“Isn’t that against the law?”
Derek nodded, his expression grim. “Elijah’s very crafty at it. No one has ever been able to prove anything against him, but it’s more or less an open secret that he’s an important link in a network of fanatics who help runaway slaves get up North.”
“There are others?”
“A small organization,” Derek replied. “They work under the cover of night, on the sly. A couple of slaves will appear on Elijah’s doorstep in the dead of night, say, and he’ll hide them until he can transport them to the next safe haven—another farm perhaps fifty miles from here. They’ll hide out there until the farmer can smuggle them on to yet another place, even farther away. They pass from place to place until they eventually reach safety.”
“It sounds terribly complex, and dangerous, too.”
“It is, but it frequently works. These men are very sly, very slippery. They’re dedicated to a ’cause’ and are willing to risk anything in order to help those ‘poor, lost souls,’ as they call ’em.”
“And this Mr. Jones is part of that?”
“As I say, no one’s been able to prove anything against him, and naturally he denies it, but everyone in these parts is convinced he’s guilty. None of the planters’ll have anything to do with him. If they had their way, he’d be tarred and feathered and run out of the country on a rail, but you can’t treat a ‘Man of God’ that way without proof.”
I studied Elijah Jones, secretly admiring him. Although Derek’s voice was harsh and bitter when he spoke of the man, I couldn’t help thinking him unusually brave. With his blazing red beard and long red locks, his sullen blue eyes and ravaged face, he did indeed look like a zealot. I could see him behind a pulpit in that same shiny black suit, shaking his fist, lambasting his audience with thunderous denunciation for their part in a grievous wrong. Derek and the other planters considered their slaves mere property, like cattle, but Elijah Jones considered them men and women with souls and a right to freedom. If he was indeed a part of the underground network, I wished him well.
“Lot of folks down here don’t believe in keeping slaves,” Derek continued. “I’ll tell you one thing, though: My slaves are a helluva lot better off than most black men who try to find work on their own. At least they get plenty to eat, decent living accommodations—”
He cut himself short, scowling angrily. I knew that he was exceedingly sensitive about the subject of slavery, and I had no desire to discuss it with him, feeling as I did. I was relieved when he pushed his empty plate away and asked me if I was finished. I nodded, and we left the table, moving slowly back down the row of booths. A towheaded lad rushed past, two others in hot pursuit, a yapping brown and white spotted dog following close on their heels.
Derek paused in front of one of the stands and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out some coins.
“Here,” he said, handing me the money. “I want you to amuse yourself for a couple of hours. Buy yourself some ribbons or something. I’ll meet you by the carousel around … say, around four. I should be finished by that time.”
“I wish you wouldn’t leave me alone, Derek.”
“You worried about running into Barnett again?”
“No, but—”
“Run along, Marietta. You can take care of yourself.”
Derek didn’t give me a chance to argue. He turned and strolled away briskly. I saw a group of planters up ahead, all of them elegantly dressed, all of them drinking port they purchased from one of the booths. As I watched, Derek joined them, and soon the whole group of them wandered away to inspect the livestock. Nervous, disoriented, I clutched the coins in my hand and stood in front of the stand like a lost child. People moved past, talking loudly, laughing, and the shrill, discordant music was a constant background.
“Lands sake, honey! I never expected to see you here.”
Maud Simmons stopped, hands on hips, a warm smile on her lips.
“Mrs. Simmons, how nice to see you.”
“Maud, honey. My, you look lovely! Is that a new dress?”
I nodded. “Der—Mr. Hawke bought the cloth in Charles Town. I made the dress myself.”
“Damned fine job you did, too. You’re a regular seamstress. I could use a few new clothes myself—never have time to fuss with ’em, though.”
Maud was wearing the same emerald-green riding habit she had worn when she came to borrow the liniment. It was as deplorably soiled as before, although she had pinned a gaudy coral brooch to the lapel. Coral earrings dangled from her ears. Her hair looked as if it had not been touched by comb or brush since the last time I saw her. The smile still spread on her lips, and she looked genuinely pleased to see me.
“Enjoyin’ yourself, honey? You looked rather forlorn, standin’ there all by yourself. Your man leave you to your own devices for a while? They do that, no consideration whatsoever! Tell you what, why don’t you come with me? I’m going to have a look at the quilts, see if there’s any of ’em I’d care to buy.”
“I’d enjoy that.”
“These affairs bore the bloody hell out of me. So noisy. So many people, but sometimes you can pick up some real bargains. All the farmers bring their wares—you name it, honey, they bring it. Never seen so much junk. Last time one of th’ farm women was sellin’ her china. She and her husband’d had a spell of bad luck and needed some quick money. Would you believe it was genuine Sevres? Came all the way from France. I bought the whole lot for next to nothing.”
Maud chattered volubly as we strolled past tents and booths, and I was grateful for her company. Each time we passed someone she knew, Maud insisted on stopping and introducing me, taking a perverse pleasure in the stiff expressions and tight smiles of the women she forced to acknowledge my presence. “Pack-a bloody hypocrites,” she called them, bursting into gales of raucous laughter when one of the prim ladies drew herself up and marched on past us without so much as a nod.
“Ain’t any of them none too respectable themselves,” she declared. “Me, I know where the bodies are buried! ’Course they got a right to resent you—most of ’em have been pantin’ over Derek Hawke ever since he moved into Shadow Oaks. One nod from him and half th’ married ladies in th’ county’d come a-runnin’. If I was a few years younger I’d give him a merry chase myself! Ah, here are the quilts. Hmmm, shabby lookin’ lot, wouldn’t you say? That blue and brown and yellow one—now, I might be able to live with it if it don’t cost an arm and a leg.”
While Maud examined the quilts, I looked at some beautiful samplers, all of them made by the worn-looking farm woman who stood behind the booth. At the shooting gallery nearby, guns were going off in a chain of deafening explosions and men shouted lustily as ringing pings indicated a hit. Three young men staggered past, arms locked together, stumbling tipsily and bellowing a bawdy song. Maud bought her quilt, exclaiming over the quality of the workmanship and the bargain price. We moved along down the rows of booths, stopping every now and then so that she could examine the merchandise.
“What beautiful neckcloths,” I remarked, pausing before yet another booth. “This pearl-gray silk—I wonder if I could afford it? I’d love to buy something for—”
“How much have you got, honey? Oh sure, that’s enough. Bessie here’ll be glad to sell it to you for that, won’t you, Bessie? This here’s my neighbor Marietta, and she wants to surprise her man. Come on now, Bessie—it didn’t cost you nothing to run up that neckcloth.”
Bessie was plump and belligerent and reluctant to part with the cloth for the sum I had, but Maud persisted. I was shamelessly eager to buy it, for the stock was beautiful and would be perfect with Derek’s navy blue suit, but I let Maud do the bargaining. Bessie finally heaved a sigh, took my coins, and wrapped the cloth up in brown paper, tying it with string. I thanked her and smiled, anticipating Derek’s surprise when I presented it to him.
A few minutes later Maud stopped in front of a booth where a man was selling beer, declaring she could use a mug and asking me
if I would join her. Maud looked disappointed when I refused.
“You sure? All right, Jim, give me a mug. This your special home brew? Hope it tastes better’n it did last year. Thanks.” She gripped the pewter mug, blew the foam off the top and downed the beer thirstily. “Hmmm, I think you’re gettin’ better, Jim. Give me another.”
“I saw one of your neighbors a little while ago,” I remarked.
“Oh? Who’d that be?”
“Elijah Jones. Derek said he had a small farm on the othre side of your place.”
“If you want to call it a farm. Just a run-down house, really, and a vegetable garden—a couple of acres of cotton. Works it himself. Won’t have any slaves on his place, not that he could afford ’em.”
“Is what they say about him true?”
“You mean about him helpin’ runaway niggers?” Maud glanced over her shoulder and, seeing that Jim was eavesdropping, took my elbow and led me around to the side of the booth.
“Me, honey, I like Elijah,” she began. “He’s never done me no harm. One time when I had a bad case o’ th’ grippe, he came over to look after me, just upped an’ came without anyone askin’, had my cook make hot soup, fed it to me himself, brought some medicine over, too. He bored th’ hell outta me, prayin’ over me, askin’ th’ Lord to spare my soul an’ all that, but he nursed me till I was up an’ able to get about.”
“Derek said he—might be part of an anti-slavery group.”
“Everyone says that, honey, but no one’s ever been able to prove anything. A few months back—” Maud hesitated, as though debating whether or not to confide in me. “A few months back two of Ben Randolph’s bucks ran away. That night I was takin’ a stroll and I might have seen Elijah takin’ two niggers down to his storm cellar—it has an outside door on th’ side of his house facin’ my place. I reckon he must have some kind of secret room down there, behind all those shelves.”
“You didn’t tell anyone?”
Maud shook her head. “If you treat your niggers right, they ain’t got no cause to be runnin’ away. Randolph, now—he treats ’em mean, real mean. He loves usin’ his whip and don’t like to put himself out seein’ they have decent food and sleepin’ quarters. They’re gonna up and turn on him one of these days, you mark my word. I never said a word about what I mighta seen, kept my mouth firmly shut. You’re the first person I ever mentioned it to, and I know you ain’t about to spill the beans.”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t approve of what Elijah’s doin’, make no mistake about that, but neither do I approve of Ben Randolph and men like him. My niggers are loyal. I spend a fortune every year seein’ they get proper treatment. They eat damn near as well as I do, and each cabin has a wood stove. I never work ’em too hard, and any time one of ’em gets sick I fetch a doctor and look after ’em like I would a child. What Elijah’s doing is wrong, but I figure if a slave runs away it’s because he ain’t been treated right. I keep rememberin’ that damned hot soup and those bloody prayers—I guess I may be some kinda traitor to my class, but I’ve no intention of givin’ Elijah away. I shouldn’ta even told you, honey.”
“I can assure you it won’t go any further.”
“Oh, I know that or I wouldn’ta opened my mouth in the first place. You know something? I never did replace that liniment I used, been weeks and weeks since I brought the bottle back. I’m going to buy a new bottle right now. They’re sellin’ it at one of the booths. I’ll just give Jim his mug back—”
Maud purchased the bottle of liniment and gave it to me, and then she sighed and said she’d enjoyed my company mightily but she’d best be getting back to Magnolia Grove. She gave me a hug and, clutching her new quilt under one arm, tottered away, her soiled emerald riding skirt trailing in the dirt, her wild gray bird’s nest bouncing. As it was still some time before I was to meet Derek, I decided to stroll back to the wagon and store the neckcloth and liniment in back, under the empty seed bags. I would surprise Derek with the present tonight after we returned to Shadow Oaks.
It was cool and shady under the trees where the wagons stood. Heavy boughs kept out the sun and cast thick violet-blue shadows over the ground. There was no one else around, not even the little boys who were supposed to be watching the horses, and I lingered there beside the wagon for a while, stroking one of the chestnuts. Lost in thought, I didn’t hear the man and his two pack mules approaching until they were almost even with the wagon. He was whistling a jaunty tune, as merry and unconcerned as a boy. One of the mules balked. He stopped and turned around to scold the animal.
“Come on, love,” he said pleasantly, tugging at the reins, “that’s no way to be. You’re carrying a load of nice trinkets in those packs and I aim to sell the lot of ’em. We’re late as it is. No nonsense now—”
I recognized him immediately. I remembered the soft, pleasingly slurred voice, the amiable brown eyes, and the shaggy sandy locks that fell across his brow in a heavy fringe. He was wearing the same brown boots and buckskins he had worn before, the jacket adorned with long, leathery fringe. When the mule refused to move, Jeff Rawlins shook his head and gave an exasperated sigh, and then he caught hold of one of the mule’s ears, took it between his teeth and bit down forcefully. The mule brayed angrily.
“Serves you right, actin’ like a bloody prima donna. Why can’t you behave yourself like your brother here? He never balks. You ready to move along now?”
The mule actually nodded. Jeff Rawlins gave it an affectionate pat on the nose, and then he turned and saw me standing beside the wagon. He looked dismayed, then delighted. A wide grin played on his lips.
“If this don’t beat all,” he exclaimed. “I was thinking about you just a little while ago—God’s truth I was. I thought seein’ as how I’ll be in the neighborhood for a while I oughta stop by Hawke’s place, see if he needs any thimbles or thread or knives or things like I’m sellin’, see if he still has that magnificent wench he beat me out of.”
“Hello, Mr. Rawlins,” I said coldly.
“You remember me? ’Course you do. Once they encounter Jeff Rawlins, the ladies can’t get him outta their minds—it’s these cursed good looks and my carefree charm. There’s been many a time I’ve wished a few of ’em had forgot, I don’t mind tellin’ you.”
“I remember you well.”
“I’ll bet you were disappointed when I lost out to Hawke, weren’t you? Come on, wench, confess it.”
“Actually I was—at first. Then I learned about your affiliations in New Orleans.”
Rawlins looked hurt. “I say, has Hawke been badmouthin’ me? That ain’t no way to do. I’m just an honest peddler travelin’ around with my pack mules, trying to make an honest living. Anyone can see that.”
He spoke in a light, jesting tone, grinning all the while. Rawlins had charm, all right. I had never encountered such charm. Breezy, engaging, he had the manner of a raffish little boy. He wasn’t really handsome, the mouth too wide, the nose slightly humped, but there was a magnetism far more potent than good looks could have been. Those eyes and that grinning, sensual mouth would have stirred the coldest breast. I knew what he was and I detested him for it, yet I felt an attraction in spite of myself.
“Surprised to see me?” he inquired.
“A little,” I admitted.
“I finished my business in New Orleans and came back along the Trace to do a bit of tradin’ till the next auction. Me and the mules’ve been going around the county, visiting various plantations to sell my goods. I ’spect I’ll sell the rest this afternoon.”
“I wish you luck.”
“Really? That’s mighty nice, knowin’ you care.”
Rawlins strolled over and stood before me with his hands resting on his thighs, his head cocked slightly to one side. He was so close I could feel the heat of his body, smell his musky male odor. I should have been uneasy. I wasn’t. Sure of myself, sure of my feelings for Derek, I felt immune to Rawlins’s seductive charm.
“
I must say, wench, you look even more appetizing than I remembered. I do adore redheads. I fear I’ve a weakness for ’em.”
“That’s too bad, Mr. Rawlins.”
“Hey now, you ain’t going to be unfriendly, are you? And me such an engaging chap.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “That’s no way to act.”
“I couldn’t help but smile. It was impossible not to like him, impossible not to respond to that affable manner. I found it hard to believe he was as vile as he was painted. Too, it was flattering to be found attractive and appealing. Jeff Rawlins made me feel exceedingly feminine.
“That’s more like it,” he told me. “I say, what’re you doin’ all by yourself out here?”
“I’m waiting for Hawke,” I lied. “He should be joining me any minute now.”
“Damn, just my luck. I was hopin’ we could have a quick tumble under the wagon—or somethin’. Today just isn’t my day.”
“I’m certain you’ll find several amenable women at the fair, Mr. Rawlins.”
“Probably so,” he teased. “I usually do. Gets to be a bit tiresome after a while—all this charm, all those women. None of ’em will be anything like you, though. Hawke happy with you?”
“Very.”
“Don’t reckon he’d be interested in sellin’?”
“I doubt it, Mr. Rawlins.”
“Be a fool if he was. I’m headin’ up to the auction in a couple days. On the way back I might just stop by Shadow Oaks on the off chance I can persuade him to change his mind. Be wastin’ my time, probably, but I got plenty of time to waste.”
“Another prison ship has arrived?”
Rawlins nodded. “I don’t expect to find any prizes, I might as well confess it. Truth to tell, I’m beginning to lose interest in that particular little enterprise. It’s a helluva lot of trouble for damned little profit.”
He glanced around. There was still no one in sight. We were alone, surrounded by empty wagons and carriages. Tree limbs swayed gently in the breeze. The deep shadows danced over the ground. His wide pink mouth spread in another grin.
Love's Tender Fury Page 18
