1818 went out in a blaze of glory. It had been a phenomenal year. Besides the fact that young Jeb Travis had married Cynthia and brought her home to Southampton, Virginia to live, a bumper crop and bumper prices allowed the Travis family to throw a New Years Eve blast that would go down in the annals of great parties as an example to follow. The record snowfall had dressed the countryside in virgin white and a prudish cold but it had not dampened the spirits of the hundreds of people that trekked through deep drifts on hazardous roads to celebrate New Years Eve at the Travis Plantation. Music and laughter flowed like wine and wine flowed like a river. It was a glorious ending to a glorious year.

The corset almost strangled Cynthia to death as she weaved her slender body through the crowd of people, some meandered up and down the stairway, some stood in her way. Between the cumbersome hoops and petticoats beneath her blue satin skirt, the shoes designed by the Marquis De Sade and a headache that threatened her very life, the circular stairway was transformed into an obstacle course. There was no impatience in her voice or demeanor as she excused herself for the umpteenth time, managing to get another inch closer to her destination. To have shown irritation to her house guest would have been improper and she was the quintessential representation of propriety. Nothing but an extreme emergency could have dragged her away from her duties as hostess; this emergency was extreme and embarrassing.