4 months ago during childbirth.
My wife Elizabeth developed a sickness after the delivery and did not live.
The child, a son, lived only two days.
His voice broke slightly.
Since then, Margaret has been sad beyond comfort.
She cries for hours, refuses to eat more than a few bites at each meal, wakes shouting from nightmares.
We have had four nurses try to care for her.
The first two she simply wore out with her constant tears and demands.
The third lost her calm and hit Margaret when the child would not stop crying.
I let her go right away.
The fourth left yesterday saying she could not handle the stress any longer.
The child is testing them, Catherine said thoughtfully.
When children lose a parent, especially their mother, they often become difficult as a way of testing whether the new caregiver will also leave them.
Each time a nurse leaves, it confirms Margaret’s fear that everyone she loves will vanish.
William stared at her.
That is exactly what Dr.
Peton said.
How do you know this? I have cared for children in mourning before, sir.
The ways they act are similar no matter the circumstances.
You said earlier that the father must be considered as well.
What did you mean? Catherine paused as if judging how much truth she could share.
Children are sensitive to the feelings of grown-ups around them.
If Margaret sees that her father is also grieving, if she senses his sadness and perhaps his struggle in caring for her while handling his own pain, she may be reacting to that as much as to her mother’s absence.
Sometimes children misbehave because they do not know how else to show that they see their parents suffering.
The insight cut straight to William’s emotions.
He had been trying so hard to stay composed, to be strong for Margaret, but the effort of holding back his own sadness while he trying to comfort his daughter had been draining.
At night, alone in the bedroom he had shared with Elizabeth, he cried, but in front of Margaret and the household staff, he kept up the tough appearance expected of a southern gentleman.
“You seem to know a great deal about the human spirit,” he said quietly.
Where did you learn such things? Life teaches many things, sir, Catherine replied, turning to look out the window at the passing houses.
Loss is a universal instructor.
They rode in silence for a few minutes before William spoke again.
You will be in charge of all of Margaret’s care, feeding, bathing, dressing, playing with, and putting her to bed.
The household is run by Mrs.
Beatatrice Thornton, who has been our housekeeper for 15 years.
She runs a strict place and expects all staff to keep high standards.
You will take your meals in the servants’s dining room and report any concerns about Margaret directly to Mrs.
Thornton, not to me.
Will I be allowed to take Margaret outside to the garden or for walks? The question surprised him.
Most Bonds people would not dare to ask about their duties, but would simply wait to be told.
Yes, of course, fresh air and exercise are important for children.
Our garden is safe and private.
And if Margaret needs something, clothing or books or toys, how shall I let that be known? Books? William repeated.
You think she needs books? She’s only 3 years old.
Children are never too young for stories, sir, and if she is learning to speak well, picture books can help build her vocabulary.
Again, William found himself surprised by Catherine’s thoughts.
I will see that you have suitable materials for her care and learning.
When they arrived at the mansion, Catherine stepped down from the carriage and looked up at the grand three-story building with its tall columns and wide porches.
The house was one of the best on King Street, built of Charleston gray brick with white trim surrounded by detailed gardens closed in by iron fencing.
William watched her face, expecting to see the amazement that most Bonds people showed when first seeing such wealth.
Instead, Catherine’s look was thoughtful, analyzing as if she were noting the household rather than being overwhelmed by it.
Mrs.
Beatatrice Thornton was waiting in the entry hall, a tall woman with iron gray hair, pulled back in a severe bun and sharp blue eyes that missed nothing.
She looked Catherine up and down with a look that suggested disbelief.
“This is Catherine,” William said.
“She will be caring for Margaret.
Please show her to the room we prepared and then bring Margaret to meet her.
I will be in my study if needed.
Yes, sir, Mrs.
Thornton said clearly.
She turned to Catherine.
Follow me.
As William climbed the stairs to his second floor study, he heard Mrs.
Thornton’s voice echoing in the stairwell as she led Catherine upward.
I run a proper household here.
Tidiness, being on time, and following orders are expected at all times.
The colonel is a good master, but he will not put up with laziness or refusing to obey.
Do you understand? Yes, ma’am.
Catherine’s voice responded, clear and respectful, but not survile.
William found himself hoping that Catherine would not be scared by Mrs.
Thornton’s strictness.
The housekeeper was good at her job and loyal, but she ruled the domestic staff with an iron fist, and had little patience for what she thought was weakness or emotion.
The room set aside for Catherine was on the second floor in the back of the house next to Margaret’s nursery.
It was small but cozy by the standards of servants rooms with a narrow bed covered in a simple quilt, a chest of drawers for her clothing, a wash stand with a pitcher and basin, and a single chair near the window.
The window itself looked out over the back garden, giving a view of the carefully tended roses and the old oak tree that stood out in the space.
“This is your room,” Mrs.
Thornton said.
“Keep it tidy.
There will be an inspection every Saturday morning.
Meals are served in the servants’s dining room at six scouts in the morning, noon, and six counts in the evening.
You will eat with the other house staff.
Miss Margaret takes her meals in the nursery, and you will be responsible for making sure she eats properly.
Her clothes are in the wardrobe in her room.
She has a bath every evening before bed.
Any questions? May I ask what Miss Margaret’s daily plan has been? Catherine asked.
What time does she wake? When does she nap? What are her likes for food and play? Mrs.
Thornton’s looks softened slightly.
She wakes early, usually by 6.
She used to nap after lunch, but lately she fights, sleep, and often cries herself into tiredness by mid-afternoon.
She eats small amounts of her food, especially vegetables.
She used to enjoy playing with her dolls and looking at picture books with her mother, but since Mrs.
Balmont passed.
She has shown little interest in toys.
The housekeeper’s voice held a note of sadness.
She was such a happy child before.
Now she just seems lost.
I will do my best to help her find her way back, Catherine said gently.
See that you do.
The colonel loves that child more than anything in this world.
If you can lessen her suffering, you will have his endless thanks.
After Mrs.
Thornton left to fetch Margaret.
Catherine stood alone in her small room.
She walked to the window and looked out at the garden, taking several deep breaths.
3 years since her capture.
3 years of concealing who she really was.
3 years of bearing humiliation and fear.
And now she was here in this beautiful house, tasked with caring for a motherless child.
Perhaps, she thought, this was where her fortune might finally change.
She heard small footsteps in the hall along with Mrs.
Thornton’s heavier steps.
Catherine turned from the window and straightened her back, getting ready to meet her new charge.
Margaret was a tiny thing, smaller than Catherine had expected for 3 years old.
She had blond curly hair that had been carefully brushed, but was already coming loose from its ribbons, and huge blue eyes that took up her small, pale face.
The child was thin, too thin, and there were dark circles under her eyes that showed many sleepless nights.
She wore a beautiful white dress with blue patterns, but it hung loosely on her small frame.
She clutched a worn rag doll in one hand and had the other hand firmly holding Mrs.
Thornton’s skirt.
“Miss Margaret, this is Catherine,” Mrs.
Thornton said, her voice gentler than it had been when speaking to Catherine alone.
“She has come to take care of you.” Margaret stared at Catherine with serious, distrustful eyes, her lower lip shook slightly, as if she were already preparing to cry.
Catherine knelt down slowly, bringing herself to the child’s level.
She made no attempt to approach or touch Margaret, simply smiled softly.
“Hello, Margaret,” she said in a gentle voice.
“My name is Catherine.
I came to be your friend.” Margaret did not respond, only pressed herself more firmly against Mrs.
Thornton’s leg, her eyes never leaving Catherine’s face.
You have very beautiful eyes, Catherine continued, keeping her voice soft and non-threatening.
They are the color of the sky on a clear summer day.
I bet your mama used to tell you that.
I bet she told you that you have the prettiest eyes she ever saw.
At the mention of her mother, Margaret’s face crumbled and tears began to run down her cheeks.
Mrs.
Thornton looked worried and was about to speak when Catherine did something unexpected.
She began to sing very softly a tune that seemed to come from another world entirely.
The words were in a language neither Margaret nor Mrs.
Thornton knew, something African and old, but the tune was painfully beautiful, full of sadness and comfort in equal measure.
Margaret’s crying began to lessen.
She loosened her hold on Mrs.
Thornton’s skirt and took a half step forward, her eyes wide and focused on Catherine’s face.
The tears still flowed, but silently now, as if the music had given her sadness a gentler way to be expressed.
When the song ended, the room was silent, except for Margaret’s shaky breathing.
The child had moved several steps closer to Catherine without seeming to notice.
“That was beautiful,” Mrs.
Thornton said quietly.
“I have never heard anything like it.” William’s voice came from the doorway.
What language was that? Catherine turned, surprised.
She had not heard him approach.
He stood in the doorway with a look of wonder on his face.
“An African cradle song, sir,” she said, getting up from her kneeling position.
“My mother taught it to me when I was very small.
It speaks of stars that watch over children while they sleep, guarding them and keeping them safe through the night.” “You speak African?” William asked, moving into the room.
Some words and sayings, sir.
My mother came from Africa originally and remembered some of the old songs.
William looked at his daughter, who was still staring at Catherine with total focus.
It was the first time in weeks that Margaret had shown interest in anything beyond her own sadness.
“Margaret, sweetheart,” he said gently, bending down beside his daughter, “do you like Catherine singing?” Margaret nodded slowly, still not speaking.
Would you like her to stay and take care of you, to sing to you and play with you? Another small nod.
William felt something relax in his chest, a tiny glimmer of hope.
Catherine, would you mind staying with Margaret for the rest of the afternoon? I think she is comfortable with you.
Of course, sir, I would be pleased.
In the days that followed, William found himself watching Catherine with growing interest and puzzlement.
She moved through the household with quiet skill, her entire attention on Margaret.
The change in his daughter was slow but clear.
The constant crying reduced.
Margaret began to eat more at meals, still fussy with her food, but consuming enough to ease William’s worries.
The night terrors went on, but Catherine seemed to have a talent for soothing the child back to sleep.
William would sometimes wake in the night to hear that strange, beautiful African melody drifting through the house, and he would know that Catherine was singing Margaret out of a nightmare.
More notably, Margaret began to smile again.
Small smiles at first, quick and fragile, but real.
She laughed at something Catherine said during breakfast.
She played with her dolls while Catherine did needle work.
She asked questions about the flowers in the garden as Catherine walked with her among the roses.
William watched these events with relief and thanks, but also with growing confusion.
Catherine was unlike any bondwoman he had ever known.
Her speech was too polished, her knowledge too wide, her manner too sure.
She never overstepped the limits of her position, always speaking to him and Mrs.
Thornton with proper respect.
But there was something in her manner that suggested she was playing a part rather than living her true status.
He noticed small things, the way she held a book when she looked at picture books with Margaret, as if she were reading rather than simply looking at pictures.
The elegance of her movements, more like a lady than a servant.
The words she used, words like consistency and temperament and anxiety, that seemed beyond what a bondwoman would know.
Her posture always upright, her hands always clean and well-kept, despite her work.
One afternoon, about 3 weeks after Catherine’s arrival, William was working in his study when he heard voices from the garden below.
He walked to the window and looked down to see Katherine and Margaret sitting on a blanket under the oak tree.
Margaret was laughing at something, actually laughing, a sound William had feared he might never hear again.
“Catherine was helping her make chains from clover flowers, their heads close together over the work.” “You are a quick learner, Miss Margaret,” Catherine was saying, her voice clear in the quiet afternoon air.
See how you make the loop and pass the next stem through.
That is the way.
You could be a fine seamstress one day if you wished.
Or you could make beautiful things just for the joy of creating them.
Will you always stay with me? Margaret asked, her child’s voice sadly asking, “Will you be my mama now?” William’s breath hit.
He leaned closer to the window, eager to hear Catherine’s response.
I will stay with you as long as your papa wants me to,” Catherine said gently.
“I cannot be your mama because you already have a mama up in heaven watching over you.
But I can be your friend and your teacher and someone who loves you very much.
Would that be all right?” “I suppose,” Margaret said.
“But I wish you could be my mama, too.
Then you could never leave.” People we love do not really leave us, sweetheart.
They live in our hearts.
Your mama will always be part of you in your pretty eyes and your kind heart and your interest about the world.
And I promise that as long as I am with you, I will take care of you and teach you and help you grow into the amazing person you are meant to be.
William felt tears come to his eyes.
This woman, this bondswoman whose name he barely knew, was giving his daughter something precious beyond measure.
She was giving her permission to grieve, while also giving her hope for the future.
She was not trying to replace Elizabeth, but rather helping Margaret learn to live with her loss.
That evening, after Margaret was asleep, William asked Mrs.
Thornton about Catherine’s behavior.
“She is outstanding, sir,” the housekeeper said.
I have never seen anyone connect with a child so quickly.
Miss Margaret has not cried during the day for nearly a week now.
She eats her vegetables when Catherine tells her stories about how food helps us grow strong.
She goes to bed without a fuss.
It is amazing.
What do you know about Catherine’s background? Where she came from before? Mrs.
Thornton shrugged.
Only what the trader told you, sir.
from Virginia, trained in a good household.
Why do you ask, “Does she seem like other bonds people to you?” The housekeeper paused, thinking, “Now that you mention it, sir, no.
She speaks quite well, better than many white women I know, if I’m honest, and she has a way about her, a kind of self-respect that is uncommon.
But she works hard and causes no trouble, so I have no complaints.
” Have you seen her reading? reading, sir.
Mrs.
Thornton looked shocked.
Certainly not.
That would be against the law.
Why would you imagine? Just a question, William said quickly.
She seems educated, that is all.
Well, sometimes Bond’s people learn refined ways from their masters.
Perhaps that is all it is.
But William did not think that was all it was.
Over the next several days, he paid closer attention, and what he observed only strengthened his belief that Catherine was hiding something important about her background.
She was too informed about too many things.
When Margaret asked about birds in the garden, Catherine could identify them by type and tell the child about their habits.
When Margaret wondered about the stars, Catherine explained groups of stars with a clarity that suggested formal education.
She spoke French phrases, occasionally, translating them for Margaret as if teaching a foreign language were the most natural thing in the world, and then two weeks later, William discovered the truth in a way that left him deeply shaken.
It was a warm October evening, and William was working late in his study on letters related to his plantation business.
The house was quiet.
The servants had gone to their quarters, Margaret long since asleep.
He had been working for several hours when he realized he needed a particular notebook from the library on the third floor.
As he climbed the stairs, he heard a soft voice coming from Margaret’s room.
He paused on the landing, listening.
It was Catherine’s voice, but she was not singing or telling stories.
She was speaking in a steady teaching tone that made William’s blood run cold.
This is the letter A, Margaret.
It makes the sound R like in apple or A like in Ael.
And this letter is B, which makes the sound B like in ball or book.
William moved silently to Margaret’s door, which stood slightly open.
Through the gap, he could see Catherine sitting on Margaret’s bed with his daughter cuddled against her side.
Between them was a beginner’s book, a basic reading book, and Catherine was methodically teaching Margaret to recognize letters and their sounds.
Teaching a bonds person to read was illegal throughout the South, punishable by fines and jail.
Teaching any enslaved person to read and write was seen as risky, a path to uprising and disorder.
But more shocking than the breaking of the law was the fact that Catherine obviously knew how to read and read well.
She was not struggling through the primer, but moving through it with the confidence and ability of an experienced teacher.
William stood motionless in the hallway, watching as Catherine patiently guided Margaret’s small finger from letter to letter, asking questions to check her understanding, offering praise and support.
His mind raced with questions and what this meant.
How had a bondwoman learned to read so well? Where had she received such obvious education, and why was she risking serious punishment to teach his daughter? He watched for perhaps 10 minutes before silently walking back down the hallway to his study.
He closed the door and sat in his chair, his hands shaking slightly.
He should face her right away.
He should summon the authorities.
Teaching bonds people to read was not just illegal, but considered a danger to the entire social structure.
If word got out that he was hiding a bondswoman who could read and was teaching his daughter, his standing would be destroyed.
But even as these thoughts ran through his mind, William found he could not feel the appropriate anger.
Instead, he felt a strange mix of respect and interest.
Who was Catherine really? How had she gained such education? And what kind of remarkable woman would risk everything to teach a three-year-old child to read? He did not sleep that night.
Instead, he sat in his study and thought about everything he had seen over the past weeks.
Katherine’s refined speech, her knowledge of history and science and languages, her graceful movements and proper posture, her ability to connect with Margaret on a level that suggested not just experience with children but genuine training in teaching methods.
None of it fit with her supposed background as a bondswoman trained in a Virginia household.
By morning, William had made a choice.
He would speak to Catherine
