by Dina Sleiman
Finally, this spring Robbie gave the servants their emancipation papers and offered them all work on his farm. But as he’d always feared, nearly a third left to find family in the North, and another batch took off to join the band of “Black Indians” nearby. He surveyed the barren land around him. They could never manage to run a tobacco plantation of over five hundred acres with half a workforce. Their only chance lay in the new crops of corn and wheat, which were much needed and should yield a good price.
Terrence Sugarbaker snapped him from his thoughts as he galloped toward Robbie on the back of a black stallion. “If it isn’t the noble farmer hard at work.”
“Not all of us can go through life spoiled and pampered, my handsome friend.”
Terrence pulled to a stop beside him, flinging yet more dirt on Robbie’s muddy breeches.
“Thanks.”
“Sorry about that. Not that it makes much of a difference.” Terrence, looking the fair-haired dandy as always, removed his pristine riding gloves and hopped off his horse.
Robbie stared down the front of his dirty ensemble. “True.”
“So how goes the grand experiment, my friend?” Terrence crossed to Robbie and gave him a slap on the back, dislodging yet more dirt in the process.
Robbie glanced about the barren field. “Well enough.”
“Is that some sort of euphemism for not well at all?” Terrence surveyed the land along with him.
“It’s taking longer to seed than I expected, but the other fields should be sprouting any day.” He brushed his dirty hands against his breeches. They snagged upon the fabric, rough and calloused, no longer the hands of a gentleman.
“And you’re certain corn and wheat are the way to go?”
“I can’t manage tobacco with only sixteen field workers. I’ve already shut down the main house.”
“Yes, I heard. Living with the Beaumonts for the time being, are you?”
“It frees many hands. And I’ve made Jimbo the overseer.” Jimbo had been a house slave ever since that awful day, safe with the family where he belonged. And he’d received the education to allow him to run the plantation.
“You can’t do anything halfway, can you, Robbie? A Negro overseer. Your neighbors won’t take kindly to that, you know.”
“You are my neighbor.”
Terrence snapped his gloves against his pant leg. “My father is your neighbor. I must live on his charity for many years to come. I love you, Robbie old boy. I always will. But you’ve gotten yourself into quite a mess here. Have you considered planting half the tobacco instead of switching crops?”
“I thought about it, but if we have a bad year, I won’t make my bank loan.” The loan his late father had taken to build the grand house for his mother.
“And you think you can make it with any amount of wheat? Tobacco’s the cash crop. Have you been traveling so much that you’ve forgotten?”
“But it’s hard to cart it to the nearest ships. The local farmers have proven grain grows well here, and prices are higher than ever. I’ve done the calculations. With corn in the summer and wheat in the winter, I estimate I can produce double the crops with half the labor. If it works, perhaps others will attempt it and let their slaves go free.”
“Ha!” Terrence kicked the dirt in front of him. “More likely sell them to the highest bidder. Since our illustrious congress shut down overseas slave trade, slaves have become the most valuable commodity in the country. You might as well surrender, Robbie. Right or wrong, you will not win this fight.”
Perhaps, but he would die trying. He had already given a piece of his soul in the battle, a piece he could never get back. Robbie shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. “It’s too late now. We’ve already seeded two fields with corn. Your tobacco plants might be sprouting in their flats, but I’ve plenty of time to get this crop going.”
“I hope so. I certainly hope so.”
“Why don’t you find Sally and ask her to prepare us some tea. The kitchen behind the house is still open. We can sit on the porch and you can help me strategize. I’ll follow you in a moment.”
“Excellent plan. Looks as if you need all the help you can get, my friend.” Terrence leapt back onto his horse with the smooth sweep of a Virginia gentleman and trotted toward the sprawling Montgomery Manor.
Robbie surveyed the white walls and encircling verandah. His house, left to him by his beloved father along with the debt attached. He couldn’t lose it. He struck his hoe deep into the soil to finish this last section before joining Terrence.
Terrence was correct. Robbie needed all the help he could get. He never expected so many of his servants to leave. But the lure of complete freedom—even with the opportunity to be paid servants rather than slaves—proved too strong for them.
He surveyed the field again and shook his head. Whom did he hope to fool? He could never leave here in one week, let alone two. Not that his activities in Princess Anne were any less important than running the farm. He might have to move his participation closer to home for a time, although that option held its own risks. But he had no choice. He couldn’t turn this disaster over to Jimbo. Not yet.
Yes, Robbie needed help. So much so that he’d been tempted to pray. He had even allowed Jimbo and the others to offer petitions for the place.
But Robbie believed God helped those who helped themselves. He’d never felt comfortable bothering God with his petty problems. Surely as the supreme being of the entire universe, God had more important issues with which to concern himself. Robbie made this decision, and he would make it work—somehow.
The house. The fields. The servants. The loan. And those were suddenly only half his troubles.
Miss “Gingersnap” Cavendish of Prince George County now resided at White Willow Hall. Unthinkable! He almost wished he’d managed the expense and left Montgomery Manor open. Perhaps he could stay at the house quietly without the servants noticing. But they’d be sure to see the fire and feel obligated to tend him.
Maybe if Constance kept her hair tucked in that prim chignon and her face plain as it had been last night, he could somehow survive a week. But two? And would that even suffice, or would he be trapped in Albemarle the entire summer? If he grew desperate enough, he’d move into an abandoned slave shack and be done with it.
He had left behind that spoiled, temperamental chit long ago. Why must she come flouncing back into his life now, of all times? He would never forget the searing hatred in her eyes when she spoke that night about runaway slaves and abolitionists.
Her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. Brown on the surface with golden candlelight snapping in the background. He recounted the numerous times he had lost himself in those eyes. Skimmed his fingers through the satin curls about her face, dreamed of her hair flowing like what he always dreamed of as a river of liquid fire over his skin.
Robbie smashed his hoe harder into the ground and pushed Miss Cavendish out of his imagination. So he had loved the girl. What of it? He had been young and foolish. When he saw her true character revealed, it was too late to save her, as she had begged him to do.
His heart sank in his chest. Yes, she’d begged him to marry her. To rescue her home and her family, and he’d turned her down. He wanted to help her, had even offered her money. But the stubborn girl refused it. He couldn’t tell her the truth. She would never understand. And he couldn’t live a lie for the rest of his life.
If she knew the truth, she would never marry him.
If she knew the truth, she would spit in his face.
And hang him by his neck from the nearest tree if she had her way.
* * *
“Stand straight. Heels together and toes parted like such.” The lessons began on Monday because Constance and the entire family had traveled to Charlottesville for church at the courthouse the day before. Constance stood in the expansive ballroom, which had been added off the side of the parlor at Mrs. Beaumont’s insistence years ago. The line of windows along the gold walls f
eatured crimson velvet curtains.
But the girls in front of Constance in no way lived up to the elegant expectations of the setting. Molly arched her back, thrusting her ample chest before her and pointing her nose to the ceiling. Dolly stood beside her, rear extended too far to the back.
“No, no, girls. Imagine thou are a puppet on a string.” Constance moved to each of them and pulled an invisible string at the top of their heads, brushing her hand along their plump bodies to create the right shape.
The improvement was immediate.
“Very nice, darlings,” Mrs. Beaumont called from the corner, where she supposedly worked on her embroidery.
“Dolly, angle thy toes out a wee bit more.” Constance demonstrated again.
The girl turned her toes, but in the process bent her knees and poked out her bottom. Perhaps this was futile.
“Never mind. Go back to how thou were.”
Constance had wished to begin with ballet training, but given only two weeks, she must focus entirely on the steps for now. At least she had convinced Mrs. Beaumont to keep to a country dance with its calls and variations for the practice party. The dreaded waltz could wait for now.
“Try to maintain a proper posture and imitate this simple step. Watch first, please.” Constance stood before the girls facing the same direction they faced and began a simple shuffling movement side to side. “Now try it with me.” She ran through several more repetitions. “And continue as I turn to observe.”
She spun around just in time to see them bumbling in the wrong directions on heavy feet with no rhythm whatsoever before Dolly tripped over Molly.
Molly grabbed her foot, hollering “Ow!,” and proceeded to hop about on her other foot, which sent her colliding into Dolly. Dolly, still attempting the steps, lost her balance and crashed to the floor. At which point, the one-footed Molly crumbled on top.
Constance stood gaping before the tumble of blue and pink skirts. At least the girls kept their colors consistent, and she could tell them apart.
“I see you have a great deal of work ahead of you, Miss Cavendish.” Mrs. Beaumont called with a grin.
Why must the woman be in here? But on second thought, better she know the disaster Constance faced at the beginning. In this situation, she would do much better if judged upon improvement rather than skill.
Two weeks?
CHAPTER 8
Constance pushed her dumpling about her plate. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples should have tempted her, but her appetite deserted her as the moment of truth approached. In a few short minutes she would be forced to dance hand in hand with Robert Montgomery. He had begged off from exhaustion on Monday. Failed to show entirely on Tuesday. But Mrs. Beaumont had sent her husband to drag him here today.
No doubt he dreaded this moment as much as Constance did. They both had too many memories, too many feelings.
“Enough of this lollygagging. Both of you, time to dance.” Mrs. Beaumont clapped and stood. Constance looked up and observed that everyone had finished dessert but Robbie and her.
She could postpone the demonstration no longer. Constance had managed to get the girls at least stumbling in the right direction and turning on the appointed counts. Performing with Robbie would give her a perfect opportunity to exhibit the technique she desired and the importance of the advice she’d been giving them.
The twins tittered as they headed to the ballroom. Mr. Percy excused himself, and Mr. Beaumont offered his arm to his wife. Only Robbie and Constance dawdled behind.
“You look as though you must march to your own execution, Miss Cavendish,” Robbie snorted.
Constance raised her eyebrows. “Likewise, I’m sure, Mr. Montgomery.” At least her accent came more naturally after nearly a week—other than the thees and thous, which she only employed for the Beaumonts’ sake.
“We can manage this, can’t we?” He offered her his elbow. “We always did partner well together.”
“Of course.” She stood and tucked her hand into his arm. “It’s merely a performance. Let’s treat it as such.” But the heady scent of his familiar cologne sparked places in her heart she thought had gone cold long ago.
No! She would not torture herself so. She would focus on rhythm, steps, technique. She would by no means lose herself in a swirl of music and memories tonight.
This job mattered. Her family mattered. Restoring their good reputation mattered. Robert Montgomery and any feelings she might maintain toward him were of no consequence.
Once they entered the ballroom, Mrs. Beaumont took over. “Excellent. Now Robbie, Miss Cavendish, to the center. Molly, take the fortepiano, please.”
“Oh, Mrs. Beaumont, I should like for Molly to focus upon the steps. Perhaps thou could accompany us.” And Constance would prefer that Mrs. Beaumont not observe her dancing with Robbie lest she give herself away. The woman already watched them closely since that walk in the dark.
Mrs. Beaumont turned a rather unbecoming shade of pink.
“Mother does not play.” Robbie whispered the words directly in Constance’s ear. His tickling breath caused a pleasant shiver to ripple through her.
As his spicy scent wafted close, she nearly lost herself in it once again. Constance dug fingernails into her palms to distract herself from the sensation.
“The girls can take turns,” Mrs. Beaumont pronounced. “You’ll simply have to perform everything twice.”
Wonderful; this night might never end. Constance clenched her teeth together and turned to Robbie. Family, reputation, employment, she recited in her head.
Steeling herself against his stunning blue eyes, she curtseyed before him. No melting under his gaze. She would permit no tingling tonight. Not a single tremor. Constance willed her heart to beat at a normal pace. She needed none of that erratic nonsense this evening.
Was that a smattering of freckles across his nose? Had she forgotten them in all these years, or had they sprouted during his labor under the sun? They lent him a youthful appearance.
Utterly charming. Ugh!
She and Robbie did not suit. He had said as much himself. She could not afford to drift into a dream world. Dreams faded, crashing back into reality. Robert Montgomery had broken her heart once; she would never allow him to do so again.
Family, reputation, employment.
“Ready,” he mouthed with a quirk of his full lips as Molly played the first trill.
“Ready,” she whispered.
Family, reputation, employment. She continued chanting the words in rhythm to the music as the dance began.
* * *
Robert Montgomery held the unyielding woman against him for the briefest moment, and then released her into the movement once again.
Who was this Constance Cavendish, and what had she done to the girl he once knew? He saw a glimpse of Gingersnap waltzing through the hallway on that first day, and then again when they fought after dinner, but never since.
This woman with her prim hair and reserved demeanor? He could resist her quite easily. The eyes were the same as the woman he had known, but they lacked the fire he remembered. The copper curls were pulled tight beyond recognition, but more than that, her features remained tight, pinched, nearly all of the time. Where was his laughing, smiling Gingersnap? The girl buoyed on life?
But that very life had conspired against her. Her father’s betrayal and death, Robbie’s betrayal—as she no doubt saw it—and the loss of the plantation. Yet she didn’t appear bitter. No, she seemed more like…empty, a mere shell of her old self.
A capable, hardworking woman. A proper woman. A good woman, to be sure. Perhaps the type of woman he would be wise to fall in love with. But the heart wanted what the heart wanted. And this woman was not his Gingersnap.
Yes, sadly enough, he could resist this woman.
She glided through the movements of the dance with the elegant flair he remembered, but no heart. No sizzle. No abandon.
For a moment he missed the old Gingersnap. But t
his was for the best. With this woman he could be friends, dance, and survive residing in the same house without endangering his heart. The heart he’d hardened against the old Gingersnap. He had chosen anger over annihilation, but what had the girl truly done to deserve it?
She’d spoken in the heat of the moment. She had been distraught and overwhelmed when she swore she would hunt down her “ignorant, selfish, faithless slaves and drive a stake where their hearts should be.” And that she’d “find every last abolitionist and watch them suffer a slow and lingering death.”
She hadn’t meant it, surely. He’d never seen her be anything but kind to the servants then or now. Other than that one night, had he ever heard her utter a single word against the abolitionist cause? If so, he did not recall.
He wondered how much she had changed, if she might ever forgive him the truth. But he saw no point in telling her. He would only hurt her, and this shell of a woman had clearly been hurt enough already.
* * *
With that refrain of family, reputation, employment, Constance had managed her way through two more demonstration sessions with Robbie. And today, before the big dance, she would enjoy a morning in the countryside. She patted the soft white mane of the mare beneath her and prompted the horse to a canter. Constance hadn’t ridden since they had given up the plantation over three years ago. Aunt Serena’s husband had fetched them in his carriage and taken them to their new life in Richmond, and they’d had no need to travel by carriage or horse since.
Oh how Constance missed her horses. And she missed the freshly tilled earth of a plantation in springtime, running barefoot across it, hatless, the wind whipping through her hair. She ducked beneath a low-hanging branch as she and the mare emerged from the forest trail into an open meadow, soft and rolling, unlike the flatlands of her youth.
Now was the time.
