She saw him out, and turned to Will and Conn. “How about we go down to Walsh’s?” she suggested. “We need to get the mail, and you haven’t been out of the house for weeks,” she said as she rumpled Will’s hair.
A short while later, the Nomad pulled up to the general store and Will and Conn tumbled out, rushing up the porch steps. There were three women gathered around the counter as they entered, heads together, whispering. As one, they looked up when the bell on the screen door signaled the Mitchells’ entrance into the store, and immediately broke off their whispered conversation.
“Good morning, ladies,” Elizabeth said.
All three women turned their backs as if she had not spoken and scattered around the store, placing items in the baskets hanging from their arms.
Elizabeth’s face burned scarlet as Mr. Walsh came out from the back. “Mornin’ Elizabeth,” he said a little coolly. “What can I get for you?”
“I need our mail and the things on the list,” she said, handing a slip of paper to him.
“Right,” he said. “Be just a few minutes.”
Will pressed his face to the glass fronting the candy bins, but Conn, who had picked up on the interaction among the adults, went back outside to the rocking chairs, where she rocked agitatedly and waited.
Just as she could hear Mr. Walsh tallying the bill, Abraham pulled up in his truck. Conn hopped out of her chair and ran down the steps.
“Hello, Connemara,” Abraham said genially as she jumped on the running board.
“Quick,” she whispered, “before my mother comes out. I need to talk to you. May I come to your house today or tomorrow?”
“Well, yes,” he replied in surprise. “Here,” he said, pulling an old envelope and pencil from the glovebox and drawing a hasty map. “I’ll be home by three today or anytime tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Conn grinned, jumping down as Elizabeth and Will emerged, blinking in the bright sunshine after the darkness inside the store.
“How’s Jed doing, Mr. Greene?” Elizabeth asked as she deposited her box of groceries in the back of the station wagon.
“Very well,” he relied, unfolding his lanky frame from inside his truck. “It seems his father has been rather subdued since your… ah… talk with him. And I think it bolstered Jedediah’s confidence considerably to know that other people would stand up for him.”
He looked down at Will. “Well, young Mr. Mitchell, you are looking hale and hearty.”
Will giggled, but couldn’t talk as his jaw was glued shut with his teeth stuck in a large caramel.
“Have a good day, Mrs. Mitchell,” Abraham said, giving Conn a small wink before he climbed the porch steps.
***
Conn waited impatiently for an opportunity to slip away. Finally, after lunch, she took a book and said she was going to her tree to read. Once out of sight and shouting range of the house, she headed across the fields in the direction that would take her to the road Abraham had indicated on his map. Twenty minutes later, sweaty and out of breath, she came to his neatly painted small white clapboard house. Abraham wasn’t home yet, so she sat on the front porch and waited.
He pulled up not long after.
“Come in, Connemara,” he invited, holding the screen door for her.
Conn moaned enviously as she entered. There wasn’t much furniture – only two cushioned chairs flanking the fireplace with low tables next to each, but nearly the entire space was filled with books. They filled bookcases lining every wall; there were random stacks of books tottering in piles on the floor.
“Wow,” she breathed. “Look at them all.”
Abraham grinned. “Yes, you and I share a love of books. Would you like a glass of cold water?”
“Yes, please.”
“Have a seat, then. I’ll be right back.” He returned momentarily, handing her a glass of very cold water, and took the other chair. “Now, what can I do for you?” he asked.
Conn took a long drink. Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure how to ask the questions she needed answers to. “I was hoping you could explain some things to me.”
“Like what?” Abraham asked, puzzled.
“If… back in the old days, if a slave was caught reading or writing, what would have happened to them?”
Abraham frowned as he considered how to answer. “Well, I suppose it would have depended on the owner. From what I’ve read and what I remember of my grandparents’ stories, some slave owners were actually tolerant of their slaves being literate, but most were afraid that if the slaves knew how to read and write, they might revolt. Any slave caught would have been punished severely.”
“Punished how?”
“Most likely by being whipped in front of the others as a warning,” he replied. “But it wasn’t unheard of for slaves to be hung for that offense.”
“Hung?” Conn asked in horror.
Abraham nodded. “Fear is a powerful deterrent to the others.”
Conn chewed her lip as she thought about this, unconsciously reaching back to rub the tender welts on her back. “What would have happened if a black slave and white slave became friends?”
“I don’t think that would have been tolerated,” Abraham replied pensively. “By either side. Both whites and blacks would probably have viewed such a friendship as improper. The black person would have been thought to be getting above his station, and the white person would be sinking.” His eyes focused on the distance as he said, more to himself than to Conn, “People are expected to stay in their place.” A note of bitterness had crept into his voice.
“Did that happen to you?” Conn asked hesitantly.
Abraham blinked and looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Yes.”
Conn waited, watching him expectantly.
“When I was teaching… there was a white woman, another teacher at the school. We fell in love. I was foolish enough, naïve enough to think that people up north, people who’d been willing to give me a job teaching white children, were progressive enough to accept us. They didn’t. They fired me when they found out. We went out, Adrienne and I, to discuss our options, decide what to do next. Some men followed us, began shouting things. One of them picked up a broken bottle…” Abraham blinked and swallowed, waiting for the lump in his throat to lessen. “They didn’t hurt Adrienne, thank God, but they could have.”
Conn set her glass down and came to him. Gently, she touched a finger to his scar. Abraham flinched, but didn’t pull away. Her blue eyes looked into his gentle brown ones. “Is that when you decided to come back here?” she asked softly as her hand dropped back to her side.
He nodded.
“What happened to Adrienne?”
“We wrote for a little while, but… I don’t know what she’s doing now.”
Conn wished she could do something to ease his sadness. “Love seems like something that should be simple to understand,” she said, shaking her head. “Why does it matter to people who someone else loves?”
To Conn’s embarrassment, Abraham’s eyes suddenly glistened with tears.
Blinking rapidly, he laughed and said, “You are wiser than your years, Connemara. Are you sure you’re only eleven?”
Conn stepped back to her chair.
“So,” said Abraham, clearing his throat, “what prompted all these questions?”
When Conn didn’t answer immediately, he asked, “Has something happened? Have you found some old papers or something?”
Conn bit her lip. “Kind of.”
Abraham frowned. “What does that mean?”
“I can’t say.”
“Why not?”
“I gave my word.”
“To whom?” When Conn just stared at him, he said, “You can’t say.” She shook her head. “Connemara, I asked you the other day if you are all right. I’m going to ask you again, are you in any kind of trouble?”
Conn considered her answer carefully. “I don’t think so.”
Abraham puzzled o
ver this for a moment. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
Conn thought. “I don’t see how you can.”
“But you will not put yourself in any danger?”
“Not on purpose.”
Abraham expelled a frustrated breath. “This is not helpful.”
“Tell me about it,” Conn said, with some frustration of her own. “Can I ask you another question?”
“Of course.”
“Why are people talking about us?” Conn asked.
Whatever Abraham had expected to come next, this was not it. “Don’t you think you should be asking your mother about this?”
Conn looked at him directly, and it did not escape her notice that he had not denied that people were indeed talking about them. “She’s the one they’re talking about, aren’t they?”
He nodded. “I think so.” He paused, choosing his words. “You remember how quickly word got around that William was sick?”
Conn nodded. “You said it was because Mom called Mrs. Walsh.”
“Do you remember who came to your house the evening of your birthday?” he asked.
“Mr. Walsh?”
Abraham looked at her, clearly uncomfortable with where this conversation was going.
“You mean the Walshes have told people that you were at our house that night?” Conn asked, putting the pieces together.
“I think so,” Abraham replied honestly.
“And they think that’s wrong?” Conn asked in bewilderment, tilting her head to one side. Her eyes widened suddenly. “They think you and Mom…?” She’d heard things… on base, when the adults were playing cards and drinking and didn’t know any children were near….
Abraham’s face hardened. “People enjoy gossip more when it’s malicious. I hope you and your mother are not too upset by this. Sometimes, all you can do is arm yourself with the knowledge of the truth and let it go. They will tire of it eventually.”
They sat together in silence for a moment before Conn stood. “I should go. Thank you for talking with me.”
“You can come to me anytime,” he said, standing also. “And, uh… about my scar…”
“I won’t say anything,” Conn promised with a lop-sided grin. “I’m good at keeping secrets, remember?”
She gave him a wave as she trotted down the steps and headed home. The sun was warm on her head as she walked down the dirt road, and the shade of the woods was welcome. Sunlight and shadow rippled over her as she traipsed along….
§§§
Ewan galloped toward the plantation house, bent like a jockey over his horse’s lathered neck.
“They’re coming!” he yelled as the horse’s hooves skidded to a halt.
Burley and Ellie rushed outside.
“They’re coming,” Ewan repeated breathlessly. “I was out in the south fields and I saw the carriage.”
“How far?” came Batterston’s cold voice from an open window.
“Three, maybe four miles,” said Ewan, wiping his sleeve over his sweaty face.
The plantation had received word a few months previously that not only was Hugh Playfair returning, but his father, Lord Playfair, would be accompanying him, as he wished to personally inspect his holdings in America, in particular, the tobacco crop. The house had been readied early, just in case they arrived unannounced.
“Are the ladies with them?” Ellie asked.
Ewan shrugged. “Don’t know. There was only one carriage and I couldn’t see who was in it.”
Amelia Playfair had not returned to Fair View since her first visit, and Hugh Playfair had been there only sporadically. It was rumored among the staff that she had returned to England, leaving him in Richmond, though, as none of them but Batterston had been to Richmond, and he rarely spoke to them, they did not know if this was true.
“Well,” Batterston snapped at no one in particular, “what are you waiting for?”
Ellie asked Orla and Caitríona to double-check that the upstairs rooms were perfect in every detail.
“I wonder if he’ll know anything of Da or the children,” Orla wondered nervously.
“That’s not likely,” Caitríona said. “They’ll be of less notice to him than the muck on his boots.”
“Please hold your tongue,” Orla begged. “Don’t be shaming me by getting into trouble.”
“When do I ever cause trouble?” Caitríona asked indignantly as she ran a rag along a windowsill. She and her sister both broke into laughter.
When the carriage pulled up, only Lord Playfair and his son emerged from its interior. Johnson, Hugh’s valet, climbed down from a seat atop the carriage, and immediately began to oversee the unloading of the trunks, while Lord Playfair’s valet, introduced to the staff as Pierce, went inside to inspect the masters’ rooms.
The household staff were all lined up to receive the masters. Orla and Caitríona curtsied with the others as the two men walked past the staff toward the house, but stood stiffly as Lord Playfair paused in front of them.
“I know you,” he said, frowning.
Orla kept her eyes lowered, but Caitríona raised hers to look at him directly.
“Niall O’Faolain’s daughters,” he recalled. “How long have you been here?”
“Five years, your Lordship,” Orla replied softly.
At twenty, Orla’s beauty had surpassed even her mother’s in her youth. Lord Playfair’s eyes lingered on her for an uncomfortable length of time before he made to continue toward the house.
“If you please, your Lordship,” blurted Caitríona, ignoring the soft hiss of disapproval from Batterston. “We’ve had no word from our family these past four years. Would you be knowing what’s become of them?”
Lord Playfair looked at her properly for the first time. She met his gaze unflinchingly.
“No,” he said at last. “The farm was vacant the last I checked. I have a new tenant there now.”
Prompted by Orla’s discreet nudge, Caitríona curtsied again and said, “Thank you, your Lordship.”
“I’ll deal with you later,” Batterston muttered under his breath as Lord Playfair and Hugh moved on into the house. Following them inside, he said, “I’m sure you would like to rest now –”
“No,” Lord Playfair cut in. “I want to go over the plantation’s accounts. We’ll rest later.”
The three of them remained shut in the study for the balance of the afternoon until the bell rang for tea. As the valets were still upstairs, unpacking the masters’ clothes, Ellie took the tray Fiona had prepared and carried it in to them in the study. She came bustling back in a few minutes.
“They want you,” she said in an awed whisper to Orla.
Caitríona, still reeling from the news that their family was no longer on their land, looked up. “Be careful,” she warned.
Orla returned to the kitchen over an hour later. When Caitríona opened her mouth to ask what happened, Orla silenced her with a minute shake of her head. Not until they were alone, preparing salvers of food to be carried into the dining room for supper, did Caitríona have a chance to ask.
“He suspects,” Orla whispered. “Lord Playfair knows there’s something wrong with the books.”
“What did you say?” Caitríona asked in alarm.
“I told the truth, of sorts,” Orla replied. “I verified that the numbers in the ledgers were the numbers I’d been given.”
“Did he believe you?”
Orla shrugged. “I don’t know. I think he understood what I wasn’t saying.”
Later that evening, when Caitríona was sent to cut more kindling for the kitchen fire, Batterston cornered her in the wood shed.
“How dare you address his Lordship,” he said in a threatening tone.
Caitríona stood up to face him, holding the axe defensively. “I had a question only he could answer,” she said.
“Do you need another caning to remind you of your place?” he growled.
“If you try, Lord Playfair is going to see the r
eal figures for the plantation,” she said.
He stared at her and licked his lips. “What do you mean?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” she said. “Ever since we realized what you were doing, we’ve kept a proper set of ledgers, hidden where you’ll never find them. And if you so much as lift a finger against my sister or myself again, we’ll turn them over.”
He stared at her for long seconds more, but could not, it seemed, think of anything to say. Spinning on his heel, he walked away into the twilight.
Later that evening, supper was done and the servants could finally relax a bit. Caitríona carried the heavy pan of dishwater outside and dumped it. Checking that she was alone, she slipped away into the darkness. Across the expansive lawn, a small stream meandered through the property. A stone foot bridge traversed the stream and nearby, an ornate gazebo stood. She ran lightly over the bridge and cautiously climbed the gazebo steps.
“I’m here.”
Hannah stepped out of the shadows and they sat together on one of the benches built into the sides of the gazebo. Hannah had long ago mastered her reading and writing lessons, but she and Caitríona still met whenever they could.
“What is it?” Hannah asked when Caitríona sat silently. She always seemed able to read Caitríona’s moods.
Caitríona took a deep breath and told what she had learned of her family. “We’ve no way of knowing where they’ve been scattered,” she said sadly.
Hannah wrapped an arm around Caitríona’s shoulders, a liberty she would never dare take with anyone else, and said, “Maybe it’s time you realize that we’re your family now.”
Caitríona looked at her. The moonlight spilling onto the side of Hannah’s face accentuated the high cheekbones and smooth skin. A longing tingled inside her as Hannah met her gaze.
“I’ve heard rumors,” came Lord Playfair’s voice from an alarming proximity, startling both of the girls, “of a possible war.”
Caitríona and Hannah dropped to the floor and squeezed under the benches, hidden in the deep shadows there as Hugh and his father climbed the gazebo steps.
“Just fearmongers, Father,” said Hugh dismissively, “trying to jack up prices.”
Miserere Page 13
