by Nat Burns
Cressa spoke to her gently, easing Foxy back into full awareness and they went into the lean-to. She helped Foxy undress and step into the tub. Her mistress seated, Cressa sat on the dirt floor nearby and waited alertly, ready to jump at any command. After a while, Foxy seemed to cheer and became more talkative.
“Hey, Cressa?” she called softy.
“Yassum, Missy?“
“What do you reckon the world’s like out there? I’ve never been farther than Savannah. Where have you been?”
Cressa chuckled and leaned back, making herself more comfortable. “Lordy, Mistress, I doan rightly know. I came from de Carolinas where a trader bought me. I came in coffle from dere to heah an’ it all look pretty much de same.”
Foxy spoke thoughtfully, almost as if to herself, while she swished the bath water gently. “Maybe Maggie and me could go away from here for a spell. Do some traveling. I sure would like to see more of America.”
“Hooee, Mistress!” Cressa cried, sitting up straight in her enthusiasm. “Shore yo’ could! Ain’t nothin’ stoppin’ y’all. Miss Maggie, she a fine lady and got spunk. She be all ready fo’ it, but please, Missy, y’all take Sim and Cressa wif you?”
Foxy chuckled and stood, the wet drops on her body glistening in the bright firelight. “You know I wouldn’t leave you two, but I’ll have second thoughts if you don’t hurry up and hand me that drying cloth.”
Cressa quickly obliged and soon Foxy was dressed in a simple homespun skirt and bleached linen shirt. She slipped her stockinged feet into casual mules, tied back her unruly hair and she was ready
Foxy was shown into the parlor by Freddie, Amos’s son who was being trained to take on some of the older butler’s duties. Now that she was building her own home, Foxy’s eye was more critical and discerning of other peoples’ homes and she reexamined the familiar parlor closely. Royal blue drapes still adorned the large French doors and the worn velvet Queen Anne chairs matched the hue exactly. There were a few of the red velvet chairs that had been in the house when Charles acquired it and they offered a startling, albeit welcome, contrast.
The only occupant in the parlor was a pensive Charles, who hailed Foxy heartily. They sat talking plantation work and drinking sherry for a long while until a commotion was heard on the stairway. They looked up to see Maggie and her mother ushering in the eight other Scotts. Tiny Sarah, in Maggie’s arms, immediately squealed and held out her chubby little arms toward Foxy who grinned and quickly rose to take her. Sarah grasped her face with both hands and laid her round cheek against it. “Oh, Foxy,” she sighed. “I wuvs you so much!”
This caused a round of laughter and chatter, interrupted only when Freddie announced that supper was ready.
Charles, unlike most southern plantation owners, enjoyed having his children at the table. The custom was for children to eat in the nursery until they were well into their teens but Charles and Margaret quickly broke that tradition. When Tewes, the old caretaker, had informed Charles of this plantation tradition, he’d laughed and gestured pointedly around the huge dining hall. “We’ve plenty of room and might as well fill it up. Meals could be boring without the little ones here to liven things up.”
The plantation carpenters had then been set to work fashioning tall, stilt-legged chairs so the tinier Scotts could have access to the high dining table.
Foxy entered the dining room that also served as the ballroom and as always, her thoughts flew back a year. The thought of the ball where she and Maggie had first declared their love brought a happy grin to her features. Sarah, still in her arms, saw the smile and giggling, laid her lips upon it in a baby kiss. Foxy jokingly accused her of being a flirt and with a sound pat on her bottom, settled her into her tall chair. She chose the chair next to her and held out the chair on her other side for Maggie.
The meal was a pleasant one, with much laughter and chattering from the children. The food was delicious, as usual, platters of golden fried chicken, baked sweet potatoes, large mounds of buttery mashed potatoes, thick chicken gravy, new sliced tomatoes and several other leafy green vegetables and the inevitable platters of biscuits. There was thick, sweet milk for the children and iced tea with lemon for the adults and everything had Martha and Bo’s special, expert touch.
Having sated his hunger, Charles looked up and noted Foxy’s loving attention to little Sarah. He directed himself to Maggie with a sad cast to his eye and sorrow in his voice. “Maggie, love. I must admit that I’m sorry you’ll have no grandchildren for us. I do value your happiness beyond that, however. I want you to know that.”
Maggie glanced up startled, shot a quick look at Foxy and sighed. “Oh, Papa, there will be children.”
Margaret’s head shot up from perusing her plate. “Maggie? What’s this you say?”
Foxy turned her attention from Sarah and asserted with a definite nod. “Yes, ma’am, we plan to have you a whole plantation of grandchildren, if it pleases you.”
Charles cleared his throat and shook his head in bewilderment. “Fidelia, I don’t see—”
“It’s simple, Papa. I’ve spoken with Gally Thomas in Savannah. She’s keeping an ear out for a new babe who needs a home. So many mothers pass after birthing and they end up at Gally’s orphanage. I told her that we, as a family, just wanted to help,” Maggie explained, a small smile curving her lips.
“But,” her mother began. “How can—”
Maggie interrupted by leaning across the table and stretching one hand out toward her mother in a long-distance caress. “I will count on you for so much, Mother dear. You shall certainly guide me in how best to care for the wee ones, won’t you?”
The smile that lit Margaret’s face was beautiful to behold. “Of course, my darling. I could find no better joy.”
Foxy let out the deep breath she’d been holding. She and Maggie had discussed many times how best to present the issue of parenting to Maggie’s family. Now that it was done, she felt a great sense of relief. Satisfaction and love swelled her breast and the rightness of their decisions made her proud.
After supper, while Charles lost himself in the local papers and Margaret caught up on her darning. Foxy and Maggie seated themselves on the settee with the smaller Scott children crowded about their knees. With the help of Phillip and now and then, Elizabeth, they took turns inventing imaginative tales to enthrall the younger ones. They kept this up for hours, with no awareness of the passing of time. When the large ornate clock on the mantel struck ten, Foxy was regrettably surprised. Margaret, who’d been listening with half an ear to the stories, was shocked. Quickly, she bustled the younger children together and bade them kiss goodnights all around. There were no moans of protest for they were all droopy-eyed already and she led them upstairs, muttering remorse that elderly, and sometimes forgetful, Malia had not reminded them of the time.
Foxy rose then and thanked Charles for the meal and hospitality. Taking Maggie’s hand, she lifted her to her feet, so she could see her out. At the front door, when they were alone, she kissed her long and lovingly. “The house should be finished on time, Maggie, love. Tomorrow father and I are felling the last tree.”
“Good,” she replied, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “I’m pleased. Won’t it be jolly sharing our very own home?”
Foxy chuckled softly, her blue eyes pools of shadow, and laid her lips against the curve of Maggie’s neck. “That it will, love, that it will.”
Maggie shivered gently and leaned against her life mate. After a long moment, Foxy lifted her head, the scent of peach blossom attar filling her nostrils.
“I must go, love, there’s much to be done on the morrow.”
Chapter Sixteen
THE NEXT MORNING, Maggie awoke from a restless sleep when Cleo entered her bedchamber. The maid carried a tray laden with a pot of hot tea and a sweet roll. She set the tray securely on the bedside commode and turned to open the drapes, flooding the room with early morning sunlight. Maggie squinted, sat up and tried to blink the clouds of s
leep from her eyes. “Oh Cleo, must you?”
The maid emitted a wicked grunt of satisfaction and came to arrange the tray before her mistress. When it was in place, she puttered about the room gathering up the clothing Maggie had discarded the night before.
“’Bout time you was up, don’ you think? Doan wanna be no triflin’ wife fo’ Mistress Foxy. I’m shore she be needin’ a spry wife to take care of her what works so hard, don’ you?”
Maggie let out a dramatic moan and rolled her eyes. Sinking down into the bed, she glared daggers at the maid’s back while sipping the tea. “Wife, huh. Weird to think of being another woman’s wife. It can’t be legal, you know. We’d be drummed out of town if we presented at the courthouse.”
Cleo nodded. “Our peoples jist jump the broom. Doan matter dey two dams or two bucks, it’s all the same.”
“I’m just glad we’ll be having a little ceremony here in the chapel. Do you think God approves of our union?”
Cleo stood still and looked at Maggie with a discerning gaze. “Well, wadn’t the good Lord the one who done made the both of you? Just how you is?”
Maggie’s face lit and she lifted her cup in salute to the maid. “That’s exactly how we see it,” she said.
Later, after everything was ready, Cleo helped Maggie wash and dress. “What you gwine do today, Mistress Maggie? Ain’t got no mo’ fittin’s so’s you can have de whole day to yo’ self.” She pinned tawny ringlets away from Maggie’s face.
Maggie waited until she was through and then with a mischievous giggle, rose from her vanity to open the bedroom door. Glancing back over her shoulder, she spoke impishly to her maid. “I’m going to go swimming in the creek, of course, what did you think?” Letting out a peal of youthful laughter, she shut the door on Cleo’s angry face.
Maggie wondered what she was going to do as she descended the stairs. She needed something to occupy her day. Walking aimlessly from room to room, she finally came upon her mother and Sarah in her father’s study. Margaret had on one of her oldest gowns, a scarf around her pretty hair and a dust cloth in one hand. Sarah was similarly attired and she tottered about on her chubby legs laying the cloth upon everything she encountered. Maggie had to grin at the sight but entering the room she chided her mother. “Mama! How many times have I told you? We have the servants to do this sort of thing. Why do you insist on doing it and where’s that lazy Bo at?”
Margaret smiled and with the back of her hand, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Oh, she’s out in the garden picking the tomatoes. Besides, I don’t like to trust Father’s study to just anybody, you how that. He likes it to be cleaned just right.
Maggie let go an amused moan and setting Sarah down with paper and charcoal, took her dust cloth and set to helping her mother.
Later, when the room was finished, she once more found herself with nothing to do. She tried to read but found it too hot to sit for long. Finally, looking at the clock, an idea hit her, and she hurried off to the kitchen. Martha was covered in flour up to her elbows as she rolled out the luncheon biscuits.
“Martha!” Maggie inquired excitedly. “Do you have a basket with carrying handles?”
The cook glanced up with a puzzled frown creasing her broad, dark forehead. “Let’s see now. Y’all mean kinda like a pack lunch?”
“Yes, exactly!” Maggie clapped her hands together like a child. “That’ll be fine! Do you have one?”
Martha grinned and bobbed her head. “Shore do.”
Wiping her hands on her apron, she led the way into the pantry. Inside the door she paused, arms akimbo, and looked around. “Now, where was dat dang-blasted thing?” she muttered as she began poking beneath the shelves. After a thorough search, she straightened holding a square woven-wicker basket with a hinged lid. With a triumphant smile, she lifted it high. “Dis heah what you wantin’, Miss Maggie?”
Maggie laughed at the skewed head scarf and gray smudge that adorned Martha’s cheek and nodded. “Yes, perfect. And thank you for all your trouble.”
“Pshaw!” The cook exclaimed. “Waren’t no trouble.”
She straightened her head scarf, wiped her hands and complacently resumed rolling her biscuit dough.
Maggie picked up the basket, shook it out and flew about the kitchen. First going to the breadbox, she lifted down a loaf of fresh bread and cut a few slices from it. Next, she uncovered the leftover ham and began laboriously to slice it. Martha had been watching all this out of the corner of her eye but when the big knife slid dangerously close to the girl’s finger, she’d had enough. Briskly wiping her hands on her apron, she crossed the room.
“Lordy, Miss Maggie. Do be careful! Dem knives sharp! Heah, let me do dat fo’ you. How much o’ dis stuff you needin’?”
Maggie nibbled her lip uncertainly.” I don’t know. I thought I‘d take luncheon to Foxy. How much does she eat?”
Martha threw back her head and loosed a merry roar of laughter. Wiping her eyes on her apron, she choked out. “A whole lot more’ n dis, honey chile. It’ll have to be for the house workers, too.”
Maggie was dismayed. Martha patted her gently on the back and led her to a stool. “Looky heah, sweetie pie, you sit on down heah an’ watch me real close. Den nex’ time you be able to do it fo’ yo’self in yore own little home.”
Maggie complied and watched entranced as Martha’s nimble fingers flew. Deftly slicing two dozen pieces of thick bread, she buttered each one and popped them into the Dutch oven that was situated in the fireplace. She went on to quickly cut off an equal number of lean ham slices.
While she waited for the bread to heat, she sliced tomatoes and cucumbers into a dish, wrapped leftover fried chicken in a clean cloth and fetched a dozen or so peaches from the cold pantry. Checking the oven, she found the butter melted and the bread golden, so removed it and placed it on another clean cloth. Putting a slice of ham between each of them, she wrapped each securely. That finished, she packed everything in the basket. She turned, handed the basket to Maggie and sighed. “I’d give y’all a jug of tea or lemonade but I reckon that’d be too heavy fo’ a little thing like you to tote. Want I should fetch a little gal to carry fo’ you?”
Maggie was astounded. The whole process under Martha’s capable hands had taken less than a quarter of an hour. Taking the basket from her, she smiled shyly at the cook. “Goodness no, Martha! You’ve done plenty already—too much. We can find some spring water, there’s one right next to the house, so this will do fine. Thank you.”
Martha’s skin turned darker as she blushed at the unusual gratitude. “Dats all right, Miss Maggie. Y’all better run on now or dat work crew gwine starve.”
FOXY SWEATED IN the hot midday sun as she and her father sawed and chopped at the stubborn oak. Finally, it seemed ready and they quickly attached the pulling mule. The beast, driven by Bish, pulled and strained until with a resounding crack the tree toppled. It was at that moment that they heard the piercing scream. Standing dumbly, it took them minutes to realize that the oak had fallen on someone.
Foxy was the first to move. “My God!” she shouted as she raced along the fallen tree. Suddenly, she slowed, for extending from underneath the massive trunk was a length of peach colored silk. Quickly, she scrambled over the log and her worst fears were realized, for the upper half of Maggie’s body showed from between the branches and through the leafy debris, her face a horrible mask of pain. A wicker basket had tumbled away, and food was scattered across the forest floor.
Giles ran up, panting, and seeing the situation, ran on toward the big house to fetch help.
Foxy broke into harsh, gut-wrenching sobs as she reached through the barrier of branches to touch Maggie. Her fingers pressed against Maggie’s neck and she felt something. There it was again, a faint fluttering. She was still alive!
Foxy fell to her knees, grasped Maggie’s outstretched hand through the branches and called to her. Slowly, ever so slowly, Maggie opened her beautiful eyes and smiled weakly at her lov
e.
“Oh God, Maggie! I’m so sorry. Please, try to hold on. We’ll have you free in a moment. Please—” Her voice trailed off as she broke into harsh sobs again. Maggie’s lips moved and Foxy tried to stifle her weeping, to bend closer to hear her.
“Yes, beloved?” she whispered.
Maggie took in a breath and grimaced at the pain. Finally, she summoned the strength to speak. “’Twas my fault, dear Foxy. I should have watched more carefully instead of daydreaming.”
Foxy’s arms ached to hold her, to reassure her and take away her pain. “Shhh, beloved, don’t speak. ‘Twill only make the pain worse.”
Again, Maggie summoned a weak smile. “The pain is almost gone now.” She drew another shuddering breath. “Foxy, dearest, I am so...so sorry we won’t spend...life together. But for the love of God, do not blame our love. ‘Twas not evil...not wrong. God...”
Her loving eyes clouded with tears and a gout of blood stained her lips and teeth as she spoke again. “Promise me that, dear one. Promise...me...”
Foxy could only sob anew. “Oh, love! I can’t...”
Maggie gasped and grabbed Foxy’s arm with desperate strength. “Promise!”
Foxy nodded dully, suddenly unable to breathe. “Yes, love, I—I promise,” she choked out.
Maggie nodded as if relieved and relaxed her hold on Foxy’s arm. Again, a shallow breath and a grimace. “I know you loved...never meant me harm.”
Those were her last words. By the time her father arrived with a crew of workers, Foxy was clutching a lifeless hand. Someone forcibly pulled her away and all together they rolled the log from Maggie, straining mightily until she was free. Foxy averted her eyes and wept anew at the grotesque twisting of her small body. Bish gently lifted Maggie into his arms, wrapping her peach-colored frock more securely around her and crying silently, began the long trek to the plantation house and the sorrow waiting there.
