"Was Caleb anywhere around?"
"Well sir, I—"
"I gave the pie to him," I said quickly. "He was hungry, and—"
Hawke whirled around, his eyes flashing. "You shut up! Adam, go and fetch Caleb. Take him out to the barn and tie him up. I warned him about stealing food. It's time he had a lesson!"
Adam hurried out the back door. Cassie began to cry. I gathered her in my arms, staring at Derek Hawke with fear and loathing. He stood with his hands on his thighs, legs spread apart, his face a mask of rage. I had never seen him like this, and it was frightening. I wanted to plead with him for the boy's sake, but I was afraid to open my mouth. He glared at me for a moment, and then left the room. I could hear him going upstairs to fetch his riding crop.
"I—I wuz afraid to lie, Miz Marietta," Cassie sobbed. "I was afraid he'd blame me."
"That's all right, Cassie," I said, releasing her. "Stop crying now. There's nothing either of us can do."
I heard loud, frantic wails in the back yard and, stepping over to the window, saw Adam holding Caleb by the wrist, pulling him toward the barn. The boy struggled violently, wailing all the while, and Adam finally wrenched his arm up between his shoulder blades and clamped a hand over his mouth. Caleb squirmed, looking like a tiny, helpless doll in the clutches of the powerful black man. They disappeared into the barn, and a moment later I saw Hawke strolling under the oaks, riding crop in hand. I could feel the color leave my cheeks when he stepped into the barn. I turned to Cassie, my throat so tight I could hardly speak.
"You—you'd best go start clearing the dining room table," I told her. "We have a lot of work to do."
I began to stack up the dishes and cooking utensils. There was an ominous silence in the barn. Cassie came back in with more dishes. As she set them down, a plate slipped and fell to the floor with a loud crash. Both of us jumped. Cassie began to sob again. I spoke to her sharply, ordering her to sweep up the pieces and dispose of them in the dustbin. I was tense, listening, waiting, and finally there came a sharp, hissing sound immediately followed by a bloodcurdling scream. It seemed to go through me like an arrow. My knees buckled. I gripped the drainboard tightly to keep from falling.
The sounds came again, and again, and I knew I couldn't stand it any longer. Without stopping to think, I flew out the back door and hurried across the yard. I stumbled over the root of an oak tree and fell to the ground, my breath knocked out of me. As I climbed to my feet there was another sharp hiss, another shrill scream. I rushed to the barn, catching hold of the door to steady myself. Fading gold rays of sunlight streamed into the interior, illuminating the nightmare scene.
Caleb was naked, his wrists strapped together, the rope pulled taut over one of the rafters, forcing the boy to stand on his tiptoes. His back was to me, so I couldn't see his face, but I saw the bare buttocks, the smooth brown skin already streaked with tiny red threads. Adam stood in the shadows beside the ladder leading up to the loft, holding the boy's clothes, his face expressionless. Hawke stood behind the boy, and as I watched, he flexed his wrist and drew his arm back again. The riding crop sliced through the air with a savage hiss, and the thin leather thongs made contact. Caleb's body jerked convulsively, and his scream was deafening, one long, shrill note of agony.
Hawke drew his arm back to strike again.
"No!" I cried.
I rushed over to him and seized his arm. He was startled, that for a moment he stood immobile, staring at me with cold fury. Then he caught me by the shoulders and thrust me away from him with such force that I crashed against the wall several feet away. I crumpled to the ground against some sacks of grain, so stunned that it took me a moment to focus properly. Hawke spread his legs, took careful aim and slashed again, and again, and again. When he finally stopped, his white shirt was drenched with perspiration, plastered wetly against his back and shoulders.
He put the riding crop down. Caleb hung limply, almost unconscious. Hawke shoved his hair back from his forehead and turned to Adam. He looked weary now, all anger spent.
"Cut him down," he ordered. "Take him to his grandmother and see that she tends to him properly." He prodded Caleb's calf with the toe of his boot. "You, boy—I hope you learned your lesson. You got off lightly this time, just ten lashes. If there's a next time, it'll be fifty."
Caleb sobbed something unintelligible. Hawke turned to look down at me. I was still on the ground, clinging to one of the bulging sacks as though for support.
"Don't you ever try to interfere like that again, do you understand?" His voice was chilling. "You may be white, you may speak with a fine accent, but you're my property, same as they are. You try something like this again and you'll pay for it. You'll pay dearly."
Then he turned around and walked out of the barn. The orange light was fading rapidly, deep blue-black shadows gathering. Adam took a knife and cut the rope. Caleb collapsed on the ground in a heap, sobbing. Adam scowled and pulled him to his feet.
"You goin' live, boy. Stop that blubberin'. You done brought it all on yoreself." He thrusts the boy's clothes at him and wrapped a powerful arm around his shoulders to keep him from falling. "Stop that blubberin', I says. Th' master only give you what you deserved."
Holding the boy firmly against him, Adam turned to look at me.
"You all right, Miz Marietta?"
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
"Want I should send Cassie out to you?"
I shook my head, and Adam looked hesitant, not certain whether he should leave me alone or not. Caleb whimpered quietly. After a moment Adam frowned and tightened his grip around the boy's shoulder, leading him out of the barn. I sat huddled there against the sack of grain and watched the orange light glow paler and paler as the shadows multiplied. A few chickens wandered into the barn, clucking noisily and scratching the dirt. A long time passed, and still I sat there, nourishing a terrible pain that had nothing to do with my fall. When I finally forced myself to get up and leave the barn, the first stars had already begun to twinkle frostily against the cold night sky.
CHAPTER 8
Caleb waved and came running as I started across the back yard carrying the lunch basket. It had been two weeks since he had been whipped, and I hadn't seen him since then. He showed no effects of the beating now, I noticed, pausing under one of the oaks to talk to him.
"What you got in that there basket?" the lad inquired. "Somethin' good to eat?"
I nodded. Caleb wore an expectant look. "I'm afraid it's not for you, Caleb. I'm taking it to the master out in the fields."
"When you goin' to bake some more of them cookies?"
"I—one of these days, Caleb. Doesn't Mattie feed you?"
"I reckon," he drawled, "but she don't make good things like you does, Miz Marietta. That peach pie—I reckon it wuz worth th' whuppin' th' master give me."
"How are you, Caleb? I haven't seen you around."
"Mattie, she done forbid me to hang around th' back yard. She says I gotta stay back behind th' cabins mendin' things lessen you sends me for somethin'. I been bein' busy, fixin' things an' helpin' Mattie. My backside wuz sure sore, but Mattie done put some stuff on it for a couple-a-days an it's healed up now. Th' master, when he whups, he whups good. There ain't nothin' in that basket he wouldn't miss?"
He looked for all the world like a great, gawking puppy dog, his wide brown eyes full of entreaty. Unable to resist, I reached into the basket, took out a crisp brown drumstick and handed it to the boy. Caleb's eyes lit up with pleasure and, taking the drumstick eagerly, he bounded away just as Mattie stuck her head out of the door of the cookhouse and yelled for him to get back to work 'fore she kicked him good. Caleb disappeared behind the cabins, Mattie shook her head in despair, and I waved, calling good day to her.
It was an extremely warm day, the sun pouring down in furious rays, but this time I wore an old wide-brimmed yellow straw hat with brown ribbons that tied under my chin. The hat protected my face, but my dress was soon damp with perspiratio
n. Light beige cotton sprigged with tiny brown and blue flowers, it was faded and patched, the puffed sleeves dropping off the shoulders, the bodice low-cut and clinging tightly. Shabby as it was, it was the most fetching garment I owned, and I wondered if Derek Hawke would notice the way it accentuated my bosom and slender waist. Probably not, I told myself, moving along the rows of cotton.
I had hardly exchanged a dozen words with him since the incident in the barn. He had not referred to, nor had I, but since then his manner had been even colder and more remote. When it was necessary for him to give me an order, his voice was like chipped ice, his expression always harsh. After what his wife did to him, I supposed he was not anxious to get entangled again. Of course, I was his chattel, his property, and, as a woman, beneath his notice. I accepted that, and I fought the feelings he was able to arouse simply by being in the same room with me. I tried to hate him, tried desperately, yet I couldn't help feeling that behind that icy barricade dwelt an extremely vulnerable man greatly in need of warmth and understanding.
Mattie sounded the gong in the cookhouse. The blacks working in the fields put down their tools and started toward the line of oak trees where, under the shade of the boughs, they would have their lunch. I saw Adam in the distance, moving toward the trees with the others, towering over them. Hawke never lunched with the slaves. Although he permitted them half an hour's break for their meal, he stayed out in the fields himself, pausing just long enough to eat the basket lunch brought to him, then going right on with his work.
I wondered why he drove himself so hard. The other planters didn't When she had come back to Shadow Oaks to return the liniment, Maud Simmons had told me quite a lot about life among the gentlemen planters. Most of them, I learned, had hired men to manage their plantations for them, leaving them free to live a clubbish sort of life with cool drinks on the verandah and hunting parties and constant socializing at their various plantation houses. Hawke had never participated in any of these leisurely pastimes, had always taken the full responsibility of Shadow Oaks on his own shoulders. He had done extremely well, too, Maud confided. The annual yield at Shadow Oaks had been more than satisfactory, and by rights Hawke should have a tidy sum stashed away in the bank at Charleston. He didn't. There was only a few hundred dollars in his account there. Maud had discovered this the last time she had made a deposit and had talked with that charming bank manager. What on earth, she wondered, had happened to all of Hawke's money? It was a question I was unable to answer.
He certainly hadn't poured it back into Shadow Oaks. True, I had cost a great deal—more than he could afford, he had told me—but I knew that he had bought no other slaves during the past four years, nor had he spent money refurbishing the house. Everything was shabby and rundown, and to all outward appearances Shadow Oaks was little more than a farm. Yet his crops had consistently brought him a great deal of money, as much as many of the larger plantations. It was a bloomin' mystery, Maud told me, adding that she had heard rumors that he had been sending vast sums to a lawyer back in London for a period of years. Hawke had come from England originally, though no one knew anything about his background there. He'd simply appeared in Carolina, married Alice Cavenaugh and promptly purchased Shadow Oaks "for a song," turning a broken-down, second-rate plantation into one that yielded a generous profit each year. He'd been here for ten years, ever since he was twenty-three years old, and for ten years he had lived like a poor man.
I had thought about all Maud had told me as I strolled across the fields, basket in hand. I had always assumed that Shadow Oaks was poor, that Hawke had to struggle to make ends meet, yet as I gazed at the acres and acres of vivid green plants—and this was only one section of fields—I could easily see how the harvested crop would bring in a large sum. I couldn't help wondering what had happened to the money. Was he indeed sending it back to a lawyer in England? If so, why? The more I learned about Derek Hawke, the more enigmatic he became.
I could see him up ahead now, working with a hoe. His boots were covered with dust. His dark tan breeches were old, almost threadbare. His thin white cotton shirt was damp with sweat, open at the throat, sleeves rolled up over his forearms. Although he was superbly built and wonderfully handsome, he nevertheless looked like a poor dirt farmer. Why? He could be sitting on the verandah in glossy boots and an elegant suit, taking his ease. Why did he live in a poorly furnished, tumbledown house when he could transform it into a fine mansion? Hearing me approach, he turned around, leaning on his hoe. As those cool gray eyes rested on me, I felt that familiar response inside, wanting him, hating myself for it.
"Cassie ill?" he inquired. This was the first time I had brought him his lunch since the day I had baked the peach pie.
"She's busy at the house, polishing the parlor furniture. I didn't want to interrupt her. so I decided to bring you your lunch myself."
"You're not working her too hard?"
"Indeed I'm not," I said coldly.
Hawke didn't like my tone, but he made no comment, taking the basket from me. He smelled of sweat and soil. His wide, beautifully shaped mouth was set in a stern line. Why did I have to visualize those generously curved lips parting, spreading to cover my own? Why should the very sight of him cause my pulse to race when I had every reason to loathe him? Hawke leaned on his hoe, idly gazing at me, and I had the feeling he knew full well the effect he had on me, no matter how I tried to conceal it.
"I see you wore a hat this time," he remarked.
"As ordered."
"You've never worn that dress before."
"You disapprove of it?"
"I couldn't care less what you wear as long as you do your work. You look like a waterfront whore, but that hardly matters—" He shrugged his shoulders to indicate his indifference.
"That's what you think I am," I said acidly. "You never believed what I told you about my background. You've always thought I was a common criminal, a—"
"It matters to you what I think?" he asked.
"Not in the least, Mr. Hawke."
He arched one eyebrow, his lips curling at the corners in faint amusement. "Perhaps you wish I'd gone ahead and let Jeff Rawlins have you. That kind of life might have suited you much better."
"I'm sure you think so," I replied.
"I think you'd be a superb whore," he said idly. "You'd make a grand mistress, too, no doubt, a beautiful plaything for some man with more money than sense. Is that what you expected me to do with you—make you my mistress? You're a fetching wench—you're well aware of that, of course. Mirrors don't lie—but I paid good money for a housekeeper and cook, not some red-haired hussy to wrestle with in bed."
I could feel my cheeks burning. I longed to fly at him with claws unsheathed. Hawke seemed to read my mind, and he was clearly amused, had been deliberately baiting me. The anger seethed through me, and when I spoke my voice trembled.
"I consider myself fortunate that you haven't—haven't made demands on me. Not many men would have such scruples."
"Scruples? I've very few of those, I assure you. I do have good sense, though—sense enough not to bed some wench just because she's got a body designed by the devil and eyes like blue fire, a wench who's plainly all to amenable to a nice, long—"
I swung my hand back and slapped him across the face with all the strength I could muster. I hit out instinctively, without thinking, and was almost as startled as he was. Hawke let out a shocked cry, dropping the hoe. The side of his face turned a bright, burning pink. My hand stung painfully, and I gasped, horrified at what I had done. He stared at me, stunned, and then his eyes burned with anger and his mouth became a hard, tight line as he balled his fist and delivered a powerful blow that sent me reeling back against the plants. I fell to the ground, green stalks crushing under me, and the sky seemed to turn from blue to black as pain exploded inside my head.
Half-conscious, I stared up at him. He loomed over me, his legs wide apart, both hands balled into fists now, and I knew he would probably kill me. My head se
emed to spin; my jaw was on fire, and I was seeing him through a wet, misty veil that wavered and blurred outlines and caused everything to tilt and topple: the tall green plants standing tall all around me, the man, tilting crazily, the sky above him blue now, spinning like my head. I sobbed, forcing myself to rise up on one elbow, and it was then that I heard the hiss and saw the rope uncoiling and saw it fly through the air and attach itself to Hawke's thigh.
Derek Hawke screamed. Then he took the rope in his hand and hurled it to the ground where it writhed and spat and coiled itself to strike again. I realized with horror that it was not a rope, but a snake, one of the deadly copperheads Mattie had warned me about. Hawke seized the hoe and struck at the snake, and its tail seemed to fly straight up in the air, its head still rooted to the ground by the hoe. It thrashed and flailed, and Hawke jammed the heel of his boot on the hoe, crushing the metal into the ground, and the horrible flailing finally stopped as the snake's head was severed from its body.
Hawke dropped the hoe, gripping his thigh. I climbed quickly to my feet, my own pain forgotten as I saw the look on his face. My heart was beating rapidly, and my head was still reeling. Hawke sobbed. His cheekbones were the color of chalk. He seemed about to fall face down. I stumbled forward, seizing his arm.
"What can I do! Derek! What can I—"
"God! Oh, God! The knife! Quick, the knife—"
"I—I don't—"
"It's folded up in my pocket. The left pocket. Get it! For God's sake, Marietta, get it quickly!"
I jammed my hand into his pocket and pulled out the long bone-handled knife with its blade folded up. Hawke gasped and almost fell on top of me, throwing his arms around me for support. I staggered under his weight, holding him, more frightened than I had ever been in my life. He clung to me. his eyes half-crazed with fear and shock and pain. I think he passed out for a moment, his head falling on my shoulders, his body limp, and then he raised his head and looked into my eyes and tried to speak coherently.
Wilde, Jennifer Page 10
