“He’ll agree, Juliana, because he knows how much it would please me,” Mistress said, smiling not at her cousin, but at the Colonel, and knowingly at that. She’d placed her hand over the barely perceptible swelling of her silk-covered belly, all maternal protection. “Is that not so, mon cher seigneur?”
He chuckled, holding his hand upraised in surrender.
“Absolutely so,” he said as he added a slight bow. “I am helpless before your wishes, for all I desire is the happiness of my Theo.”
Charmed beyond reason, the ladies at the table sighed and applauded his nonsense, as did Mistress, which made the Colonel preen and smile more in the glow of their approval. For all that he liked to claim he was a plain and honest speaker, he relished the company of women too much to be completely free of gallantry. I suspected it was all part of the familiar game of pursuit and amusement to him—a game that, like everything else he did, he always played to win.
But however foolish his words had sounded to me, the visit had been agreed upon, and late the next morning Mistress called me back to the breakfast table in the parlor so that she could tell me my part in her plans. The Colonel still sat at the table, too, paying little attention to his wife’s words as he finished his coffee and read the newspaper.
“I will be leaving tomorrow, Mary, directly after breakfast,” Mistress said, glancing down at the sheets of notes she’d made so that nothing would be forgotten. “I will expect everything in readiness so that we might depart as soon as Mrs. Williamson’s sleigh arrives. I don’t wish to tax her team by making them stand about in the cold while we dawdle.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said; she traveled often enough that I knew what was expected of me. “Have you a list of which clothes you wish me to pack for you and the Misses Burr?”
“You’ll find there’s nothing unusual,” she said as she handed the papers to me. “We shall only be away a fortnight at the most, so I believe two trunks will suffice. The red one for me, and the small green for the girls. I’ll also be packing the small calf-hair trunk with my books, but you needn’t concern yourself with that. Oh, and the round hatbox, too. This new fashion for large hats is such an inconvenience!”
“You needn’t follow the fashion if it displeases you, Theo,” the Colonel said dryly, without looking up, but proving he had in fact been listening. “I know I would not object to be rid of the millinery account from Mrs. Henshaw.”
“You’d be the first to complain if I ceased to be fashionable, Aaron,” she said, tipping her empty teacup toward me to show that she wished me to refill it. “What you’d say if I dressed myself like a dull dowd to accompany you!”
He glanced up over the edge of the paper. “I’d congratulate myself on having a financially prudent wife rather than one who was a lady of fashion.”
“You would not,” Mistress said, adding sugar to her tea. “You’d say I was a shabby advertisement for your services, and that people would wonder what had become of the fortunes of poor Colonel Aaron Burr, Esquire, to let his wife go about in such a disreputable condition.”
“Then pray take a dozen hatboxes with you, my dear, so as to preserve my professional reputation.” He tossed the paper aside with open disgust. “There is nothing to read this morning but more of Hamilton’s ravings in favor of the Constitution. Which people are you taking with you, Theo? You know there’s always a crowd at Williamson Hall.”
“I do know we shall all be packed together in those old-fashioned rooms,” Mistress said, “and that is part of the amusement in visiting there. Of course I’ll take Ginny to look after the girls. Frederick and Bartow can tend to themselves. For two weeks, I can look to Theo’s lessons myself, so there’s no need of asking Mr. Partridge to join us. Of course I’ll bring Mary for—”
“I don’t see the purpose in taking Mary,” the Colonel interrupted. “You’ve said yourself that when you went to your sister’s house it would have been far more useful if you’d left Mary behind here.”
Mistress sighed deeply. “Yes, but Mary can dress me more quickly than any other woman I’ve ever had.”
“Which would be perhaps an hour from her day at most,” the Colonel said. “Surely Juliana has a woman who can help with your hair and clothes.”
I listened as they discussed me as freely as if I weren’t standing there beside Mistress’s chair. I’d no particular desire to return to Williamson Hall, a rambling old house with fireplaces that smoked and rooms and stairs that stank from Mr. Williamson’s pack of spotted hunting dogs, permitted to roam wherever they pleased.
But what good could come of remaining here in this house for two weeks—fourteen days, fourteen nights—with the Colonel and no one else? He might continue to leave me alone, and remain faithful to Mistress. He might spend every night out late at taverns with friends. He might not even be here in New York himself, but attending to a case at a court elsewhere in the state.
Or he might do none of those things, but other things instead, other things that involved me.
I realized I was holding my breath, and forced myself to let it out. The two of them would make their decision, and I’d have no say in any of it.
“You are right that Mary is the only one who can truly see to the house when I am away,” Mistress was saying, thinking out loud, “and be certain that the others do their tasks. I could not believe the woeful state of the housekeeping when we returned last week.”
“That is true,” the Colonel agreed. “All true.”
“And Mary would be sure that you ate properly while I was away,” she said. “None of those dreadful, greasy meals with pipes and bad liquor and Governor Clinton’s rascals that make you groan and beg for the cream of tartar the next morning.”
For the first time he glanced at me, and smiled a conspirator’s smile that he should not have made.
“Mary can prepare as fine a decoction of cream of tartar and barley water as any apothecary,” he said. “I can myself vouch for its efficacy. Isn’t that so, Mary?”
I should have simply nodded, but some demon of truth possessed me instead.
“No, sir,” I said. “It was cream of tartar with vinegar, not barley water. The vinegar makes it stronger.”
He chuckled, more pleased than he should have been. “There now, Theo, what did I tell you?”
“You’ve won your case, counselor,” she said. “I’ll leave Mary to look after you.”
She smiled over her tea at him, believing his smile had been intended for her, not me. Perhaps it was. Perhaps everything he’d said here had been for her benefit alone.
But I’d only to let my gaze meet his to know otherwise, and the truth as well.
The next morning was sparkling bright with fresh, fine snow that had fallen overnight. Mrs. Williamson’s driver appeared with her sleigh as promptly as she’d promised, the team stomping with impatience to be off and the brass bells on their harnesses jingling. Frederick and Bartow were standing with their horses, too, ready to ride alongside the sleigh. The trunks were quickly lashed to the back, Mistress and the girls were bundled snugly beneath so many fur robes that their faces scarcely showed, and with final kisses and farewells from the Colonel they were off, the runners of the sleigh squeaking over the new snow.
We’d barely returned to the hall before the Colonel stopped me.
“I’ve a request for you, Mary,” he said, fishing in his pocket for money. “Long ago you promised to make me a true Indian curry, and tonight I want you to do exactly that. Purchase whatever you require. If you can’t buy it on my account, then pay cash, and have it ready by the time I return this evening.”
“Yes, sir,” I murmured, already remembering the spices I’d need. “I’ll do that, sir.”
“Thank you, Mary.” He nodded, and worse, he winked. “You’ve no notion of how much I’ve anticipated this night.”
That morning I did as he’d bidden, and tried to think only of the curry and no further. I went to a grocer near to the docks who sold the less co
mmon spices, beyond the usual cinnamon and black peppercorns. He was an old Scotsman who’d served in the East India Company, and he liked me because I’d listen to his sorry attempts at Hindi. But he let me choose my spices carefully, sniffing and tasting and insisting that Colonel Burr would accept only the best. They wouldn’t be fresh, of course—they’d come clear around the world by sea, just as I had—yet I knew how to coax their flavor to bloom.
All afternoon I let the kettle simmer on the hearth, watching the color deepen and the fragrance grow richer until the whole kitchen was filled with it. Cumin and cardamom, coriander and turmeric, with grated gingerroot and plenty of onion besides. Given how early it was in the new year, I’d paid dearly for lamb, but the Colonel wouldn’t care. He never asked the price of things, and besides, I was certain he’d forget everything else after his first taste.
Others, however, were not so appreciative.
“What is that mess?” demanded Carlos, peering suspiciously over my shoulder. “The whole yard stinks of it.”
“Curry,” I said, a single, succinct word that, to me, said everything.
It meant nothing to Carlos. “You’re going to serve that to Colonel Burr?”
“I am,” I retorted. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t waste any of it on you.”
Each time I lifted the lid to stir it again, I breathed deeply, closing my eyes to savor the aromas. I’ve always believed that smell and taste are the senses that memory loves best. Sight and hearing are like pretty baubles, easy to admire, but smell and taste are the ones that can call back the past in an instant. From the scent alone, I could once again be in Pondicherry, watching Ammatti standing over the fire as she stirred the pot and sang to herself. The memory was so clear, so distinct, that I wanted to weep. Let the Colonel believe I was doing this for him. I knew it was much more for myself, and I’d not a single regret.
But too soon the short winter day was done, and before long the Colonel would return from his office. I laid a single lonely place for him in the dining room, the way Mistress had specifically told me to do; she believed he should dine as the master of the house, even if there was no one else to see him.
I heard Carlos open the door to the Colonel when he arrived, and take his cloak and hat with a murmur of conversation. I also heard the Colonel continue upstairs, and when Carlos came back to the kitchen he’d an odd look on his face.
“The Colonel says he wants to dine in his room,” he said. “He says the little gateleg table will suffice for him. And—and he says he wants you to dine with him, too, Mary, on account of you making this dish special.”
I nodded, but didn’t explain, avoiding the question in Carlos’s eyes. Hadn’t he noticed the Colonel’s attentions toward me before? Or was I the only one, being the only one who’d had to bear them?
I sent Carlos to arrange the little table upstairs, and carry the Colonel’s wine upstairs to him as well as tend the fire. Because Mistress was so often unwell and this house was sufficiently large, the Colonel kept a small bedchamber of his own apart from hers. Here he’d room for not only his bed, but also a comfortable cushioned armchair, a shelf of books, his dressing stand, and the table, which he most usually employed for writing letters when he didn’t care to go to his library.
I knew I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I ladled the curry into one of Mistress’s best porcelain serving bowls and the rice in a second, smaller one, and put them both on a tray. I smoothed my skirts and cap, and climbed the stairs with the tray in my hands.
He’d left the door to his room open for me. He was standing before the fire, and he turned as soon as I entered.
“Good evening, Mary,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad you’re joining me.”
He made it sound as if I’d a choice. He had replaced his dark coat with the quilted blue silk banyan, a garment that was painfully familiar to me.
“Yes, sir,” I said, setting the tray down on the table, where the room’s two chairs now stood cozily facing each other. “Shall I serve?”
“Be sure to serve yourself, too,” he said, closing the door after me. He sat, watching as I filled his plate. I hesitated, then put a small spoonful on the second plate for myself, taking care to choose only onions and none of the meat.
“That’s not enough, Mary,” he said. “Be more generous with yourself.”
“That’s all I want, sir,” I said. In truth, my stomach was twisting into such knots that I wondered if I could eat even this much.
“Then sit,” he ordered, pouring wine into the two glasses. “I don’t like to dine alone.”
Slowly I did sit, on the very edge of the chair.
He’d plunged his fork into the curry, holding a large forkful now poised before his mouth, the lamb and the onions steaming and glistening.
“Eat, Mary,” he said. “I told you, I don’t like to dine alone.”
I’d washed and polished Mistress’s silver forks more times than I could count, but I’d never held one in my hand for eating. I tried to balance the fork between my fingers, the way the white people did, but it felt heavy and precarious, and instead I held it more firmly against my palm and hoped the Colonel wouldn’t remark upon my awkwardness.
But he was already grunting with pleasure over his first bite of my curry.
“You were right, Mary, more right than I can ever explain,” he said. “This is as unlike that other curry—what did you call it? An English curry?—as night is to day, and the most wondrous thing I’ve ever eaten. If you don’t try it for yourself, I’ll begin to think you’ve poisoned me.”
I dipped my fork into the little mound on my plate, raised it, tasted it.
“It’s good, sir, yes,” I said, disappointed in myself. “But I should’ve done better.”
“I cannot fathom how,” he said, eating with unabashed relish. “It is perfection to me, and all the more so because you made it.”
I flushed and looked down, wondering if he was thinking the same as I. This curry was different from every other dish I’d set before him, but not just because of the ingredients. My ammatti would have understood, and so would Orianne. There was part of me mixed into these spices, of who I’d been and who I was and likely who I’d become. No wonder I’d never be satisfied with it.
“Perfection,” he repeated, and smiled. “Now drink your wine.”
I shook my head. “Thank you, sir, but no,” I said. “Where I was born, women like me don’t drink wine, except as medicine.”
“You mean as slaves?” he asked curiously, already refilling his own glass. “Is it prohibited by your rulers?”
“Not by the state, sir, but by my people, and my religion,” I said. “I was born a free Tamil. I wasn’t always a slave.”
“Free, you say,” he repeated, marveling. “It would seem that I know very little of you, Mary Emmons. You make me feel exceptionally ignorant.”
I smiled at that. I knew how much he prized his knowledge and intellect, to the point of arrogance. I doubted he’d ever believed himself to be ignorant of anything, even in his cradle.
“There now, that’s better,” he said. “You don’t smile nearly enough.”
How fortunate he couldn’t know my thoughts! “I haven’t much reason for smiling, sir.”
“Then it shall be my special challenge to change that.” He reached across the table, gently nudging the wineglass toward me with his fingertips. “Drink. You’re not in India any longer, and I know my wife has made a Christian of you. Here in New York, women may drink as they please. Try it, and then tell me more of yourself and your history.”
I didn’t know why this mattered so much to him. I’d only once before drunk wine, that one night with Lucas, and never since. From what I’d seen, wine and strong drink did little to improve anyone. But if he insisted, a small sip might be enough to satisfy him.
The sweet sharpness startled me, but it wasn’t unpleasing. It seemed to give me courage, too, courage to speak things I’d always wished to say.
“
Mistress always says I’m from the city of Calcutta, sir,” I said. “But she is wrong, and I am not. I was born in the south, in Pondicherry. My family wove cotton muslins.”
I said it proudly, for it had been a skill and a trade to be proud of. I raised my glass again, and drank more of the wine.
“How fascinating,” he said, his voice low and encouraging. “Did women take part in the trade as well?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” I said. In nearly twenty years, only Lucas had ever asked me any of this. “We were spinners. I began spinning when I was only five.”
I drank again, until I realized to my embarrassment I’d emptied my glass. Quickly he poured more, and from nervousness I drank that, too.
“Yet you were, and are, a slave,” he said. “Were you captured by slave traders?”
I shook my head. I chose my words with care, speaking slowly so he’d understand them all.
“My uncle found me a nuisance and a disgrace upon our family.” Even now, the truth—that I’d been entirely unwanted—remained so blunt and painful that tears welled in my eyes. “When I was eight, he sold me to a Frenchwoman.”
“Oh, Mary,” he said softly. His eyes were filled with kindness and understanding, a lure I could never resist. “You didn’t deserve that fate. Come here.”
He pushed his chair back from the table and held his hand out to me. Because of the wine, I saw his gesture as offering only comfort and succor, and I went to him freely. He kissed me, and this time I slipped my hands over his shoulders and kissed him in return.
I do not like recalling what came next, though it must be easy enough to guess. Before long, he’d coaxed me free of my clothes, the better, he claimed, to admire my beauty. I let him see the scars upon my back, again a privilege I’d shared only with my husband. One by one he pulled the pins from my hair, so that it fell around my bare shoulders and breasts.
From there he laid me on his bed, and shed his own clothes before he joined me. It is true that I’d coupled with him before, but it had always been in haste, with our clothes awry, and intended only to satisfy his immediate lust. It had never been by my choice, and in that small way I’d been able to keep my distance, and withhold at least a small part of me from him.
The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr Page 35
