When she awoke Mattie was still gone. In a small, anxious voice Miss Elizabeth pleaded, “Ma-ie?” The woman with her said something Miss Elizabeth did not understand. Miss Elizabeth waited. She comforted herself as best she could with her own thumb, rocked herself back and forth, and stared at the white door watching for her Mattie.
Sometimes she ate, sometimes she slept, but mostly she waited for her Mattie to rescue her.
And then she got hot. The heat came and did not go away. Miss Elizabeth got too hot to eat, too hot to move, too hot to drink. Voices came in and out of the room. People touched her body. Lots of not-Matties wanted her to drink. But Miss Elizabeth was tired and did not want to do anything but sleep. She dreamed. She dreamed of her red ball and a toe. She dreamed of brown eyes and a rocking chair. She dreamed of sweet milk and shells to hold on to.
Mattie heard Miss Elizabeth’s cries echo down the hall. She paced the room nervously with the new baby in her arms as Miss Elizabeth cried out her name, “Ma-ie, Ma-ie.” It took all of her self-control to stay in the nursery as the panic rose in Miss Elizabeth’s voice. More and more desperately the girl yelled for Mattie.
For hours on end Mattie nursed and rocked, paced and wept as she listened to Miss Elizabeth’s desperate sobs. She waited, expecting to be ordered to go to Miss Elizabeth, but that order did not come. Two days after Jack’s birth the cries became intermittent and the girl’s voice grew hoarse. Two days after that they stopped. The silence was worse than the wailing. Now Mattie knew nothing of Miss Elizabeth.
She asked Skinny Emily when she brought lunch on the fifth day of the new arrangement, “Lisbeth all right?”
“Don’ let none of them hear you callin’ her that. Miss Elizabeth not eatin’ much, but she finally stopped cryin’. I never heard such carryin’ on for so long. You’d think that Charlotte was stickin’ pins in her from the way she yelled.”
“What she doin’ now?”
“When I brung them some lunch, she didn’ head out the door like before. She just layin’ in bed. Guess she gettin’ used it.”
“She sleepin’ all right?”
“It ain’t my place to keep track of that little girl and tell you. And she ain’t yours no more neither.”
Mattie knew not to ask Mrs. Ann, Mr. Wainwright, or Grandmother Wainwright during their visits with baby Jack. However, she did dare to speak to the housekeeper about the situation. Mrs. Gray rejected Mattie’s timid offer to care for both Master Jack and Miss Elizabeth with a curt reply. “That girl is learning that she cannot always have things her way. There is no need to give in to her now.”
Doctor Jameson returned to Fair Oaks for a second time in a week. In addition to examining the newborn baby and the birthing mother, he looked in on Miss Elizabeth. Mrs. Ann and Mrs. Gray hovered nearby as he examined the listless child. Wracked by a high fever for three consecutive days, the toddler lay motionless in bed. He listened carefully to her shallow breathing, noted that her eyes were sunk into her head, and pulled at the skin on the back of her hand. The skin stayed pinched up in a fold for a few seconds before laying flat again. “Dehydration has set in,” Doctor Jameson informed Mrs. Ann and Mrs. Gray. “She must take in liquids or she shall not survive this fever. It is the only treatment.”
Pausing at the door, he emphasized the urgency of the situation. “This is extremely serious. You must do whatever you can to hydrate this child or she will die. I am sorry to be so blunt. But the situation is dire. I can show myself out.”
Stunned at this news, Mrs. Ann stared blankly where the doctor had been standing. Then she spoke, “Charlotte, as quickly as you can, get a concoction of salt, sugar, and water from Cook. Do not hesitate to explain the urgency of this situation. She must stop whatever she is doing to get you what I need.”
Mrs. Ann waited silently by the bed for Charlotte’s return. Mrs. Gray hovered behind. Charlotte delivered the liquid and retreated to a chair in the corner. With a shaking hand, Mrs. Ann brought the spoon to her daughter’s parched lips.
“Open her mouth,” Mrs. Ann commanded to Mrs. Gray.
“Perhaps sitting her up would be more effective?” suggested the housekeeper.
“Oh, yes, of course,” replied Mrs. Ann, confusion in her eyes. Riddled with childbirth hormones, tired from labor, and anxious about her daughter, it was hard for the young mother to think well. Her arm retreated back to the bowl, spilling liquid along the way.
Mrs. Gray grabbed the child under her armpits, pulled her into an upright position, and rested Miss Elizabeth against the bed pillows. She stepped back. The girl slowly slid sideways in an arc until her head met the bed. Mrs. Ann stared at the girl.
“Perhaps my lap,” she said. “Place her on my lap.”
Mrs. Gray hauled up the child and roughly set her on Mrs. Ann’s thin legs. Mrs. Ann struggled to balance Miss Elizabeth on her lap. She juggled the floppy body of the dozing child like a sack of potatoes. The young mother resumed her attempt to follow the doctor’s order. With one arm she cradled her daughter behind the neck while the other arm traveled back and forth to and from the vessel of liquid. Drops of fluid spilled off the shaking spoon onto the girl’s gown, neck, and chin. By the time it arrived at Miss Elizabeth’s lips, it was nearly empty. Mrs. Ann, determined to save her daughter, kept the spoon moving back and forth, stopping occasionally to wipe away the liquid dribbling down her child’s skin.
“Is she swallowing? I cannot tell!” inquired the mother.
“Hmmph,” Mrs. Wainwright broke in from the doorway where she watched Mrs. Ann’s feeble attempts to hydrate Elizabeth. “I cannot see what good you are possibly doing. Either the fever will break or it will not,” declared the elderly woman. “It is in God’s hands. You must pray for your daughter.”
Mrs. Ann’s hand froze at her mother-in-law’s words. Like a scared bird uncertain in which direction to fly, she clenched the spoon tightly. Closing her eyes and retreating into herself she took a deep breath before silently resuming her task. Grandmother Wainwright muttered about a “fool’s attempt” as she left the scene.
Though the cup was only half empty, Elizabeth started snoring and her mother could no longer pretend she was feeding her daughter. Mrs. Ann set aside the liquid concoction and returned Elizabeth to her bed. Little of the liquid had made it into Elizabeth’s body. This was not working. With nothing else to do, but grateful to have something to occupy her mind, Mrs. Ann silently recited the Lord’s Prayer over and over until she rested her head against the bed and joined her daughter in slumber.
Hours later, in the dark, Mrs. Ann awoke to the sounds of shallow, labored breathing. She uncovered the small, hot body, and then covered it again. Helpless and uncertain, Mrs. Ann stared at her daughter’s chest rising and falling in a jerky rhythm. Fingers tapping against her lips, standing, then sitting again, she considered sending for more sugar water, then rejected the idea. She thought of sending for cool rags to wipe her daughter down but rejected that idea also because she was struck by another possibility.
She stood up, looking thoroughly around the room to confirm she was alone. She crossed to the door and turned the key to the right until she felt a satisfying click as the lock engaged with the doorframe. Returning to her daughter, she lifted the child, limp as a rag doll, onto her lap. Heart pounding, she unbuttoned her bodice. Miss Elizabeth flopped off her mother’s lap and bumped her head on the seat of the chair. Mrs. Ann returned the small body to the bed, finished the task of unbuttoning her bodice, and peeled her chemise over her head like the skin off a grape.
Her breasts free to the air, she looked around again before pulling her daughter across her lap. She leaned over Elizabeth and brought her breast over the baby’s face. A droplet of white liquid seeped from the dangling nipple and hung from the tip until the force of gravity caused it to drop onto Elizabeth’s eyelid. Both lids slowly rose to reveal glassy blue eyes. Elizabeth gazed at the pink nipple suspended over her head, then at her mother’s hopeful face peering down at he
r. Mrs. Ann hoped her daughter knew what to do with the offered breast and held her breath in anticipation. Leaning down closer, another drop of milk landed on Elizabeth’s cheek and rolled to her lips. The girl’s tongue crept out and tasted the liquid. Hope rushed through Mrs. Ann’s body. She waited nervously. Elizabeth looked into her mother’s eyes again and then at the offered nipple. Then the baby closed her eyes and turned her head away.
Mrs. Ann sat back hard in the chair with a sigh. Shame and humiliation radiated through every pore. She felt foolish for even trying. She looked down at her fevered daughter and considered her options. She wiped away the sweat from Elizabeth’s damp forehead. With another sigh, Mrs. Ann returned her daughter to bed. Blinking away tears, utterly defeated, she slowly pulled her chemise over her body and buttoned up her gown. She was not going to let her daughter die. Ignoring Mrs. Gray and Charlotte, who had been hovering outside the locked door, she went in search of Mattie.
When she found her, Mrs. Ann spoke urgently. “Elizabeth has burned with a high fever for three days. She has not taken a drink since the fever came.” Desperation in her voice, she pleaded, “Come now. See if she will drink from you. She must drink something or…” She left the rest unspoken.
Mattie followed Mrs. Ann down the long hallway anxious about the situation she would find. Mrs. Gray stood in the doorway like a sentry.
“I do not believe this is wise,” stated Mrs Gray. “She will not become used to the new arrangement if we bring Mattie every time she fusses.”
“I am not concerned with my daughter becoming accustomed,” Mrs. Ann declared. “The doctor made it quite clear she must drink something. Let Mattie through. Now!”
Mrs. Gray stood aside. A bitter, metallic smell hung in the air. Miss Elizabeth’s small form lay under a light sheet. A rush of tenderness filled Mattie. She reached her hand to Miss Elizabeth’s hot forehead and brushed damp hair away from her face.
Kneeling by the bed, she whispered quietly into Miss Elizabeth’s ear, “Mattie here now. I here now, beautiful girl. You gonna be all right.”
Then she slowly, carefully, lay down next to Miss Elizabeth and gently pulled the baby into the crook of her arm, rubbing her back with one hand while caressing her face with the other.
Mattie murmured repeatedly, “I here now. You gonna be all right.”
The child slowly opened her eyes and reached up to Mattie’s face. A weak smile drew up the corners of her mouth, her eyes closed again. She buried her face into Mattie’s chest. A croaky “Ma-ie” came out of Miss Elizabeth’s dry lips.
Relieved, Mattie smiled at the sick child and gave her a tender kiss. “That right. It me. Mattie here. Let see about gettin’ you somethin’ to drink, baby girl.”
Mattie startled when Mrs. Ann interrupted their private reunion, “I will leave you two alone then.”
Filled with a mixture of relief and sorrow, Mrs. Ann turned to Mrs. Gray and spoke definitively, “Elizabeth will move back in with Mattie. See to it that her belongings are returned and a wet nurse is secured for Jack immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am. As you wish,” replied Mrs. Gray, making it clear she questioned Mrs. Ann’s judgment.
Into the baby’s dreams came the real Mattie, not the dream Mattie, but the real one. This Mattie held the girl close and gave her sweet, warm milk. Lisbeth was not scared anymore.
Chapter 5
MAY 1839
Mattie nestled behind her husband as they lay in bed. She loved the feel of Emmanuel against her body. Her hand rubbed his strong chest, her knees spooned into the valley of his legs, and her cheek rested against his back. She planted kisses on his spine and took in his musky smell. Left alone in Samuel and Poppy’s cabin, they basked in two glorious days together, a rare treat given by Emmanuel’s overseer and agreed to by Mrs. Gray.
Mattie expected that Massa hoped she would produce another child, but she would not give him one. This was not her fertile time, and if it were, she would have taken precautions. Though she longed for more babies, she was not going to have more children that she would have to be separated from.
Emmanuel was an attractive man: deep brown eyes, smooth skin the color of coffee, with strong muscles from years of physical labor. As a child he was drawn to the carpenter’s shed where he was put to work as an apprentice rather than being sent to the fields. When he reached manhood, the overseer moved him to the smith shop, where he spent the hours from sun-up to sundown working bars of ore into nails, horseshoes, and spikes. Pouring his frustration and resentment into red, hot metal, he shaped objects that kept the plantation running. Though he hated the plantation and yearned to be free from his bondage, he took great pride in his craft, so he did not intentionally sabotage Massa and the overseer with poor metal work.
Mattie met nineteen-year-old Emmanuel soon after her sixteenth birthday. She had been at a dance that was held in a musty old barn during the one week of the year the field hands did not have to work, the “Big Times” between Christmas and New Year’s. She had been sitting on a hay bale, taking in the sights and sounds around her and giggling with Rebecca. Mattie had clapped along to the pounding drum while the folks around her sang:
Juba this and Juba that, Juba killed a yeller cat, Juba this and
Juba that, Hold your partner where you at.
She leaped in surprise when a handsome stranger from an unknown plantation invited her to dance with him.
They soon jumped the broom, committing themselves to one another. Once a month Emmanuel made the three-mile walk over to Fair Oaks for a visit. Mostly he came on a Saturday for the night, but a few times a year he was given a Friday off too.
Emmanuel rolled over to face Mattie. “Been thinking this might be the spring to head out.”
Mattie sighed. “Thought we already agreed. Samuel too young.”
“I been thinkin’ I can go on ahead. Then you two join me next year or the year after when Samuel big enough.”
“You crazy!” Mattie cried out. “There ain’t no way I can travel through the forest all alone with a little one. You leave us and you leaving us for good. This my home. It ain’t perfect, but we alive and we get to be together some of the time. You run off to God knows where and maybe we never gonna see you alive again.”
“But Ohio ain’t that far,” Emmanuel insisted. “I gonna make it. I know it.”
“Ohio gonna be there in a few years, when Samuel big enough to make the trip. You just hold on a little longer,” Mattie said. “It ain’t so bad in the meantime.”
Emmanuel had been raised on stories of the freedom land. His father, Manny, had made two attempts to secure his freedom as a young man and had the wounds to prove it. Growing up, Emmanuel had begged his father to recount the tales. Manny didn’t need much begging, though he pretended to. His wife, on the other hand, chastised him for “filling the boy’s head with stories of the promise land.”
Emmanuel’s father told him, “The first time I ran I wasn’t much more than twelve. I was a working out in the fields when suddenly I seen there weren’t nobody around me. I just dropped my sack of tobacco and tore off. Made it nearly to the next county when they caught me. My own overseer got me and brung me back. They cut off the top of my ear and sent me back to work the next day.”
Right on cue, young Emmanuel asked, as he always did, “Did it hurt? When they cut off your ear?”
“Nah, not so much. It was worth that bit of my ear for a taste of freedom.”
Eventually Emmanuel learned that it had hurt. An infection set in, making his father’s ear swell and ooze pus. Manny gave up most of the hearing in his left ear for those hours on his own.
“The next time I run,” Manny would go on with his tale, “I was sixteen years old or so. I planned it, but God weren’t with me that time either. A sudden storm made the river flood. Made it all the way to the banks of the Moback—two counties away—but then I couldn’ go no further. I know’d if’n I went into the river I’d a never come out again. I wanted freedom, bu
t not to meet my maker. I had no choice. Only thing to do was sit down right by that river and wait. The dogs found me first. See. Right here? I still got their teeth marks on my arm.
“They took my toes the second time. Usually they take the whole foot, but they figured without my three toes I could work good but not run. They was right too. So son, when you ready to take your chances on getting to freedom, I got two things you keep in mind. Wait till you be a full man and run in May or June. It ain’t so cold, but the big thunderstorms ain’t come yet.”
Emmanuel had talked of running the first time he was alone with Mattie. Every winter he made plans for the next spring. Each year she argued that it was too soon. Mattie hoped that Emmanuel’s talk was just that. She didn’t share his dream of freedom, did not want leave her home and family to head out into the wilderness. She desperately hoped her love and their son would make Emmanuel stay. But every year when late spring rolled around, Mattie said a final goodbye in her heart whenever they parted. She expected that one day he would simply be gone.
“Forget about Ohio,” Mattie cajoled, pressing her body into his. “You in Virginia right now, with me, all alone, in this here bed. What you gonna do about that?”
She moved in closer, bringing her mouth so close that she could feel his breath. Emmanuel smiled, gazing through the dim light into her eyes, and ran his large hands across her back. He kissed her tenderly on her full lips. She parted her mouth, darting the tip of her tongue out to explore his mouth.
Pulling back, he asked, “Do you suppose that little girl gonna interrupt us again?”
Yellow Crocus: A Novel Page 4
