“Well, you’ve got it,” Caleb said, adding sharply, “and we might need more help here in the house if I decide to send some of you girls back out to the fields.” He looked directly at Drusilla, who was just as black as Caleb and nearly as tall. She dropped her eyes first. “After you-all get the wagon unloaded, show Missy where you sleep.”
Missy turned out to be a good worker. She’d obviously been trained well and knew most of the household tasks. Though the other girls openly shunned her, preferring to work together and leave Missy to do the single-handed jobs, Caleb had no criticism to offer about her willingness or skills. Jardine didn’t even mention her again until Missy had been at Three Rivers for nearly a week.
One morning after breakfast as he was getting ready to ride to the fields, Jardine asked with studied casualness, “That new girl, Caleb, how’s she settling in?”
“All right, Master.” Caleb told Jardine only what he thought he ought to know.
“No trouble with the other girls? She’s a good worker?”
Caleb ignored the first question. “She knows her job, Master,” Caleb said, “and she seems willing enough.”
“That’s good,” Jardine said absently. “That’s good. Where’s my riding crop?”
“Here, Master.” He picked the crop up from the floor beside Jardine’s place at the table and extended it toward Jardine. For a brief moment both had their hands on the slim whip and had the same thought, but neither voiced it.
18
After Missy had been at Three Rivers for nearly a month, Jardine told Caleb that she might help him by waiting on the table. Missy spent the afternoons—when the girls were usually off—learning some of the finer points of table service from Caleb.
“I hope you’re paying attention,” Caleb told her. “If you mess up Master’s dinner, you’re going to be back sweeping floors and folding sheets.”
“I won’t mess up,” she told him coolly. “I learns fast.”
And she did. Under Caleb’s close supervision, Missy soon became a skilled table servant, quick but not hurried, unobtrusive but always there when needed. She developed the sixth sense a waiter needs to anticipate, rather than just react to demands.
Jardine was very pleased, and Caleb didn’t mind having the work taken off his hands. But he watched Missy very carefully—not out of jealousy or fear for his position, but because he had learned that if you don’t control things, things will sure as hell control you. Before long, Jardine suggested casually that it seemed a waste of Caleb’s time to watch Missy serve breakfast and lunch. The girl had the routine down perfectly. Caleb agreed and retreated during Jardine’s daytime meals to the little windowless storeroom that he had turned into his private office. There he read some of the old books that had quietly migrated from Jardine’s study. By very convenient coincidence, the door to that storeroom stuck badly. If any of the house girls forgot to knock—a practice that Caleb encouraged without much success—he had plenty of time to stick his book out of sight before the door was fully open. Thanks to Missy, Caleb was making good progress through the collection of books.
A couple of weeks later, Jardine suggested that it might be more convenient if Missy moved from the annex she shared with the other house girls into an empty room at the top of the house. It was at the opposite end of the rough and uncarpeted corridor leading to Caleb’s room, but it was reached by a different stairway from the back of the house, and a door had long ago been installed in the middle of the corridor, isolating the room. Caleb had never known the door to be unlocked.
The house girls cleaned and refurbished the long-vacant little room, but they didn’t do it cheerfully. You could hear their nonverbal but expressive grumbling halfway down the back stairs. Aware of the legitimacy of their grievance, once the girls had made Missy’s room livable, Caleb gave them a basket of food from the kitchen, and allowed Andrew to drive them up to the lake in the wagon. Being realists, the girls accepted this as scant compensation for indignity above and beyond the call of duty. As they left, Drusilla and Caleb exchanged a look that couldn’t be put into a thousand words.
Missy moved into the little room with the big bed and very quickly transformed it. Raiding the castoffs in the attic with a free hand, without realizing it she turned the room into a fair approximation of a harem. As a finishing touch, a band of red crepe around the oil lamp created an atmosphere of cozy decadence.
The day Missy moved into her new room, Jardine left for a long weekend at the Bentley’s place six miles away. This was possibly the last thing that he wanted to do at that particular time, but Jardine had learned as a boy that what Mrs. Rafe Bentley wanted, Mrs. Rafe Bentley got. And what she wanted that particular weekend was for Jardine to meet her second cousin from down Savannah way. So he would meet her second cousin. With a sigh and a blank look at Caleb that was returned just as blankly, Jardine got up on the best gig and headed for the Bentley’s plantation.
With Jardine gone, Three Rivers went slack. Not as slack as it would have gone without Caleb there, but if there was one thing slaves knew, it was how to make the most of an opportunity. Instinctively, Caleb knew that it would be futile to take too much notice. Anticipating the inevitable, he told Cook and the house girls that if they got things in good shape by Friday afternoon, they needn’t be seen again until after Saturday lunch. It would not have done his authority any good to have to go looking for them in the quarter Saturday morning. He hoped he wouldn’t have to go looking for them Saturday afternoon. He was counting on Drusilla to see that he didn’t.
19
Of course, Missy didn’t go with the girls when they fled in a chattering, excited group. Nobody asked her. She said to Caleb, “I expect you’ll be eating in the kitchen.”
“You expect wrong,” Caleb told her. “I’ll be eating in the dining room, and you’ll be serving me. I have to make sure that your skills aren’t slipping.”
“My skills are doin’ all right,” she said. “Who’s goin’ to cook?”
“I’m going to cook,” Caleb said, “and you’re going to help. But first, set the dining room for one.”
“One?” Missy raised her carefully plucked eyebrows.
“One.”
When Missy returned from the dining room, Caleb had his jacket off, an apron on, and the big cast-iron range roaring. On top was a big pan of water just beginning to bubble. “Go out back,” he told Missy, “choose one of the white hens—a fat one—kill her, pluck her, clean her, and bring her in here.”
She looked at him with her eyes narrowed. “You crazy?”
“No,” said Caleb. “I thought you said your skills were good.”
“My skills, Mr. Caleb,” she said tartly, “don’t include killing no chickens.”
“No?” said Caleb, pretending to be amazed. “What did you do for your last master?”
“Mistress,” Missy corrected. “I was a lady’s maid—and a good one.”
“Then why’d she sell you?”
“She didn’t. Massa did. They got in a big fight. She cut a whole bunch of his clothes up, so Massa sold me. Broke her heart.”
“I’m sure,” said Caleb. “Well, I can’t make up for your lack of education all at once. I’ll go get the chicken. Do you think you can wash and peel those potatoes on the table and put them in that pot when it boils?”
“I’ll try.”
“Try hard.”
When Caleb came back with the gutted chicken, the potatoes were in the bubbling pot. He looked in to make sure they had been well peeled. “Looks okay,” he said. “Can you section a chicken, Miss Lady’s Maid?”
“I can try.”
“Not on my dinner, you can’t.” Caleb threw the chicken onto the big carving board and reached for a knife. “Go out back to the little garden and bring back half a dozen onions and a big handful of greens. Do you think you can do that?”
“I�
��ll try,” Missy said shortly and left the kitchen.
“Wash those greens two or three times and put them in a pot of water way at the back on the stove,” Caleb said upon her return. “And chop those onions sort of middling. Then I’m going to show you something.” He slapped the last piece of chicken in flour and put it into the big frying pan full of sizzling lard.
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
By the time she’d finished those tasks, Caleb had the potatoes off the fire and cooling in a vat of water. He had a bowl of eggs, a jug of olive oil, and salt and pepper on the big table. “Now watch closely,” he said. Breaking half a dozen eggs into a big bowl, he whipped them into a froth with a big rattan whisk and added salt and pepper. He dipped a forefinger in the mix and tasted it.
“What are you doin’?” Missy asked.
“The easy part. But keep your eyes open. The hard part’s coming up.” Keeping the whisking steady with his left hand, he picked up the jug of oil and poured a thin but steady stream into the bowl. The egg mixture began to thicken and smooth immediately.
“What are you making?” Missy demanded.
“Mayonnaise,” Caleb said, still whisking and pouring with delicate precision. “Get me a head of garlic from the larder.”
“What for?”
“Because I say so.”
By the time Missy got back, the mayonnaise was coming to a final thickness. “Clean two cloves,” Caleb told her, “put them in that mortar, and crush them real fine. And hurry it up. The chicken is almost done.”
“Garlic makes my fingers stink,” she complained.
“It’s a good stink,” Caleb said. “You ought to try shoveling shit.”
Missy wrinkled her nose at him but obeyed.
20
Twenty minutes later, Caleb was sitting at the head of the big dining table and unfolding his napkin. He had quickly washed his hands and face, and was wearing his good jacket. Missy, wearing her serving apron, came in from the kitchen carrying a platter of deep-brown fried chicken and placed it in front of him on the table between a big bowl of potato salad and a smaller one of boiled greens.
“That looks excellent, Missy,” Caleb said. “Mes compliments au chef.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Now, back in the stillroom you’ll find a bottle of white wine cooling in a bucket of water. Open it and bring it in here. I’m hungry.”
Caleb was biting into a chicken leg when she returned with the bottle and started to pour the wine.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” he asked coldly.
“What?” She couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice.
“Wine,” said Caleb, “especially cold white wine, is never served from an unwrapped bottle. Wrap it in a white napkin. That’s part of your skills, girl.”
Sullenly, Missy wrapped the bottle and poured a little into Caleb’s glass. She stopped and pulled the bottle back.
“That’s good,” he said. He took a sip of the wine and rolled it around in his mouth. “That’s good, too,” Caleb said. “You may pour me a glass.”
Missy filled his glass, put the wine back in the silver bucket on the sideboard, and turned around to face Caleb.
“Do you know what your trouble is?” she asked.
“Tell me,” Caleb said, raising an eyebrow.
“You think you’re white!” Missy said angrily before wheeling around and stalking back into the kitchen.
At just about that moment, Jardine was sitting at an elaborately set table in the garden of Bellevue, the Bentleys’ plantation. Martha Bentley had a thing about eating outside in the summer that no amount of flying insects could discourage. Around the table, half a dozen black boys wearing white gloves disturbed the air with palmetto leaves. This had the effect of moving the insects from guest to guest.
To Jardine’s left was SallyAnne Carter, Martha Bentley’s much-praised second cousin from Savannah. On his other side was Colonel Braddock, who’d been stone deaf since a cannon went off too close to his head at the Battle of Buena Vista. Jardine recognized this seating arrangement as a pretty good tactic, as it meant that he would have to talk to SallyAnne. But he also saw that Martha had made a rare mistake by putting SallyAnne at his side. Full face, with her high cheekbones and vivid color, SallyAnne was pretty enough. But in profile, her slightly hooked nose made her look a bit like a young turkey. Jardine suspected that if she ever stopped smiling—which she hadn’t yet—she would look like a very depressed young turkey.
When Jardine had arrived earlier that day, Martha Bentley had looked searchingly at his left sleeve. Oh, damn. He realized that he’d left his black armband on the bureau in his dressing room. Not that he cared whether Mrs. Bentley thought he was making enough display of mourning Nancy. If he’d cared enough about her opinion, he might have reminded her that true grief was in the heart, not on the sleeve. But the armband might have been a useful barrier between himself and SallyAnne, who was now leaning toward Jardine and giving him a good look at her slightly freckled cleavage.
“I believe you live not very far from here, Mr. Jardine,” she said.
He allowed that he had a small place on the other side of the turnpike and had to suggest that she might like to come over for a visit while she was in the neighborhood.
“Oh, I’d love that,” she said. “What do you grow?”
“Cotton, Miss Carter,” he said. “That’s mostly all people in these parts grow. There are a few putting in some acreage of tobacco these days, but I don’t think it’s got any future. This always was cotton country and always will be.” Jardine was nearly boring himself into a coma.
“How’s the boy, Jardine?” Doc Hollander called from the other end of the table, saving Jardine.
“Just fine, Doctor,” Jardine called. “Getting bigger every day. Soon I’ll have to get him out in the field behind a plow.”
“Give him a few more months,” said the doctor good-naturedly. “I’ll get over to see him one of these days.”
“You do that.”
In truth, as much as Jardine loved the boy, he couldn’t yet see him without feeling a stab of fresh grief at the loss of Nancy. The price he’d paid for a son was too high. Not that he’d been allowed to forget him. Dulcie was always coming to Jardine with little reports about how he was getting along with Sukey. You could sum these reports up with two words: all right. He’d lost that yellow color, gained some weight, and—according to Dulcie—was a good eater and a fair to middling sleeper.
“Oh, Mr. Jardine,” SallyAnne asked, “how old is your baby?”
“Four months soon,” Jardine said.
“How precious! And what’s he called?”
“Boyd, I suppose,” Jardine said. “Like me.” Realizing how strange and offhand that sounded, he added quickly, “He hasn’t got an official name yet.”
“We’ll have to take care of that soon, Mr. Jardine,” said Pastor Buchanan, the Baptist minister, from across the table.
“We surely will, Pastor,” Jardine said.
After lunch, while a croquet match was raging, Martha Bentley trapped Jardine in the gazebo.
“Oh, Boyd,” she said, “I understand you’ve got a new slave. Someone said it was a girl.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jardine replied coolly. “I bought her over in Lynche’s Landing last month. My man Caleb has been getting a bit lonely, and I think maybe I’ve found a wife for him.”
“Caleb,” said Mrs. Bentley thoughtfully. “I’ve heard quite a bit about that darkie. When are we going to get a look at him?”
“And his bride!” laughed Rafe Bentley, who had just walked in.
“Why, next Friday, ma’am,” Jardine said. “That is, if you and your company will accept my invitation to visit Three Rivers.”
21
That night at Three Rivers, Caleb w
as in his room reading by the oil lamp when he heard soft tapping at his door. Marking his place with a bit of paper, he got up and opened the door.
It was Missy. She stood in the hall wearing a long white nightgown. Her hair, loosened from its usual neat bun, hung down to her shoulders.
“Where’d you come from?” Caleb asked.
“Down there.” With a sideways movement of her head she indicated the room at the other end of the narrow corridor. Caleb looked and saw that the tall door was open. He’d never seen it open before. When he looked back at Missy, she was smiling and holding up a key attached to a ribbon tied around her neck.
“Master knows you have that key?” Caleb said.
“Nobody knows about this key but me.”
“And me.”
“And you.”
“What do you want?” Caleb asked.
“You,” she said simply.
“Well,” Caleb said, grabbing her by her slim wrist, “you’d better get in out of that hall.” He knew that nobody could possibly see her, but it still made him nervous. He pulled her into his room and wedged the door shut behind her.
Missy was looking around Caleb’s room. It was lined with wooden boards, whitewashed, and as austere as a soldier’s barracks. The only thing unusual about it was the small shelf of books Caleb had put up next to the head of the bed. There wasn’t much else to catch Missy’s eye.
“You read those?” she asked.
“No,” said Caleb, “if I wake up in the middle of the night hungry, I eat them. It’s a long way to the kitchen. Can you read?”
“What do I need to read for?”
“You’d be surprised. The whole world is in those books.”
“They look a bit small to me,” Missy said.
Caleb changed the subject. “You know,” he said directly, “you coming down here is foolishness. We can’t be starting anything. You know Master didn’t bring you out here for me.”
Caleb Page 6
