by Lori Benton
“Judith’s supper,” he said.
Seona snatched up the basket at their feet. From the pocket of her petticoat she tugged a cap. Something else slipped out. A length of blue ribbon that fluttered to the ground.
“I found that in the stable-yard.” She bent for it and thrust it at him. “Mister Ian, I got to get back. Naomi’s gonna skin me.”
“That’ll never do.” Ian pocketed the ribbon. The raven was still there, eyeing him from its stony perch. Quelling the absurd urge to bid it farewell, he led the way back through the birches, reaching to help Seona over the first steep drop. He grasped her arm to steady her but released her when she winced. Crimson splotched the edge of her sleeve.
Ignoring her protests, he pushed it up to bare her forearm. Small wounds marred her skin where the raven’s talons had gripped. “Ye’ll have Lily look at these?”
“There ain’t time.”
“I’ll take the blame if supper’s late. Let Lily clean them, first thing.”
The drawing had fallen. It had lodged in the branches of a laurel. He untangled it and on impulse asked, “Would ye mind if I kept this?”
Furrows formed between her brows. “What you meaning to do with it?”
“Treasure it.” He rolled the scrap of paper with care and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “It isn’t every day a man discovers such a wonder in the wood.”
8
Seona snapped a cucumber off its stem and dropped it into her basket, then paused to listen. There was some big doings, out behind the garden. Mister Ian, Master Hugh, and Thomas had gone inside the old cooper shed that had been shut up since Malcolm’s rheumatics got so bad. She’d watched through a crack in the garden pales as they unbolted the door and filed inside. For a spell not a sound had come. Then a racket of nail-banging commenced. She’d picked every cucumber she could spot fit for pickling before Master Hugh and Mister Ian stepped back out into the sunlight.
“’Tis generous of ye, Uncle,” Mister Ian said.
“This is your home now, lad. Ye’ve a right to make use of it. Malcolm can give your man a hand getting started.”
What Mister Ian said to that last mystifying statement got buried under the scuff of their boots on the gravel path as they passed out of hearing.
Seona sat back on her heels, biting her lip in thought. Though she’d kept out of Mister Ian’s sight as much as possible since he caught her in the hollow, knowing he held her secret—and her drawing—was like a fly buzzing round her brain, worrying her to distraction. What was he up to now?
Naomi was alone in the kitchen, kneading bread dough for the house table, when Seona came in with the cucumbers. “Put them on the table. Now I need grape leaves and dill.”
“All right.” Seona spied the leftovers from breakfast. “You got plans for this bite of pone?”
“Have it if you hungry,” Naomi said.
“Thought I’d carry it to Thomas afore I get on with the wash—and fetch those leaves and dill.”
“You figure he didn’t get breakfast enough with the rest of us?” Naomi’s chuckle filled the kitchen. “Go on. Might get you some news ahead of Esther for once. Maisy got her busy in the house.”
Armed with the corn pone wrapped in a towel and a jar of buttermilk from the morning’s churning, Seona stood on the threshold of the cooper shed. The smell of cut wood sparked memories of the years Malcolm had spent his days shaving oak staves for the hogsheads Master Hugh’s tobacco went to market in. Another set of doors took up the shop’s far end, which faced the work-yard shared by the washhouse. They stood open. By the light pouring through, she saw the shed wasn’t long for being one big space. The end where she stood was being portioned off by pine planks raised to a half wall.
She stepped inside and set her offering on an upturned barrel. “Brought you this,” she said, loud enough to carry over the hammering.
Up popped Thomas from behind the half wall. He spied her, set down his hammer, and came out brushing his hands. “My stomach must be gnawing louder than my hammering.” He unwrapped the pone, downed it in two bites, drained the buttermilk, and came up smirking through a milky mustache ringed with crumbs.
Seona thrust the towel at him. “I never seen a man make more mess with his vittles. Wipe your face.” While he did, she eyed the shed with its dusty tool racks, shaving horses, and jointers pushed against the wall. “What they got you doing in this old shed? Mister Ian putting you to some proper work at last?”
“That’s the short of it.” Thomas dropped the towel on the barrel, scattering crumbs.
“And the long? What is it you do?”
“Coopering, girl. From time I was twelve.”
She wondered what a trained cooper could have done to get himself sold off to Mister Ian. Sassed the wrong boss man, most like.
She made a circuit of the shed, running fingers over dusty hammers, saws, and drawknives. She turned a half-finished stave over in her hands, then brushed off the gritty film it left in the folds of her petticoat.
“We ain’t had a regular cooper since Malcolm got where he couldn’t carry on.”
Thomas was watching her. “Why didn’t your master buy another to do the work?”
“He bought two. One ran off after a week. The Jackdaw never found him. Another was so pitiful lazy, Master Hugh turned round and sold him again.”
She came back to the barrel. Thomas had those scanty brows pushed high. “Jackdaw? That what you call Jackson Dawes—when he ain’t by to hear?”
She shrugged. “It’s a kind of crow. From England or someplace. Mama told me.”
“I know what it is. Jackdaw ain’t the nicest bird, I hear. But clever like a crow. Steals pretty things it takes a fancy to. I wonder how your mama knows that.”
She wondered that herself but only shrugged again. “What’s this wall going up for?”
“Master Ian. He’ll be working up front there.”
“What sort of work?”
“He didn’t tell you he’s a cabinetmaker?”
She stiffened. “Why should Mister Ian tell me anything?”
Thomas’s smirk returned. “You never know with him. He don’t always do what’s expected and does plenty that isn’t. I could tell you stories.”
Her quick glance betrayed her interest, so she asked, “What stories?”
“For starters, he left his indenture with a cabinetmaker afore he was meant to. Got his journeyman papers signed anyway but something about it fell out wrong. Master Ian came home claiming he’d no more heart for cabinetmaking. Caused a mighty rift.”
“With who?”
“His daddy mainly but his mama was nowise pleased either.”
“How do you know all this?”
Thomas’s mouth flattened. “I rode by his side for four hundred miles. We talked.” Seeming to mind he was meant to be working, he stooped for a board, settled it into place, and drove a nail through it.
“Reckon Mister Ian got his heart back,” she said. “For cabinetmaking, I mean.”
“Or he’s already bored with farming.”
What with the hammering, Seona wasn’t sure she’d caught those muttered words.
“Heard them mention a sawmill hereabouts.”
Having heard that just fine, Seona felt her stomach curl into a ball. “Over to Chesterfield.”
“That’s right. Said this Gideon Pryce brings fine lumber up from Fayetteville. But Master Ian took a shine to that seasoned maple there.” Thomas nodded toward a dusty pile of lumber resting on wall racks. “Promised his sister back in Boston he’d make her a table desk.” The grin he flashed was impudence itself. “You heard enough yet about Master Ian to make bringing me that johnnycake worth your while?”
“More’n I bargained for.” Annoyed at being found out, she took up the jar and towel.
“Bide a moment now.” Thomas put aside the hammer and closed the space between them in two strides. “I got questions too.”
She gripped the jar tighter. �
�What questions?”
“To start with, how’s a girl white as you come to be a slave to Master Ian’s kin?”
The question shocked her speechless. At last she sputtered, “I—I ain’t white.”
Thomas grabbed her wrist and turned it over, fingers dark against her skin. “Near as can be and not be, then. Master Ian took you for his cousin, first time he laid eyes on you.”
“How do you know that?”
“I was standing right there. Neither of you had attention to spare, though.” Still holding her wrist, with the other hand he took up a spiral of hair worked loose from her kerchief. “This hair now. Tells me some great-granddaddy of yours likely made the Middle Passage—same as mine. But you got Indian in you, too.”
Seona jerked her head, wincing as her hair pulled free of his grasp. “You know who my mama is. But her mama—”
“It’s who your daddy is got me wondering,” Thomas interrupted. “Can’t imagine it’s the Jackdaw, though I don’t guess Lily would’ve had much say in the matter.”
She’d had the thought before, sick-making though it was. Jackson Dawes had never made claim on her, and he never bothered her mama, but he’d been there working for Master Hugh longer than she’d been drawing breath.
“But I don’t see aught of Jackson Dawes in you,” Thomas went on. “I could see your daddy being Hugh Cameron, which would make you the one should be mistress here and ol’ Mastah Ian could just take himself back—”
She wrenched out of his grasp so hard the jar fell and shattered.
“Now look!” She crouched to scoop the milky pottery shards into the towel.
“It’s my fault, Seona. Let me clear it up.”
She ignored his offer. “You gonna tell Miss Lucinda why her dairy’s a jar short?”
Humor darted in Thomas’s eyes when she stood, like all there was between them was a broken jar. “Put one from the kitchen in its place.”
“Never you mind what I do about it. I got work waiting on me.”
“I expect you do.”
His composure needled her, but she clamped her lips shut and fled the shop, letting him have the last word.
No breeze stirred the misty hollows or scattered dew from the ferns edging the path to the Reynolds’. Birdsong filled the upper reaches of the hardwoods, but down below all was still . . . until a familiar flash of blue through the trees ahead caught Ian’s eye.
Hoisting his rifle, he lengthened his stride. When at last she heard his approach along the path, she whirled to face him. He slowed as he neared, watching her expression shift from alarm to wariness.
“I’ve startled ye again,” he said, smiling in apology. “Ye’re bound for the Reynolds’ too?”
“Yes, sir.” She turned to continue, treading the path a step ahead. “Mama was to visit Miss Cecily this morn. Then she got called to mend that rose gown Miss Rosalyn means to wear to Chesterfield.”
He watched the end of her braid, an explosion of curls swinging just above her waist. “John Reynold’s stony field be thanked, I’ve evaded another encounter with the denizens of Chesterfield. D’ye think I’ll be forgiven?”
Seona’s gaze stayed fixed on the path ahead. “I reckon, Mister Ian.”
Truth, his cousins and aunt were more than a bit put out with him. He’d refused to alter his plans to help John Reynold harvest stones from his cleared acres when the women changed their Chesterfield visit from Sunday to Saturday, after learning Gideon Pryce would again be away on business—to Hillsborough this time—the following morn.
“Have ye been to Chesterfield?” he asked, thinking like as not she’d little to do with the wealthiest of their neighbors, who from all accounts lived like lords of the eastern seaboard in their grand Piedmont abode.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “A few times.”
Surprised, he asked, “And do the Pryces call at Mountain Laurel?”
“Not often.”
The path widened. He moved up beside her. In the cool morning light her profile seemed stronger, her mother’s blood evident in her prominent cheekbones and raven-wing brows. He wondered if she’d returned to the hollow in the past week, or if it was a place she only went on Sundays, the only day his uncle’s slaves had mostly to themselves. He hoped he hadn’t scared her off the place. The few times their paths had crossed since that encounter, he’d barely gotten a word out before she was lowering her eyes and scurrying off to perform some urgent task.
Avoiding him?
“I’ve not seen much of ye, these past days.”
“No, sir.” Her shoulders rose in a shrug. Or was it a flinch?
“I realize there’s been trouble of late at the house. Everyone adjusting to how things are now.” Just yesterday there’d been a blowup over Thomas, who’d left the house through the front door, right under the noses of Ian’s cousins. Ian hadn’t decided if it had been a moment of absentmindedness on Thomas’s part or flagrant flaunting of his aunt’s wishes. “No blame if ye’ve taken to lying low ’til the dust settles.”
The forest around them was waking by degrees as they walked. Chittering squirrels joined the birds. A small breeze came down the ridge, pushing the mist off with it, whispering in the tops of the hardwoods, ruffling Seona’s kerchief.
“House business ain’t my trouble, Mister Ian.”
“Am I your trouble?” He’d asked it under his breath, but loud enough.
Seona quickened her pace. Pretending not to have heard? He slowed his step to study her. She had been avoiding him. She was doing it now.
“I never meant to be,” he said, too soft for her to hear.
Save for the finches darting among the garden sunflowers, the Reynolds’ yard was still. The shoat, resigned to captivity, lay on its side in its refurbished sty, a pale blotch in the barn’s shadow. The animal kicked a hoof but otherwise ignored their arrival. Not so the cow. It bawled from its pen in obvious distress, its bag distended. On its heels another cry came, so thin and muffled Ian thought he’d imagined it.
The next was louder.
Seona halted when he did, shooting him a look that froze him with dread. “Mama says it’ll be a boy,” she blurted, then sprinted toward the cabin.
They found Cecily Reynold at the foot of the bedstead, a sheet pooled round her on the plank floor. Ian hung back as Seona rushed to her side. A spindle wound with scarlet had fallen from the table, the thread snarled across the cabin like a trail of blood. He set his rifle down and bent to gather it up. He was still winding thread when Seona rose and came to him.
“Mister John went early to the field. Miss Cecily was to tell you to meet him there.”
He tried not to gape at Cecily, at her belly stretching taut the thin fabric of her shift. “D’ye want me to go for him? Or for Lily?”
Seona reached for a chair back and gripped it hard. “Mister Ian, I don’t think there’s time for either. First babies generally come slow, but this one’s in a hurry.”
On the cabin floor Cecily groaned.
Ian felt the blood leave his face. The panic in Seona’s eyes mirrored his own. He took a hard grip on his nerves and said, “Aye. Tell me what to do.”
Relief rippled over her features. “Can you get her onto the birthing stool?”
He slipped off his canteen, then found the chair she meant tucked beside a clothespress. He’d seen the like before, high-backed with sturdy arms, the seat cut away to a crescent. He set it where Seona directed, between the hearth and the bed, then bent to John’s wife. Her hair was plastered to her brow, dark as seaweed.
“Cecily, I’m going to lift ye.” She was surprisingly heavy, the child a hard bulge against his ribs. A turn, a step, and he eased her down on the birthing stool. She gripped the arms of the chair and cried out.
In the short time that had taken, Seona had stoked the fire under the kettle and was already scrubbing with lye soap. “Wash up, Mister Ian, if you aim to help me.”
Lathered to his wrists, he asked, low-voiced, “Ye’ve done this
before, aye?”
“With Mama.” Her face was stiff with fear, but when she turned to Cecily, she’d composed herself and radiated nothing but confidence. Whether it was the slave’s trick again, donning a mask that hid all true feeling, he couldn’t tell, but he’d an instant to be glad she hadn’t hidden her fear from him.
For the next hour he did his best to slide gracefully into as complete a reversal of roles as he’d experienced. Seona gave the orders. He obeyed. Between the fetching of clean cloths, warm water, boiled twine, or the vial of oil Lily had left for this moment, his eyes followed Seona, who performed the mysteries of a midwife with an air of capable calm, ministering reassurance to their neighbor—in the process to him—from the instant she took charge until the wrenching, jubilant moment the Reynolds’ firstborn issued, red-faced and squalling, into her waiting hands.
Ian sat on the split-log bench outside the Reynolds’ cabin door, sweat still drying at his temples. He’d done a bit of barn work, milked the long-suffering cow. The covered pail rested at his feet, while inside, the women’s voices softly rose and fell. He let his head droop, feeling wrung, though he knew he hadn’t done the true work. That had been Cecily. And Seona.
“Ian?”
He jerked his head up to see John Reynold standing at the edge of the cornfield. “John!” Ian sprang to his feet, stricken that he’d nearly dozed off. He’d only meant to rest a moment before fetching John from the distant field.
The man flashed a puzzled smile, black hair shining in the sunlight. “I put in two hours’ work waiting on you, and here I find you idling outside my cabin?”
The urge to laugh filled Ian’s chest. “I wouldn’t exactly call it idling.”
“Mister John?” Seona had stepped into the doorway beside him, holding a damp rag, her face still radiant with joy. “You want to come inside and meet your son?”
