"It's goin' all be lost!" she cried. "Adam hustled everyone out to th' fields soon as th' sky started turnin' dark— everyone, th' wenches an' th' chillen an' even fat Mattie— I wanted to help, too, but he wouldn't let me—"
"Have they—"
"They ain't been able to pick hardly nuthin', Miz Marietta! It'd take three days o' hard work to pick it all, an' they've just been out there since lunch time—"
The girl was crying, her voice a hoarse rasp. She was shivering violently. I reached for an old horse blanket and wrapped it around her, brushing the wet black tendrils of hair away from her face. Lightning streaked, exploded in bursts of silver-gold-blue, and the rain was worse than ever, driven into the stable in sheets by the raging wind. There came a sudden loud pelting on the roof as though the place were being besieged by artillery fire, and as Cassie and I watched, the rain turned to hail and the hail hurled down like millions of glittering pellets. It lasted for perhaps five minutes, and then it ceased abruptly. There was silence, a terrible silence all the more intense after the barrage of noise.
"It's over," Cassie whispered. "Th' crop is done ruined for sure."
We stood there for several minutes, silent. Cassie was crying. I felt a terrible despair, knowing what this meant, knowing what Derek must be feeling. Rain dripped slowly from the eaves. The yard was littered with hail that glittered and gleamed like crystal. In the distance I saw the negroes returning from the fields, wet, dejected, dragging limp cloth bags. Adam saw us standing in the doorway of the stables and joined us. There was no need for words. He gathered Cassie in his arms and held her tightly, folding the blanket more closely around her.
"Is—is he still out there?" I asked.
Adam nodded gravely. "He jest stands there, lookin' at th' fields."
I left the two of them and moved quickly across the yard, hail crunching beneath my feet. I passed through the oaks and entered the fields. The ground was muddy, the plants all beaten down and broken, the cotton like soggy snow. The purple sky had faded to a pale violet, and thin silvery rays of sunlight streamed down, weak, wavering. I saw Derek up ahead. He stood with his hands thrust into his pockets, and he stared at the desolation as though unable to comprehend it, as though it were a mirage. His hair was plastered against his head. As I drew nearer, I saw his expression, and it gave my heart a wrench. His eyes were filled with anguish. His mouth drooped. He looked lost, defenseless.
I hurried toward him. He looked at me and shook his head, and then a strange, pathetic smile played on his lips. I reached up to smooth the wet locks from his brow. Derek wrapped his arms around me, holding me against him, holding me tightly, tightly, as though he feared he might lose me, too. Neither of us spoke. I had never loved him so strongly, my whole being filled with tremulous emotion. He looked at the fields and shook his head again, and then he looked down into my eyes.
"I still have you," he said. "Thank God for that."
CHAPTER 13
Derek returned to Charles Town two weeks later, traveling on horseback, leaving long before dawn and arriving back at Shadow Oaks late at night. Although he didn't discuss the trip with me, I knew that he had gone to see about getting a loan, and I could tell by his manner the next morning that the trip had been unsuccessful. Later, after breakfast, I was in the kitchen, working at the drainboard, when he entered with a parcel clumsily done up in brown paper and string. He set it on the battered wooden table and tersely informed me that it was for me.
"A present?" I asked, surprised.
"We're going to the county fair two weeks from now. You'll need something to wear. The gown you bought in Charles Town is hardly suitable."
"Fair? You haven't mentioned—"
"Open the package, Marietta," he interrupted. His voice was edged with irritation.
I cut the string and removed the paper and held up the generous length of cloth. It was cotton, a deep, rich red printed with tiny black flowers, more than enough to make a dress. I was moved, not just because the cloth was exceedingly beautiful but because he had thought to buy it for me. He watched me examine it, his eyes guarded, his lips curling in a surly line. I wanted to thank him, but I could tell that it would be unwise.
"You'll have plenty of time to make a dress," he said. "I assume you know how?"
"Of course. Thank you, Derek."
"I want you to look presentable when we go to the fair."
He left the kitchen then, abruptly, going out the back door. Through the window I could see him striding briskly across the lawn. The cotton crop had been destroyed, he was near bankruptcy, and he was driving the slaves and driving himself harder than ever, coming in each afternoon just as the sun was beginning to set, worn, exhausted, so weary it took an effort for him to even eat the meals I prepared. Now he was planning to go to the county fair. Why? It was so unlike him. Derek Hawke avoided his neighbors whenever possible. Ordinarily he would have welcomed an event like the fair as he would welcome the plague. I felt sure something was afoot.
I was still mystified when, two weeks later, we were on our way to the fair, the horses moving down the road at a brisk, energetic pace, the wagon rocking and creaking. This road was unfamiliar to me, more narrow than the one we had taken to Charles Town. Lined on either side by tall, leafy trees that kept out most of the sunlight, the road was cool and shady. It was late in the morning, for Derek didn't care to arrive until noon, and it was only an hour's drive from Shadow Oaks.
I was wearing the new dress I had made from the material he purchased in Charles Town. It had puffed sleeves, a modest neckline, and a snugly fitting bodice, the skirt full-gathered and rustling in rich red folds over my petticoats. Cassie had exclaimed over the dress, declaring that it made me look like a queen, but Derek had made no comment. Silent and withdrawn, a worried, preoccupied look in his eyes, he gave no indication that he even noticed. I was too sensible to be hurt, but it would have been nice had he mentioned the dress.
Derek wore polished brown knee boots that had seen better days, as had his brown broadcloth suit. His vest was a dull gold satin striped with thin bronze stripes, his neckcloth of mustard-colored silk. The clothes weren't nearly as elegant as those he had worn in Charles Town, were, in fact, just short of seedy. He had lost weight during the past four weeks and looked drawn and tense, with fatigue shadows beneath his eyes, slight hollows beneath his cheekbones. He had suffered a great set-back, and I wondered if I even had an inkling how enormous it was.
When he purchased me, Derek had intended to rely upon the money the crop would bring in to restore his finances. But the crop had been totally destroyed. I knew that he kept a supply of ready cash in a cigar box in the bottom drawer of his desk in the study. I had seen him take money from it this very morning. Was that all he had? If so, his situation was desperate. I longed to ask him about it, but I knew that would be a mistake. Derek was not one to share his problems.
"Is it much farther?" I asked quietly.
"We're almost there," he replied.
"I—I'm rather nervous."
"There's no need to be."
"Facing all those people—it won't be particularly pleasant. From the first they've assumed that—"
"What they think doesn't matter in the least," he said sternly.
"I still don't know why you decided to go. It—it's not like you."
"I have business to conduct. You'll be on your own part of the time. I'm sure you'll be able to amuse yourself."
"You're going to leave me on my own? After what happened in Charles Town? What if I run into Jason Barnett? What if—"
"That doesn't worry me, Marietta. Not now," he told me.
I was strangely affected by his words, for they proved that he trusted me. Although he would never acknowledge it to me, I felt sure he believed all I had told him about my past, believed I had been framed for a crime I hadn't committed. During the past four weeks there had been a subtle alteration in his manner toward me. I was still his housekeeper, still waited on him, serving him
as before, serving him in a new capacity at night. Although he certainly didn't treat me as an equal, there was a new courtesy and consideration that hadn't been there before, so subtle it wouldn't even be apparent to anyone else.
A short while later Derek turned off the road. I could hear loud, brassy music in the distance, and as we rounded a bend I could see tents and booths set up in a clearing surrounded by oaks. Derek pulled the wagon under the shade of a large tree, near where dozens of others were lined up. Two small boys rushed over, and Derek gave each a coin. They assured him they would look after the horses. He helped me down from the wagon, and we strolled toward the tents and booths.
"It's really not unlike the county fairs back in England," I remarked. "Back home there would be gypsy dancers and fortune tellers, but this is much the same."
"Really merely an excuse for the smaller farmers to sell their goods," Derek told me. "There are pigs and chickens and cattle for sale, and pies, cakes, preserves. There'll be a shooting gallery and probably a boxing match, and stands where you can buy beer and refreshments—as you say, much like the fairs in England. A lot of bartering is done, a lot of trading, buying, selling. Mostly it's an opportunity for people to get out and get together and raise a little hell."
There were dozens of gaily striped tents, dozens of wooden booths. A raucous, festive atmosphere prevailed. The noise was incredible. Children raced about, shouting, laughing, scuffling. Dogs barked. Chickens clucked noisily. Pigs squealed. Rifles blasted at the shooting gallery. A carousel of brightly painted horses went round and round, a calliope playing as the horses dipped up and down. A wooden dance floor had been constructed near the edge of the clearing, and a decidedly amateur band played with considerable brio as young people stomped lustily about the floor, faces flushed with excitement. On every side there was color and movement, with almost two hundred people thronging the small area.
Tables and benches had been set up near the refreshment stands under a huge canvas canopy that provided shade. Derek bought two plates of beans and ham hocks, bought buttered cornbread and two glasses of cold apple cider, then led me over to one of the tables. People stared openly. Everyone knew I was Derek Hawke's wench, an indentured servant, and everyone assumed, rightly now, that I was his mistress as well. Several of the women looked offended. Three of them at a table nearby moved to one farther away, muttering shrill complaints at his audacity in bringing "that hussy in red" around decent women. It didn't bother me in the least. I was proud to be with him, proud to be his woman. Derek paid no attention to the stares, the hostility. He gave no sign that he even noticed it.
"It's all rather exciting," I said. "It's so—merry."
"That won't last," Derek replied. "As the afternoon progresses, the merriment will vanish. People will be tired, and most of the men will be drunk by the time the sun goes down. Tonight there'll be colored lanterns. Youngsters will steal off in pairs for quick romance in the shrubbery, and there'll be fist fights and arguments. We'll be gone by then."
"How long are we going to stay?"
"As long as it takes me to get my business accomplished," he replied, deliberately cryptic.
Derek had no intention of telling me why we were here. My curiosity was strongly aroused, but I had better sense than to ask him straight out what his business was. He would undoubtedly tell me to remember my place. If he wanted me to know, I would know in time. I had a strange feeling that whatever he was planning was something I wasn't going to be at all happy about.
As we ate, I noticed a man sitting across the way who seemed to be even more of a pariah than we were. He sat at a table, alone, all the tables around him empty. People stepping under the canopy with plates of food refused to sit near him, frequently sharing tables with other people rather than take one close to the man. Middle-aged, robust, he had moody blue eyes and blazing red hair and beard. He wore a severe black suit shiny with age, the cloth seeming to strain across his enormous shoulders. A battered-looking Bible was on the table in front of him, and he turned its pages as he ate his beans and cornbread.
"Elijah Jones," Derek remarked, noticing my interest. "He's from New England, an unsuccessful preacher who sometimes holds revival meetings. A lot of people go in order to boo and hiss. He has a small farm on the other side of Maud Simmons's place, barely scratches out enough to live on."
"Why is everyone avoiding him?"
"He claims slavery is a vile evil, preaches about it, goes around trying to get the planters to release their slaves. If that was his only offense, they'd consider him a harmless eccentric, but unfortunately he gives aide to runaway slaves and helps 'em escape."
"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 drin
king 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."
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