By the Wind's Will

by Nat Burns

  Angrily, Maggie drew back. “Fat lot you seem to care, Fidelia Nelson. I don’t know what I want to do but I certainly won’t marry a man I don’t love. I barely even know him.” She eyed Foxy angrily. “You really don’t care, do you? I guess all those things you said in the garden the other night were just sweet, lovely lies!

  Finally, giving way to her anger, Foxy stood and jerked Maggie to her feet. Quickly, without a word, she lifted Maggie to her horse and mounted behind. She turned the mare roughly and raced the horse as fast as possible toward the big house.

  CHARLES WAS FAIRLY pleased with himself. The ball had been a complete success. He had been surprised but happy when the Wellingham boy had visited to offer for Maggie’s hand. He had readily agreed, feeling he was doing his best to insure a good future for his eldest daughter. Too bad that she didn’t yet realize the gift. Her look of shock and betrayal when he’d told her the good news had angered him. Ungrateful girl. She was by far too independent. America had done this to them, even his wife was coming up with some farfetched ideas concerning the children’s clothing. True, her ideas were practical but scandalous by good English standards. Ah well, Maggie would come around. She was a smart girl and would realize what was best for her.

  He sat at his desk, rolled up his shirtsleeves and bent over the plantation books. Soon however, he heard a ruckus out in the front hall, and a moment later his door was thrown open. He looked up to see an angry, flushed Foxy descending upon him.

  “Sir, a word with you, if you please.” The sentence was forced through clenched teeth.

  Charles knitted his brows, searching his mind for the source of Foxy’s anger.

  “Of course,” he said jovially. “Close the door, sit down. You’ll have a lemonade, won’t you?”

  Foxy shook her head to the offer but shut the door and paced before it like a caged animal. Charles tried to relax behind his desk and let Foxy think. But after long minutes, he grew impatient. “Well, Fidelia, what’s wrong?”

  Foxy whirled to face him, rage seeping from every pore, and grated out. “Maggie doesn’t wish to marry Clyde.”

  Charles had to chuckle. So, this was what this was all about. Maggie had sought out her champion. “Foxy, you have to realize how young girls are about these things. She’s too young to know her own mind. Wellingham will be a fine husband for her!”

  “Damnation!” spat Foxy, bringing her fist crashing down upon the desk top. “Every person in this county knows that Clyde prefers his slave women to white women. He was probably forced into the proposal by his father. Wythe, I’m sure, figures that if he can get Clyde married to a proper female he can prevent the inevitable scandal of too many light-skinned workers.”

  Charles pondered this a moment, remembering how nervous Clyde had been when approaching him and how relieved he’d been when he had agreed to the marriage. No, it was just young man nerves. Foxy’s tale couldn’t be true.

  “I don’t believe you, Fidelia, and besides Maggie is sixteen now. At that age, a girl needs a strong hand, a husband, to keep her from becoming flighty. Clyde will do.”

  Foxy gritted her teeth and leaned over the desk menacingly. “Master Scott, Charles, you aren’t listening to me! Clyde is a pervert and no amount of money will change that fact. Surely, you don’t want Maggie exposed to a life where she must take second best?”

  “All women have to adjust to marriage, lassie. Besides, I’ve seen no proof that what you say is true.”

  “Damnit, man!” Foxy shouted, gripping the desk so hard that her knuckles turned white. “Just look at the evidence in his house staff. I notice it each time I go there on business. It truly is common knowledge.”

  Suddenly, the rage faded from her face and she sighed resignedly. “I love your daughter, Master Scott. I don’t have much to offer, certainly not as much as Wellingham, but I do promise to always put her first. She loves me, too. I feel we can be happy together.”

  Charles’s mouth fell open. He stared at Foxy. “Fidelia, I understand that you work as a man, an occasion too late to remedy. This course has stood us all in good stead and your male attributes have been accepted well by all who live and work here. It does not, however, change the fact that you were born a woman by God’s will. That is something that cannot be changed.”

  Foxy looked up. “And this is something you think I haven’t realized?” Her bark of laughter was short and loud. “I live every day burdened by this will of God. I feel torn between two worlds, not drawn to the feminine yet yearning for the masculine. I am more comfortable laboring in the fields than having tea in the drawing room. What’s a body to do, Master Scott? What would you do?”

  Scott, for some reason, felt strangely close to tears but he knew he had to be firm. Maggie would be—had to be— better off with the Wellingham boy. She’d never be happy with the unnatural life Foxy could offer her. No, it was unthinkable. When he spoke though, it was with real sorrow. “I’m sorry, but no, Foxy, it just wouldn’t work.”

  “So, you think I can’t provide for her?” she stormed. “Thank God Maggie is not the snob you are, Sir!” She drew herself up stiffy. “I must resign my position as overseer. I am leaving Finley and Maggie has agreed to go with me.”

  She blinked tears from her eyes and continued with a broken voice. “And I swear, it will take you and the whole damned fort from town to stop me!” She opened the door and slammed it upon Charles’s astonished face.

  He immediately followed and found Foxy with a sobbing Maggie clutched to her chest.

  As they were turning to leave, Charles stopped them. “Children, wait,” he said softly, and they turned to him. He looked first at Foxy with her proud uplifted chin and reddened, wet eyes, then at his daughter in her soiled dress, her stubborn visage stained from much weeping and he felt helpless before such love and loyalty.

  “Maggie, child, would you turn your back on Wellingham and all the things that a normal wedded life can offer?”

  She eyed him defiantly. “Yea, Father, I hold no love for him, his money or a position that life with him could bring.”

  “Who do you love?” he asked her, gently.

  Maggie looked devotedly toward the tall woman next to her. “Only Foxy, Papa, it has always been her.”

  Charles nodded slowly then suddenly ducked into his study, only to reappear a moment later with coat and hat.

  “Papa,” cried Maggie. “Where do you go?”

  “I go, my Magpie, to tell Wythe that I am a failure as a father, for you simply refuse to marry Clyde. And Foxy,” he said, squinting harshly at the young woman. “You’d better take damn good care of my little girl. You two will have only one another in this world after her mother and I pass on. Society will not accept you and may even bring grief to you. I want you to ponder what you are doing and make absolutely certain that this is the life for you. You will lose much.”

  “But,” Foxy said gently, looking adoringly at her beloved. “Look what we will have gained.”

  Charles nodded slowly then left the house, leaving the two lovebirds standing in shocked silence in the foyer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  June 1758

  THE DAY WAS beautiful and Maggie, sitting on an old fallen log, lifted her skirts immodestly high and raised her face to the sun. “My, doesn’t this feel good?” she said with a deep sigh. “I can’t think of a better way to spend my seventeenth birthday.”

  Cleo, her maid, pursed her lips in disapproval. “If yore ma’am sees you, you won’ t be thinkin’ dat for lon’. Please put dis heah bonnet on ‘fore you freckle up. Think you dat Mistress Foxy want a spotted-up wife...or whatever you gwine be.”

  “Oh, Cleo!” Maggie said, laughing. “Quit badgering me and let me enjoy my summer. Foxy will love me, no matter what!”

  “Hmph!” the maid snorted. “Jist keep on’. De sun gwine dry you up good, like a rotten apple, dat’s what. At least pull dat skirt down! Showin’ yore business to God and everyone!”

  Maggie chuckled and fla
shed Cleo a beguiling smile. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll pull my skirt down if you will let me go to the creek for a quick swim.”

  “Lordy mercy! Miss Maggie!” The maid was scandalized, and her eyes widened until Maggie thought they were going to pop from her head. “You gwine git fitted agin in a little bit o’ no time. Yore Ma would have a hissy! No siree! When you gwine start actin’ like you age stead of de little gal you used to be?”

  Maggie leapt to her feet and flung her arms out to the sky. “Never, Cleo, never!”

  She twirled around, giggling happily. Sobering after a while, she squinted at the frowning, glowering maid.

  “Well,” Maggie sighed resignedly. “It’s clear I’m to have no peace and quiet this day because of you. We might as well go back inside.”

  Maggie had enjoyed the trips into Savannah to select materials for her trousseau but how she hated the daily fittings. Standing hour upon hour while the seamstresses pinned and clucked always caused a headache. Now, back inside and obligingly holding her arms wide, she stared wistfully out the window and let her thoughts drown out the clamoring voices around her.

  They were to have a small home, she and Foxy, on the western side of the Finley plantation. Her father had given them an acre of land and she sensed that he wanted them—her—to remain close by in case their non-traditional relationship fell apart. This was new ground trod by all of them and Maggie understood this. Her mother was supportive but worried. They’d even had a conversation about the “marriage bed” and what it could possibly entail. Neither had any answers and both had eventually come to the point of mutual shrugged shoulders. And then there had been laughter, a saving grace as far as Maggie was concerned. Anything could be made better with laughter.

  Foxy was building their home with her own two hands, had been for more than a year and she couldn’t believe that the time was finally here for them to move in together. The waiting had frustrated her to no end and she still hated the damnable social rules that insisted on secrecy. The seamstress’s speculative gazes had seared through her. Many had eyed her abdomen, sure she’d gotten in the family way and thereby lay the reason for the secrecy surrounding her trousseau.

  There was no one she could tell, no one whom she could share her incredible love for Foxy with, no public publishing of banns, no giggling girlfriends, only her mother and sisters and one sister was even disapproving of her relationship. Elizabeth had made it very clear that Maggie was giving up too much to be with another woman, to be with Foxy. Also, she added often, she believed Foxy could never make Maggie happy.

  The only other discord they dealt with was the disapproval they sensed in Mary, Foxy’s mother. But this was not an unusual thing. Mary Nelson had always been sullen since she’d known her, so it made little difference that now she was even more so. Foxy’s father was avoiding the subject entirely. His life revolved around the drink and his work at the plantation, nothing more.

  Unconsciously, as if seeking comfort, her hand stole up to grasp Foxy’s birthday gift to her from one year ago. It was a gold locket, lovingly inscribed.

  To our future, all my love, Foxy, June 1757.

  She smiled softly, thinking of her dearest love. She was out now, with a troupe of her father’s slaves, working on the final touches to their beautiful home. They had decided to call it Dreams, for it was truly their dream house. Huddling together by the fire this past winter, they’d thought up and written out the plans for it and as soon as the weather had cleared, Foxy had been out every day, laboring. Almost finished now, she assured Maggie it would be ready for their special day.

  Although they couldn’t have a proper wedding, the two wanted to somehow commit their lives to one another. It had been her sister, little five-year-old Charity, who had overheard them and then said they needed to stand together in God’s house and let Him “light on them.” After laughing at the sentiment, they had agreed it was a good idea and they decided to stand in the chapel and with a prayer, allow God to light on them and their life together.

  They planned on no honeymoon trip, though Charles had offered to pay for one. They wanted to get on with their life together as soon as possible. Her lips curled deliciously as she thought of the huge four poster bed Foxy had told her of. Having bought it for herself years ago, now it was to be theirs. This year of abstinence had tried both their libidos to the breaking point.

  Chapter Fifteen

  FOXY STROLLED SLOWLY through the almost completed structure that was to be their new home. It was not half as large as Finley and didn’t have half the outbuildings as yet, but she was satisfied. Moving through, she was happy to see that the finishing touches to the interior were being completed. The ground floor was kitchen and cellar, the first floor, a sitting room, a dining room, and a library. Above that, four spacious bedrooms.

  Foxy often thought about children. Knowing that she and Maggie could not have biological children of their own, she had the idea that they might take in children who had been orphaned. In her mind, she could envision the home in years to come, filled with the chatter of children and it brought a smile of pleasure to her lips every time she thought it. Maggie would be a wonderful mother—she was but a child herself—and could enjoy the bundles produced by others who were not as fortunate.

  Her mental meandering was abruptly interrupted when a young worker approached and asked, in halting English, her opinion on a matter. Only then did she notice that the sun was hanging low in the sky. Moving rapidly through the structure, she dismissed the gang of workers and set out for home to dress for dinner with the Scotts.

  She entered the tiny cabin and noted that her father was already seated at the low, roughhewn table. This was an unusual occurrence, but her father did seem to be trying to depart from drinking so much. Foxy was thrilled to see him. In good spirits, she clapped him on the back.

  “Ho, Father! How grows the cotton?”

  Giles smiled and leaned back. “Grows well, grows good. How ought your little home? Is it well?”

  His daughter took a seat across from him and spoke excitedly. “Better than I ever expected. ‘Tis a real work of art, too. Scott has some mighty fine builders and carpenters. It should be finished by the end of the week.”

  Mary entered the back door and the two fell silent. Eyeing them warily, she crept to the rocking chair and sat fiddling her hands like a much older woman. As soon as she was seated, Foxy continued talking to her father, virtually ignoring her mother’s presence.

  “Can I ask for your help on the morrow, Da? I plan to hand carve the mantelpiece for the sitting room. There’s a pretty little oak near the house site that I’d like your help in felling. I’ll get the workers to help fell it, too, of course, but if you’d give me your opinion on the quality of the wood, I’d be obliged.”

  Giles seemed to have trouble containing his happiness at being asked for advice, and agreed happily. “Certainly, daughter. I can get one o’ the other men to take me place afield an’ I’ll be there early in the mornin’.”

  Foxy nodded and smiled, knowing that Giles never rose before ten of the clock. She didn’t mind though, she had a few more things to finish on the house before she wanted to drop the tree. She stood and stretched mightily. “I surely do appreciate it. Guess I’ll have a bath now and go on over to supper.”

  As her hand grasped the door handle, her mother’s pious voice rang out in the small room.

  “Ain’t going for nothing but trouble, gull. ‘Taint right, ‘taint right that you should be enterin’ into such a godless relation. Charity, that’s aw, ‘tis charity on Charles’s part. Fel’ sorry for ya, didn’t ’e? Poor working gull in love with the rich gull. Couldn’t let you pine away into noffing, now, could ’e?” She cackled uncontrollably, and her hands shook when she reached up to push back her tangled, matted hair.

  Giles’s flushed face took on an embarrassed, sheepish expression and he quickly averted his eyes when Foxy glanced his way. Foxy choked on her anger and with a muffled oath, left t
he cabin before she could lower herself to strike another woman, especially her own mother.

  Outside, she braced her back against the cool boards of the cabin. Breathing deeply, she fought for control and hated herself for letting her mother’s raving unnerve her. It should not affect her so after all this time. Perhaps it was the grain of truth that rang through her raving.

  Moving away from the wall, she looked at the small hovel and couldn’t help but compare it to Dreams. How glad she’d be to move away and into her own beautiful home. Staring at the tiny, two room structure with her lean-to on one side, she clenched her fists and almost hated her father for not staying sober long enough to build them a decent home. Maybe his mother’s favorite claim was right, Giles was a failure. Foxy could only pity him for letting the bottle win.

  “Mistress, is you angry?” The whispered question caused her anger to fade immediately and she turned around. Charles, six months past, had given Foxy two nice workers, one a mulatto, Simson, and a pure African Negro named Bish. Simson stood before her now and forcibly gentling her face, she patted him on the shoulder. “Naw, Sim, I think I’m just a little tired is all.”

  Sim’s eyes lit and the moonlight caught on his large pearly teeth. “Ise glad, Mistress, doan like to see you upset over nothin’. You did do a pow’ful lot of work today.”

  Foxy nodded in agreement and sighed. “Yeah, and still more tomorrow. I think I’ll make an early night of it.”

  “Yassum,” Sim grinned. “Let me he’p you wif yore baf watter. You wantin’ de watter heated up?”

  Depression had settled on Foxy so that she scarcely heard the slave’s question. She managed to shake her head and mutter a negative answer. Sim, as if sensing his mistress’s self-involvement, quietly set about situating the small copper tub before the fire in his mistress’s bedroom and filling it with well water. When all was ready, he fetched his wife, Cressa, who often looked after Foxy.