Whiskers in the Dark

by Rita Mae Brown

  “To the best woman on earth.” Charles lit up.

  “Certainly a woman of great beauty and uncommon sweetness. Her mother must have been a beauty.”

  “I never met Isabelle, but Yancy Grant declared she was a breathtaking beauty, which her daughters reflect, but he also said she possessed an intense allure. His very word, ‘intense.’ ”

  Jeffrey smiled. “Charles, yours is a good marriage.”

  “It is.”

  “Do you understand women?”

  A burst of laughter followed this question. “No. Does any man? I love my wife. I worship my wife. Do I understand her, no, but”—he took a deep breath—“I believe she understands me and sometimes better than I understand myself.”

  A look of relief crossed Jeffrey’s face. “I see.”

  Charles slapped him on the back as he still laughed. “Brother, don’t even try.”

  They talked about Florence, about how restorative it is to finally come to one’s own home. They walked to the stables where DoRe sat with Barker O, a basket of food in front of him, for Bettina had also been visiting before returning to the house. Charles and Jeffrey shook their heads about both of their wives swooning over fabrics.

  When Jeffrey climbed up next to DoRe on the light, lovely, one-horse carriage, he looked down at Charles, smiled, and tipped his hat. “Thank you, brother.”

  Charles touched his forehead with his finger. “The pleasure was mine, brother.”

  27

  April 25, 2018

  Wednesday

  Walking toward Jefferson’s house, Harry stopped to admire the work, the restored slave quarters, the food plots. Then she ducked into the underbelly of Monticello, alleyways and, of course, the kitchen. Arlene, never having seen Monticello, even though she now lived in Virginia, gave Harry the excuse to visit again. Harry never tired of Jefferson’s estate, nor the restoration over the years. Dan Jordan, the former director, and his wife had the vision to take Monticello back to the time in which it was lived in as opposed to latter-day “improvements.” Well, perhaps they were improvements, but Jefferson never enjoyed them, nor did the other people living and working on the incredible estate, a view worth a trip across the Atlantic, at least in Jefferson’s mind. The current director, Leslie Greene Bowman, was bringing the world to Monticello and vice versa.

  A bit of breeze swept through the alleyways, which was how Harry thought of the ground floor of Monticello. Must have been a hive of activity, people moving to and fro, ladies attending the cooking fire, people poking their heads in storage rooms for this or that.

  “Being here, being anywhere where a powerful man lived, I am always reminded of how many people it takes to free one to do major business,” Arlene commented as they walked along a corridor.

  “Still does,” Harry rejoined.

  “You know, you’re right. Technology can perform some of these services, but it still takes people, highly trained people. I learned that when the Agency sent me places. If I had a long land time, I would rent a car and, if a friend was, say, in Amsterdam, off I’d go. Once Paula Devlin was in Paris when I was in London. We’d hunted together a few times when I was home on leave, so I called her, crossed the Channel, and she drove me everywhere. That’s when I got to know her. Versailles, of course. Impressive. Beautiful. The reflection of the Sun King, yes, but it was too much. Here at Monticello, more, u-m-m, what am I trying to say, in proportion.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “You’ve been to Versailles?”

  Harry nodded that she had. “I was an art history major at Smith and one summer Susan, who was at William and Mary, and I traveled to Europe, the hostel route.” She smiled. “We’d worked that year at our respective schools, saved everything, and off we went. I wore out three pairs of sneakers.”

  “Ha.” Arlene enjoyed the detail.

  They took the tour through the house, walked on the raised walkways to the small buildings at the ends, then walked along the path by the food plots, where some of the sturdy slave cabins once stood. They reached the graveyard, Jefferson’s monument simple, unadorned. Other family members slept behind the wrought-iron fence.

  “Isn’t it odd that both Jefferson and Adams died on July Fourth, 1826?” Harry remarked.

  “And the stuff they argued about we’re still battling over.” Arlene shrugged. “Maybe that’s good. Right now it seems like a bad time, but we’ve been through worse, and this going back and forth between a strong centralized government, which we do have, and states’ rights, growing again, it’s good. My time in Washington taught me that if we harden, we lose.”

  “You know more than I do. You and Ned Tucker should talk. I’m not much of a political person.” Harry swept her eyes over the tombstones. “Did you know that Monroe also died on the Fourth of July? Eighteen thirty-one.”

  “We will never see public servants like our Founding Fathers.” Arlene thought a moment. “And mothers. In so many ways they were ahead and, in other ways, creatures of their times. I think that can be said of all of us.”

  They walked down the path through the woods to the parking lot and the visitors center.

  “These last few weeks, it’s sure been a focus on the dead, hasn’t it? We go to Aldie, all those cavalrymen somewhere. Then Jason. And then you come to Crozet and we put that murdered woman in the ground, a proper Christian burial.”

  “Have you ever noticed that on a woman’s tombstone it never reads, ‘She was a good housekeeper’?” Arlene laughed.

  “So true. You’ve just given me an excuse to put off doing the laundry. I hate doing laundry.”

  Arlene smiled. “I hate folding it.”

  “The worst.”

  They reached the parking lot. “Do you want to go into the store? It’s got some beautiful things.”

  “No, thank you. I’m trying to save my money for a new coffee table. I saw one when I was last in New York and the sides were like a ship’s rigging. Sounds weird, but it really is elegant and my old coffee table is, well, old. I looked at a new office chair. One of those that you can adjust a thousand ways.” Harry unlocked the doors. “One thousand six hundred dollars. I nearly passed out.”

  “It is crazy, but if you sit at a computer all day, that’s not so outrageous. I kind of think we’ve reached a point where we can’t afford ourselves.”

  “Boy, is that the truth.” Harry cranked the engine and they drove out.

  She chose to go up the mountain, drive along Carter’s Ridge, pass Highland, Monroe’s place, and cruise through the beginnings of spring.

  “If the weather holds, a lot of entries for the fundraiser. I’m looking forward to it.” Arlene looked down the long drive to Highland.

  Coming down to Carter’s Bridge, Harry turned left, heading south on Route 20. She thought she’d drive Arlene through Scottsville, the county seat during Jefferson’s time, then follow the James back toward Crozet. It would take a good hour, but the drive was pleasant and they could visit.

  As they neared Crozet, Harry said, “Arlene, let me stop at St. Luke’s for one minute. I want to check my mailbox to see if any of the ladies from the Dorcas Guild left me brochures for caterers for our homecoming idea.”

  “It is a good idea.” Arlene had heard about it from Harry and Susan.

  “We all can reach one another via our computers, but I like to go over a brochure or a catalog and I like to lay them out on my desk to pages where I can compare services or prices. Drives me nuts flipping back and forth on the computer screen.”

  “Bad for the eyes.” Arlene waited while Harry parked and dashed in.

  She returned with her hand full of shiny catalogs, one Southern Living magazine that had pages marked, and a few envelopes. She tossed them in the divider.

  When they reached the farm, the cats and dogs rushed out to greet them. Once inside,
Harry put the materials on the kitchen table. The animals were petted and loved, and a few treats were handed out. She turned on the teapot.

  “Something stronger?”

  “No, this will be restorative. Do you need to bring in the horses? I can help.”

  “It’s my husband’s turn to do it. But I never mind. They make me happy, my horses.” She ran her hand over the mail, moving it about. “You know, thank you for putting Susan at ease over our being at Aldie. I’m not worried.”

  “Me neither.”

  “People are so strange, it might even pump up the numbers of visitors or even competitors.”

  Arlene smiled. “Well, then, we can all say Jason didn’t die in vain. He helped raise money for Hounds for Heroes.”

  Harry slit open a heavy, good-paper envelope with her one long fingernail, about to break. She could never keep them long. Hard to do when you’re pitching hay, cleaning out hoofs, rolling a wheelbarrow.

  “What the hell?” Harry handed Arlene a piece of paper, expensive paper, too.

  “Maybe we’d be safer at Aldie.” Arlene studied a perfectly round blackball in the middle of the paper.

  28

  October 20, 1787

  Saturday

  “He said Royal Oak. Seven miles from the river.” Ralston repeated what the carter had told them.

  “We’ve gone seven miles,” William complained.

  “Maybe not. The land rises above the Potomac and getting over that takes longer. It’s rolling here. This road looks well used,” Ralston, doing his best to think ahead, said.

  “That river runs fast,” Sulli, tired but keeping up, observed. “You all were smart getting us a ride on the ferry.” She looked adoringly at William when she said this, which made Ralston want to throw up.

  Not wishing to call undue attention to themselves, the three had waited on the Virginia side of the Potomac. While they had enough for their fare, they still waited. If they could align themselves with a white man, they might pass not unnoticed but unquestioned. Hours later, the air brisk, the day bright, a carter moved toward them and, as luck would have it, his cart stopped. He didn’t know why so he whipped the horse.

  Ralston called to him. “Stop, sir. The problem isn’t your horse.”

  Ralston remembered what Catherine had told him: “Never spur a willing horse.”

  He and William walked to the cart as Sulli watched. William held the bridle as Ralston crawled under the empty cart.

  Pulling himself half out on his back, he told William, “Get me a thick stick. Well, Sulli can find one.” Then he said to the carter, “A stone is wedged in the wheel well. I think I can pry it out. Your axle is fine.”

  “Good” was all the fellow grunted.

  Sulli, casting about, picked up two sticks of differing lengths but thick widths, handing them to Ralston, who pulled himself back under the cart, working on the wheel from the underside.

  They heard one stick crack, a groan, then, “Got it.”

  Ralston pulled himself out, looked at William. “Take a few steps.”

  William did and the cart freely moved.

  The man reached in his pocket to pay Ralston, but the slender young man instead asked, “If we could stand with you, sir, and you might pay our fare, that would be a fair trade, I think.”

  As the fare was only sixpence for all three of them, not outrageous, the portly fellow nodded his agreement.

  The three stayed with him as though he was their master, and on the Maryland side, Ralston asked if the gentleman knew of any breeding farms, preferably blooded horses. He named Royal Oak, owned by an Irishman, Cinian Finney. And he also mentioned that given the man’s temper, he always needed new help.

  The sun hung low, the air cooled, and on they trudged. A mile down the road, southeastern direction, a zigzag fence appeared. Seemed to stretch on for miles. They walked along, seeing horses in the fields, divided.

  “Royal Oak.” Ralston breathed the name hopefully.

  “Whatever it is, money. Money and good horses.” William paused to look over the pastures, all well kept, as were the horses.

  “Must be the broodmare field,” Ralston observed.

  “No one has babies by their side.” Sulli liked the setting sun glistening on their coats.

  “Not yet,” Ralston simply replied. “There’s a road up ahead, turns into the farm. I say we go on down. Got to be someone around. Time to bring in the horses anyway.”

  They did, and that trek seemed like miles as they were tired. A wiry man, close-cropped ginger hair and a neat mustache, a horse on each side of him, nodded as he walked toward stables in the distance.

  They followed.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Ralston called over the horse’s neck. “I’m a dab hand with a horse.”

  “Are you now? Cheeky, I’d say.” The fellow had an Irish accent. “Here.”

  Ralston took the lead rope from the fellow’s hand, walking in rhythm with him and the horse, a dark bay mare, mane pulled, tail tidied up, hoofs trimmed. This was a first-rate operation.

  They walked into the stable, brick floor, painted wooden stalls. The man put the first horse into a stall, then took the second one from Ralston and did the same. Hay was already in a hay crib and buckets of water hung in the corner. The back of the stall remained open and the horses were tied to their cribs with enough room to move around and even lie down if they so chose. But they couldn’t walk out of the stall.

  “Sir, Ralston Moore.”

  “Ard Elgin.”

  William stepped forward. “William”—he paused for a moment—“Fields. And this is my wife, Sulli Fields.”

  “If there’s work, put us to it.” Ralston smiled.

  “Runaways are you?” Ard noted William’s pause and he figured, correctly, that the fellow was thinking of a last name.

  “No,” William replied too loudly.

  Ralston had learned a lot in his brief run for freedom. Well, it didn’t seem brief: He’d lost weight, his feet hurt, and he wanted to sleep on a pallet. No more sleeping on the earth, where the dampness crept into his bones.

  “I see.” Ard smiled. “What can you do?”

  “We’re both good with horses and my wife can cook or help in the house.” William puffed out his chest.

  “Can always use hands.” Ard, tired of the turnover, wanted to keep his own job, so if he found some good workers who stayed, and he figured runaway slaves would stay, he’d receive a reward from the Boss.

  “Day’s over but you can stay in the cabin there.” He pointed to a high-roofed cabin. “We can sort this out tomorrow. Pump out behind the cabin. If you head up this path you’ll come to the bunkhouse. Food’s in an hour. Miss Frances don’t like dirty people, so wash up. Any clothes?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ll tell her, otherwise she’ll get her nose out of joint. If I can get you hired, you give me your first week’s pay. Then we’ll be even. I’m taking a chance on three people I don’t know. Hear?”

  “Yes, sir. You won’t be sorry.” Ralston extended his hand.

  Ard shook it. “You got a wife, boy?”

  Ralston shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Ard laughed. “Clean up. Do the best you can and don’t mind Miss Frances. She has a tart tongue.” He focused on Sulli. “I expect she’ll put you to work. Keep your mouth shut and do what she says.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They left him, hurrying for the cabin. No one wanted to be late for food.

  Sulli opened the door. “A fireplace.”

  William stood in the opened door, looked at the bunk beds, and said to Ralston, “You take the top.” Ralston looked around for blankets. Six were neatly folded on a shelf. He walked outside with a bucket, filled it with water, took off his shirt, washed himself as best he could while William
brought in firewood stacked at the side of the house. The sun had set. Ralston shivered but it felt good to be a little clean, even if he had to put his old shirt back on.

  Sulli inspected every nook and cranny. An old pot sat on the shelf underneath the blanket shelf. It was a start.

  Miss Frances lived up to her billing, but she handed the three of them patched shirts and two pair of pants. She told Sulli if Mr. Finney hired her, she’d find a decent dress. In her own way Miss Frances had a kind heart but no backtalk, no laziness.

  As the three walked back in the darkness, Ard walking halfway with them, Ralston asked, “How many slaves here?”

  “Royal Oak doesn’t have slaves. Mr. Finney says they’re worthless. Cost too much. He’ll give you a wage, a place to live. If you want to eat with us, Miss Frances is a fine cook, you pay three dollars a month for food and Miss Frances doesn’t stint on food. You have to make your own breakfast. Mr. Finney is a demanding man. Do what he tells you. Even if he cusses you like a dog, do what he tells you. For that matter, do what I tell you.”

  “Yes, Mr. Elgin.” They all three replied nearly in unison.

  “Dawn. Be at the stables. Sulli, Miss Frances will be coming to the bunkhouse kitchen. Best you meet her there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Back at the cabin, warm now, for there would be a frost tonight, William and Sulli went outside in the cold to wash each other. Ralston climbed up in the bunk, a straw pallet on top. Felt good. He took off his clothes, pulled the blanket up, happy for his small comforts. He knew not to trust William, who had proven to be a liar, out for himself. As for Sulli, well, she wasn’t his worry. He liked her. Thought she deserved better. He would work hard. He would make good. He was a free man and he would stay a free man.

  The fates played games with people. Sometimes they were cruel, sometimes kind. But no matter what they did, how they rolled the dice, Ralston was free.