Wilde, Jennifer (12 page)

The
wide main hall that intersected the house was still dim, the walls washed with
soft blue gray shadows, although rays of early morning sunlight slanted through
the glass panes above the front door. Shadow Oaks was much smaller than those
houses we had passed on our way back from the auction. Its one-story white frame
structure had a wide verandah on three sides and a bricked-in kitchen in back.
Shabby, run down, sadly in need of a new coat of paint, it had no impressive
columns, no elegant trimmings, and the furnishings could hardly be called
splendid. The giant oaks that surrounded the house added a touch of regal
beauty, but the "plantation" was actually little more than a farm.

I
tapped softly on the door of the master bedroom, then pushed it open. The faded
gold brocade draperies had already been parted, sunlight spilling through the
windows to make bright patterns on the threadbare rose-and-gray carpet. The
huge mahogany four-poster was empty, pillows dented, sheets and gold brocade
counterpane pushed back in a tangle. Hawke stood at the mirror, shaving, his back
to me.

"You're
late, Cassie!" he said sharply. "You should have been here a good
half-hour ago. I should already be out in the fields. Set the tray on the
bedside table and then get out of here. I'm in a foul mood!"

"So
I see," I remarked.

Hawke
had put his razor down and was wiping his face with a wet cloth. He turned
around, startled by my voice.

"Where's
Cassie?" he demanded.

"She's
in the kitchen. She's not feeling well this morning."

"Oh?"

"I
think she's pregnant."

"Pregnant?"
Hawke looked pleased. "She and Adam are both splendid creatures. Their
child—a son, I hope— is bound to be superb, worth a good deal of money."

"Undoubtedly."

I
set the tray down and turned to leave.

"You
think me callous?" he inquired.

"It's
not my place to judge you one way or another, Mr. Hawke."

"That's
quite true. You do, though. I can see it in your eyes. You think me a callous,
mercenary brute. Slaves are like cattle, extremely valuable livestock. Mine
receive much better treatment than most."

"I
don't doubt that."

"I
feed 'em, I cloth 'em, I see that they have a warm, dry place to sleep, fetch a
doctor for 'em when they're sick. I work 'em hard, yes, but that's what they're
for."

"Indeed."

"I
don't breed 'em for a profit—a number of planters I could name run regular
breeding farms, even hire out their bucks for stud service. I don't do that,
though I've been offered a pretty penny for Adam's services. When my fellow
planters couldn't buy him from me, they wanted to rent him to service their
wenches. I—hell, why should I be justifying myself to you!"

"Why
indeed," I replied.

Hawke
stared at me, not certain whether or not a rebuke was called for. Had I been
impertinent? He had already pulled on his tail boots and gray breeches, but his
chest was bare. His torso was lean and smoothly muscled. The sight was mildly
disturbing, and I lowered my eyes, wishing he weren't so young and strong and
handsome, wishing I could hate him as he deserved to be hated.

"If
there's nothing else—" I began.

"We'll
want to lighten Cassie's duties somewhat," he informed me. "I
wouldn't want to risk anything happening to the child. She's not to take on any
of the heavy work, no lifting, no straining. I suppose I could bring one of the
other wenches in to help out—" He hesitated, clearly not taken with the
idea.

"That
won't be necessary," I replied. "I can manage nicely with Cassie
handling the lighter tasks."

"Fine,"
he said curtly.

I
left the room and returned to the kitchen. Later, when I was certain he had
left the house, I went back up to his room and made the bed, smoothing back the
sheets that still smelled of his body, pulling the counterpane back over the
pillows. As I ran my hands over the silky gold fabric, I wondered about this
strange, enigmatic man who owned me, who was apparently unaware of me as a
female. I wondered, too, about his wife, Alice, who had slept in a smaller room
down the hall, the room he had assigned to me. What had happened to her, and
why had it been necessary for them to have separate bedrooms?

Hawke
had never once referred to her in my presence, and when I had questioned Cassie
and Mattie about her, both women had looked frightened. Mattie finally
confessed that the master had forbidden any of them to so much as mention her
name.

"She
wuz a bad un, Mis Marietta," Mattie told me. "Lawd, what she done to
th' master—it ain't fittin' to speak about."

She
had refused to say more, and I had not pressured her. I wondered if Alice was
responsible for that icy, impenetrable shell he had built around himself. It
seemed likely, I thought, longing to know more about the woman who had once
lived at Shadow Oaks, whose name Hawke forbade any of the servants to speak.

Cassie
ordinarily carried Hawke's lunch out to him where he was working in the fields.
I didn't know whether this qualified as "heavy work" or not, but
after I had finished packing the basket and folding a clean cloth over it, I
told the girl that I would take the master his lunch myself. Cassie looked
relieved, for it was an extremely warm day, the sun blazing fiercely. The heat
and the long walk to the north field wouldn't have been good for her.

Leaving
by the kitchen door, I stepped outside, passed under the giant oaks that veiled
the yard with hazy violet-gray shadows, and moved past the weathered old barn
with hay spilling out of the loft, past the stables and the row of cabins.
Half-naked black children were playing noisily in the sun. Two strapping
wenches in cotton dresses and bandanas were stringing laundry up to dry. Mattie
was sitting in a rocker in front of her cabin, heavy, lethargic, contentedly
dipping her snuff. I smiled, waving, and the old slave acknowledged my wave
with a nod. Her grandson, Caleb, was halfheartedly repairing a wheel on the old
wooden wagon I had slept under so many weeks ago.

"Mawnin',
Miz Marietta," the boy said pleasantly.

A
tall, stringy youth of fourteen, Caleb had creamy, coffee-colored skin,
enormous eyes, a slack mouth. Mattie called him "a no-'count nigger"
and accused him of being shiftless and "totin' things that don't belong to
him," but I found the boy warm and friendly, a dreamy lad who was
undeniably slow-moving but always eager to do errands for me. Too thin and
sickly to work in the fields, Caleb did odd jobs around the place, like
repairing the wheel, although Mattie claimed he spent most of his time down by
the creek fishing with a bamboo pole.

"You
goin' to need me for somethin' this aft'noon, Miz Marietta?" he asked in
his softly slurred voice.

"Not
this afternoon, Caleb."

"You
goin' to make some of them molasses cookies an' slip me some liken you did last
week?"

"I'm
afraid not, Caleb. I'm baking a peach pie for the master."

"Peach
pie," he said dreamily. "Ol' Mattie don't never make us niggers
somethin' like that."

"You
ask real nicely, Caleb, and perhaps she will."

The
boy sighed and went back to his work. I strolled under the oaks that bordered
the grounds and started across the field of cotton that seemed to stretch to
infinity. The sky was a hard steel-blue, the sunlight blinding, and heat waves
rose from the ground and shimmered in the air above the rows of sturdy green
plants. I was soon perspiring and the bodice of my blue cotton dress clung
damply to my breasts. A white apron was belted tightly around my waist. I
lifted a corner of it to wipe my face. My hair fell in deep waves that seemed
heavy and damp. I wondered how men could possibly work hour after hour in such
intense heat.

I
could see Hawke and Adam in the distance. Both men had hoes, and they were
clearing weeds from around a row of plants. Adam wore no shirt. His back and
shoulders gleamed like varnished ebony. The sleeves of Hawke's white cotton
shirt were rolled up over his forearms. The garment was plastered to his chest
in wet patches. As I drew nearer, he put down his hoe and came toward me,
removing his broad-brimmed straw hat and shoving a wet black lock from his
forehead. Adam continued to work.

"You've
brought my lunch," Hawke said.

"I
didn't think Cassie should be out in this heat."

"Nor
should you," he replied, taking the basket from me. "You could easily
get sunstroke, not being used to it."

"Then
you'd have to buy another housekeeper."

Hawke
let the comment pass. He lifted the cloth and examined the food with
considerable interest.

"Fried
chicken, potato salad, cold biscuits with butter, even a jar of iced tea—you
take good care of me, Marietta."

I
was startled. It was the first compliment he had ever paid me.

"That's
why I'm not going to do anything about that sarcastic remark," he
continued. "I suggest you guard your tongue in the future, though. I'm not
likely to overlook another such barb."

"Yes,
sir," I said, elaborately meek.

"What
are you serving for dinner tonight?"

"Ham
hocks, beans, cornbread. I thought I'd bake a peach pie this afternoon."

"You
spoil me, Marietta."

He
gazed at me, and for a moment there was something like admiration in his eyes.
Flushed, sweaty, a streak of dirt across his cheek, he didn't seem nearly as
remote as he ordinarily was. That icy barrier was gone, and I sensed a warmth
that had never been there before. He seemed about to say something more, and
then he scowled, the steely reserve returning.

"Next
time you come out in the sun, you wear a bonnet, you hear? I don't want you
getting sick on me. And if you're going to bring my lunch to me, bring it on
time! The niggers have already eaten their meal and come back to work. I should
have had this basket an hour ago."

"You'll
have it on time in the future."

"See
that I do," he said curtly.

I
turned and started back across the field, my cheeks burning. He was a monster,
I told myself, without feeling. I had imagined that moment of warmth. I must
have. Derek Hawke was incapable of warmth, incapable of any genuine human
emotion. As I hurried back down the rows of cotton, I was horrified to feel my
eyes stinging and trails of salty tears running down my cheeks. I brushed the
tears away savagely, irate that I should have shed them. I was his servant, his
slave, nothing more, and that's the way it would always be. I hated him, I told
myself. I hated him with all my heart, and I was glad he never noticed me, glad
he never come down the hall at night and into my bedroom. He was cold and
ruthless and hard and... and I was
glad
he didn't want me in bed.

Passing
under the oaks again, I moved more slowly across the yard, past the cabins,
past stables and barn, trying to control the conflicting emotions inside.
During those interminable weeks aboard ship, Jack had shown me the true meaning
of passion, and he had proved beyond a doubt that I was my mother's daughter.
Her blood was in my veins, but I would overcome it. I felt a hollow feeling in
the pit of my stomach and an undeniable aching sensation inside every time I was
near the man who owned me. I desired him, yes, but it was a purely physical
sensation. I would thrust it aside. I would forbid myself ever to think of him
in that way again. I would bank those fires in my blood, smother them, and I
would be as icy and frigid as Derek Hawke was himself.

I
worked furiously that afternoon, scrubbing the kitchen floor, cleaning
woodwork, polishing the furniture in the front parlor. Later on, while Cassie
sat at the kitchen table cleaning the silverware, I made the peach pie, sorry
that I had mentioned it to him and was therefore obliged to make it. There
would be no more special dishes in the future. I promised myself that. I would
do the work he had brought me here to do, and I would cook his meals, but I
would never again go out of my way to please him. He could take his peach pie
and... and choke on it!

The
kitchen window was open and after I took the pie out of the oven, I set it on
the window sill to cool. As I did so, I heard a wagon coming around the side of
the house. Hawke and his men were still out in the fields, and I wondered who
could be calling at this time of afternoon. Wiping my hands on my apron, I
stepped out the back door to see. The old farm wagon was pulled by a plump gray
horse, and the woman holding the reins was almost as plump as her horse.
Eccentrically dressed in scuffed black kid boots and a shabby emerald-green
riding habit that was deplorably soiled, she had a lined, leathery face and
wildly untidy steel-gray hair piled on top of her head in what resembled a
bird's nest. Stopping the wagon under one of the oaks, she alighted with
surprising agility for one her size.

"You
must be Hawke's new housekeeper," she said warmly. "I'm Widow
Simmons, gal. I own Magnolia Grove, the plantation to the east o' here. You can
call me Maud. Everyone else does."