Sound of the Heart (21 page)

Lord of all, to Thee we raise,

This our hymn of grateful praise.

The woman’s expression softened while Glenna sang, her eyes closed. “Ah,” she said, her voice like a sigh. “My husband has brought me a bird. But zis is lovely. My children vill sing like zis,
ja
?” Glenna bit her lip, but the woman chuckled. “
Nein
. I know zis is not what you can do. But it vould be nice.” She frowned, thinking. “Maybe Clara can do zis. Ve shall see.” She got to her feet and stepped toward Glenna. The women were almost on eye level, though Frau Schmidt was perhaps a finger shorter. “And now you shall meet ze children.”

A black servant girl who had stood waiting in the doorway now disappeared, reappearing moments later with a gaggle of well-dressed ducklings in tow, uniformed either in sharp waistcoats and breeks or in pinafores, the little girls’ blond curls tied back from shining faces with white bows. They were quiet and respectful while being introduced to their new teacher, but Glenna watched carefully, looking for telltale signs of devilry among them. Out of eight, she thought three might be the “angels” Bess had mentioned.

Once again, Glenna changed identities. To these children, she wasn’t Glenna the Scot or Glenna the prisoner. And she certainly wasn’t Aidan, the waif in the woods. She was Miss Glenna, the teacher. To their parents, she was Glenna the Servant. All strange new costumes for her to wear, but Glenna had always been a chameleon. Stepping into roles had shaped her life. She slipped into her designated black gown, along with a white apron and matching cap, sat the children down for three hours every morning, and did what was expected of her.

For lessons, she drew on memories from their little home in Aberfeldy, remembering the precious hours spent with Dougal, hunched over a flickering candle and learning numbers, or nestled in front of the hearth fire while she plagued him with questions about the world. He had even taught her a little French, but that was mostly when he’d curled up around her in their bed, speaking lovely sounds into her ear. They weren’t suitable words for a schoolroom.

She sang with the children, teaching them hymns Frau Schmidt requested. Once in a while she taught bittersweet songs she remembered from the Highlands, their melodies as sad and lonely as she often felt. In the beginning Ursula had been unsure about the introduction of strange Gaelic sounds into their household, but the music was so intoxicating that eventually she encouraged more.

CHAPTER 35

A Reason

In the afternoons Glenna joined the other slaves in the fields, eternally grateful to Dougal for everything he’d taught her. Fieldwork was backbreaking and endless, leaving the workers beyond exhausted by the time they finally staggered back to their beds. Tobacco leaves were gathered, then parceled together and placed on five-foot poles. Those hung in an open barn that reeked like overpoweringly sweet tea, drying so they could be pressed into hogsheads, huge barrels that transported the harvest to England. The smell of the leaves seeped into the slaves’ clothes, their hair, their skin, so deeply woven into them they stopped noticing after a while.

Aline suffered every day in the fields along with dozens of others, working side by side with the black slaves. They all laboured hard, but Aline faltered. The unfamiliar heat and the relentless, steamy air sucked her strength. Lifting and carrying strained her back and legs so she could barely walk on some days. In the beginning she smiled bravely, assuring Glenna she was all right, but after a few weeks the smile faded, as did the light in her eyes. Eventually she was too tired to speak at all at night, though no one spoke during the day and she had initially craved Glenna’s words.

Then there was an accident, and everything changed. Glenna was working in the fields one afternoon when a panting house slave ran to her. The girl explained, hiccuping as she tried to catch her breath, that two of the children had been playing near a dry well, and one had fallen in. Glenna raced back with her and peered down into the black tunnel of the well. The air wasn’t fresh, coming as it did from the long unused pit, but it was cool, a relief after the fiery fields. She could see nothing, and her fingers felt only slick rock, bringing her back to days on the ships, nights in the cells. Her heart raced at the memories, but when she saw Frau Schmidt pacing, helplessly watching, her hands twisting with the anguish of not knowing, she knew it was up to her.

The well yawned up at her, offering nothing, and she feared she didn’t have the strength in her heart to voluntarily climb over the edge. Then she heard a tiny whimper from the bottom, a sound that so pitifully echoed her own fear of being trapped in the dark. It wasn’t as if Glenna even made up her mind. She just tied her skirt behind her back and used the rope dangling down the well to lower herself to the child.

“Hallo, lad,” she called, trying to sound cheerful as she descended into the chilled shaft. “Did ye have a wee tumble then? I bet that was frightening. Well, dinna fash yerself, love. Miss Glenna’s coming.”

The cries rose now that the child knew there was hope, and she heard weak splashes as the child looked up, trying to see her. “I fell, Miss Glenna!”

“Aye, sweetheart. Rest there. I’m almost to ye. We’ll have ye right as rain shortly. I think Cook has fresh biscuits for ye, too.”

“My arm hurts. And I’m c-c-cold!”

She could tell from his voice and the hollow echo bouncing off the water below that she was almost there. Her feet touched wetness, and she shuddered as she sank mid-thigh into chilled, stagnant water. When she could finally stand, the floor was slick underfoot and she unwrapped the rope carefully, reaching for the sides and trying to find her balance in the darkness.

“A wee bit dark down here, is it no’?”

“I don’t like the dark,” the little boy sobbed.

It was one of the youngest boys, four-year-old Jürgen, who had fallen. She reached for him, squatting beside the trembling body and gathering him to her. The water lapped up against her chest, soaking her through, but she didn’t move as he wailed against her. She did what she could to soothe him while she gently felt for injuries. Glenna could tell straightaway that he was not only scratched and bruised as an apple, but had a badly broken arm. Through some miracle, the boy must have fallen feetfirst, ricocheting off the walls. The water, as disgusting as it was, had saved his life.

“There now, lad. Ye’ve banged yer arm, have ye? Let’s be very careful now. I’ll tie ye, and Josh an’ Peter will tug ye up to the sunshine again, all right?”

The child shook with terror and pain. Glenna tried to calm him, knowing every one of his sobs jarred his arm, making it worse. She carefully wrapped the rope around and under his body, then called up from deep in the well, and two strong black slaves began to gently hoist up the rope.

She waited at the bottom, blinking up as Jürgen was eased toward the circle of blue light overhead. Wisps of clouds skittered past, white and uncaring, perhaps providing a moment’s break for the slaves in the fields. Glenna squatted where Jürgen had landed, knowing it would be a while before they returned for her. Their priority would be the little boy. He would be carried to bed, fawned over, made as comfortable as possible, and only then would they remember her, shivering in the hole. She lifted her chin so she could keep staring at the sky, letting the back of her head slide along the mysterious coating lining the well.

After a life spent in the forests with nothing but wild beasts to fear, she now seemed literally to drop from one prison to the next. Would she never be free to roam on her own again? Was Dougal free, wherever he was?

“Y’all still dere?” she heard.

“I’m still here, Bess,” Glenna replied. “Where else would I be?”

“Takin’ yo’ time outta the sun, dat it? I’m tellin’ ya, you white girls will do jus’ about anythin’ to get outta the sun.” She chuckled and Glenna smiled at the low, fat sound. “We’ll have you back to the livin’ in a moment. Hang tight. Good work with that boy. The mistress is happier ’an a lark, she is, flappin’ around the poor boy. He’ll be gettin’ treats for the rest of his life, seems like.”

Eventually the rope was dropped again and Glenna, not much heavier than the little boy, was pulled up. She helped when she could, poking her fingers into little crevasses along the route, bearing some of her own weight. The circle of light over her head grew with every tug and she held her breath, waiting to feel the sunshine again. She had forgotten how the dark could creep into her, like the cold, and take hold of her spirit.

Jürgen was in bed when she arrived in his room, the covers pulled up to his pale little chin, and a messenger had been sent to bring the doctor. The child alternated between being inconsolable and being eerily silent. Something had to be done, and there was no way to know when the doctor might arrive. Glenna went to her mistress and dipped a curtsy, slightly nervous about what she was going to suggest. Though she fared better than most through her teaching position, slaves were often treated as less than human. How would the woman feel about the offer of a slave’s medical help?

“If ye’ll permit, ma’am, the servant Aline is well studied in healin’. She’d do well for the lad.”

Ursula, chewing single-mindedly on short nails, glanced sharply at her. “Then get her! Get her now!
Schnell!
”

Aline’s eyes were wide as she was led into the manor, taking in the grandeur, the ornamental decor, the aromas seeping through the air from the kitchen. Glenna led her upstairs to the boy’s bedroom, talking to her about what was going on. When they entered the room, she was still staring blankly around, seeing the mistress for the first time, though she’d lived there for weeks.

“Aline,” Glenna hissed and jerked on her arm.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” her friend whispered back. “I’ve no’ been inside such a place in, well, ever. It’s only such a shock.”

“Aye, well, ye must concentrate now. The lad needs ye.”

As soon as Glenna reminded her of her purpose, Aline snapped back into place. The little black house slave Glenna had come to know as Margaret stood nearby, waiting to fetch whatever Aline asked for. When she had everything assembled, Aline paused, fiddling with her fingers and glancing around for inspiration.

Her eyes lit on the table in the hallway outside Jürgen’s door. “Whisky, if ye please.”

“For my little
liebchen
? He’s only a baby!” Ursula cried.

“Aye, I’m afraid so, ma’am. He’ll no’ do well with this wi’out a wee bit of help. Have ye any laudanum in the house?”

They managed to find some and a tiny portion was given, which the patient immediately threw up. Aline frowned, but nodded. “Maybe that’s enough then,” she mumbled.

When she was set, she gazed down at the patient, a calm, motherly smile on her sunburned face. Jürgen stared up at her, big eyes unblinking.

“Right then, sweet lad. I’m goin’ to fix ye up proper, but ye willna like it one bit.”

From the minute Aline set her fingers on the break, Jürgen lost consciousness, making the process easier on both the patient and the women around his bed. She did what she could to heal his other complaints, and the boy, after much maternal worrying and spoiling, eventually made a full recovery. As a result, Aline was promoted to house servant, a position much kinder than her previous one.

At the end of her first week in this role, Aline squeezed Glenna against her. “Maybe this is yer reason for bein’, my friend. An’ if it is, I thank God for ye.” Glenna frowned, confused, and Aline explained, “Ye’ve saved my life, sure as the sun will rise on the morrow. I’d have been dead in another week out there. I’ve no’ the strength for such work. But here, well, I can clean. I can tend folk. I’ve always cleaned an’ tended, have I no’? So I thank ye for this, my dear Glenna.”

The idea was strange, that Glenna had helped someone survive. She had done the same for Brenda, backed into the dark corner of the fort with Sergeant Jennings. Before that, Glenna had considered herself to be somewhat of a harbinger of death. Joseph and Dougal, the two people she cared for more than anything in the world, had both been killed trying to protect her. For Glenna to be the protector felt completely foreign.

But over the next two years, she settled more easily into that frame of mind. She came to care deeply for the children, tending to them as if they were her own. And she was content with that. As much as she would have loved to have held a tiny version of Dougal in her arms, she was grateful it had never come to be. A babe never would have survived her tumultuous life. If it had, it most likely would have been taken from her and sold. She’d heard about families separated and sold piecemeal to the highest bidders. She couldn’t have borne that, to lose Dougal twice.

Aline’s life continued to improve. She was the one sent to New Windsor when supplies needed buying, and it was there that she met another transplanted Scotsman and fell in love. Alan Cunningham was a free man with a small farm closer to the river. It took him a year, but at the end of it, he made his way to the Schmidts’ plantation, dressed in his best suit, purchased Aline’s contract, and asked for her hand in marriage.

As happy as she was for her friend, Glenna was surprised at how quickly Herr Schmidt had accepted the farmer’s coin. It had been done with no negotiations of any kind. The rapid conclusion of the deal seemed odd. But Herr Schmidt was difficult to figure out at the best of times.

After Aline left, Glenna took over many of her duties, meaning she no longer had to work in the hated fields. Now she taught in the mornings, and on some afternoons she rode into New Windsor with Herr Schmidt, doing errands while he stopped in at his favourite tavern.

Going to town was something Glenna never quite got comfortable with. Though it was cleaner by far than London, with that city’s foul streets and air, it was more crowded than she liked, the pace faster than that to which she had become accustomed. Still, it was a taste of freedom she’d almost forgotten, having lived so sedately in the Schmidt household. She didn’t speak to anyone more than was needed for transactions, but listened, filling her hungry mind with the happenings of the day. She heard stories of Indian conflicts, of missing slaves, of a prominent man whose home had recently burned to the ground with him inside. The popular story behind that was it had been set by an escaped slave. Though the relationship between masters and slaves wasn’t something usually discussed in public, Glenna heard enough to know she had indeed been saved from a terrible fate.

Recently, however, Herr Schmidt had become short with her. In fact, he was curt with everyone, including his wife. He had no time at all for the children. And when they set out for town, which they did more often lately, he seemed barely to remember Glenna was there. On the drive in he was quiet, his eyes bright, but most of their return trips were darkened by his scowl of obvious frustration. He began to drink heavily. On some mornings fumes from the night before seeped from his skin, filling the air around him with a stale tang. At first Glenna wondered if the reason for this change in personality could be a mistress, but tossed the thought aside. Herr Schmidt, thank God, was not a womanizer. He was a man of business and efficiency, most likely moved to marital relations for the sole purpose of procreation.

Glenna never stepped inside the tavern, with its impressive white brick front and faded black roof. Except for the lack of outbuildings, the tavern was almost the same size as the Schmidts’ plantation house, and she was cautious, but curious. Few women ever went in, so she limited herself to peeking through one of the large, green-framed windows and observing the dozen or more men inside, seated at round tables.

She studied her master through the window, then marveled at her naïveté. Gambling. Of course. She should have been quicker to recognise the greed and desperation glowing in Schmidt’s dark German eyes. That explained a lot, like the disappearance of various decorative items from the house. Among other things, she’d noticed his fine collection of snuffboxes had grown smaller, and now she understood. Ursula obviously had no idea of her husband’s habit. He barely looked at his wife now, a fact that had the woman tied in knots. She constantly begged Glenna to fix her hair in the latest fashion or sew something alluring to attract his gaze again.

One warm but breezy day in September, Glenna finished her shopping and headed up the main walkway toward the tavern. When daylight hours waned, she usually waited outside the door for him to emerge. She gave a brief but dismissive smile to a couple of men standing outside the door, combining it with a steely glare designed to warn them off. It seemed to work, because they returned to their conversation, disregarding her altogether. Glenna tucked a bolt of soft pink material under one arm and shrugged her basket higher on her other shoulder, then pressed her face against the window.