The Loom (35 page)

Lydia glanced down. Her hands were shaking. The tremor had slipped out from under her control. Truth kept showing up. Real kept peeking, piercing through, appearing unannounced, until she knew it would come out of hiding for good and she couldn’t play the game anymore.

“Well, perhaps there’s nothing else to do but clean,” she said finally. “Start with the windows.”

“Ma’am, I did the windows three hours ago. Maybe I can—”

“You did the windows?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry, Annie.”

Annie stopped and looked at her. “Please, Miss Caroline, get some rest.”

“I will. After everything is done.”

Annie and James hustled through the house streaming vines sprinkled with red berries across doorways and mantels. They scrubbed on ladders and on knees. They dusted every antique, every brass, silver, and wooden fixture, and fluffed every pillow.

They shined glasses and silverware until they reflected their tired faces. They polished the floor until it was dangerously slippery and wiped every surface, swept every crumb. They worked until every corner of the manor brimmed with excellence.

On counters, they stacked dishes, glasses, goblets, silverware, a wine-colored linen tablecloth, embroidered napkins, and lion head napkin rings, and ivory and maroon candles with gold stands, every item they would need.

Seven hours later, when James retired to his quarters, Annie slumped to the floor in the dining room. Lydia poured herself into a chair and joined her.

“I don’t think I ever worked so hard,” Annie said.

“The place looks wonderful.” Lydia glanced around the room. “I can already see it. To think in two days this place will be filled with folks, all dressed up. Glowing and laughing and flashing their big ol’ smiles. They’ll toast, throw their heads back, and let out the most delightful squeals.” Lydia held her hand to her chest and slipped into a proper Southern accent. “Why, I do declare, it’s mighty right. It’s mighty right.”

Annie giggled. “What’s ‘mighty right’?”

“I don’t know, Annie. They don’t either.” It was all a facade she cared little for now.

Annie’s eyes darted from Lydia lounging in the chair, to the dining room entrance. “You don’t want Mr. Whitfield coming in here, catching you talking to me like this.”

Lydia didn’t move, didn’t even answer.

“Miss Caroline, you hear me?”

“What is he going to do?” What else could be done? Truly, what else? She had been peeled, pricked, devoured slice by slice.

There was nothing left to take but the core, and no matter how deep anybody cut, what was left was in her for good. “What is he going to do?”

“Well, it ain’t the same for me.”

“It’s the same, Annie.” She wanted to tell her the truth. Tell her who she was behind the powder and the pretense. She wanted to trust her. Instead she said simply, “For me and you, it’s the same.”

“Me? They would punish, they’d kill. They wouldn’t try to kill you.”

But hadn’t they? Lydia ran her hand over her scar, the scars they all carried. Even Lizzy had scars. “And if they kill you, Annie?”

“Then I’m dead.”

Lydia laughed. “Good and dead and gone to be with your people.”

Annie scraped the sole of her shoe against the oak wood floor.

“Where’s your people, Annie?”

“I ain’t got no people.”

“You don’t know not one person a part of you?”

“No. I never knew none of them. I had another master before I was sold here. It’s my third winter with Whitfield. He was a decent man before…” She tugged on the tongue of her shoe, drooping it over the side like someone gagging.

“I’m sorry, Annie.” One choice, like a spring in a garden. Some lives doused under it, others sprinkled with it, but all were touched by it.

“It’s all right, Miss Caroline. Things are just the way they were meant to be.”

Lydia looked away. It was much too painful if everything that happened in life occurred exactly as planned. Everything? How did she look in the face of a slave and accept that? She turned to Annie and smiled. “I admire your will. You get up every morning knowing nothing is going to change, and you work hard with not one complaint. You know, I don’t think I’ve heard you complain, not one time, Annie.”

Not even Christmas Day. Lydia had stooped to help her clean the mess, the ridiculous result of a grown man’s tantrum, and not once did Annie say anything bitter under her breath. “And he’s so awful.”

“No worse than the rest of us.”

“I beg to differ.” Lydia rolled her eyes and bit back words on the edge of her tongue.

“Do you?” Annie laughed, fell back against the wall, and laughed, hard and loud, her almond eyes mere slits above her cheekbones. “Depends on how you’re looking. You looking from the inside out or the outside in? Either way, if you look hard enough, you’ll see yourself after a while.” She sobered and sat up real serious and wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “I don’t do nothing for him, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I was. I was wondering exactly that. How do you do it? How could you stay a slave and be happy? Are you happy?”

“We’re all slaves to something. Whitfield don’t own me. Never did.”

Lydia sat quiet for some time breathing the words in. Annie’s head was tilted back, her brown scarf pressed against the rose-colored walls. “I didn’t think you liked me, Annie.”

“I didn’t.” She didn’t even open her eyes. “I didn’t.”

Lydia smiled.

She should not have come. Never should have come to this place.

Lydia walked out of the dining room to hers. But once she was clothed for bed, she couldn’t sleep. John showed up in her dreams.

She had become a woman who relished the day. Her nights, the darkness she had loved, was now filled with terror, torture, and nightmares of the past.

She was in no condition to host a celebration, to go through such a fuss for a wedding she didn’t want, for a man she could hardly stand. She had suffered through all of it to cover her lies, but they kept slipping out no matter how much she stretched the truth.She fell back on her bed and kicked the quilts around her, glad to be alone. Jackson had gone out early, where, she had no idea, couldn’t care less. Just happy to have a moment to herself without a facade.

She rubbed the tips of her fingers in the deep crescents under her eyes, touched her sunken cheeks and thought of Mrs. Kelly.

She was as exhausted as the woman had always looked. Lydia wondered if she appeared the same. Perhaps it was the plight of being a mistress, simply a cross one had to bear whether slave or free.

She wondered what her own face looked like at the moment but she didn’t move. Why make matters worse? It couldn’t be good. She hadn’t concerned herself with the detailed rituals of beauty in weeks. Not even for her favorite holiday had she arranged her hair and clothing with care.

She crawled under the covers, vowing to stay there until she felt better. A few hours of rest would get her thinking straight.

Lydia slept for two days.

Annie rushed to her side, pressing cool cloths to her brows. Jackson kept his distance.

“You’re gonna be all right, Miss Caroline.” The girl faded in and out of focus.

“We need you to drink something.” The young woman lifted her up, placed a steaming drink at her lips. She burned her tongue and winced. Pushing the cup away, she splashed hot tea on Annie’s hands and on her own thigh.

Annie used the blanket to wipe and cool her fingers and the red, tender mark on her leg.

“I’m sorry, Annie.”

“It’s all right, ma’am. We just need you to eat and drink something. Anything. The wedding’s this evening.” She patted her back. “You’ve got to have your strength to make it. I’ll get you cleaned up and bring you some crackers. We’ll see if that’ll get you going. You need food. You’ve had plenty sleep.”

But not real sleep. That was what she needed, sound and deep, but the dreams invaded her peace, left her fighting the feeling every time it came.

Annie rubbed her with a wet towel, cleaned her like a baby, sat her up, and wrapped a robe around her shoulders.

“But you’re gonna be all right. Crackers, ma’am. Let’s try them.”

Lydia stuffed the dry wafer into her mouth. It was the first thing she had eaten in days. She consumed it feverishly, holding her hand out for more. She pressed the crackers into her mouth so quickly the edges crumbled under the pressure.

“It’s good?” Annie smiled. “You’ll drink now.”

By evening, Lydia had eaten five champagne crackers, eight grapes, and half a bowl of cold tomato soup. It was enough to raise her out of bed and allow her to flutter around the house anxiously.

She slid her fingers along the tables, the chairs, the lamps, and surveyed the silverware. She stopped to count the white candles Annie had purchased special for the occasion. One hundred flames. She thought of the ones that had flickered for John and smiled.

In her bedroom, Lydia stood before her armoire and tugged on the strand of pearls as Annie clamped the clasp shut.

“Here it is, Miss Caroline.” Annie pulled the white gown she had made from Lydia’s armoire and fluffed it across the bed.

Endless folds of satin draped under full sleeves and a corset bodice.

“It’s beautiful, Annie.” Just what she had wanted, had dreamt of for John.

The girl smiled as she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Lydia determined that even tonight, she would not fret in front of the mirror for hours. She swooped her hair into a high knot and pinned it in place, but as she slipped on her pearl earrings, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and froze.

She couldn’t remember a time she looked more beautiful. She looked again, this time examining, studying every feature.

Besides a few thin lines under her eyes, she was perfect. Her hands were steady. She rubbed them together and said a prayer. She had no idea what was to unfold, how she was to untangle herself from the mess she had created, but confidently, she stood. Tugging