by Smith, Skye
On the other side they walked and walked, and the whole way there were dairy cattle. This farm was enormous. Jennison must be wealthy, indeed. Britta was about to ask if they could rest in the shade again, when they saw, just ahead, a farm house nestled into the shade of large weeping willows near to the river. James walked quickly ahead and knocked on the door.
An old woman of at least sixty opened the door, and when he asked for Mr. Jennison, she laughed aloud despite her stern Puritan countenance. "Jennison, live in a dump like this? Not likely. This is just a gate house to the likes of him. The main house is behind this one and on a rise above the flood plain. Go and ask there."
Britta was astonished at the woman's words. The so called gate house was a fine old farm house, likely with three bedrooms, and yet it wasn't the main house. James was waving to her. He wanted them to go around the house while he said his thanks to the old woman.
The main house was a mansion over three times the size of the farm house. While James was looking hard at the size of the building, Britta was noticing all of the farm folk. "I have never seen so many Darkies in my life," she said. "But where are the men? I see nothing but women and children."
James licked his dry lips. "The men will be out in the fields or in the forest working. And by the way, here in America the polite term for them is 'Negro'. They will all be slaves. Chattel slaves, not bond slaves."
"What, even the children?" she asked.
"The rule is, a child born to a chattel woman, is born a chattel," he recited.
"But what of the father?"
"The father doesn't matter. Slavery runs through the woman."
"So," speculated Britta, "if the woman is free, and she is made pregnant by a slave, then the child is free?"
"Yes, such a child would be born free," he replied.
"Then how do you know that these children are all chattels?"
"You are obstinate, aren't you?" he asked, half-jesting. "All right then. Think logically. These children all have Negro blood in them. We are no longer in Rhode Island but over the border into Massachusetts. White chattel slaves are very, very rare in Massachusetts and a free white woman would never have a child by a Negro. Therefore all these children have Negro mothers. It's a safe guess that they were all born slaves."
She walked in silence while she pondered his words. "So if a Darkie... ugh Negro woman has a child by a white man, is the child a Negro?"
"Of course."
"Even if the child looked white?" she asked.
"It never seems to happen. That they look white, I mean."
"Or they move to a different town where no one knows they had a Dar.... Negro mother. Then it would never seem to happen even though it did."
"You talk in riddles," James said as he climbed the steps of the mansion and knocked on the door. The great door swung open almost immediately and they expected to be greeted by a Negro servant. Instead they were greeted by an older man dressed in the finest of clothes. "Good afternoon, sir. I am looking for Red Jennison."
The well dressed gentleman looked beyond James and towards Britta and Jon, and then stepped backwards into the house to usher them inside. "Come in, Come in. And who are these children? Not yours, surely. You are too young. Would you like some cider to quench your thirst?"
James followed the man into the parlor beside the front door, a room that would be used to host strangers like them. He motioned the teens to follow him. "Cider would be a life saver. Is Mr. Jennison in?"
"As a matter of fact he is, which, as you will soon hear, is very odd. " and the man made his explanation as his guests sat down.
"So that is why the confusion," James announced after listening to the man. "Red is your neighbor and just happened to be visiting when I came knocking." He bowed slightly and shook the gentleman's hand. "I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Caldwell. Perhaps we have met before though. I am James Sabin and I run the tavern and guesthouse near to the Packet Dock in Providence. You may have waited there for the Boston coach."
"Of course," said Robert Caldwell, "indeed, I have waited there, and recently. So that is why I recognize the young lady. She is your new ale wench. I must admit to admiring her from afar while she was calming some rough louts."
Britta blushed at being called an ale wench, but Mr. Caldwell's smile was kind and he offered her his hand to help her to stand again. "I will go and fetch Red. If you will come with me girl, I will lead you to the ladies' retirement room where you can refresh yourself."
Maya let go of the hand as soon as she was standing. She had felt an immediate darkness surge into her from his hand. They found Red first. He was looking out of the dining room window. He took an immediate interest in the sweet looking young woman.
"Where is Lydia?" asked Robert.
"She went to the retirement room," Red replied and pointed to a door. Britta did not wait for a further invitation but made for the door. She really had to go.
* * * * *
Britta walked hesitantly into the retirement room. It seemed empty but a voice came from inside the Water Closet when she knocked on the door. She crossed her legs as she took off of her veil-like bonnet. Her experience from working in a tavern had taught her prudence in what she revealed of her beauty, no matter how well-behaved the men seemed to be. For this reason she had kept her bonnet on as she entered this house.
She froze in place. A mirror. The room had a mirror. Not just a mirror, but a huge mirror. Immediately she walked to it and looked at herself and took a deep breath. There was another large mirror behind her. Another deep breath. Just her luck to find a mirror right when she was a dusty mess.
First she unclipped her hair and neatened it as best she could with her fingers so that it fell in a soft sheen of gold that rested on her shoulders before cascading down her back. Then she tried to beat the dust from her drab dress, but the serge seemed to attract it and to show it all. In the puritan way, she was wearing a full shift underneath, so she took off the dress to give it a good shaking and a brush.
Britta was standing in just her shift when Lydia came out of the WC. After a clumsy curtsy to the lady of the house, and a very quick exchange of names, Britta dived for the WC. Later, both now feeling relieved, the women took their time in sizing each other up.
Though this was a Puritan valley, Lydia was not dressed in Puritan drab. On the contrary she was wearing bright colors and fabric's of a fashionable city look, and she looked fabulous and expensive and wanton. She was a similar height to Britta, who was tall for a woman, but Lydia was fuller of bust and hip. Perhaps mid twenties, and a woman with children for sure. A woman of wealth, for sure.
Britta felt poor and mousy in comparison, standing in her hand me down shift that was grey with dust rather than white. She went back to trying to brush the dust from her dress, and Lydia, a graceful hostess, offered her the use of one of her own dresses while she visited.
Britta curtseyed her thanks but did not accept. In England she had been taught to always refuse generosity twice before you accept on the third offer. This allowed people to pretend generosity that they could not afford. In the Americas there was no such custom. Lydia did not repeat her offer. Britta cursed her own stupidity. This was not England. She should have accepted the offer right away.
Seeing both of them together in the mirror made Britta really regret not accepting the kind offer of a dress. With her serge pulled back on she looked plain, but in comparison to Lydia she looked totally dreary. They spent long minutes looking at themselves from every angle and in every pose. The difference in their attire was like night and day, or like winter and spring.
When they left the retirement room to go and join the men, Britta accidentally on purpose forgot her bonnet. At least her long yellow hair could brighten her dress. The effect that Lydia had on the four men as she walked into the center of the room, was the stunned silence of appreciation.
Britta felt like a wilted flower in comparison, but there was nothing to do about it but shrug an
d stiffened her back. What could she expect. Lydia was a wealthy wife while she was just an ale wench. A label that she was embarrassed to the soul by, she now realized, and she took the seat next to Lydia. Hoping for a smile she looked at her brother. To her bother she no longer existed. He was outright staring at Lydia, entranced, smitten.
"Mmm," said Red.
"Yes, Mmm," replied James.
Jon also moaned, and then was embarrassed by the sound of it and turned it into the first word of a sentence. "Mrs. Caldwell, you remind me of spring flowers."
Robert nodded in agreement and added, "In this valley she may only wear such clothes inside our own home. The villagers here abouts would not take kindly to this look, though they would probably stop short of stoning her. Even Britta would be shunned unless she hid that hair of hers under a bonnet."
"Oh, the village women are so silly," said Lydia softly. "The silk feels lovely against one's skin in this hot weather." She ran her hand down the soft fabric, very aware that Red, in the next chair was watching her every movement. She leaned one of her shapely breasts, covered only in the thin draping silk, towards him and teased, "Here, feel it."
Red went, well, red and didn't say anything for a short time while he collected himself and pulled his arm away from her delicious breast under the guise of straightening himself in the chair. "Yes, very nice. Costly, I presume."
"So Britta," spoke Lydia, "you are James's, what, niece?"
"I am his bond slave for the next two years and I work in his tavern," replied Britta, "as does my brother."
Lydia looked over at Jon and saw him immediately look away. He was young enough to be cute rather than handsome, though she could only see one side of his face due to the bandages he wore. She swung her gaze back to Britta and said softly, "My dear. The polite term in Massachusetts is bond servant or indentured servant. You are not a slave."
"Is there a polite term in Massachusetts for your Darkies?" Britta asked. She was trying to stay still so as not to take the attention of the men away from Lydia. Lydia seemed to desire their attention, whereas she would rather not have it.
"They are called Blacks," Lydia replied.
"Not Negros?" queried Britta.
"This is New England, not New Spain. The English translation of negro is black."
Britta stuck her tongue out at James, but he didn't see it because Red was speaking to him.
"Are these the two bond servants you bought with that last extension of your loan?" asked Red. "Two years only. Hmm, have they increased your earnings? A stupid question. Look at her. The young lawyers must be lining up to buy ale from her."
"The earnings of the tavern have increased," James replied. "Well to be truthful, doubled. It is on a related matter that we have come to you."
"Ahh, you wish to speak of business," said Red. "Do you wish to speak of it privately or at least without the ladies present."
Britta cleared her throat to gain their attention and then said "I have the sense to know that this business includes me, so I wish to hear it."
"I may also have something to say," said Lydia softly. "In any case, I am enjoying the company. This house is so far from the village, and such an old-fashioned village." She sounded slightly tipsy, but perhaps it was from the heat and not from rum.
James began. "I may be the first to you with the news that a customs schooner has been set upon by brigands and burned to the waterline and her master has been shot and is near to death. It happened between Newport and Providence on the morning of the tenth."
"A schooner you say, then it was the Gaspee," said Red, "with what's-his-name, that oafish Scot that keeps annoying the Hannah. Captain Dudley or something. Still, he does not deserve death. It is his job, or at least, his orders."
"Dudingston," James corrected, "his name was, is Dudingston. And no, he does not deserve death, and the men who were in charge at the incident are quite repentant."
"Except for the villain that pulled the trigger," Britta broke in.
James reached forward and put his hand on Britta's knee to quiet her and then continued, "In any case, the men responsible planned it while drinking in my tavern. I have been warned that there will be a naval inquest, and that I will be one of the first to be questioned." He was having trouble forming his next words because he had just realized that Britta had not pulled her knee away. "I do not want to betray friends, so I have decided to vanish from Providence for a few weeks."
Red was now alert. "But if you and your help are here, then who is running the tavern."
"The tavern is closed, Red. I have come here due to circumstance that are beyond my control. I will not be able to make your next payment. I knew of nowhere so close to Providence where I could hide more completely or conveniently, than if I hide here with you just over the border."
"So why is Britta here?" asked Lydia. The men stared at her. This was business, and they felt uncomfortable with a mere woman interrupting.
"I am here not only because the tavern is closed but also because both my brother and I would also be questioned. How do you think he would explain his face?" replied Britta.
"Thank you," said Lydia sweetly and from the corner of her eye caught Jon staring at her again. Not just staring, lusting. Lusting in the way of teen boys for older women. Well this 'older' woman of three and twenty would certainly encourage him, for he was a fine looking lad.
"You are welcome," said Britta equally sweetly. Lydia was exaggerating the movement of her bodice so it would attract the eyes of the men, whereas Britta sat stiffly still.
"But James," said Red, "the inquest may not be held for months. You cannot stay with me for months. You cannot withhold your payments for months. This was a business loan. If the business cannot run then I must make other arrangements while the business still has value."
"I will buy Britta's bond for ten pounds more than you paid for it," Lydia broke in. Her husband, Robert, rolled his eyes but kept his peace.
"What?" yelled Britta in shock, "you said yourself that I am a bond servant, not a slave. You cannot buy and sell me just like that."
"Actually," said Robert, "we are not buying and selling you, but the bond for your labor. Your bond is an employment contract with James. James does not own you but he owns the bond. He is free to sell the bond to someone else. It is done all the time."
Britta was angry and she stood up. "A contract has two sides. His is the bond against the cost of my passage from England. Mine is the agreement to work in his tavern for two years. Is Lydia buying the tavern too?"
"Ooohh," Lydia said and ran her foot up her husband's leg. "That might be fun for a while. Think of the interesting people we would meet. Think of the new business connections you would make."
Britta's outburst had brought her to the attention of the men. Embarrassed, she crossed her arms in front of her breasts. It gave her a stern look. "The way you men are looking at me I feel like I am in a slave market."
"Actually," said Robert, "although you may bond your labor to James, and James may sell that bond, the law prohibits running a market for such bonds. I think that is based on an old English law, as are most of Massachusetts’s laws. The courts consider that such bonds are assured by the vow of labor, however the type of labor is incidental. Of course the number of hours per day and whether there are days off continue according to the original bond agreement."
"Umm," Britta was thinking hard trying to put his big words together in a way that made sense to her. "Umm. My bond with James did not specify hours or days. I trusted him to be a reasonable boss."
"Honey," Lydia said, squirming a bit to bring the men's eyes back to her, "what Robert meant is that if I buy your bond, you would have to work for me even if it was not tavern work."
"But that is dreadful!" cried Britta. "It means that my bond could be sold to a... a... a brothel."
"It is often done," said Red, "though to my knowledge never by anyone in this room."
"And the extra ten pounds," Britta conti
nued, "that should come to me, not to James."
"Perhaps," explained Robert. "If James agreed to sell you back your bond at the original price, then you can enter into a new bond and use the new funds to pay off James. In that situation the ten extra pounds would be yours. Logically however, why would James sell your bond to you for ten pounds less than Lydia is offering?"
"This is all trickery at my expense," cried Britta.
"No dear," Red said, almost cruelly, "this is the basis of investment banking. James has a very large bond with me for the money he used to set up his business. If he cannot pay the payments, then I would be well-advised to buy the business from him in return for canceling the bond, and then keep it running until I can sell it again. Since it will lose customers every day that it remains closed, and since rent must be paid on the property, then I must hurry to re-open it."
"But James and his wife have put so much of their own work into that business," she whimpered and looked sorrowfully at James.
"I agree," said Red, "but if he doesn't sell me the business to cancel his bond, then he risks becoming a bond servant like yourself, for he owes me the full value of the bond even if the business is sold for less."
"Enough," Lydia stood and stretched her shoulders backwards just to watch the effect it had on the men. "We women must discuss this business in private. Come, Britta."
There was a swish of silk as Lydia led Britta from the room. The men stood out of politeness, but as Britta looked back she could see that Jon had not stood fully and was quick to sit again. She smiled knowing that he was smitten with their hostess. Typical of a teen boy, of course. No control.
* * * * *
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MAYA’S AURA - the Redemptioner by Skye Smith
Chapter 8 - The wealthy Caldwells
