The Kitchen House (49 page)

Lavinia

W
E IN
L
UCY’S CABIN KNEW
nothing of what happened during that long night. Near dawn, Ben rushed in. His distressed words filtered through the ceiling boards. He was going for Will Stephens, he said. Lucy pleaded with him to stay, afraid for him to leave the property without a pass. He had to go, he argued. Marshall and Rankin had Belle. They were certain that she had knowledge of my whereabouts, and they were going to hang her if she was not forthcoming.

On hearing this, I could no longer hold back. I knew Belle would die before putting all of us in danger, and I knew Marshall would not hesitate to kill her. I became wild and pounded on the trapdoor until Ben opened it. He tried to quiet me, but I no longer could be reasoned with.

“Let me down!” I insisted. “Let me down!” I would have leaped to the floor had Ben not reached for me, and once on my feet, I began to run.

But Elly was not to be left behind. She, too, jumped into Ben’s arms, following my lead. I shouted for her to go back, to stay with Ben, but she refused. I couldn’t think of what to do, so I grabbed her hand and began to run again, staying to the path that ran along the wide stream. It seemed we had been running forever when I heard the whinny of horses ahead. I grabbed Elly and pulled her with me into the shrubs, where I signaled her silence. I heard horses approach and then a man’s voice.

“Rankin,” I breathed, then pushed both of us into the underbrush. We stayed down while they passed a distance from us but
close enough for me to see them and learn from their conversation that they were again looking for runaways.

Where’s Marshall? I wondered. Where’s Belle? We were up and running again as soon as I thought it safe. I pulled Elly along, frustrated at her pace. Finally, she could go on no longer and began to resist me. She pulled back, and her hand slipped from mine. I might have stopped to reason with her, but as we grew closer to home, a strong smell of smoke began to permeate the air, and new fear fueled me. I raced ahead of her, oblivious to my child. My legs were numb, unused to this speed, and my lungs threatened to refuse their purpose. I forbade myself to think that I was too late and focused all my strength on moving toward home. Then I misjudged. Meaning to take a shortcut over the stream, I left the path and tried to dash through the trees, where, to my horror, I found myself trapped. I ripped and pulled to free my long skirts from the thorns of the blackberry brambles that snared me. As I tore my way out, Elly caught up to me again. She clung to my arm, sobbing and trying to hold me back. But a seven-year-old is no match for a grown woman, and in my frenzy, I pushed her onto the ground. She stared at me with unbelieving eyes.

“Stay there,” I pleaded. I turned and ran again down the path until I reached the stream. I meant to cross over by stepping on the rocks in the shallow water, but it was a mistake to not remove my shoes. Halfway over, I slipped on the river stones and fell into the water with a splash. The cold water shocked me, and for a moment I sat stunned, water bubbling by, until I looked up and recognized our springhouse on the other side of the stream. The gray building reminded me of how close I was to home. I rose, my skirts soaked and heavy, and scrambled across the water by clinging to the jutting rocks.

At the base of our hill, I leaned forward to breathe, gasping for air. Somehow Elly had reached my side again, and this time she clung like a kitten to my wet skirts. I was terrified of what she might see ahead, but it was too late now, so I grasped her hand,
and together we crested the hill. I froze. With a whimper, Elly dropped my hand as she sank to the ground. I moved forward slowly, as though in a dream.

Our massive old oak tree stood near the top of the hill, its lush green leaves shading the thick branch that bore the weight of a hanging body. My eyes refused to look up, but I had already recognized the handmade shoes pointing down. My chest ached. I leaned forward, salivating, retching. I must get to the house, I thought, stumbling ahead. I’ll get a knife, I thought, I’ll cut her down. She’ll breathe again; she’ll be all right.

But there was no house to enter. I stared in disbelief. Our home had dissolved; rubble and smoke marked its base. I fought to make sense.

I heard a shout. Words sizzled through the August heat. It was Jamie’s voice. “You killed her! You killed her!”

I dared to look again at the tree. Marshall stood beside it. Jamie walked toward him with long purposeful strides, a young man stepping as an adult. He carried a shotgun. Flies buzzed and a dog whined.

Marshall looked my way. “Lavinia.” He waved and called as though pleased to see me.

Jamie aimed the gun at Marshall. “Father!” He shouted the word. “Father!”

Marshall turned to face him. The gun blasted, and Marshall flew back, bits of him scattering like seeds from a dandelion head. I couldn’t control my screams as I rushed forward. I pulled the gun from Jamie. “Run,” I cried, “run.”

I waited and stared but could not approach the tree. Wails of anguish signaled that others were coming up the hill. I turned to face them, pleading for someone to get the wagon, for someone to get Mama down. Then I sank onto the hot dry grass.

The wagon came clanking over the rocks. Lodo, our mule, balked at the scent of death, but the sharp smack of Eddy’s whip pushed him forward. Finally, the mule stood under the oak, shivering and shining in the heat, the cart behind him.

“Be careful,” I begged, not daring to watch, but before I heard the thud, I looked up to see the bright green of Belle’s head rag fall into the wagon. As Lodo began his descent, Papa’s anguished cries pierced the very soul of our hill.

I
WAS TAKEN TO JAIL
when I insisted that I shot Marshall. The first day, filled with anguish, all I could do was pace. I could not get the terrible image of Mama out of my mind. I refused to see anyone until the second day, when I was told that Will Stephens had come on a matter that concerned my daughter.

It had been years since I had last seen Will. Now his worried eyes betrayed his calm manner. He sat opposite me.

“I thought you would want to know that Elly is taken care of,” he said. “She is with Fanny in Belle’s house. I had her taken to my house, but she carried on so that I took her down to Belle, thinking that might give her some comfort. Belle, though, is not herself, and Ben suggested that we bring Fanny in. That helped. Elly has settled.”

I nodded.

“Lavinia,” he said, his voice low. “You must speak up for yourself. We both know the truth.”

“It was all my fault! It was all my fault!” I said. Will attempted to reason with me, but I began to rant. Even to myself, I made little sense.

“I have sent for Mr. Madden,” Will said before he left.

W
ILL RETURNED WITH
B
ELLE THE
following day, and he left as we fell into each other’s arms. In her awful despair Belle needed to talk. I listened as she choked out her story.

Belle, in Rankin’s grip, was made a witness to Mama Mae’s murder. When Belle was released, she stumbled down to the kitchen house. Perhaps even Marshall was sated by her despair, for he did not pursue her. No one knew why Marshall stayed back on the hill when Rankin rode out to pursue Papa George and the others.

A few hours into the escape, the fugitives began to have doubts.
Papa did not want to go on without Mama, and no one wanted to go on without Papa. Jamie was the first to turn back. Earlier in the week, telling no one, he had taken a gun from the house and hidden it under the smokehouse. Now he went to get it. The others had almost reached home when they heard the shotgun blast.

“And Jamie? Where is he now?” I asked.

She assured me that he was on his way to safety.

How I dreaded the next question. “Miss Martha? Uncle Jacob?”

I was relieved to know that Miss Martha had died before the fire. Uncle Jacob’s body had not been found, though it was thought that he had gone back into the house and perished there.

“What became of Rankin?” I questioned.

No one knew, but Will had armed Ben and Papa, who were caring for what was left of Tall Oaks.

When Belle finished, I held her close to me for a long while. Before she left, I asked that she instruct everyone from my home to stay away. I was afraid of what they might say within hearing distance of the wrong ears.

When I was led to the bar, I pleaded guilty. It was the opinion of the court that I be prosecuted, and I remained in jail through September to await the trial. I was not unhappy to sit in the small cell, to eat the meager rations, nor to sleep on a pallet in the damp. In this manner I punished myself, not just for the death of Mama but also for the loss of Miss Martha and Uncle Jacob. Surely, I might have done something to save their lives. I gave little thought to Marshall’s end; in truth, I was relieved to be free of him.

As Will predicted, Mr. Madden came to my aid. Immediately, he, as my lawyer, insisted that I plead not guilty. In private quarters, he assured me that he knew I had not murdered Marshall. I would not admit to Mr. Madden what had taken place, knowing that if Jamie were tried as a Negro for the murder of a white man, it meant certain death. Instead, I argued that I was the guilty party, and in an effort to convince him, I unburdened myself of my past behavior, of the years of self-obliteration, of self-absorbency.

He peered over his spectacles as he listened carefully. After a
long silence, he spoke. “My dear,” he said in his gentlest voice, “it is possible for me to believe that you have been guilty of selfish deeds, for are you not now still acting in a selfish way?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You say that during your years of laudanum use, you were not a good mother, is that true?”

“Yes, I was in a haze. I left Elly’s care to Fanny.”

“And you would once again deprive your daughter of a mother?” he asked.

“But she has Fanny …” I began, then stopped myself, for I saw his point. He needed no further words to convince me to allow him to defend me in the best way he saw fit.

On the opening day of the trial, Mr. Madden, together with another lawyer, argued that I had not shot Marshall but had been in shock when I confessed to the deed. Into the next day, they argued that Uncle Jacob had not only set the house afire but lain in wait for Marshall’s return. He alone had access to a shotgun, which, they said, only could have come from the big house. They suggested that Uncle had made his escape, and they went so far as to say he had been seen as he made his way north. I am not certain the jury was completely convinced of Mr. Madden’s argument, but I suspect that Marshall’s reputation had an influence on their willingness to have me acquitted.

On the afternoon of my release, I was taken by carriage to Will’s home. I exited at Belle’s kitchen house, where I had a tear-filled reunion with Elly, Belle, and Fanny. It wasn’t long before they had me in a water tub. I was not shy when all three insisted on helping me to scrub off the past month of grime, and I would have soaked there forever were I not expected up at Will’s home for a celebratory supper. While I was in the tub, Belle washed my hair, and after she combed it dry, she piled it on top of my head. I dressed in Belle’s clothes, which fit me surprisingly well, then kissed everyone before I set off.

Will’s home was large, and when I entered, I felt a sense of familiarity. It was made of clapboard, and its layout was not unlike
that of Tall Oaks. It was not as grand in size, and it lacked fine furniture and treasures, but the detailed woodwork and the fireplaces showed quality and skilled workmanship. The plastered walls were painted white, and the pine floors shone, though they did not have the luxury of carpets.

Lucy met me at the door, and I embraced her. “I will never forget your kindness,” I said, and when I loosed her, she smiled.

Will appeared at the door of the parlor. “I thought I heard you,” he said, then came to escort me into the room. He led me to his wife, who was seated on a blue-and-green upholstered chair next to the fire. Mr. Madden rose from the chair opposite her when I entered, but I waved him back into his seat.

Will’s wife was a plain woman, but immediately, I sensed her kindness. I did not know what she knew of me, but her greeting was without judgment. She was pale and large with child, and I saw from her drawn look that she was not well. I did not take note of her dress, for my attention was drawn to the oversize slippers needed to accommodate her swollen feet. Soon after our introduction, Martha asked me to excuse her. She explained that her doctor had recommended she spend the majority of her time in bed until, as she worded it, her “blessing came.” Lucy helped her from the room, and their receding silhouette stabbed me as I was reminded of Miss Martha and Mama Mae. I was saved from myself when Will suggested that we go in to dine.

Lucy was back to serve us, and though I had little appetite, it was wonderful to once again sample Belle’s cooking. When Will offered a toast, I chose to drink from the water goblet rather than from the glass of red wine. I no longer had a taste for the liquid that had so negatively affected my life.