by Lori Benton
A matching joy warmed Ian’s chest as a newborn’s mewling cry broke the morning quiet and John came toward them, running.
9
By the time Seona returned with news of the birthing, the morning’s cool had vanished. Sweat prickled under her head-rag as she swept the parlor grate and longed for summer’s end. Her absence had vexed Miss Lucinda, who’d snapped off a list of extra house chores to fill her day since Lily would need to spend the next few at the Reynolds’ tending Miss Cecily and the baby, and Maisy was to go to Chesterfield.
Better Maisy than Seona. Thought of visiting Chesterfield was enough to make her run for the hollow—even if Mister Ian knew she went there.
He was back now too, since John Reynold had given up stone-grubbing for the day. She heard his voice from Master Hugh’s room down the passage but didn’t pause her work to make out what he was saying. Miss Judith was perched on the settle with a book, waiting for her sister to get over fussing with her hair so they could go.
Seona dumped the ash sweepings in the piggin and set to polishing the tongs, thoughts turning to Miss Cecily’s baby with his tiny fingers and toes that she’d been first on this earth to count. Trouble was, Mister Ian had got himself wound round every thought of that baby, tight as thread on a bobbin.
She’d never bossed a white man like she’d bossed him around that little cabin.
“Were you afraid?”
The question shattered her thoughts. The tongs clanked as she set them back in their stand. “Beg pardon, Miss Judith?”
The book lay open on Miss Judith’s lap. Her clear brown eyes were fixed on Seona. “I’ve never seen a baby’s borning. It’s a blessing Cousin Ian was there to help you. But . . . what was it like?”
It was terrifying. It was nerve-rattling. It was joyous. Where did she even begin?
“It was a miracle.”
Mister Ian’s voice went through her like a blade. He’d come to stand in the parlor doorway, wearing finer clothes than those he’d worn for field work, buckled shoes instead of boots.
“One day ye’ll know what it’s like,” he said, coming into the room. “Better than anyone could explain it to ye. Or I hope ye will.”
Miss Judith’s cheeks went bright as beets. Seona hid a smile. None of them heard Miss Rosalyn descend the stairs in her dainty shoes until she said, “What do you hope, Cousin? That we’ll have a pleasant visit to Chesterfield?”
Seona set to work polishing the andirons, watching the rest of them sidelong.
Miss Rosalyn came into the parlor, giving off a scent like a dousing of syrup as she took Mister Ian’s hand in hers. “It would add immeasurably to our pleasure if you’d stop feigning busyness and join us in paying our neighbors a call.”
Ian’s smile seemed a mite stiff. “I just welcomed the newest of them into the world, aye?”
“Goose!” Miss Rosalyn hit playfully at his arm. “I don’t mean the Reynolds. Come with us to Chesterfield—for some proper society.”
Miss Judith added her plea. “Would you, Cousin? Since Mr. Reynold won’t be working his field today after all?”
Before Mister Ian could utter a word, Miss Lucinda swept into the parlor. “I did hear you speak of wanting to see Pryce’s mill, Mr. Cameron.”
Mister Ian appeared for an instant like a deer strayed into a hunter’s camp. Then he fixed another smile on his face. “Since ye put it so persuasively, I’ll just go saddle my horse.”
Delighted exclamations ushered him from the room. Seona lowered her eyes but felt a prickle between her shoulders.
“We must take a girl along, Mama,” Miss Rosalyn said. “Phyllida says it’s still done so in Virginia, when one goes calling.”
“I’ve said we’ll take Maisy.”
Drawing a breath of relief, Seona set the andirons back in place. Nothing left but to tote out the ashes. She stood.
“Stay,” Miss Rosalyn told her. “Mama, let’s take Seona instead.”
Miss Judith shut her book. “I don’t think she wants—”
Miss Rosalyn shot her a silencing glare, then smiled at Seona. “You’d like to see Chesterfield again, wouldn’t you? It would be a treat, after that messy business you had to attend this morning.”
Seona clenched the piggin’s handle. Her mouth felt stuffed with rags. “If Miss Lucinda says.”
“I say,” Miss Rosalyn snapped. “Go put on something decent and be quick about it.”
Miss Lucinda sighed, then gestured at the ash piggin. “Leave that for Maisy. Go wash your face. You look as though you’ve rolled in the hearth.”
The snare was sprung too fast for sidestepping. “Yes, ma’am.” Seona dropped a wobbly curtsy, setting down the piggin so hard it nearly overturned. She hurried past Miss Rosalyn, who smiled, pleased as a cat whisker-deep in cream.
Sunlight spilled over the stacked mahogany, setting the top planks ablaze. They were warm to the touch, as though the red heartwood pulsed beneath Ian’s fingertips. While the vertical blade at the mill’s far end gnashed its way through some lesser wood, while gears creaked and water splashed and the sawyer barked orders at the slaves guiding the carriage, Ian filled his lungs with wood-scent and gave himself over to longing.
“From a West Indies shipment, transported upriver a month past.” Dressed in a coat tapered smartly away at midchest, Gideon Pryce stood in the center of those gathered in the lumber room, a walled annex far enough removed from the mill’s main floor to be heard without shouting. “Beautiful, is it not, Mr. Cameron?”
Ian forbore dissembling. “Aye, it is. And ye’d charge me my firstborn for it, no doubt.”
Hugh Cameron snorted, but Pryce smiled complacently. The man was near thirty, dark-haired, with eyes the murky green of pond water. Beneath their placid surfaces, shadows teemed.
“I may be persuaded to part with this hoard without so great a sacrifice on your part.”
Ian raised a brow. “What have ye in mind?”
“A ship’s captain of my acquaintance is soon to put into Wilmington with another Indies cargo. He’s willing to see it brought upriver as far as Fayetteville, contingent upon my finding a market for the wood. I’d meant to do so in Hillsborough in the coming week, but my sister tells me you’re a cabinetmaker, that you mean to practice the trade at Mountain Laurel.”
The implied question hung in the wood-dusted air. “I am,” Ian said, and though plans beyond the desk for Catriona remained as unformed as the mahogany his fingers longed to stroke again, he added, “and I do.”
“And I,” said Pryce, smoothing the ruffled neckcloth at his throat, “am a man in need of another cooper’s skill.”
Ian turned toward Thomas, hovering at the doorway. His uncle had suggested they bring him along to choose wood for the hogsheads he’d be making for Mountain Laurel’s tobacco crop, there being no time for seasoning their own—but they hadn’t yet mentioned the need to Pryce, nor the fact that Thomas was a cooper.
“News flows like water in these hills, Nephew,” his uncle said. “And generally has its confluence here at the mill.”
“If I may offer a caution.” Pryce leaned close, giving off a whiff of pipe tobacco and a musky lavender cologne. “Do heed your words in the presence of our womenfolk. They’ve a means of communication I’ve yet to uncover—trained pigeons, I daresay. What one hears at breakfast, the others know by luncheon. But leaving aside such feminine mysteries . . . It is true, then—your boy’s a cooper?”
“He is,” Ian said, attempting to mask his wariness.
“I was obliged to rid myself of my best some months back. Skilled as he was, he wouldn’t stay put. Doubt I ever took the lash to a back as often as I did that buck, but I never hit upon a measure that would curb his running. Sold the fool south to the rice fields.”
A shudder vibrated through the boards beneath Ian’s feet as the log on the carriage came apart. The noise of the blade momentarily hushed.
“Point of the matter is,” Pryce continued, “I’m left with a curin
g crop that will need prizing. I was set to inquire toward Hillsborough for hogsheads to make up what we cannot supply when I heard Mountain Laurel had gained a cooper along with a kinsman. I’ve the workspace, the tools, and of course . . .” He gestured to the stacks of oak overflowing the lumber room.
“If ye wish him to take on the work, Nephew, it could be done at Mountain Laurel,” Uncle Hugh suggested. “We’ve everything there but the wood.”
Tiredness shadowed his uncle’s eyes. Though surprised he’d decided to join the family outing, Ian was glad of his presence. “Aye, that might be best. Malcolm’s there to give Thomas a hand.”
“Begging your pardon, Mastah Ian, but Malcolm ain’t got hands to spare from the work he already do.” Everyone turned toward Thomas, who raised a shrug. “Why move the lumber when it’s easier to move me?”
“A fair point, if brazenly made,” Pryce said, turning a frown on Thomas. “Are you minded to stay put and do as you’re bid, boy?”
Ian hoped he was the only one who noted the brief flash of rancor before Thomas stood straight, his face a careful blank. “Yes, sir.”
Alarm bells ringing, Ian moved to intervene. “Thomas—”
Pryce lifted a hand. “Do hear me out before you decide, Mr. Cameron. I see you are loath to lose his labor, but might you consider trading just a week of your boy’s exclusive time for . . . half the mahogany here?”
Despite his every intent to decline, Ian allowed himself to envision what he’d do with the wood, until Pryce once again addressed Thomas. “I have observed a skilled cooper turn out eight barrels in a day. What say you to that?”
Thomas grinned. “This one turns out nine, sir—on a good day.”
“Excellent,” Pryce said. “Well, Mr. Cameron? If you can spare him, shall I have the keeping of your boy for a week?”
They’d dropped their horses back from Pryce and his uncle as they rode up the lane to Chesterfield House. Ian reined in close, brushing knees with Thomas. Wood-lust had overcome him long enough for his better sense to crumble; he’d made the deal, but around that cooling passion now unease was trickling in. “Does my uncle treat his slaves better than ye looked for? Ye need to see how Pryce’s fare?”
Thomas’s hat brim shaded his eyes, but Ian knew that tightening of lip.
“It’s what I came here for.”
Ian jerked his head toward Pryce’s back. “Just do the work and don’t provoke him, aye? If ye end up striped like a tabby cat, I’ll be tempted to do the man harm.”
Judging by all he’d witnessed at the mill, Pryce was respected by his neighbors. He was cordial, gracious, his manners refined. Yet something about the man troubled Ian, beyond the admittance of brutal punishment of recalcitrant slaves. Perhaps it was those eyes, so strangely flat. Like those of the sharks he’d seen as a boy, landed by fishermen on the wharves of Boston, Pryce’s eyes had borne no relation to his smiling mouth.
After Thomas was shown to the cooperage and left to get settled, they found the women taking tea on a wide veranda reached through a series of high-ceilinged rooms. The veranda was deep in shade, though sunlight drenched an ornamental garden beyond.
“Here they are, Mama.” Rosalyn rose, advancing toward Pryce with a hand extended, over which he bowed. She favored him with a smile, then freed her hand and took Ian by the arm. “Cousin, do give your opinion. Miss Josephine has told us of a marvel some fellow in Georgia has contrived, meant to be the salvation of us all. It’s to do with cotton.”
She led him to chairs arranged near a table bearing an elaborate tea service. Ian made his greeting to his hostesses, the widow Josephine Pryce and her daughter, Phyllida, dark-haired like her brother, before taking the seat Rosalyn all but pushed him into. Pryce took the chair next to Uncle Hugh. A slave began serving.
Seona stepped from behind his aunt’s chair to assist. Ian’s glance flicked to her while she arranged a plate with a slice of cake, then moved around the circle to offer it to his uncle. Her shoulders were rigid as she turned, revealing the seated figure of Gideon Pryce, eyeing her, nostrils flared like a hound catching scent.
“Faith, Mr. Cameron. We craved your opinion, but I vow you’ve not attended to a word Mama has said.”
Phyllida Pryce’s teasing rebuke recaptured Ian’s attention.
“Does the warmth of the day cause you languor, Mr. Cameron?” Josephine Pryce inquired, her own face shining in the humidity despite a layer of powder. “You’ll be unaccustomed to our Southern climes, I daresay.”
“A fair observation, ma’am. Forgive my inattention.” Forcing a smile, Ian accepted a cup of tea from Pryce’s maid.
Lucinda revived the faltering conversation. “Josephine has been informing us of this so-called cotton engine.”
“Gin, Mama,” Rosalyn cut in. “It’s called a gin.”
“Yes, darling. But now Mr. Pryce is here, perhaps he’ll oblige us with a thorough explanation?”
“Ye dinna propose leaving off wi’ tobacco?” Uncle Hugh asked, turning to their host.
“That,” Pryce said, “is precisely what I propose. You may remember my cousin Edward Stoddard?”
“Aye,” Uncle Hugh said. “The merchant.”
“Back in spring he visited a Georgia plantation, home of Caty Green, widow of the late war general,” Pryce continued. “During his stay a young man employed as tutor for the family’s children—Whitney, he’s called—unveiled his model of a cotton gin to a group of planters. It caused a sensation.”
While Pryce spoke, Seona offered Ian a slice of cake. A tremor shook the chinaware as he took it from her hand. He let his fingers cover hers, holding her with a questioning look. She shook her head almost imperceptibly and moved away.
“Stoddard rendered a version of the gin on paper before returning north,” Pryce was saying. “I’ve a copy of the plans. I’ll show it to you—once we’ve finished entertaining the ladies.”
Pryce had paused to stare at Ian, who returned it, asking, “How does the device improve upon the current system?”
The man gave a condescending laugh. “The problem with cotton is the current system, as any Southern planter knows. The difficulty lies in separating the seeds from the fibers, a vexing process. Presently it takes a pair of hands a day to clean a pound of cotton. Using Whitney’s contrivance, those same hands could manage fifty pounds.”
Lucinda leaned forward in her chair. “How is that possible?”
“Because, Mrs. Cameron, this engine has teeth. It devours the cotton and spits out the seeds.” Pryce paused for the expected murmurs of appreciative laughter, then went on to explain the device in less picturesque detail.
“Sounds as if anyone wi’ a bit of carpentry skill could reproduce a working model,” Uncle Hugh said with guarded interest. “Does Whitney hold a patent for the device?”
With everyone served, Seona had returned to his aunt’s chair, yet her unease ran like a current across the veranda floor. Pryce flicked another glance at her.
Ian felt the skin of his face grow taut.
“There was talk of securing a patent,” Pryce admitted. “But if the gin proves as revolutionary as it appears on paper, a patent won’t stop its common usage. Those overly concerned with such particulars are bound to do themselves a disservice.”
“He who dithers is lost?” Rosalyn interjected.
“Or she,” Pryce replied, one brow pointedly raised.
A tinge of pink crept into her cheeks. “Cousin Ian would construct the finest cotton gin in the Old North State, should he set himself to do so.”
“Your confidence is flattering,” Ian said. “But ye’ve yet to see me craft so much as a dovetail joint.”
Rosalyn took his hand in hers and proceeded to trace his callused palm with a fingertip. The intimacy of the touch sent a jolt through him. His hand closed on hers—to halt rather than hold.
Rosalyn raised her eyes and fixed not him, but Pryce, in her blue gaze. “I can tell.”
Ian pulled his hand away. He se
t his plate on the table, cake untouched.
“Transitioning to cotton,” Uncle Hugh said, seemingly oblivious to his stepdaughter’s coquetry, “would demand a considerable labor force and an outlay in capital.”
Pryce shifted his attention smoothly. “True. I’ll be in the market for field hands come winter.”
Rosalyn sat back with a tiny huff. “Winter? I could wish for a breath of it now. I’ve left my fan in the carriage. Do fetch it, Seona.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Seona curtsied and hurried off the long veranda.
Ian watched her go, until Rosalyn placed a hand on his arm.
“It’s bound to be cooler under those maples yonder. I see a breeze ruffling them now. Shall we take a turn through the garden, Cousin, while we wait for Seona?”
“Let’s join them,” Phyllida said, beckoning to Judith. “Mama?”
Josephine Pryce waved a lazy hand, declaring herself more inclined toward a nap than a stroll. Phyllida’s brother, still discussing the merits of cotton with Ian’s aunt and uncle, paid them no heed.
The ornamental garden wasn’t large, but the hedges were tall enough to interrupt the view of the veranda. Ian and his escort made a turn around its inner perimeter, the girls chattering about the widow at whose plantation the cotton gin had had its genesis.
“A friend in Virginia, whose parents are particular companions of the Washingtons,” Phyllida said, “wrote that Caty Greene stood up with the president at assembly and danced three hours straight, without so much as a pause for punch.”
Through the hedges Ian glimpsed his uncle on the veranda, filling his pipe. Lucinda and Josephine Pryce had moved off to examine a piece of stitching in a standing frame, while the housemaid tidied the table. Though she’d had ample time to complete her errand, there was no sign of Seona. Nor of Gideon Pryce.
“This won’t do, Mr. Cameron. You’ve let us prattle on since we left the veranda, which is hardly fair.”
Ian blinked down into Phyllida’s shining eyes as the girl clasped his arm.