Love's Tender Fury

by Jennifer Wilde

  “You think I—”

  “Does it matter what I think, Marietta?”

  “Not at all,” I said crisply.

  “The only thing that matters is that you’re my property now. You’ll be provided for, protected, fed, clothed—”

  “And you think that should satisfy me? You think I should be—”

  “I think you should be grateful,” he interrupted. “You could have been dealt a much worse fate, I assure you. Rawlins could have bought you. You’ve had it easy these past months.”

  “I’ve been a slave.”

  “And I’ve been a damn good master. I could have beaten you, abused you. I could have raped you that first night.”

  “You could have, yes.”

  “You’ve very little to complain about, Marietta.”

  “I’m a human being. Human beings have—”

  “This conversation is beginning to bore me,” he said, cutting me short. There was an edge of irritation in his voice. “I don’t have to justify myself to you. I paid good money for you, a hell of a lot more than I could afford, and you’re damned lucky it was me instead of Rawlins.”

  “You want me to thank you?”

  “I want you to shut up!” he said tersely.

  I bit back the sharp retort that sprang to mind and lapsed into silence, humiliated and seething with anger. Derek’s irritation soon vanished and he seemed as relaxed as ever, but my own anger didn’t abate one jot. At that moment, I wished Jeff Rawlins had bought me. I wished I had never heard of Derek Hawke of Shadow Oaks. For a short time I actively hated him, and then, when that passed, I thought how much easier it would be if I could hate him. I … I could escape, I told myself. I could run away to a big city like Charles Town. I would be free to manage my own life, decide my own fate.

  As the wagon bumped down the road, I was lost in revery, stepping into a fantasy world where I was free and affluent, dressed in beautiful gowns, surrounded by handsome men who vied for my attention. Derek would see me and want me, and I would smile at him and then go off on the arm of his rival, disdaining him, leaving him angry and frustrated, sorry he never appreciated me when he had the chance. He would come back again and again, and each time I would reject him. When he was utterly miserable, I would finally condescend to spend an evening with him, and he would…

  The loud rumble startled me, causing my dream world to shatter abruptly. I looked up in alarm. Derek was tense, his facial muscles tight.

  “What—what was that?” I stammered.

  “Thunder.”

  “Thunder? You mean it’s going to—”

  “It’s going to rain!”

  He clicked the reins, urging the horses to go faster. The sky was an even darker gray now, tinged with a deep purple. Ponderous black clouds moved across the sky. There was another rumble of thunder. Derek flicked the reins again, spurring the horses on, and soon they were rushing down the road at a mad gallop, hooves pounding, tails and manes flying like skeins of silk. The wagon bounced and swayed, swerving from side to side as our speed increased. I clutched the edge of the seat, afraid I would be thrown off. Derek leaned forward, half standing, clutching the reins tightly. His whole body was tense, and he was perspiring freely even though it was almost cold now.

  Trees seemed to fly past us, dancing dark green forms that blurred together, the road a rapidly unwinding brown ribbon that seemed to propell us forward. A strong wind blew up, tearing at my hair and causing my skirts to flutter up wildly. There was a sudden silver flash as a streak of lightning ripped across the sky. I was terrified, but the terror was minor compared to the wrenching realization of what the storm would mean to Derek. The crop would be destroyed. He would be in desperate financial straits. As tree limbs waved like agitated demons and the horses flew down the road and the wagon bounced savagely, I prayed the rain wouldn’t come.

  The wheels whirled over a particularly deep rut in the road. The wagon seemed to jump in the air. Losing my grip on the seat, I cried out as I was thrown forward. Derek slung an arm around my shoulder and pulled me back, holding me in a tight grip. The muscles in his arm tightened brutally, but I was hardly aware of the pain. There was another streak of lightning and a distant explosion, and then it began to rain, furiously. Both of us were drenched immediately. Derek shouted to the horses, urging them to go even faster. Through the swirling gray sheets of rain I could see Maud Simmons’s fields, stripped of cotton. We were almost home, but it was too late, too late. The brown ribbon of road was already a gleaming brown-black, turning to mud, mud and water splashing as horses and wagon hurtled forward.

  It seemed an eternity before we finally reached Shadow Oaks. Derek halted the horses under one of the oaks in back and leaped from the seat, racing towards the fields. I sat there for a moment, stunned, and then I climbed down and, somehow, managed to unharness the horses and lead them through the driving rain to the stables. Where were the slaves? Why wasn’t there someone to help? As I turned to leave the stables I saw Cassie dash down the back steps and rush through the rain toward me. By the time she reached the stables her pink dress was plastered against her thickening body, her hair a sleek wet cap. The girl was terrified, trembling as I led her away from the door.

  “It’s goin’ all be lost!” she cried. “Adam hustled everyone out to th’ fields soon as th’ sky started turnin’ dark—everyone, th’ wenches an’ th’ chillen an’ even fat Mattie—I wanted to help, too, but he wouldn’t let me—”

  “Have they—”

  “They ain’t been able to pick hardly nuthin’, Miz Marietta! It’d take three days o’ hard work to pick it all, an’ they’ve just been out there since lunch time—”

  The girl was crying, her voice a hoarse rasp. She was shivering violently. I reached for an old horse blanket and wrapped it around her, brushing the wet black tendrils of hair away from her face. Lightning streaked, exploded in bursts of silver-gold-blue, and the rain was worse than ever, driven into the stable in sheets by the raging wind. There came a sudden loud pelting on the roof as though the place were being beseiged by artillery fire, and as Cassie and I watched, the rain turned to hail and the hail hurled down like millions of glittering pellets. It lasted for perhaps five minutes, and then it ceased abruptly. There was silence, a terrible silence all the more intense after the barrage of noise.

  “It’s over,” Cassie whispered. “Th’ crop is done ruined for sure.”

  We stood there for several minutes, silent. Cassie was crying. I felt a terrible despair, knowing what this meant, knowing what Derek must be feeling. Rain dripped slowly from the eaves. The yard was littered with hail that glittered and gleamed like crystal. In the distance I saw the negroes returning from the fields, wet, dejected, dragging limp cloth bags. Adam saw us standing in the doorway of the stables and joined us. There was no need for words. He gathered Cassie in his arms and held her tightly, folding the blanket more closely around her.

  “Is—is he still out there?” I asked.

  Adam nodded gravely. “He jest stands there, lookin’ at th’ fields.”

  I left the two of them and moved quickly across the yard, hail crunching beneath my feet. I passed through the oaks and entered the fields. The ground was muddy, the plants all beaten down and broken, the cotton like soggy snow. The purple sky had faded to a pale violet, and thin silvery rays of sunlight streamed down, weak, wavering. I saw Derek up ahead. He stood with his hands thrust into his pockets, and he stared at the desolation as though unable to comprehend it, as though it were a mirage. His hair was plastered against his head. As I drew nearer, I saw his expression, and it gave my heart a wrench. His eyes were filled with anguish. His mouth drooped. He looked lost, defenseless.

  I hurried toward him. He looked at me and shook his head, and then a strange, pathetic smile played on his lips. I reached up to smooth the wet locks from his brow. Derek wrapped his arms around me, holding me against him, holding me tightly, tightly, as though he feared he might lose me, too. Neither of us spoke.
I had never loved him so strongly, my whole being filled with tremulous emotion. He looked at the fields and shook his head again, and then he looked down into my eyes.

  “I still have you,” he said. “Thank God for that.”

  IX

  Derek returned to Charles Town two weeks later, traveling on horseback, leaving long before dawn and arriving back at Shadow Oaks late at night. Although he didn’t discuss the trip with me, I knew that he had gone to see about getting a loan, and I could tell by his manner the next morning that the trip had been unsuccessful. Later, after breakfast, I was in the kitchen, working at the drainboard, when he entered with a parcel clumsily done up in brown paper and string. He set it on the battered wooden table and tersely informed me that it was for me.

  “A present?” I asked, surprised.

  “We’re going to the county fair two weeks from now. You’ll need something to wear. The gown you bought in Charles Town is hardly suitable.”

  “Fair? You haven’t mentioned—”

  “Open the package, Marietta,” he interrupted. His voice was edged with irritation.

  I cut the string and removed the paper and held up the generous length of cloth. It was cotton, a deep, rich red printed with tiny black flowers, more than enough to make a dress. I was moved, not just because the cloth was exceedingly beautiful but because he had thought to buy it for me. He watched me examine it, his eyes guarded, his lips curling in a surly line. I wanted to thank him, but I could tell that it would be unwise.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to make a dress,” he said. “I assume you know how?”

  “Of course. Thank you, Derek.”

  “I want you to look presentable when we go to the fair.”

  He left the kitchen then, abruptly, going out the back door. Through the window I could see him striding briskly across the lawn. The cotton crop had been destroyed, he was near bankruptcy, and he was driving the slaves and driving himself harder than ever, coming in each afternoon just as the sun was beginning to set, worn, exhausted, so weary it took an effort for him to even eat the meals I prepared. Now he was planning to go to the county fair. Why? It was so unlike him. Derek Hawke avoided his neighbors whenever possible. Ordinarily he would have welcomed an event like the fair as he would welcome the plague. I felt sure something was afoot.

  I was still mystified when, two weeks later, we were on our way to the fair, the horses moving down the road at a brisk, energetic pace, the wagon rocking and creaking. This road was unfamiliar to me, more narrow than the one we had taken to Charles Town. Lined on either side by tall, leafy trees that kept out most of the sunlight, the road was cool and shady. It was late in the morning, for Derek didn’t care to arrive until noon, and it was only an hour’s drive from Shadow Oaks.

  I was wearing the new dress I had made from the material he purchased in Charles Town. It had puffed sleeves, a modest neckline, and a snugly fitting bodice, the skirt full-gathered and rustling in rich red folds over my petticoats. Cassie had exclaimed over the dress, declaring that it made me look like a queen, but Derek had made no comment. Silent and withdrawn, a worried, preoccupied look in his eyes, he gave no indication that he even noticed. I was too sensible to be hurt, but it would have been nice had he mentioned the dress.

  Derek wore polished brown knee boots that had seen better days, as had his brown broadcloth suit. His vest was a dull gold satin striped with thin bronze stripes, his neckcloth of mustard-colored silk. The clothes weren’t nearly as elegant as those he had worn in Charles Town, were, in fact, just short of seedy. He had lost weight during the past four weeks and looked drawn and tense, with fatigue shadows beneath his eyes, slight hollows beneath his cheekbones. He had suffered a great set-back, and I wondered if I even had an inkling how enormous it was.

  When he purchased me, Derek had intended to rely upon the money the crop would bring in to restore his finances. But the crop had been totally destroyed. I knew that he kept a supply of ready cash in a cigar box in the bottom drawer of his desk in the study. I had seen him take money from it this very morning. Was that all he had? If so, his situation was desperate. I longed to ask him about it, but I knew that would be a mistake. Derek was not one to share his problems.

  “Is it much farther?” I asked quietly.

  “We’re almost there,” he replied.

  “I—I’m rather nervous.”

  “There’s no need to be.”

  “Facing all those people—it won’t be particularly pleasant. From the first they’ve assumed that—”

  “What they think doesn’t matter in the least,” he said sternly.

  “I still don’t know why you decided to go. It—it’s not like you.”

  “I have business to conduct. You’ll be on your own part of the time. I’m sure you’ll be able to amuse yourself.”

  “You’re going to leave me on my own? After what happened in Charles Town? What if I run into Jason Barnett? What if—”

  “That doesn’t worry me, Marietta. Not now,” he told me.

  I was strangely affected by his words, for they proved that he trusted me. Although he would never acknowledge it to me, I felt sure he believed all I had told him about my past, believed I had been framed for a crime I hadn’t committed. During the past four weeks there had been a subtle alteration in his manner toward me. I was still his housekeeper, still waited on him, serving him as before, serving him in a new capacity at night. Although he certainly didn’t treat me as an equal, there was a new courtesy and consideration that hadn’t been there before, so subtle it wouldn’t even be apparent to anyone else.

  A short while later Derek turned off the road. I could hear loud, brassy music in the distance, and as we rounded a bend I could see tents and booths set up in a clearing surrounded by oaks. Derek pulled the wagon under the shade of a large tree, near where dozens of others were lined up. Two small boys rushed over, and Derek gave each a coin. They assured him they would look after the horses. He helped me down from the wagon, and we strolled toward the tents and booths.

  “It’s really not unlike the county fairs back in England,” I remarked. “Back home there would be gypsy dancers and fortune tellers, but this is much the same.”

  “Really merely an excuse for the smaller farmers to sell their goods,” Derek told me. “There are pigs and chickens and cattle for sale, and pies, cakes, preserves. There’ll be a shooting gallery and probably a boxing match, and stands where you can buy beer and refreshments—as you say, much like the fairs in England. A lot of bartering is done, a lot of trading, buying, selling. Mostly it’s an opportunity for people to get out and get together and raise a little hell.”

  There were dozens of gaily striped tents, dozens of wooden booths. A raucous, festive atmosphere prevailed. The noise was incredible. Children raced about, shouting, laughing, scuffling. Dogs barked. Chickens clucked noisily. Pigs squealed. Rifles blasted at the shooting gallery. A carousel of brightly painted horses went round and round, a calliope playing as the horses dipped up and down. A wooden dance floor had been constructed near the edge of the clearing, and a decidedly amateur band played with considerable brio as young people stomped lustily about the floor, faces flushed with excitement. On every side there was color and movement, with almost two hundred people thronging the small area.

  Tables and benches had been set up near the refreshment stands under a huge canvas canopy that provided shade. Derek bought two plates of beans and ham hocks, bought buttered cornbread and two glasses of cold apple cider, then led me over to one of the tables. People stared openly. Everyone knew I was Derek Hawke’s wench, an indentured servant, and everyone assumed, rightly now, that I was his mistress as well. Several of the women looked offended. Three of them at a table nearby moved to one farther away, muttering shrill complaints at his audacity in bringing “that hussy in red” around decent women. It didn’t bother me in the least. I was proud to be with him, proud to be his woman. Derek paid no attention to the stares, the hostility. He gave no
sign that he even noticed it.

  “It’s all rather exciting,” I said. “It’s so—merry.”

  “That won’t last,” Derek replied. “As the afternoon progresses, the merriment will vanish. People will be tired, and most of the men will be drunk by the time the sun goes down. Tonight there’ll be colored lanterns. Youngsters will steal off in pairs for quick romance in the shrubbery, and there’ll be fist fights and arguments. We’ll be gone by then.”

  “How long are we going to stay?”

  “As long as it takes me to get my business accomplished,” he replied, deliberately cryptic.

  Derek had no intention of telling me why we were here. My curiosity was strongly aroused, but I had better sense than to ask him straight out what his business was. He would undoubtedly tell me to remember my place. If he wanted me to know, I would know in time. I had a strange feeling that whatever he was planning was something I wasn’t going to be at all happy about.

  As we ate, I noticed a man sitting across the way who seemed to be even more of a pariah than we were. He sat at a table, alone, all the tables around him empty. People stepping under the canopy with plates of food refused to sit near him, frequently sharing tables with other people rather than take one close to the man. Middle-aged, robust, he had moody blue eyes and blazing red hair and beard. He wore a severe black suit shiny with age, the cloth seeming to strain across his enormous shoulders. A battered-looking Bible was on the table in front of him, and he turned its pages as he ate his beans and cornbread.

  “Elijah Jones,” Derek remarked, noticing my interest. “He’s from New England, an unsuccessful preacher who sometimes holds revival meetings. A lot of people go in order to boo and hiss. He has a small farm on the other side of Maud Simmons’s place, barely scratches out enough to live on.”

  “Why is everyone avoiding him?”

  “He claims slavery is a vile evil, preaches about it, goes around trying to get the planters to release their slaves. If that was his only offense, they’d consider him a harmless eccentric, but unfortunately he gives aide to runaway slaves and helps ’em escape.”