Jefferson's Sons
Page 8
“It is,” Beverly said. “You try it and see.”
“It is not. You want to switch places? I will.”
“No. Watching babies is girl’s work. Carpentry is for men.”
“See!” she said. “You know my job’s harder. That’s why you won’t switch!”
“Is not!”
“Is so!”
Harriet wouldn’t let up. By the time Uncle John returned they were shouting at each other nose to nose. Beverly had never hit Harriet—Mama would skin him alive—but he’d never come closer.
“Children!” Uncle John shouted, in a voice of outrage.
Beverly jumped. So did Harriet. They hadn’t known Uncle John could sound like that.
Uncle John marched over and grabbed them both by the shoulders. “You must never, ever, yell at each other like that,” he said. “You are family. Don’t you know what that means?”
“Yeah,” muttered Harriet. “Means I’m stuck with him.”
Uncle John shook her shoulder. “Means you are privileged to have each other,” he said. “Means you are lucky, to live together on this farm. Means you love and take care of each other always.”
Beverly didn’t know what had gotten into Uncle John. “Some privilege,” he said.
Uncle John acted like he didn’t hear. “Right now you have each other,” he continued. “You don’t know how long that’s going to last. You’ve got to love each other all you can. You never know what might happen.”
“What’s going to happen?” Beverly asked. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
“I wish something would happen,” Harriet said. “To him.”
Uncle John grew sterner still. “You, Harriet, don’t you ever wish evil on anybody else. And Beverly, what? You think you’re God? You know when folks’ll live and when they’ll die? Your mama’s buried three babies, don’t you forget that.”
Of course Beverly hadn’t forgotten that, but it wasn’t what he meant. And Harriet wasn’t a baby.
“And you’re enslaved,” Uncle John said. “You’re special, both of you, and your brothers too, on account of who your daddy is. If you don’t know that yet, you will soon. I don’t reckon anybody’s going to sell you. But you’re still born into slavery, so you never know. Do you hear me? You never know. Anything could happen—Master Jefferson could die all of a sudden. You’d belong to Miss Martha then, and heaven knows what she would do.
“You think I like having my wife working at Miss Martha’s beck and call? You think I don’t wish we had a home of our own? But I can’t do anything about that. All I can do is let my wife know how much I love her, every minute that I’m with her. All I can do is never let a drop of bitterness or anger toward her touch my heart. Wherever my wife goes, she knows I love her. She carries my love as a sure thing.
“You can’t sell love. You can’t steal it. It can’t run away. You two, you’d better learn this. I don’t want to hear anything between you except love. Not ever. You got that?”
Beverly got that he’d never heard Uncle John say so many words at one time in his life.
“I’m waiting,” Uncle John said. He gave their shoulders another hard shake.
“Yes, sir,” Beverly said. “We got it.”
“Yes, sir,” echoed Harriet.
“Kiss and make up, and then go get something to eat. Peter’s just pulled bread out of the oven.”
Beverly kissed Harriet because he had to, but he didn’t like it. He stalked out of the room. He hated being yelled at.
“Beverly? Beverly, wait!”
It was Harriet. Beverly stopped in his tracks, heaved his shoulders, and sighed. He didn’t turn around. But when she slipped her hand into his, he grabbed it, and held it all the way to the kitchen.
Later Mama said it was hogwash. They had nothing to fear. Master Jefferson wouldn’t die, and if he did, Mama would handle Miss Martha. “Which is not to say you shouldn’t be loving toward each other,” Mama said. “Uncle John was right about that.”
Beverly said, “I’d like to see you handle Miss Martha.”
He expected Mama to laugh, but she didn’t. She was quiet a moment before she replied. “I’ll only do it if I have to,” she said. “She’d never forgive me. But if I have to, to save you children, I will.”
Days went by one after another until the year had passed. Eston could walk, Maddy was old enough to run simple errands, and finally, finally Papa was coming home to stay.
Summer 1809
Chapter Eleven
Home to Stay
Beverly woke up happy. The summer air smelled like happiness. At breakfast the kitchen talk sounded like happiness. Uncle Peter passed out muffins by way of celebration.
Master Jefferson was coming home. Miss Edith was coming home. James and baby Maria were coming home. Fanny Hern was coming home. All of them were coming home to stay.
After breakfast Beverly didn’t know what to do. He and Uncle John had tidied the woodshop the day before, and cleaned away all traces of their work in the great house. “He’ll have new projects for us,” Uncle John said, “but the first day or two will likely be a mess.”
Uncle John didn’t care whether Beverly stayed in the shop, so Beverly went out. He walked partway down the mountain road, listening for the sounds of Davy’s wagon and Master Jefferson’s carriage. They were all coming home together, Master Jefferson’s letter had said.
The overseers were bringing the field hands up the road to the mountaintop. The hands had talked the overseers into giving them the day off work, on account of them loving Master Jefferson so. The overseers, pleased by the slaves’ sweet affection, had loaded a wagon with barrels of cider and some good hams for the celebration. “Going to be a party on the mountaintop!” one of the workers shouted to Beverly as they went by. Beverly grinned. The field hands were nobody’s fools.
He couldn’t see far down the curving road with its canopy of green-leafed trees. After a while he sat in the shade, waiting, listening. They should arrive by dinnertime, unless they were delayed.
He stretched out on the green grass, his stomach buzzing like the bees in the mulberry tree above him. Papa. He tried not to think that word. He understood now that it might cause trouble. But still, in his heart—Papa. Beverly wished he’d brought his violin.
At last he heard the sound of hooves, the rumbling of a heavy wagon. He hesitated for a moment—did he go down, or up?—before running up the mountaintop as hard and fast as he could. “They’re coming!” he yelled. “They’re here!”
Davy Hern pulled up first. Fanny sat next to him, her arm tucked through his. Miss Edith sat on his other side, her bright red scarf wrapped around her head, her eyes shining. She cradled Maria in one arm, and held tight to a wriggling James with the other.
Joe Fossett shouted to Miss Edith. Everyone surged forward in a rush.
Someone grabbed Beverly’s leg, nearly knocking him down. It was Maddy, his eyes wide and scared. “It’s all right,” Beverly told him. “It’s happy noise.”
Maddy shook his head. Beverly hoisted him up so he could see the wagon. Maddy’s face changed in an instant; he gave a shout of joy. “James!” he yelled. “James!”
“Maddy!” cried James. He vaulted over the edge of the wagon and ran smack into Maddy, who was running toward him. Both of them fell down. Beverly laughed and went to help them up.
“I got a new ball to play with,” Maddy said to James, ignoring Beverly completely.
“I got a new house,” James said. “Mama said. I gotta see my new house.”
Maddy said, “It’s next to mine!”
They grabbed hands and disappeared around the corner of the great house. Beverly looked to see if Miss Edith or Mama minded. Miss Edith had her arms around Joe Fossett’s neck, and was kissing him while Joe twirled her in the air, but Beverly couldn’t find Mama anywhere. Master Jefferson’s carriage arrived, and now more people were jumping and shouting and carrying on. They surrounded the carriage and clapped their hands.
People opened the carriage door and helped Master Jefferson down. He laughed and clasped their hands and spoke to them. A bunch of townspeople had ridden up from Charlottesville, and Master Jefferson shook their hands too, and shook hands with the overseers. After a moment, though, he lifted his head and looked around with a deep breath, like he was drinking in the scenery. His head stopped. Beverly looked to see what he saw.
Master Jefferson had found Mama. Mama looked at him. She didn’t smile, but her chin went up and her eyes softened. Master Jefferson held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. Then smiled.
Joy bubbled up inside Beverly like a gurgling mountain stream. Papa was home forever. Beverly never felt so glad.
Chapter Twelve
The End of Tranquility
Beverly had known the first few days of Master Jefferson’s homecoming would be busy, but he hadn’t expected chaos. Master Jefferson had brought home twice the usual amount of luggage, and all of it had to be unpacked and sorted and put away. Before Uncle John and Beverly were halfway through heaving crates into the great house, another freight wagon stacked with boxes pulled up to the door. A dark-haired white man hopped down from the seat beside the driver. “Please, where is Miss Edith?” he said, with a small bow to Uncle John. “I am Monsieur Julien.”
Uncle John acted as though white men bowed to him all the time. He nodded, slowly and politely, and said, “Sir. Come this way.”
Beverly trailed them to the new kitchen. It was twice the size of the old one, but it was still empty except for the long table Uncle Peter had brought in from the old kitchen, and a few benches and shelves. Miss Edith and Miss Fanny turned toward the door when Uncle John walked in. They saw the white man, and their faces lit up.
“Monsieur!” cried Miss Edith. She went to him and held out her hands. Beverly watched, horror-struck, as the white man kissed Miss Edith, first on one cheek, then on the other. What would Joe Fossett say?
Now the man was kissing Miss Fanny’s cheeks. Beverly gulped. He’d never seen such a thing. The three of them started talking so fast Beverly got lost right after “How was your journey?” Uncle John looked as confused as Beverly felt.
Finally Miss Edith seemed to notice them. “That whole wagon needs to be unpacked,” she said. “I want all the crates brought in here. As soon as you’ve done that, I’ll need you to get Joe, to measure for grates for the stew stoves. John, who’s the best man for mortar? And do we have bricks on hand, or do we need to have them made?”
Uncle John blinked. “We’ll get the wagon,” he said. “I’ll check on the bricks. How many you need?”
Miss Edith said something to the white man, so quick and incomprehensible Beverly thought it might be a foreign language, like Mama’s French. She listened to the man’s answer, then turned back to Uncle John. “Two walls, say twelve foot long by three foot high, and some dividing walls—say another twelve foot’s worth, maybe a little more. How many bricks is that?”
“I’ll get back to you.” Uncle John pulled Beverly outside with him. He shook his head. “Phew.”
“She’s different,” Beverly said. When Miss Edith came home on vacation she didn’t boss folks around.
“Woman’s learned to be a chef,” Uncle John said. “Good Lord above.”
“We gonna tell Joe and Davy about the kissing?”
“Nah,” Uncle John said. “I think that’s some kind of French thing.”
Beverly looked back over his shoulder. “That man’s French?” He wondered if the man would know Mama.
“Sure,” said Uncle John. “That ‘Monsieur,’ that’s French for mister.”
Monsieur Julien had trained Miss Edith for eight years in Washington. The man driving the wagon turned out to be his assistant, and the wagon was packed with all the fancy pots and equipment Miss Edith would need now that she was head French chef for Monticello.
Uncle Peter was going to be the brewer. He would make beer and cider, and take care of the wine Master Jefferson imported from France. He said he didn’t mind the change. “That fancy cooking, it’s not for me,” he said. “Never wanted to work in a kitchen like that.”
French cooks didn’t settle for regular fireplace cooking. They used something called a stew stove, which was like a long row of small fireplaces built out in the open, against the wall beneath the windows. The stew stove was why Miss Edith needed bricks.
“How’s this going to work?” Beverly muttered as he mixed mortar for Uncle John. “Kitchen’ll be full of smoke.”
Fanny Hern overheard him. “It won’t if it’s properly ventilated,” she said.
“Oh, ventilated.” Uncle John waggled his eyebrows at the fancy word. Beverly laughed.
French cooks had spits that both rotated and moved up and down, powered by weights like giant clockworks. They cooked in copper pots, not cast iron. They used so much wine, spices, and other expensive ingredients that Miss Edith tried to make Burwell give her a set of keys to the locked storerooms.
“No, ma’am,” Burwell said. “I’ve got to keep close inventory on that stuff. A couple of hams walk away from the smokehouse, that’s one thing. A keg of French brandy walks away, I’ll have some fast explaining to do.”
“I’ll write down whatever I take out,” Miss Edith said. “You can trust me.”
Beverly was surprised Miss Edith had learned to write, but Burwell didn’t seem to be. “I know I can trust you,” Burwell said, “but I can’t trust everybody, and I don’t want trouble.”
Beverly didn’t want trouble either. The biggest source of trouble right then, he thought, was Monsieur Julien. Beverly’d never met anyone like him at all.
Monsieur Julien directed the layout of the kitchen, the height of the spits, the number and sizes of the stew stoves. He advised Miss Edith on menus and on stocking the pantries. But he also told stories. He made jokes. He listened to the stories Miss Edith told him. He laughed with her. If she said something sad, he sympathized.
Beverly had never known a white man like that.
He tried to talk about it to Mama. “It’s like they’re friends,” he said.
Mama looked at him sharp. “I suppose that’s possible,” she said at last.
“You and Papa—” Beverly said.
“That’s different.” Mama waved her hand. She didn’t seem to notice that Beverly had said Papa. “That’s a secret, it’s different. And a man and woman thing, that happens all the time.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Beverly said.
“No, no,” Mama said. “I know what you mean. I understand the difference.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose it’s because he’s French. France never allowed slavery. In France, people with dark skin aren’t automatically seen as inferior to people with light skin.”
Beverly thought about that. “What did that feel like?” he asked. “When you were there.”
“Different,” Mama said. “Good. If I went to a shop, I got waited on right away, even if a white person came in on my heels. The other servants in our house there, besides my brother, who was the cook, were white, and we all got along, better than I expected. When I visited Miss Martha and Miss Maria at their school, their friends liked me. Really liked me; I got to know some of them pretty well. I forget now, but I had friends who were white, in France.”
Mama sighed. “You don’t really realize how much color matters in this country, until you go someplace where it matters so much less,” she said. “But France wasn’t perfect either. I was a servant, part of the servant class, and that meant I was looked down on by anybody who thought they ranked higher. Class matters in France, much more than it does here. If you’re born white and poo
r here, you can work hard and die rich and well-respected. There you can be any color, but if you start out lower class you’ll never be able to rise. You couldn’t end up a gentleman.”
Beverly thought about this. “What would happen to Miss Edith, if she went to France?”
Mama sighed. “Chefs are servants, yes, but they’re well-respected upper servants,” she said. “With her training, Miss Edith could work in a fancy establishment for very good pay.”
Beverly scowled. “And here she isn’t paid at all.”
“No,” Mama said. “She isn’t paid, she can’t ever leave, and she has to do whatever she’s told. If she doesn’t, she could be out in the fields tomorrow.”
“If she ran away—” Beverly said. He imagined Miss Edith on the deck of a ship sailing for France. Only she’d have to take James and Maria with her—and Joe Fossett—it would be so hard to do, Beverly could see.
“She would endanger her children,” Mama said.
Beverly remembered that when Joe Fossett ran away, Mama had smiled to think of him and Miss Edith fleeing to freedom. Beverly hadn’t understood it then, but now he did, at least a little.
Beverly longed to see Master Jefferson, but a surprisingly steady stream of visitors kept Master Jefferson fully occupied. Beverly knew not to expect a smile or a word from him when white strangers filled the dining room and parlor and slept in all the rooms upstairs. No matter, Beverly thought. It would calm down soon.
Meanwhile, one day, when he was helping with the stew stove, Miss Edith and Miss Fanny left the kitchen, and Beverly found himself alone with Monsieur Julien.
Monsieur Julien was mincing roast chicken for a dish for the great house. He smiled at Beverly and handed him a drumstick.
“Thank you,” Beverly said, surprised. It wasn’t often he ate chicken, let alone a whole leg of it. He took a bite. Before he lost his nerve he said, through his mouthful, “My mama’s been to France.”