by Tamara Gill
The Allerbys' house on Gervais Street, located within sight of the State House, was built on a similar plan to the Prescotts'. Leslie's parents were just what Kathryn had expected, fashionable and pompous. Mrs. Allerby, a large, plain woman, ordered her diminutive, shifty-eyed husband around unmercifully.
Ryan arrived only moments after the Prescotts and greeted Kathryn warmly with an outrageous compliment on her appearance. She gave him what she hoped was a bewitching smile, but a group of politically minded gentlemen immediately herded him away from her.
For an hour or so before supper, the guests congregated in the formal front parlor, the ladies on one side and the gentlemen on the other. Some things never change, thought Kathryn. Straining to hear the men's conversation, she picked up the words tariff and nullification, but they meant nothing to her. She tried to remember anything of significance that had happened between the War of 1812 and the Civil War, but she drew a complete blank.
“. . . exactly the color of your eyes,” Mrs. Allerby was saying to her, and with a start Kathryn brought her attention back to the ladies in her group. She realized that she'd just been complimented again on the gown and thanked her hostess graciously, returning the compliment by remarking on the loveliness of the decorations.
Mrs. Allerby beamed. “I've always said there is nothing like a London Season to polish a girl's manners. Perhaps we shall send Leslie next spring, if she is not yet engaged.”
This caused an excited outburst of questions from the other ladies in the circle wanting to know exactly what was meant by that hint. It reminded Kathryn forcibly of the way she and her friends had squealed and gossiped about boys in junior high school.
“No, no, nothing definite.” Mrs. Allerby calmed them with a fond look at Leslie, whose waist was tinier than ever tonight in a rose silk gown. “But there are so many eligible young men courting her that I must admit it is a distinct possibility. She could have been married three times over by now if her father would have allowed it before she was seventeen.” Leslie preened and said nothing, confirming Kathryn's first impression of her.
At supper, Kathryn found herself seated across and down the table from Ryan, which suited her plans quite well. He was not close enough to speak to, but in a perfect position to observe and admire her. As the soup was served, she devoted her attention to Mr. Hammond, a young gentleman of no more than eighteen or nineteen, who was seated on her right. She didn't dare try to flirt with her fan as she saw some of the other ladies doing, but she smiled, demurely or roguishly, as the conversation demanded. She amused Mr. Hammond with some success if the frequency of his laughter was any indicator, and she was aware that Ryan was not the only one sending admiring glances her way.
During the second course, she directed her wit and charm at Mr. Mills, on her left. He was an architect, she discovered, and she was able to converse with some intelligence on the topic, having absorbed various details from her father and Logan over the years. She was careful to stick to the basics without mentioning anything that might be anachronistic, but he clearly found her fascinating. He was married, but that hardly mattered.
Her purpose tonight was to show Mr. James that other gentlemen found her worthy of attention and, perhaps, of pursuit. Then he'd be less likely to take her—no, Catherine—for granted. Sneaking a glance at him, she accidentally caught his eye. Ignoring the sudden flutter of her pulse, she smiled brilliantly at him and turned back to Mr. Mills. She hoped she hadn't imagined Ryan's slight frown.
After dessert the ladies left the men to their wine and cigars and retired to the parlor as was the English custom. Priscilla came over to Kathryn, looking very pleased with herself.
“I was right,” she whispered. “Our little rumor has spread like wildfire. Why, just before supper, Miss Caroline, Colonel Blanding's wife, actually repeated it to me! In fact, she was saying—” She broke off as Leslie Allerby approached, along with a few others.
Kathryn joined in their gossip, learning far more than she revealed and adding it to the store of knowledge she'd gleaned from Priscilla. A few minutes later, a hum of deeper voices warned them that the gentlemen had left the dining room.
“They must have been unusually eager to rejoin us,” giggled Leslie, apparently construing it as a compliment to herself alone.
“Perhaps they found their conversation growing dull,” some devil prompted Kathryn to reply. Leslie's eyes narrowed suspiciously and Kathryn knew that the other girl had noticed the way she'd amused her own supper partners earlier.
The gentlemen entered at that moment and Leslie went forward eagerly to greet them—too eagerly, Kathryn thought. Ryan responded easily to her flagrant flirtation and she shot Kathryn a triumphant glance. Either Leslie hadn't heard the rumors yet, or didn't care if she had.
“Miss Prescott, is it true?” Mrs. Allerby broke into her thoughts. Her expression, when Kathryn turned, was avid. She was obviously hoping for confirmation of some bit of gossip.
“Is what true, ma'am?”
“What Miss Blake was just hinting about Mr. James. I thought you might know, he is such a friend of . . . your father's.”
“I fear it may be, ma'am. Mr. James has even implied as much to me.” She allowed her voice to tremble slightly, as though she were frightened.
“You poor dear! And your father still wishes to go ahead with the match?”
“I don't think he gives the rumor much credit,” Kathryn explained, looking fixedly at the floor so that Mrs. Allerby could not see her expression.
“But surely there is evidence?”
“None of a concrete nature. But taking everything together, I can't quite dismiss it.”
“I should think not. I shall have my husband look into this if your father won't, Miss Prescott, fear not!” Rigid with an indignation Kathryn couldn't help feeling was rather out of proportion to the cause, Mrs. Allerby hurried to extricate her daughter from her flirtation with the gentleman in question.
Kathryn used the rest of the evening to show Mr. James just how fascinating the other gentlemen present found her. While she didn't exactly snub Ryan, she didn't show him any favoritism, either. She discussed the growth of Columbia with Governor Manning and the growth of South Carolina College with Professor Henry Nott, as well as politics, local and national, with Jacob I'on, president of the South Carolina Senate.
By allowing the men to do most of the talking, Kathryn skillfully managed to hide her ignorance while flattering their egos.
The only ones present that failed to find her utterly charming were certain ladies who were generally used to being the center of masculine attention at such gatherings. For this evening, at least, they found themselves totally eclipsed by a newly polished Miss Prescott who neither chattered about horses nor upset the teacups as she used to do before she went off to London. Mrs. Allerby was not the only mother to consider giving her own daughter the same advantage in the near future.
Priscilla made several attempts to speak privately with Kathryn before the party broke up, but there was such a crowd of gentlemen around her that it was impossible. Young James Hammond, for one, scarcely left Kathryn's side for the remainder of the evening. Priscilla would have to wait until tomorrow to tell her friend about her own addition to their scheme.
***
CHAPTER SEVEN
“You told them what?” Kathryn regarded Priscilla with dismay. The girls were in the small parlor, where the heavy draperies were open to admit the sparkling morning sunshine. Priscilla had called shortly after breakfast, eager to discuss last night's supper party and to share her cleverness. Kathryn was anything but delighted, however.
“That Mr. James has a wife still living, in addition to the one that, er, died. And I didn't tell anyone that, precisely, I only hinted at it. I thought it an admirable way to ward off the ladies who had not been frightened by the first rumor.”
“You actually implied he was a bigamist?”
Priscilla looked uncomfortable. “I meant to imply that h
e had married again after his first wife's death. But Mrs. Allerby seemed to leap at once to a conclusion similar to your own. I could hardly set her straight, particularly since I had been deliberately vague.”
“And I practically confirmed it. I thought she was overreacting to a mere rumor.” Kathryn thought hard for a few moments. “Did you tell anyone else?”
“No, but I'm sure Mrs. Allerby did. She is as avid a gossip as Mrs. Greene. And she did warn Leslie away from him afterward . . .” She broke off and sighed dejectedly. “I am sorry, Cathy, but it seemed such a good idea at the time. I really thought you would be pleased.” Priscilla looked almost on the point of tears.
“It's okay, Priscilla, really it is. It's not as if there's any evidence to back it up. The worst that's likely to happen is that the truth will come out sooner than I'd hoped.” Hopefully not before she and Catherine switched back.
The other girl smiled with relief and they moved on to other topics. It turned out that Priscilla's opinion of Leslie Allerby and her tactics was even lower than Kathryn's, and they had just finished dissecting that young lady's character most satisfactorily when Mr. James was announced. Priscilla rose quickly, almost crimson with embarrassment over the two rumors she had spread, and excused herself after a brief, incoherent greeting to the gentleman she had maligned. Kathryn looked after her with pity before turning her attention to her caller.
“Good morning, Mr. James. You'll have to excuse Miss Blake—she's not herself this morning. Too much excitement last night, I expect.”
“She was hardly the center of the excitement if I recall correctly, Miss Prescott,” he drawled, one eyebrow raised.
“Why, sir! Whatever can you mean?” asked Kathryn with mock coyness.
Ryan didn't rise to the bait, but a smile tugged at the corners of his handsome mouth. “Never mind. I came to invite you to ride out to my plantation, as you expressed curiosity about it the other day. There are some aspects of my operation I think you may find interesting.”
She remembered her revulsion at viewing her father's cotton plantation only yesterday—and that Ryan was reported to be a far crueler master than Mr. Prescott. “I'll have to ask my mother,” she said reluctantly. “She may need me at home.” As she rose, he stopped her with his voice.
“I can see you would rather not. Might I ask why?”
Had she been that transparent? “Well, no offense, but my father took me riding across his cotton fields only yesterday. How different can yours be?”
“Why not see them and find out?” His eyes challenged her. And intrigued her.
“All right, then,” she capitulated. “Though I'd still better check first.”
She returned only a brief moment later. “My mother doesn't mind,” said Kathryn, barely suppressing a smile at such an understatement. Mrs. S-P was so delighted to have her ride out with Ryan that Kathryn was sure she was hearing imaginary wedding bells. But she, or rather Catherine, would not be railroaded into such a wedding—that is, if her plan worked. And if Catherine did choose to marry Ryan—Kathryn swallowed at the thought—she was taking steps to ensure that he'd be a more devoted husband than he'd have been otherwise.
“I'll have Jeller bring my horse around,” she said.
“That won't be necessary. I took the liberty of driving my curricle, in anticipation of your acquiescence. I also had my cook pack one of her excellent picnic dinners, so you can see that we shall be quite prepared for any eventuality.” His expression was limpidly innocent and Kathryn had to suppress a smile.
“How very resourceful of you. Let's go.”
Without further ado, they set off. Kathryn found it a welcome relief to sit back and be driven rather than constantly having to control a horse. Conversation was easier this way, too.
“Can't you give me a hint of what it is that makes your plantation so different, Mr. James?” she asked before a noticeable silence could set in. Sitting next to Ryan in the open curricle, she found herself stimulated by his nearness—too stimulated. Concentrating on the evils of slavery would help her to ignore the effect he had on her.
“Tell me, Catherine, when you have observed the slaves working your father's plantation, and others like it, have they appeared to be particularly happy?”
Her jaw nearly dropped. “Why, no, they . . . of course they haven't.” How could he have known what she was thinking?
“That is where I fancy you will see a difference on my plantation. I have found the carrot to be enormously more effective than the stick—not to mention more humane. But it is the economics of my methods I am hoping to use to convince others to follow my lead, as most of my fellow planters seem little concerned with the happiness or dignity of a black man.”
Kathryn blinked. This went completely against what she had heard about him. After a moment she managed to answer, “I think it's high time someone took that view, Mr. James. I'm more eager than ever to see your plantation now.”
Ryan regarded her for a few seconds with that disturbing intensity of his. “Somehow, I thought you would see it that way, Catherine. Do you know, I am beginning to believe we might be kindred spirits, you and I.”
He looked away just as Kathryn was beginning to think she might drown in that gaze. The effect lingered and she had to draw on all of her training to change the subject, mentioning the unlikely blackness of Mrs. Hankins's hair. The conversation lightened and they chatted amiably about the personalities present at the Allerby dinner for the rest of the journey.
“Now—” Ryan's tone changed abruptly “—when we cross this stream we will be on Fair Fields land. The house is just over that rise, but it is the fields themselves I wanted you to see.”
They were passing through a lightly wooded area, thick with blooming azaleas, and came to a wooden planked bridge crossing a clear, chattering stream. On the other side, the trees continued for a few hundred yards before ending abruptly before a seemingly endless expanse of tilled earth. The field closest to them had already been plowed, but, following Ryan's pointing arm, Kathryn saw a group of slaves moving slowly across the acreage to their left.
“Jeb and Ezekiel are father and son. They can plow that field in half the time a pair of your father's slaves would take,” said Ryan. “Ginny, Ezekiel's sister, is only fourteen, but she can keep up with them and put the seed exactly where it belongs. Her mother taught her the trick of it.” He gestured toward a young black girl following the men, her apron full of the cotton seeds that she cast behind the plow in wide, sweeping arcs. “Her little sister Beulah is almost as good at it.”
There was genuine pride in his voice and Kathryn turned to watch his face. As her father's had been the day before, it was alight, but with a difference. With Ryan, it was the people he was proud of, not the amount of cotton his land could produce. Scanning the field again, she noticed another difference.
“Don't you have an overseer?” She remembered the heavily armed white overseers presiding over each one of Mr. Prescott's fields. Their presence had emphasized the fact that the slaves were just that, possessions to be trained like animals and kept as strictly under control.
“I haven't really needed one for more than six months now,” he replied. “You see, my hands have a motive to work, a far better one than a whip. Half the profit from this plantation goes to them, which means the better they do their work, the more quickly they can redeem themselves. Why should they try to escape, risking death or, at best, the life of a fugitive, when in a year or less they can buy their freedom and answer to no man?”
Kathryn stared, open-mouthed. “You actually pay them? And allow them to buy themselves back? Is that . . . legal?”
“Yes, it is legal, but not very popular. The planters have a real fear of free Negroes. They are afraid they'll stir up unrest among their own slaves, as happened near Charleston not long ago. I hope my people will learn that peaceful means to freedom are better in the long run than armed revolt. I learned that lesson myself the hard way.”
“
What do you mean?”
Ryan looked at her for a long moment, a question in his eyes. “No, not yet. You are probably one of the few people I could trust with the story, and I am certain I will tell you sometime—sometime soon—but not yet.”
Kathryn had never been one to pry secrets out of people, but her curiosity was thoroughly aroused. She made herself turn back toward the cotton fields and change the subject.
“Are your fields putting up shoots yet? Yesterday, I noticed a few of my father's were.”
“Yes, the east side was planted nearly two weeks ago and should be showing green by now. Would you like to ride over?” If he was surprised at her willingness to drop the previous subject, he gave no sign.
“Aren't I here for the grand tour?” she replied.
He nodded, chuckling. “Not so reluctant now, I see. Let's drive on to the house to eat something first, then we can tour the rest of the plantation on horseback. It will be the best way to see everything.”
Kathryn agreed and they followed the road up to the imposing plantation house, white and columned in classic style. The trees surrounding it were mature and she realized as they approached the wide front steps that this was no new house. She commented on it.
“No, I bought the house along with the plantation from a Mr. Fry, who was forced to sell.” Kathryn regarded him questioningly. “He stuck his neck out too far,” Ryan explained. “Borrowed more money than he could repay. He also had no notion of how to run a plantation. Like so many others, he heard there was money in cotton and moved to South Carolina to get in on the gold. He bought land and slaves, built a house and waited for the money to roll in, trusting his hired overseers to take care of the plantation for him. Of course, they robbed him blind. I bought him out—house, land, furniture, everything—and he moved back to Boston where he belonged. I might add that I more than tripled his production on our first harvest.”
“So these were all his slaves?”
“Yes. There were 140 when I bought the place, second only to the Taylors. Now, two years later, I'm down to less than eighty, though most of those who bought their freedom have stayed on to work for wages. A few of the most industrious families have even bought some land from me to work for themselves.”
