Christina studied the long Negro face, his kind brown eyes. She could not guess his age but his concern was all too apparent. She immediately saw in him a friend and God knows, she needed a friend, anyone who might help her face the others.
"Yes, I am," she replied with a shy smile in turn. While she had not had much of an appetite for some time, she could ill afford to lose any more weight. And then too, they had forgot the morning meal as soon as land was sighted. As a matter of fact, once her attention was drawn to it, she was astonished by how hungry she actually felt.
"If there's enough?"
"Always enough with Hope around." He smiled and then, peering inside, he asked, "Is your young'un asleep in there?"
Justin was sound asleep in the seat drawer and she nodded.
"Well, how about riding up front with me?"
Christina brightened but— "But, is it done?"
"No, it ain't, to tell truth." He smiled. "But I won't tell if you won't."
Christina gladly accepted his offer, desperately trying to lift from her despondency. Once in the driver's seat, Chesapeake set a large basket on her lap and he got the horses moving again.
The fresh air was inviting and the road had been deserted for some time, except for two young boys with fishing poles. Thick forests of elm and oaks grew on both sides of the road. They had passed a foot traveler and a farmhand with donkey in tow, an occasional meadow and glen. The houses were buried down the shaded lanes. So different from the pastoral splendor of the English countryside.
"I'm sorry," she first ventured. "I don't think I caught your name?"
"Chesapeake Freeman—Freeman coming from two generations of freed folks," he explained proudly as she passed him a chicken leg. "But call me Chessy, everyone does." And Christina was then given the exciting history of the Freeman family, starting with his own pappy's wild trip north on the underground railroad. Chessy, in turn, was given a glimpse into his new mistress's person to discover she was every bit as sweet as she looked.
* * * * *
"Oh! Oh! Here she comes! The carriage is pullin' into the driveway now!" Aggie told all the others. Finally! After waiting all day.
"Take your places," Rosarn called excitedly to the others. "Someone call Mary from upstairs! And get old Hope out from the kitchen! Hurry now," she called above the sudden chatter of the sixteen other servants who scrambled into line according to rank. Rosarn ran her chubby hands over the gray muslin work dress and took a deep breath, sucking in the ample evidence shown in her waistline of Hope's fine cooking. Her long gray hair was fitted neatly into a bun and she pinched her pale fleshy cheeks for color. The first impression was lasting, she knew. And if only she hadn't lost her front tooth last week, she thought wishfully as she felt the large hole gape in her mouth.
They had drawn straws to determine who would peer through the window. It would be unseemly for all sixteen heads to be seen there. And Aggie had won.
"Can ya see 'er yet?" Rosarn asked Aggie.
"No, not yet. Just the carriage, but—lord!"
"What, what?" Rosarn asked.
"Well, there's not a trunk to be seen. Must have taken the master a whole 'nother carriage to get the lady's things out," she quickly reasoned. "Oh! Oh! Chessy's goin' round now!"
Everyone fell silent. Rosarn nervously eyed the appearance of the others, looking for any small fault their new mistress might find.
"Well? Do you see her?"
"Yes! My word, but she's young!"
"Is she pretty?"
"Can't see from the distance but I—yes! She looks as pretty as they come, but—"
"But what?" Rosarn could hardly bear it.
"Well, she wearin' a common cloak. Can't see her dress but it must be her. She's holdin' the babe."
"Is she comin'?"
"Why no. She's just standin' there like she's in a stupor, staring at the house. And oh my, but I do believe she's alone! He's not with her!" She turned to the others with shock.
Eyebrows raised and nearly everyone looked at their neighbor in line for an explanation for this, an explanation that no one had.
Christina was staring and in shock. All the small confidence she gained by Chessy's quick friendship drained the moment the carriage turned down the lane. Nothing could have intimidated her more than the sight of what Chessy assured her was Justin's house.
What could she say? Two stories high and plastered and whitewashed in the shape of an open rectangle. It was one of the grandest houses she had ever seen. The beautiful manor could easily stand among any of the grand English manors. Manicured lawns spread on each side of the oak-shaded lane. Stairs led to a wide portico, proud Greek pillars in front. Beautiful and magnificent, and she wanted to run and hide.
The sun had just set as the carriage passed down the lane and through the darkening dusk—she had glimpsed it all. Stables and barn, two stories high and whitewashed too, surrounded by bales of sweet-smelling hay. Five horses in the corral and how many more in the stables? There were cows out at pasture. A vegetable garden of perhaps two acres, fruit trees, and a whole apple orchard in the distance. There was a large building she guessed was the servants' quarters and another building that must be a huge kitchen. There were small houses behind that for servants with families, each with its own nicely tended gardens. The lane finally rounded a circular drive in front of the house she could not believe would be her home.
Christina looked to Chessy for help and she felt Chessy's hand on her arm. "You'll do fine," he said softly. "Just remember who's the mistress and who ain't."
Christina nodded and she boldly marched forward. She had not taken two steps, though, when she heard a dog barking. The house stood on a hill, overlooking a clear fresh water lake, and she turned to see him running up from the water with all the enthusiasm his huge heart could afford.
She instantly handed little Justin to a surprised Chessy. "Beau!" she cried, kneeling down, as she opened her arms to receive him.
Beau had been down at the lake trying to catch an elusive bass when he heard the carriage and caught her scent. Changed, but the same. He remembered her, remembered that he loved her, and he had started running.
Barking with excitement, Beau raced to Christina and knocked her to the ground, and just like so many times before, he lavished kisses on her. He received the happy sound of her laughter, shrieks, and, this special time, even tears.
Christina didn't know why—perhaps because of Beauty, perhaps because of days lost or maybe simply because he was the only one to forgive her, but even after he let her up, she could not stop touching him. "Beau, my fine friend." She buried her face in his thick fur, hugging him tight. "Oh, but I missed you so—"
She stopped, as over a dozen people rushed on the scene.
"Oh my God, she likes him!" someone cried.
"We 'alf thought he was killin' you!"
"Oh no," she thought to explain, "Beau and I are friends from way back." She stood up and suddenly saw their shock. She looked to Chessy.
"This is Mrs. Phillips, our new mistress." He quickly diverted their attention. "Seeing hows Mr. Phillips is... ah, detained, I'll make introductions."
Aggie was staring hard at the young lady's dress. Why, she had a nicer dress than that! And what a sight she was! Why she wasn't even wearing gloves or a hat, like Asherella, she was.
Rosarn, entertaining similar thoughts, elbowed Aggie hard and drew her attention to the matters at hand. The assembly, all of them, withdrew to line up once again inside.
Christina followed Chessy and little Justin inside. She stepped through the wide mahogany doors, and with unabashed curiosity, she took in the first set of rooms. The servants were lined up in the wide hallway, large enough to be a parlor. She tried to take it all in at a glance. Elegant candelabra. Turkish carpets over polished wood floors, a gilt-framed looking glass reflecting a startlingly bold seascape opposite it. The wide douther side opened to show a study and parlor respectively, or at least she thought it was a parlo
r—a very large parlor. Wide stairs led up, dividing halfway to the east and west wings.
Through the open doors she caught glimpses of the rich mahogany furnishings, velvet hues of blues and greens—the colors of the sea. She would have liked to examine the paintings and woven carpets. Now was not the time.
Chessy introduced her to each new face. She felt the intense scrutiny of each set of eyes. She offered a noticeably shy greeting to each, thankful to have caught Chessy's disapproval the first time she curtsied. Mistresses did not curtsy to servants.
"This is Hope, our cook," Chessy said.
Christina stared at the old, frail-looking colored woman with open astonishment. She just looked too old. Her face seemed absolutely timeless and her slight frame seemed all bones, robbed of flesh by time.
"You'se surprised, I kin tell." She showed a wide, toothless grin. "I may look old and I am, but just everyone likes my cookin'. I spin meals like the Bible spins yarns!"
Christina laughed at this and complimented her chicken right off. Hope, too old to care a whit about propriety and the like, had already reached a conclusion about her new mistress. She was as sweet as a honeydew melon in spring, that was all and that was enough. The other dullwits were not as clear-sighted as she, she knew, and she sought to win them over for her new mistress. Hope pointed to the babe. "Why, ma'am, just look at your young' un thar." Everyone turned attention. "He ain't never seen dark skin afore, I'll wager, and it looks like he's taken a likin to it."
Indeed, throughout this whole time little Justin had been staring at Chessy's face with a mixture of plain awe and bewilderment. He reached hands to it and discovered it felt the same. Then he laughed and stared and laughed some more.
The minute Christina laughed at this, everyone else did too and the tension broke immediately. Christina showed her son each dark face and introduced each person. He was clearly impressed, deciding he liked dark skin better or at least as well. Anything for variety.
Rosarn stepped forward to inquire about her trunks.
"Oh... I'm afraid I don't have any." She lowered her gaze and blushed. "We left England in such a rush," she whispered. "I have only what I'm wearing."
This confession instantly won the sympathy of every woman in the room. Sympathy that was reinforced throughout the following days. Christina turned out to be the least demanding mistress any of them ever had and certainly the most agreeable; compliments were generous and criticism unheard of. They, especially the household help and Hope, began fighting to find things to do for her.
Of course, they all knew something was terribly amiss. That had been clear the day she arrived alone, wearing common clothes and with no one but Chessy to introduce her. No one was insensitive to her air of sadness either, a sadness that seemed only to lift when she played with her son. She spent far too much time alone as well, buried in a book in the library or out on long walks with only a dog to keep her company. Then, as the days passed, it became increasingly clear someone made a horrible mistake on top of everything else. Not a single calling card came for her, as though her arrival was being kept secret.
Everyone tried to fathom the reasons for this and it was a main subject of conversation. It was reasoned and generally agreed upon, that Master Phillips had married her because of the child. It was a common enough tale. But why would anyone treat such a sweet lady so terribly? Even if it was a loveless match, what could she have possibly done to deserve it?
* * * * *
Christina walked up to the house from the lakeside, returning after an unusually long walk. The cold winter air was invigorating, though she was told it was an unusually mild winter for Boston. There was hardly any snow, at least none that remained on the ground. She was coming to love the thick surrounding woods, the peacefulness she found at the lakeside. The long walks provided a few hours' escape, and she always felt better afterward.
Beau dropped the stick at her feet and she picked it up and tossed it again, thinking of her letters to Richard, wondering how they were received and what had happened to him after the escape, how he and Darrell and poor Betty had fared and all. As she turned onto the lane to the house, she saw the horse and carriage and the single mount sitting out front.
She stopped for a long moment. Justin was back. She wanted to turn away, hide in the woods and forever. How would he treat her? Would he even say a good day? Or would he simply ignore her very presence and pretend she wasn't there?
The only reason she forced her feet forward was because she had no choice.
After finally seeing his son to sleep, Justin had returned to his study and stood looking out the huge picture window, thinking of all his work ahead. Just as he had expected, Jefferson had managed to get his embargo act through congress.
The next four months were objectively among the most important, and perhaps ominous, of his life. The day after the morrow he would meet secretively with his six best captains to discuss, decide, and assign the next shipping runs. There was much to be done before then and yet like a curse he could think of naught but her. He had not completed even the first set of calculations, calculations that were so simple for him, Jacob often joked he could do them in his sleep.
The danger and risks in smuggling was directly proportional to the rewards: the greater the risks, the greater the rewards. No more so than now after Jefferson, desperate to stay out of the war between England and France, had gotten the Embargo Act through congress. An act Justin saw as disastrous for the country, yet simultaneously a fantastic opportunity for anyone with the brass guts to run the blockade.
England and France both desperately depended on American trade and shipping. Throughout the past five or so years both countries had enacted laws forbidding American trade with the other. American ships were seized at every opportunity, the cargo confiscated and the crew impressed. Well over four hundred ships had been lost to date, but none of them, with the single exception of the time he had been captured, had been his ships. And because he picked his captains and his runs so well, because he had both the talent and boldness to outrun and outmaneuver the French and English alike—opportunely chose one as bedfellow, one as enemy, then switching on the next run—he had made his fortune.
Jefferson's Embargo Act changed all this. Desperate and determined to see that both England and France grant American ships freedom of the seas, to stay out of their war, Jefferson and his well-meaning but foolish bank of lawyers got their law through congress. No American shipping in any form, to any port, at any time. They hoped it would force England and France to renege all laws restricting American shipping but he knew all it would do was bring gross depression to the country as a whole, especially Boston, but with unemployment and suffering to Americans everywhere. Except for smugglers. For men like himself, more than willing to take the risk, it meant money and a lot of it.
Justin's plans were secret. Only Jacob and his secretary, Mr. Richardson, knew the details. And if he could keep the plan concealed, he'd have amassed just enough to launch the rest of his plans.
He caught sight of Christina in the distance as she turned onto the lane and he watched her hesitancy once she saw that he had returned. Her picture looked drawn from some sad fairy tale: she looked slight and forlorn and, God, ever so beautiful, standing there all alone, staring off at the house with apprehension and, no doubt, fear as well.
He cursed softly under his breath.
Justin heard the door open and shut quietly. He could not hear her footsteps, she walked so quietly. But then there came a strange flip-flop sound, a shuffling. He did not know she was tiptoeing in trepidation of disturbing him, hoping to disappear in her room unnoticed—and the strong sound was the worn sole of her only pair of shoes.
Christina reached the top of the stairs when Rosarn called up to her. "The master! He's home." Christina nodded at her and turned back up the stairs. "He said to send you into the study as soon as you got back."
Christina froze, then took a deep breath and descended the stairs.
Rosarn watched from below, noticing her hesitancy, the telling sole on her shoe that had ripped apart. Lord, the poor lady had not even a decent pair of shoes. A real life Asherella, just as Aggie said. Thankfully she had already taken the liberty of talking to the master about it.
Christina thanked Rosarn quietly and slipped through the study doors. Justin was waiting for her. Her gaze swept up from the shiny black boots, the tailored black breeches, and white silk shirt, a face that was still familiar and strange both. She immediately perceived his disapproval. She wondered what she had done now.
"Good day," she ventured in a whisper, then awkwardly, stupidly, "I hope all is well?"
"Yes, all is well." He paused, moved in front of his large mahogany desk, and leaned casually against it, folding his arms. "I see you made it here in one piece," he first said, pointedly ignoring the social niceties.
She nodded.
"I also see you have managed to win the collective concern of the household. Rosarn found it necessary to ask me if she might send for the dressmaker. She should be here tomorrow."
She looked up, startled.
"In the future," he continued, "I'd ask you to manage your own affairs. I don't want to be bothered with them."
Christina's eyes quickly responded to his cruelty. Her gaze lowered to the floor. "A dressmaker is not necessary," she whispered. "If I could just have a roll of fabric, I could make my own dresses." She had done so her whole life.
"I think I can afford to clothe my own wife," he replied sarcastically. He suddenly thought of Darrell's comment on her clothes—"imagine if you let me dress her properly... she had them lined up all evening." "Besides," he added, looking at her dress and suddenly angry, "if that is the sorry result of your industriousness, it will be money well spent."
Christina jerked slightly as though slapped, and his punishment came as he watched her desperate struggle not to cry.
She wanted only to win her struggle but this the evidence of how much he hated her could suppress tears for but a moment. Her lip trembled and she caught it. Then she nodded quickly, stupidly, as though this ended the conversation, and turned to leave.
Horsman, Jennifer Page 28
