There’ve been many a good year, and many a bad one to follow.’’
‘‘I want to learn everything I can about the difficulties you endure to produce your crop,’’ Bradley said. ‘‘Although we Northerners are well acquainted with what it takes to get cotton from bale to bolt, we have no idea about the seed-to-bale process. I realize that without cotton, our mills are useless. And, quite frankly, it’s you cotton growers who are the true heroes in the industrialization process.’’
Wainwright’s chest puffed in obvious delight. ‘‘It’s good to hear someone finally acknowledge the South is needed in order to make the industrialization process a success in this country. I will be most happy to show you the trials and tribulations we are forced to endure yearly in raising our cotton. We are, of course, dependent upon the weather, which is an issue of great importance to growers—while of little consequence to mill owners who operate their business indoors.’’
Bradley pulled his hat down to block the sun, his gaze resting upon the dark-skinned men, women, and children in the fields.
They moved up and down the rows like an army of ants, their backs bent forward from the waist as they swung their hoes and chopped at the growing crop in hypnotic rhythm. He wondered at the efficiency ratio in light of other factors such as sickness and expenses.
Nolan pointed toward the slaves. ‘‘And these people? Are they also heroes?’’
The other men turned and looked at Nolan as though he were speaking a foreign language. Samuel seemed confused, while Mr.
Wainwright appeared to at least try to understand why Nolan would suggest such a thing. He once again pointed toward the fields. ‘‘Heroes? No, sir, those slaves are my overhead, an enormous expense that is ignored by anyone not involved in operating a plantation. As I told you at supper last night, there are few slaves on this plantation that didn’t cost me nearly a thousand dollars.’’
‘‘Of course you breed them, and there’s no expense as the years go by,’’ Nolan remarked.
Wainwright tugged on his vest and stepped closer. ‘‘No expense? Who do you think feeds, clothes, and houses them? Who cares for them when they’re sick? These slaves are a constant financial drain on our income, yet we can’t operate without them. And I do take issue with your remark about breeding. I permit my slaves to marry and bear children. I don’t breed them, and I don’t separate them from their families by selling them off, though there are many slave owners who think me lenient, even disruptive to our way of life for my kindness. Until you’ve operated a plantation of this enormity, you can’t begin to fathom the financial obligation of caring for over a hundred slaves.’’
‘‘One of life’s necessary evils?’’ Nolan asked. ‘‘At least when one engages in this peculiar little institution, eh?’’
Their host actually sputtered ‘‘P-peculiar? Evil? There’s nothing peculiar or evil about raising cotton.’’
Bradley grasped his brother’s arm. ‘‘My brother didn’t mean to offend you, Mr. Wainwright. We admire the abilities and strength of our Southern brothers, and we’re thankful you’ve agreed to educate us on plantation life. Don’t you agree, Nolan?’’
Nolan looked up from his notebook, his brow creased. ‘‘Actually, as a writer and poet, my interest in the South is quite different from yours, Bradley. I’d prefer to move freely on the land rather than hear the facts and figures of cotton production. No offense, Mr. Wainwright.’’
Wainwright nodded in a stern but gracious manner. ‘‘I’ll have my overseer bring you a horse if you like.’’
‘‘That would be most agreeable. I’ll ride about the countryside and return to the house later in the day.’’
‘‘Strange man, your brother,’’ Wainwright remarked a short time later when they had once again proceeded on their way.
Bradley glanced over his shoulder and watched as Nolan mounted the horse and began following the overseer into a field.
‘‘I find most writers and artists are much like Nolan. They’re all dreamers, out of touch with the realities of life.’’
‘‘I’m certain your father is pleased to at least have one son with a sound head on his shoulders,’’ Wainwright said.
‘‘I believe he was quite proud of me. Our parents are both deceased, which is one of the reasons I’ve taken Nolan under my wing. As the older son, I was expected to assume the reins of the family business and gladly did so. Nolan’s artistic bent was accepted by my parents, even cultivated by my mother, who was overjoyed to have a poet in the family. An emphasis on culture in an age of industrialization, to be sure. However, as you are well aware, philosophies and thinking vary greatly from North to South. The country is a veritable selection of thoughts and opinions that may very well do more to see us divided and at each other’s throats than any foreign enemy could hope to accomplish.’’
Wainwright eyed him quite seriously for a moment, and Bradley couldn’t help but wonder if his comment would meet with affirmation or condemnation. Finally Wainwright nodded ever so slightly. ‘‘It is difficult to understand the heart of another man when sitting at your own table. I must at least credit your brother for wanting to know more.’’
Bradley smiled. ‘‘Then credit me as well, for I am here for no other purpose than to better understand how your family business operates and how my family business might benefit yours in the future.’’
The carriage continued onward, the fields spread along either side of the roadway covered with sprouting green plants for as far as the eye could see. ‘‘What is your family business?’’ Samuel inquired.
‘‘My father was primarily in the shipping business. However, I’ve sold a portion of the business, which, as I told your father in my letter, I’ve recently invested in the textile industry. My investment is why I’m visiting the South. I believe a man must learn all aspects of a business in order to excel as a manager of his holdings.’’
‘‘Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more,’’ the elder Wainwright replied. ‘‘And although we sell our cotton to England, we’re pleased to help you in your endeavor. This is my brother Franklin’s home.’’
The men stepped out of the carriage in front of a house that appeared to be a duplicate of Malcolm Wainwright’s balconied Greek Revival home. ‘‘Who knows? One day I may be able to convince you to sell your cotton to me.’’ Bradley concluded the statement with a confident smile and was pleased neither man issued a negative response.
Wainwright led them up the steps to the house and knocked at the front door. A tall black woman escorted them into the library, where Malcolm and Samuel made themselves comfortable.
Bradley stood by the fireplace and immediately stepped forward when Franklin Wainwright entered the room. Malcolm rose from his chair. ‘‘Franklin, I’d like to introduce Bradley Houston from Massachusetts. Bradley, my brother Franklin Wainwright.’’
‘‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wainwright,’’ Bradley said while firmly grasping Franklin’s hand.
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Houston,’’ Franklin replied before shaking hands with Malcolm and Samuel.
‘‘Bring us something cool to drink,’’ he ordered the servant before turning his attention back toward Bradley. ‘‘Malcolm told me you would be visiting, and I must say I am impressed and pleased that you’ve chosen to familiarize yourself with the production of cotton. Tell me, Mr. Houston, what do you think of our cotton kingdom thus far?’’
Bradley took the glass of lemonade a young girl had just offered. ‘‘I’m impressed. Your brother has given me a brief overview of the entire process, although it’s difficult to imagine what these fields must look like when harvest time arrives.’’
‘‘Likely they appear much like your New England countryside after a winter snow,’’ Samuel submittted. ‘‘It’s a virtual sea of white in every direction.’’
‘‘Exactly,’’ Franklin agreed. ‘‘You should return in the fall or early winter to see for yourself. It’s truly a sight to behold.’’
‘‘I may decide to do just that,’’ Bradley replied. ‘‘And your acreage is comparable to Malcolm’s?’’
The two Mr. Wainwrights exchanged an expression that suggested Bradley had done something out of line. He revisited his words even as Franklin cleared his throat to answer.
‘‘A gentleman seldom discusses the size of his property in comparison to another. Perhaps in the North that type of thing is no longer considered intrusive, but in the South it is akin to my asking you what your profit ledgers revealed from last year.’’
Bradley realized he was well out of his knowledge when it came to Southern manners and etiquette. ‘‘I do apologize. Please forgive me. I never meant to be offensive.’’
Franklin nodded, appearing appeased. He waved his hand and went on, much to Bradley’s surprise, to answer his question. ‘‘I merely choose to apprise you of the matter. As for the Wainwright family, Malcolm owns slightly more land than either Harry or I.
His inheritance was larger—oldest son,’’ he said with a laugh.
‘‘And a more frugal way of life that has afforded me the ability to continue purchasing additional acreage,’’ Malcolm added.
‘‘True. However, I believe Harry and I have outproduced you the last two years.’’
‘‘But only because we haven’t cleared and planted our additional land.’’ Samuel gave a hearty laugh and nudged his uncle.
‘‘Just wait and see what we do next year.’’
His uncle didn’t appear in the leastwise offended that the younger man had joined in to challenge his elder. Bradley’s own father would have boxed his ears for such an intrusion.
A short time later the youngest Wainwright brother, Harry, arrived and joined them for the noonday meal. Bradley listened and watched the men, gleaning information in an unassuming, congenial manner throughout the afternoon. He liked the Wainwright men. They were ambitious but didn’t appear overly greedy, determined to continue with their plantations, yet open to modernization and change—men he could possibly influence.
Bradley was in his room relaxing before supper when Nolan finally returned to The Willows. ‘‘I was beginning to grow concerned. I thought perhaps you’d lost your bearings and couldn’t find your way back to the house.’’
‘‘I apologize. I didn’t mean to worry you, but you know how I am when caught up in a project. I become unaware of anything but what I’m working on at the moment.’’
Bradley finger-combed his thinning brown hair and patted it into place. ‘‘So your writing went well? I was somewhat concerned when we parted this morning. You appeared rather distressed, and I regretted letting you go off on your own. I think you would have found Malcolm’s brothers to be quite entertaining.’’
‘‘I’m certain they are fine men. However, I’m pleased Malcolm allowed me to see the countryside on my own. I spent most of the day with the slaves, watching them work, visiting their quarters, talking to them. Did you visit the slave quarters at any of the plantations?’’
‘‘No. Malcolm did give me a few additional facts and figures concerning the costs involved in caring for the slaves. He owns more than I anticipated, but of course, some are household help— and there are also the elderly and the children.’’
‘‘But most of them work in the fields. It’s a miserable existence— nearly indescribable.’’
Bradley jerked to attention. ‘‘Then there is no reason to make any attempt to illustrate anything other than the beauty of the countryside. After all, that’s why you’re here, to encapsulate the beauty of the South.’’
‘‘Yes, of course, and that’s exactly what I plan to do. Give Northerners a word picture of genteel Southern living.’’
‘‘Good, good,’’ Bradley replied earnestly. ‘‘In fact, I’m giving some consideration to returning in the fall or early winter when the crops are ready for harvest. Samuel tells me the entire countryside turns almost as white as New England after a winter snow.
You may want to consider coming with me. The sight of all that ripe cotton would surely lend itself to poetic beauty.’’
Nolan sat down beside his brother. ‘‘If not poetry, I’m certain it would be worthy of at least a lengthy essay.’’
‘‘Then you might come along?’’
‘‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t consider remaining in Massachusetts if you return.’’
CHAPTER • 3
WEEKS LATER, Jasmine raced down the spiral staircase and bounded toward her father as he walked in the front door. ‘‘Papa, I need to talk with you.’’
‘‘Honestly, Jasmine! You must cease running about the house like a child,’’ Malcolm admonished as he continued through the foyer and into the parlor. ‘‘Good afternoon, Madelaine. I trust you’ve had a pleasant day.’’
Madelaine Wainwright sat on the velvet-upholstered settee while fanning herself with a vengeance. Her latest needlepoint project was lying on the couch beside her. ‘‘No mishaps of importance, thank you. And you?’’
‘‘Quite a few of the slaves are sick. I sent Luther to fetch the doctor. I don’t want an outbreak of some kind right before picking time.’’
‘‘It’s only the end of June, dear. If there’s sickness, they’ll be fine by the harvest. You worry overmuch about their health. This heat is stifling, isn’t it?’’
‘‘It’s not too late to consider a trip to White Sulphur Springs,’’ Malcolm suggested.
‘‘You know I’m not able to travel, Malcolm,’’ she replied.
‘‘Besides, traveling to Virginia will not ensure or aid the health of our workers.’’
Jasmine remained near the doorway, pacing back and forth.
‘‘Do stop that pacing, Jasmine!’’ Her father turned toward her, beads of perspiration dotting his forehead.
His command brought her to an immediate halt. ‘‘I’m sorry, Father. I’ll talk to you after supper.’’
‘‘Oh, do come in and sit down. It’s this unrelenting heat—it has me on edge. What do you want to discuss?’’
Jasmine walked farther into the room and held up a folded sheet of paper. ‘‘I received this missive from Grandmother Wainwright. She asked that I come for a visit. You know how much I miss her, and I was thinking we could go to Massachusetts for a visit—where the weather is much cooler this time of year. An excellent solution to avoid the summer heat, don’t you think?’’
Malcolm alighted beside his wife on the yellow silk sofa. ‘‘I don’t think a visit to Massachusetts is in the offing for any of us— at least not now. Didn’t you hear your mother say she can’t travel at present? Why don’t you write and invite your grandmother to The Willows for a visit? That would at least alleviate your longing to see her.’’
‘‘I invited her in my last letter. But she says she hasn’t been feeling well enough to make such a tiring journey. That’s why she requested we come visit her. Please take time and reconsider, Papa.’’
‘‘What’s this? Grandmother’s ill?’’ McKinley, Jasmine’s youngest brother, asked as he walked into the room and joined them. ‘‘I don’t recall Grandmother ever ailing when she lived at The Willows. It must be something she’s contracted by living in those crowded conditions in the North.’’
‘‘What does she say is ailing her? Let me see the letter,’’ Malcolm said. Wrinkles began to line his brow as he examined the contents of the missive.
‘‘Nothing serious, I hope,’’ Madelaine said, her gray eyes bright with concern.
Malcolm pulled out his handkerchief and swiped away the perspiration that had formed across his forehead. ‘‘The letter is rather vague. She says she hasn’t been feeling quite herself and finds it impossible to make the journey south. I do wish she’d been more explicit. She goes on to say that seeing Jasmine once again would fulfill her deepest desires.’’
By now Samuel and David had returned home and joined the family in the parlor. ‘‘Why is everyone looking so somber?’’ Samuel questioned, striding across the room to
his usual perch. Jasmine noted Samuel and David were dressed almost identically in fawn-colored trousers, navy blue jackets, and knee boots. They’d apparently been riding.
‘‘Did somebody die?’’ David chuckled as he scanned around the room.
Madelaine raised her hand to the neckline of her lavender and white striped dress and gasped. ‘‘Do you think that’s why Mother Wainwright has asked to see Jasmine? Do you think she’s—dying?’’
David immediately moved to his mother’s side. ‘‘What’s this about Grandmother?’’
‘‘She’s written Jasmine,’’ their father announced. ‘‘She asks that Jasmine visit her in the North.’’
‘‘I’m a dolt. Forgive me,’’ David said, meeting Jasmine’s steady gaze even as he patted his mother’s hand. He quickly turned his full attention to their mother. ‘‘I shouldn’t have said such a thing.
Forgive me for upsetting you. Grandmother has always been fond of Jasmine and likely misses her very much.’’
‘‘Yet she could be in dire circumstances and not want to worry us,’’ their mother countered anxiously.
Jasmine watched as they all seemed to forget she was in the room. It was often that way. The men in her family were generally compelled to decide her fate regarding every issue of her life. Her mother accepted this graciously, with exception, of course, to traveling. Upon this issue, Jasmine’s mother had made it very clear:
There was to be no travel unless absolutely necessary. Perhaps Mammy was right. Fear of the unknown—or possibly the known—kept Jasmine’s mother a homebound prisoner. Still, as easily as her mother accepted direction from her husband in most every other area, Jasmine was hard-pressed to be as congenial. As the only daughter in the family, she was generally doted upon and she tried not to abuse this privileged position. However, at times like this, she found it hard not to press to have her own way.
‘‘It’s difficult to determine the exact scenario from the meager contents of this letter,’’ Jasmine’s father was saying. ‘‘However, knowing my mother, I’m guessing supplying such scant information is her way of forcing me to heed to her beck and call. She’s likely enjoying life to the fullest while suffering from occasional loneliness for Jasmine. I knew this would happen. I warned her when she returned north that she would miss being with family.’’
Tracie Peterson & Judith Miller - [Lights of Lowell 01] Page 3
