Brandon’s eyebrows rose, and Hannah continued. “I know, right? Well, he has another plantation in South Carolina, called Sidlaw, and I know that’s the name of some hills near Dundee.”
“So that’s pretty much connected to our adventures . . . but it’s complicated,” said Brandon with a frown. “What do you think it all means?”
Hannah smiled ruefully. “No clue. You got any ideas?”
“Not yet,” Brandon smiled back. “How’s life going, anyway? You sound pretty happy, which is weird, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Hannah waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever. It’s okay. The work could be worse. At least I get some downtime, like now. And I think a big part of my job is to keep Mrs. Gordon company, which isn’t, like, hard. Mr. Gordon’s kind of gruff, but they’re both okay.”
Out of the blue, her mouth crumpled, and she started to sob. She didn’t even try to cover her face. The sobs turned into wails, and Brandon anxiously came to stand next to her, taking her hand. Had she been putting a brave face on life in St. Swithin’s Parish? Was she really miserable?
“Is it that bad?” he asked gently. “Do you want me to help you get away?” She wiped first one eye and then the other with the heel of her hand, and then she broke down again.
Brandon was really worried now. “Hannah, it’s okay, no matter what it is, you can tell me.”
Finally, she could speak, but she spoke in a rush, punctuated by hiccups.
“Brandon, it’s not the Gordons,” she said. “They’re fine. It’s . . . It’s Mrs. Jenkins . . . . I thought she cared about me, but she called the police. I could have died. I was sentenced to death. And that awful prison . . . and then the ship . . . .” Brandon was relieved that what was troubling Hannah was now in the past. He thought of his own trip across the Atlantic. “Yeah, that was a lousy journey, wasn’t it?”
Hannah sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “I nearly died. I’m still not sure I’m okay. I’m worried about my health. And Mrs. Gordon says I’m lucky, I could have arrived in August, when all the mosquitoes are out . . . .”
“They’re still hanging around,” Brandon groaned. “I got bitten yesterday.”
Hannah winced. “I know, I’m just hoping they’ll all be gone soon. Oh, and Mrs. Gordon says everyone new goes through ‘seasoning,’ and everyone catches fever. What is it, this fever?”
Brandon bit his lip. “It’s malaria. People used to catch malaria in Georgia from mosquitoes. But we’re good, remember? The Professor got us pills . . . .”
His voice trailed off. Even as he said it, he remembered that Hannah had not gotten pills. He looked at her in horror.
“What? What is it?” Hannah said irritably.
Brandon cringed a little. “Look, just try not to get bitten, okay?”
“Is malaria really that bad?” She looked concerned.
Brandon dodged the question, and tried to reassure her. “You know, African-American people have some resistance to malaria, because our ancestors got exposed to it in Africa. Maybe your Portuguese ancestors had resistance too. Then you might not catch the disease.” But he added, “Still, though, try not to get bitten.”
Hannah nodded dumbly, and stared into the distance. After a long pause, she said in a small voice, “I have nightmares now. Every night. I dream I’m going to die in the eighteenth century. Sometimes I dream I’m hanged, or I drown in a swamp, or I die in a slave rebellion . . . . I am so scared.”
Brandon shook his head, and said soothingly, “Hannah, they’re just bad dreams, that’s all. You had a rough time in England and on the ship, but things don’t seem so bad for you here. Look, let’s just focus on figuring out why we are here. There’s always a reason, right? And I think ours is pretty obvious: We need to find out who the skeleton in the park was.”
Hannah suddenly sat up, eyes wide. “I forgot! I totally forgot! Mrs. Gordon wears this weird ring. I need you to see if it’s the same ring you guys found on the skeleton.”
Brandon said excitedly, “Then maybe she’s the skeleton!”
“That’s what I was wondering,” Hannah said. “And guess what? Her health isn’t too great.”
Brandon’s face fell. “So we’re on death watch?”
Hannah gave a mischievous grin. “Maybe I should put some poison in her cornmeal to speed things along.”
But Brandon was scandalized. “Hannah!”
Hannah looked at him pityingly. “Joke, Brandon? Honestly, you can be so sad. Why do you always have to be so super-mature?”
It was more of a back-handed compliment than an insult, but either way, Brandon ignored her. He had a more pressing concern. “I have to tell you something. I called Dr. Barrett, the anthropologist. That was why I made an appointment at the college, and that was where I was taking you when we time-traveled. I wanted you to meet her. She said she thought the skeleton was a murder victim. And she said something else, but her cell phone crapped out and I never bothered to call back, because it didn’t seem that important, and I figured she would explain to me when we met. She said something about the teeth being all wrong. What do you think she means? Does Mrs. Gordon have strange teeth?”
Hannah thought about it for a moment. “No. Not that I’ve seen. How bizarre. I wonder what she means?”
Chapter 6: SHOPPING AND SLAVERY
Sleeping on a straw-filled mattress on the wooden floor was really uncomfortable. More than once, Hannah thought she felt a cockroach run over her legs. But her sleeping arrangements didn’t bother her that much, which surprised her. She was less and less troubled by things that once would have sent her up the wall, like sleeping on a straw mattress and being trampled by roaches. One of her grandma’s favorite sayings was “don’t sweat the small stuff,” and now Hannah knew what she meant.
Meanwhile, she fretted about the big stuff. Worrying about the disappearance of her brother kept her awake tonight, as it did most nights. And there was something else that troubled her: Mr. Osborn looked familiar. She didn’t think she had seen him in Balesworth, because the afternoon he came for tea with Mrs. Jenkins, she was upstairs cleaning. So why did she recognize him? She must have seen him out walking on Balesworth High Street, she thought. Yes, that had to be it. One problem solved, she turned over yet again and tried to sleep.
The next morning, Hannah felt exhausted. As she halfheartedly scrubbed the floor, she daydreamed. As time went on, cleaning was a larger and larger part of her day. Now that a second and third set of purchases had arrived from England, the tiny house was stuffed with chests, armoires, a tea table, chairs, and all manner of knick-knacks. Hannah again asked herself why the Gordons were bothering to buy all these nice things, when their house was nothing but a shack.
She didn’t have long to wait for an answer. While she was scrubbing, Mr. Gordon returned from another three-day trip to Savannah, bringing with him a huge rolled-up document that he spread on the table to show to his wife. Now was one of the few times that Hannah had seen Mrs. Gordon smile.
Hannah wasn’t invited to look at the document, but it wasn’t difficult to overhear that Mr. Gordon was showing his wife the plans for their house in Charleston. Getting up on her knees and craning her neck, Hannah could just see the drawings. The house didn’t appear all that impressive by modern standards, but compared to everything she had seen in Georgia in 1752, it looked awesome. In fact, with its three stories and windows, it looked much like it would belong in Colonial Williamsburg.
Mr. Gordon smiled fondly at his wife and said, “I spoke with John Harvey, the builder, and he tells me that work has begun also on our new house at Sidlaw.”
Mrs. Gordon clapped her hands together in glee. “Not one house, but two? Oh, Robert, we are fortunate indeed.”
Mr. Gordon beamed as he went to pour himself a glass of whisky. “Fortune has nothing to do with it, Mrs. Gordon,” he said, uncorking the bottle. “With God’s blessing, I am master of my own destiny. We have lived simply here in Georgia, and I have
managed my business prudently, and now we shall reap the rewards.”
“No doubt, Mr. Gordon, your good sense has much to do with it,” Mrs. Gordon said, her eyes downcast. “But there was good fortune, surely, in how we obtained the land?”
Hannah looked up, surprised that Mrs. Gordon would challenge her husband’s version of events. She was clearly daring him to take all the credit for their wealth, when she, it seemed, knew better.
Mr. Gordon frowned, but did not reply, knocking back a swig of whisky instead.
Hannah had a question of her own. She figured that now was as good a time as any to ask, although it made her nervous to do so. She coughed. “Mr. Gordon, Mrs. Gordon, this is kind of a personal question, but . . . If you’re so rich, how come you guys live like you’re poor?”
Mr. Gordon laughed loudly. Evidently, he was in a good mood. “Hannah, your insolence is endearing,” he said, flecks of whisky and spittle flying from his mouth. “Let me see if I can help you to understand. When first I came to America, I intended to make my fortune here, and then return home to Scotland. Therefore, like many of my fellow planters, I lived frugally as I built my wealth in land and slaves. But, Hannah, I have found that a man’s fortune goes much further living in America than in Britain, and here lies the certainty of making more and more profit. Now that Charleston society has risen to one suitable for respectable ladies and gentlemen, I am drawn to stay in America, where I can become a leading citizen. My family’s fortunes are assured, and my property continues to increase. Now is the time for me to spend some of my income on showing that I am worthy to take my place with ladies and gentlemen in Charleston society.”
Hannah was still puzzled, and looked around her. “But Kintyre Plantation . . .”
“ . . . is not nearly so profitable as Sidlaw,” Mr. Gordon admitted. “I was misled about the potential for prosperity in Georgia. But still. Kintyre makes a small profit from cattle and lumber, not to mention tobacco, and the value of this land continues to increase now that slavery is permitted. By next spring, I shall decide whether to sell this place, or else I will find an overseer to manage it. Then Mrs. Gordon and I shall return to South Carolina, and you will accompany us.”
Hannah was fascinated. She had assumed that the Gordons were struggling to get by. But she now understood that they hadn’t spent lots of money on the house at Kintyre because Mr. Gordon was too busy making money, buying up land and slaves. Now, however, he was ready to show off how much money he had made, but he wanted to do it somewhere lots of other rich people could see him showing off. Finally, she thought, this explained the new furniture and the tea set.
Hannah’s job hadn’t seemed at all arduous when she arrived. But now that Hannah was trained, Mrs. Gordon had settled readily into her new role as a lady of leisure. As far as Hannah could see, this mostly involved sitting around and doing embroidery. Clearly, this was not much fun, for a restless Mrs. Gordon often entertained herself by finding fault with Hannah’s work around the house.
Hannah escaped outside as often as she could, since Mrs. Gordon seldom left her home, often complaining of feeling unwell. Luckily, Hannah had a lot to do around the yard: gardening, milking cows, feeding chickens and pigs, collecting eggs, and cooking over the outdoor fire whenever the weather allowed, which Mr. Gordon preferred her to do because of the fire risk indoors. Even outside, though, Hannah was not safe from her master’s and mistress’s nagging.
“The turnips are not coming along well,” Mr. Gordon complained to his wife one evening. “Has the lass been picking off the worms?”
More and more, he referred to Hannah as “the lass”, or “the lassie” or “the girl,” much more often than he used her name.
“Yes, I have,” Hannah said, tired of being spoken of as though she weren’t in the room. “Sir,” she added hurriedly.
Mr. Gordon glared at her. “I did not address you, girl. Kindly mind your tongue.”
Embarrassed, Hannah put her head down, and carried on sweeping the floor. Was it her imagination, or was Mr. Gordon becoming more snobby?
Mr. Gordon turned back to his wife and said, “I met Mr. Jones on the road, and he tells me yon new minister is calling upon members of the vestry. If he should show his face here, I will tell him to return at my convenience. I do not want that black-coated rascal assuming he can call upon me at any hour he pleases.”
“Yes, Mr. Gordon,” his wife said meekly, and then returned to her embroidery.
As predicted, Mr. Osborn came calling the next afternoon. He was accompanied by Brandon. Mr. Gordon answered the door, since Hannah was cutting up a greasy roasted chicken she had just pulled from the spit over the fire.
“Good day, sir,” said Mr. Osborn cheerfully. “You would be Mr. Gordon, sir?”
“I would,” Mr. Gordon snapped, not making a move to invite him in.
Mr. Osborn shifted uncomfortably on the doorstep. “Sir, I have had not the opportunity to meet you after Sunday services, and I thought . . . Well . . . May I come in?”
“If you wish, but this must needs be a short visit, for we shall soon be at our victuals,” Mr. Gordon said ungraciously. He reluctantly opened the door to admit the minister. Brandon, who clearly had not merited an introduction, meekly followed Mr. Osborn inside.
“This is my wife,” Mr. Gordon said offhandedly, indicating Mrs. Gordon. Mr. Osborn nodded politely to her, and she quickly returned to her needlework, pretending to take no interest in the men’s conversation. Hannah, meanwhile, had finished hacking up the chicken. She resumed her own sewing, mending a ripped hem on her petticoat, although she exchanged the briefest of smiles with Brandon. Mr. Osborn took one of the two remaining chairs, and Mr. Gordon the other. Brandon stood awkwardly against the wall.
“I am come to introduce myself to you, Mr. Gordon,” said Mr. Osborn, trying too hard to sound friendly. “I understand that you are a member of my vestry.”
“I am a member of the vestry, sir,” said Mr. Gordon, folding his arms.
“There are a number of matters I wish to discuss with you, sir,” Mr. Osborn said. “Some of them are of a difficult nature.”
“Is that so?” said Mr. Gordon in a voice that did not encourage the minister to continue. He picked up his long white clay pipe and lit it.
“I am given to understand that you own a number of slaves,” Mr. Osborn said.
“What of it, sir?” Mr. Gordon said suspiciously.
“I am considering the purchase of a slave,” replied Mr. Osborn.
Mr. Gordon brightened at this news. “As a matter of fact, sir, I have a slave who may be of interest to you. He is a mere boy, and too young to work as well as a full field hand, but he can help you, and he will grow, of course. I will have him brought here when our discussion is done.”
Mr. Osborn looked flustered. “That is very kind of you, but I do not think that, at present, I quite have the necessary funds in ready money . . . .”
“You may pay me back in time,” said Mr. Gordon, clearly relishing the prospect of the new minister being in debt to him.
But Mr. Osborn wasn’t so easily taken in. “Perhaps,” he said curtly. “Now, in the matter of slaves, I have learned that you, sir, do not permit your slaves to be catechized in the Christian faith.”
Mr. Gordon frowned. “No, sir, I do not,” he said stoutly, as if daring Mr. Osborn to make something out of it. “I have no need for my slaves to learn self-regard and insolence.”
Mr. Osborn shook his head at that last comment. “I must persuade you to fulfill your Christian duty to the poor negroes,” he said, gesturing to Brandon to step forward. “My servant’s name is Brandon Clark, and I am training him up to be a catechist to the negroes. He will teach them the one true faith of the Church of England.”
Mr. Gordon ignored Brandon. “I would dispute that assertion, sir. The Church of England is certainly not the one true faith, as you put it. I am a Presbyterian, myself.”
Mr. Osborn utterly failed to hide his shock. “A Pre
sbyterian? How can you be a Presbyterian when you are a member of my church’s vestry?”
Mr. Gordon did not seem apologetic. “We handle matters differently in Georgia than at home. It is only right that an eminent planter such as myself should sit upon the vestry, regardless of my Christian denomination. Anyhow, your idea of catechizing the slaves is foolishness, Mr. Osborn. You are a young man, a newcomer, and you do not understand the negroes. They will take any interest in their spiritual welfare as a sign that we accept them as the equals of white men. Truthfully, they are savages at heart, and they have some very strange ideas, all magic and superstition.”
Brandon’s eyebrows practically shot through the ceiling. It was all he could do not to run forward and stomp Mr. Gordon’s foot.
“Precisely,” Mr. Osborn said with a smile, to Brandon’s consternation. “And that is why they must be brought to a full understanding of God’s grace, and that is the responsibility of their masters, and of the clergy.”
Brandon put his head down and gritted his teeth. This conversation was making him very angry. It was taking all his self-control not to say or do anything.
Mr. Gordon abruptly changed the subject. “What other matters wish you to discuss with me?”
Mr. Osborn, nervous again, cleared his throat. “I, um, wish to discuss my parsonage. The building is, I am afraid, rather unsuited to the needs of a growing family . . . .”
He trailed off. Mr. Gordon was glowering at him. Fixing the minister with an angry stare, he said, “Look around you, Mr. Osborn. There are but few families in your parish, and we all subscribed to the cost of your house according to our abilities. If it is not to your satisfaction, then I am afraid you must fund your own house.”
Mr. Osborn gulped. “I see. Well, I . . . I shall consider what you say.”
“That is just as well,” Mr. Gordon said with a satisfied nod. “Now, was there anything else you wished to bring to my attention?”
“No, no, that will be all,” said Mr. Osborn lamely.
Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3) Page 15
