Now Face to Face

by Karleen Koen

  I don’t understand, she’d said.

  In the hurt is good, he had answered. Keep your mind upon the good, upon the fact that there is a greater purpose, and we are but servants to it. Is there greater good in your quarrel with Beth? she’d flashed. She could not help it. He might be a saint, but she was not.

  Yes, he’d answered. I know there is.

  There was her saint now, talking with planters here at the second creek, planters seeing to their hogsheads, talking with the tobacco ship’s captain about charges for freight, deciding whether or not they would send their hogsheads on this ship, or another, which might charge less.

  In the river was the ship, its sails folded, masts rising pointed to the sky. Tomorrow her hogsheads and those of neighbors would be loaded upon it. And she and Thérèse would board it to return to England. Home. She was going home. She saw Colonel Bolling and frowned.

  Stepping carefully across the small, floating bridge at the narrow, marshy head of the creek—Colonel Perry’s design, one of the ways in which he kept his mind from his daughter these months—Barbara joined the men. They took off their hats at the sight of her.

  “And to what do I owe this honor?” she said to Bolling.

  The men around her shifted from one foot to the other. No one knows what to think of you, said Margaret Cox. No one knows what you will do.

  “I haven’t come to see you. I’ve come to see about sending my hogsheads. You’ll allow me that, I believe.”

  “I must by law, mustn’t I?”

  “Did you get your other barrels loaded, Colonel Bolling?” The mischief in her preened. “Did your nephew Klaus hoist his anchor and sail?”

  “I did; he did; no thanks to you. I am surprised you allow me here at all. I am surprised that you didn’t insist that I settle with the tobacco captain by letter, or by rowing out from my land to his ship.”

  “I considered it, but I thought you’d take me to county court.”

  “And indeed I would. I’ve as much right here as any man who has hogsheads in the rolling house.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Well, then.”

  They stared at each other, he glaring, unrepentant, she not glaring, but certainly unrepentant.

  “You bewitched Edward Perry into running your storehouse for you. Bewitched him into freeing his slaves. Little wonder his daughter has filed suit against him in county court. I’d do the same. The colony is well rid of you, madam.”

  “Be certain you don’t linger here too long.”

  “I have as much right as the next man. I may want to buy something from the storehouse.”

  “Coins only, Colonel Bolling. No credit will be extended to you.”

  He swore, but Barbara walked away, going back to the planters, shaking hands with each of them, asking about their families, telling them that she’d put some of the clothing her grandmother had sent into the storehouse, and that they might find something for their wives or themselves there. One of them gave her a letter. She took it, promising it would get to its destination in England.

  One of the slaves was standing knee-deep in the river, pulling out a basket in which Barbara could see fish gleaming, like silver caught. A paradise of shad and sturgeon and trout and pike and eels and perch and crab was in these rivers and creeks, the colonials had bragged when first she’d come. Dip your hand in and see, they had said. The slave let the basket slide back into the water. When first she’d come here, that late August when she’d been ill with fever in Williamsburg, the colonials had come to visit her, had chattered to her of their colony, bragging of its beauties. In her fever, she had imagined they were mettlesome horses prancing before her. She wished she might present this basket of shining fish to the King to show him the abundance of his colonial paradise.

  She was going home tomorrow.

  IN HIS bed, Blackstone put his head against the flesh of Thérèse’s bare shoulder. “I was going to make you weep for me in this time we have, Frenchwoman”—his face was against her shoulder—“make you beg for mercy and know that you cannot do without me….”

  Thérèse cupped her hand against the side of his face, feeling the softness of his beard. He would let it grow long and ragged again when she was gone; she knew he would. She wrapped a bare leg over him, tracing with her toe the length from buttock to knee, a length she liked, reveled in. I adore your legs, she said to him often in French, refusing to translate. She put her hand to the thick hair curling at his neck. His neck was strong, solidly made to hold the heavy head. Often, she’d kissed the back of his neck. This piece of your flesh, she thought, now it’s mine, forever, I brand it now with my lips, that and the long length of your thighs. When you die, send me your thigh bone, Blackstone, and I will put it in a place of honor in my house.

  She moved onto his back, lying down upon him as if he were a bed, snuggling sensually against him, her breasts flat on his shoulder blades, her belly and abdomen in the curve of his back. She closed her eyes, thinking of the pleasure they had given each other these last months.

  Blackstone sighed, a deep sigh that she could feel, and stretched out his arms; she put her arms atop his, laid her face in the back of his neck. I have desired you greatly, Scotsman, she thought. After a time in which they both lay quietly, she moved off him and sat up, her hand caressing his back, as she chose the places to kiss good-bye: that sweet, broad space of neck; the ribbon of spine; the small buttocks; that long thigh; the back of his knee.

  She moved down and held his heavy calf a moment against her, as if it were a child. She put her hands in his thick, unruly hair, feeling the shape of his head under her hands, thinking of the mind inside that head, so keen, so watching, intent on enjoying all around it, intent on missing nothing of life. There was a kind ruthlessness to him. He would do what he would do, and she who loved him would have to bear it.

  He lay with his eyes closed. She put her finger to his lips, traced the quarter-moon of them, thinking how smooth they were, how greedy. Whom would he take to his bed once she was gone? There would be someone. He was too sensual a man for there not to be someone. And he would enjoy that someone to the fullest, as was his way.

  Stay, he said. Here? Thérèse had almost laughed, though she was tempted a moment. Who would not be tempted by such a long-legged man with such a big laugh? There was a dream she had, an old one, of a small shop with a cat in it, and women working for her, sewing the gowns she made for noblewomen to wear. Threads were bright in the shop, crimson and garnet and butter-yellow. Fabrics were rich, lustrous: velvet, satin, lutestring. Women sat in dainty chairs, the cushions thick with embroidery she had done herself. The fur of their cloaks framed their haughty faces, and they stroked their pet dogs and were impatient and rude, as they looked at fabrics and said, No, that won’t do, I like it not. But always, there would be a yes, for Thérèse knew what she knew, and there was no one better. Already it was in her mind to weave Iroquois feathers and beads into Madame’s hair when she went out, to take the soft buckskins and feathers and beads of the Iroquois and weave them into Madame’s clothing, to mark her as different, as having gone to this rough colony, as having survived it. Thérèse knew London, knew the tastes and boredoms of those she served. Everyone would be wild for it, would try to copy it.

  Hyacinthe was to have been part of her shop—to sell the fabric, to serve wine to the ladies, to run her errands. She closed her eyes. He was not dead, though doubt of that came to her in darkest night and shook her the way a cat does a mouse. She and Madame’s dear Colonel Perry had talked long about it. Keep your faith to you like a treasure, he said. Do not speak of it to others, do not allow them to soil it. What you know and feel in your heart is true. He was, as Madame so often said, an angel.

  Stay? No, her destiny was not here, in these woods, where a man or woman could live for months without seeing another soul. It was Blackstone’s paradise, but not hers. She stared down at him—at his small waist, his long legs—thinking about the way he talked about stars
and drank too much rum and shouted out slave words. In France, they would say he was an original, and all the noblewomen would want him. He would be like—what was it the savages took?—a scalp upon their belts.

  He turned over, aroused now, as she was. He was watching her face. She laughed. It must be so clear what was upon her mind. I will miss you, big fool, she thought. I will cry, but not now, not in these last hours we have. They are for other things. You know. He stroked her breast to its point, eyes half closed, in the way he had, a way that always made her catch her breath. He looked in her eyes a moment, daring her: “Are you ready?” his look said; then he put his mouth to her breast, but just flicked it with his tongue. He showed his teeth to her and then lay back, like a large, lazy cat, waiting, the dare greater than ever.

  “What shall we do now, Frenchwoman?”

  He knew. She knew. They would be here a long time, a very long time.

  “You said you would make me beg for mercy.” She bit her lip, ran her hands through her hair, stretched, playing at indifference. “I don’t think so. But you might try.”

  She touched him, and he groaned.

  “JUST A moment, now.” Barbara held the candle as steady as she could to the dried twigs, which began to smoke.

  “Keep the flame to them longer,” said Colonel Perry.

  “I’ll burn my fingers.”

  “A while longer, or the twigs will do nothing but smoke.”

  “I know that.”

  Perry smiled to himself and folded his arms. He’d taught her to build a fire, and she’d made the act her own. There was not a clear night that she was not here on the bank, carefully redigging the shallow pit in which the last night’s fire had burned, carefully piling the small twigs into the old ash to make yet another fire. When she did not appear for supper, he and Thérèse would look at each other, their look saying, Yes, she’s at the river. He’d walk to the bank to be certain she was all right, and there she’d be, sitting before the fire she’d made.

  “What did Kano give you?”

  “A branch of dogwood, the flowers not open yet.”

  The slaves had been bringing her gifts for days: a bird’s nest, a smooth stone, a small mat woven from reeds, a single feather—treasures for them, honor for her.

  “There.”

  Barbara sat back, satisfied, looked up at the sky—it was streaked now with evening—the line of her jaw smooth, perfect.

  “There will be stars tonight,” she said.

  “And a full moon. Everything is packed?”

  “Everything. Bay myrtle candles, baskets, everything but that which I will pick up in Williamsburg.”

  “Have you bought all of John Custis’s garden?”

  “Nearly all.”

  He was going with her as far as Williamsburg, sailing down the river. From there, he could find out precisely where on the York River the convict ship was and send a message to Blackstone to join him there. Come to England, she had said. And the voice had told him yes. His Beth would not see him, his sweet girl, his joy, strong in her anger, straightforward in her purpose. Beth had filed suit against him. Even though he gave her nearly all, she fought him in court for that which he kept, fought to keep him from freeing a single slave—the child of his loins, allowing Klaus Von Rothbach to court her. He would not have chosen Klaus.

  “Your second creek will make a good small port. A mile away to the west is the church at which your neighbors worship. A tavern, a larger storehouse, perhaps a small yard to repair boats and ships. After all, yours is the last place a large ship may anchor.”

  “It is all written in my account book.”

  “And more and more people are settling beyond the falls.”

  “So the Governor says, too.”

  Spotswood had come to see what in the world she was doing. “Such rumors,” he told her. “You’ve set the colony on its ear.” He spoke of how much land was being patented beyond the falls of all the four rivers of the colony. Planters would need a place below the falls of the rivers to bring their tobacco to.

  Make such a place, Barbara, suggested Perry.

  “Have your grandmother send a bell for the church, some altar silver, money to build a tower in which to ring the bell. Every time people hear it, they will be reminded of your grandmother’s landing, of what she offers there,” he was saying now.

  To make a proper dock would require funds, people willing to invest. There were ten pages in her account book, written by Colonel Perry, as to why the idea was a good one. He pledged to invest in it himself. So, thought Barbara, more entries to the account book before she left tomorrow, about church bells and altar silver.

  Someone called from the top of the riverbank.

  It was Blackstone, and with him Captain Randolph and Major Custis. They slid down the bank.

  “There’s to be an assembly of the burgesses in May,” Captain Randolph said. “I just received word that the Governor has called it to meet. I rode over to tell you, Edward.”

  Randolph bowed to Barbara.

  “And I came to see the captive of the madwoman of First Curle,” growled Major Custis. He shook Perry’s hand, bowed to Barbara. “How do you do, Lady Devane?”

  “They think me mad?” said Barbara, her hands in Harry’s fur. He lay in her lap.

  “A portion do, but they allow it because you are a duke’s granddaughter, and so you may have your whims. Edward here—now, for him to free his slaves, there is just no excuse. Except that tobacco prices from our last year’s crop are low, lower than anyone imagined, and so there’s talk of what we may do to salvage ourselves, talk of an import duty on slaves, such as once we had. Edward may be ahead of his day, freeing his slaves. That is, if his daughter allows it.”

  “An assembly,” said Perry. “It’s been two years since the Governor called the last one.”

  “The Iroquois have agreed to make a treaty with us. He calls it for that. And to tell us His Majesty wants us to send more tar and pitch.”

  “Pinelands,” said Colonel Perry, and to Barbara’s questioning look, “Pine trees make the best tar and pitch. That portion of your land with many pine trees can now be turned to gain.”

  “Tell Her Grace your grandmother I thank her for the bees, Lady Devane,” said Custis. “The ship they were on is still in Williamsburg. She sent them over in a box that had to be seen to be imagined, and they weathered the journey, but a sailor dropped the box while the Governor was aboard ship, and the bees have swarmed to my garden. There is a harpsichord aboard that ship also. You’ll need to leave word to the Captain about whether you wish it unloaded or not. Peach brandy.” Custis slapped at a leather bottle tied to his belt. “My best peaches. I brought it to celebrate. I’ve news that I rode all the way in from Williamsburg to tell you, cousin.”

  “And what is that?” said Perry.

  “The Governor is to be replaced. I’ve had a letter from Will Byrd that says it,” said Custis, excitedly taking a letter from his pocket and giving it to Perry, who read it, then gave it to Barbara.

  “We’ll have to make a real push in the assembly for what we want,” said Randolph to Perry, and Barbara saw that this was the real reason he and Custis had called. “The Governor is wounded. Whom else do we gather to us?”

  “Does the Governor know?” asked Perry.

  “As to that, all I can say is that his hand has to ache from all the land patents he is suddenly granting to his friends. Yes, I think he knows. So, do you plot with us, Edward? We ought to be able to get around him on certain laws we’ve been wanting.”

  Perry smiled, didn’t answer.

  Custis handed him the brandy bottle. “You’ve become boring since you’ve become a saint, Edward. Lady Devane, I hold you responsible. I see you’re not a saint about peach brandy, Edward, and a good thing, too. What’s this?”

  “Supper,” said Barbara.

  Thérèse was sliding down the bank, in her hands a basket. Blackstone was going to meet her, to help her.

  T
hey began to eat, the fish, hot, steaming, delicious. They ate with their hands, wiping them in sand or going to the river to wash. They passed the brandy bottle from one to another, the men talking about laws they wanted to push through the assembly: laws loosening the rules on patenting land and limiting the amount of tobacco that might be grown. They talked of hiring more sheriffs to see the limits enforced. By the time the brandy bottle had made its way around the circle several times, they were talking about who on the Governor’s Council would ally with them, and for what favor.

  Barbara stood. I will remember this, how one forms allies over fires, during hunting, during dinner. My aunt Shrew does this. She is always feeding Tories dinner, playing cards with one and all. She knows everything that happens in London. They say my grandmother did, too, once upon a time, that while my grandfather battled the French, she battled his enemies at court.

  Carlyle’s words were in her mind, his claim that Roger had been made scapegoat. Passing Thérèse and Blackstone, who were murmuring, feeding each other in the shadows of the riverbank, Barbara began to climb the bank.

  “The Governor wants that treaty with the Iroquois so that the land he has patented will be safe. All of it borders on Iroquois lands,” she could hear Major Custis saying. “He has feathered his nest in his time here, that I can guarantee. Word is, that plantation of his in the mountains is now thousands of acres. I’ll wager my best wig that by fall it will number thousands more.”

  “The treaty is a good thing for us all,” said Perry. “Remember that.”

  From the top of the bank, she looked down. Major Custis was now in the river to his knees. When he walked back out, he brought a small barrel with him.

  “That’s Bolling’s brand on that barrel,” said Captain Randolph.

  “Captain Von Rothbach sailed for the West Indies the other day,” said Colonel Perry. “This must have fallen off when they were loading.”

  “She still won’t let him use the creek?” said Custis. “Where is Lady Devane?”