Even as I spoke I realized it sounded like the wildest fabrication. I could tell that he didn’t believe me. There was no earthly reason why he should. Hawke made no comment, and a long time passed before I summoned enough courage to speak again.
“Are—are there Indians in these woods?”
“Might be a few,” he replied. “They shouldn’t bother us.”
“How far are we going?”
“Quite a ways. We should reach Shadow Oaks tomorrow afternoon.”
“You mean—we’re going to spend the night in the woods?”
Hawke nodded. I shivered, trying to control my apprehension.
“You’ve nothing to fear, wench. I didn’t buy you to warm my bed.”
“No?”
“I was looking for a housekeeper, a stout, sturdy woman capable of splitting logs, scrubbing floors, helping the blacks out in the fields. You’re hardly what I had in mind, but I suppose you’ll have to do.”
“If that’s what you wanted, then why did you buy me?”
“To keep Rawlins from having you,” he replied.
“You and he are … rivals of some sort?”
“Hardly. I simply didn’t fancy seeing you end up in some whorehouse in New Orleans. Rawlins comes to all the auctions and buys cheap, resells the women in New Orleans at a steep profit. It’s a filthy business, one I don’t approve of.”
“You’ve bid against him before?”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t. I don’t rightly know why I started bidding against him this time. Damned foolish of me—” Hawke frowned, clicking the reins.
“I—I suppose I should be grateful to you.”
“You’re going to work, wench. You’re going to work damned hard. I paid too much for you, far more than I could afford, and I intend to get good value for my investment.”
“I see.”
“I treat my slaves well, I take good care of ’em, but I don’t tolerate laziness. I won’t tolerate it from you, either. You’ll find me a stern master, stern but fair.”
I did not reply. Hawke turned his head, looking at me for the first time since we had left the settlement.
“One other thing—and we’d better get this straight from the beginning. My slaves know their pace. They stay there. I don’t like gabby servants. I don’t like familiarity. Do you understand?”
“Thoroughly, Mr. Hawke.”
Neither of us said anything else. We rode in silence for what seemed hours, and finally Hawke turned the wagon off the road and stopped in a small clearing. Trees were close all around, long shadows spreading across the grass as darkness fell. I could hear water running nearby. Hawke unharnessed the horses and led them down to the river, tethering them to a tree when he returned. He handed me a canteen, then took a long rifle from the back of the wagon and disappeared into the woods again. A short while later I heard a shot, then another, and Hawke returned carrying two dead rabbits. Squatting on the ground, he took out a hunting knife, cut off the heads and began to skin the animals. Appalled, I watched, and, sensing my revulsion, Hawke looked up with a grim expression.
“Don’t just stand there,” he said sharply. “Gather firewood!”
I obeyed. The sun had gone down now. A deep purple haze settled over the woods as shadows thickened. Hawke built a primitive spit with two Y-shaped branches, driving them into the ground on either side of the stack of firewood, skewering the rabbits on another branch and placing it across the standing branches. He took flint from his pocket and soon had the fire going. By the time the flames danced like greedy orange tongues, the woods were entirely shrouded in darkness, and the flickering light was reassuring. Grease dripped from the rabbits, popping and crackling loudly. It was a pleasant sound. I was reminded of a gypsy encampment back in England. With his untidy raven hair and stern, handsome face, Derek Hawke might well have been some savage gypsy king.
As I leaned against the wagon, waiting for the rabbits to cook, I realized that I was famished. Behind me, leaves rustled noisily. Branches creaked. I thought I could hear stealthy footsteps in the woods, and I fancied I could feel hostile eyes watching us. Hawke seemed utterly unperturbed, although I noticed that he kept his rifle within easy reach. Removing the rabbits from the fire, he let them cool and then pulled one off the stick and handed it to me. He returned to the other side of the fire, sat down, and began to eat, tearing hunks of meat off with his hands. After a moment I did the same, much too hungry to be concerned with niceties.
The fire had died down by the time we finished eating. It had grown much colder. I shivered in my thin blouse, folding my arms around my waist. Noticing this, Hawke strolled over to the wagon and pulled out two rather moth-eaten blankets and tossed them to me.
“You sleep under the wagon. It’ll be warmer there. Drier, too, in case it rains.”
“You don’t intend to tie me up?” I asked. There was sarcasm in my voice.
“I don’t imagine it’ll be necessary. You won’t try to run away. If you did, you wouldn’t get far. If you’re harboring any such foolish notions, wench, forget ’em. You wouldn’t care for the consequences, I can assure you.”
Crawling under the wagon, I spread one of the blankets out on the ground, lay down on it and pulled the other blanket over me. Hawke scooped sand over the glowing coals and then went to see about the horses. I could hear him speaking to them in a soft, gentle voice. I wondered how long it would be before he joined me under the wagon.
I waited. Time passed. The darkness was blue-black, pale silvery moonlight streaming across the clearing. Insects buzzed. Leaves crackled. The wind through the trees made a steady, monotonous noise like hoarse whispers. It had grown much colder. I wrapped the top blanket closer about me, shifting my body, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard, stony ground. I could hear him moving around, and I felt something akin to anticipation. I wouldn’t welcome his advances, but I would welcome his nearness, because I was afraid of Indians, and I would welcome his warmth, because I was shivering cold. I waited … and eventually I slept.
I woke up with a start, terrified. There had been a noise, some dreadful cry … It came again, and I realized that it was merely an owl hooting. Several hours must have passed, for the first layers of darkness were beginning to evaporate, black gradually melting into deep gray. In the thin, misty moonlight I could see Derek Hawke stretched out on the ground several yards away, on his back, one arm curled under his head, the other at his side. He was fast asleep, the rifle beside him. He had no blanket, and I realized that he had given both to me, a curious bit of gallantry that seemed out of character.
I wondered why he hadn’t come to me. I was his property, his slave. He moaned in his sleep, changing positions and I gazed at him, studying the long, lean body, the incredibly handsome face. He didn’t seem nearly so severe now. In fact, in his sleep he seemed curiously vulnerable. Derek Hawke was an enigma, a man of many depths. Any other man would have pleasured himself, yet he had refrained from taking what was rightfully his. I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t disappointed.
III
I was already in the kitchen preparing the master’s breakfast when Cassie appeared, much later than usual. Seventeen years old, she was a superbly beautiful girl with luminous brown eyes and high, broad cheekbones. Her stiff black hair was clipped short, fitting her skull like a cap, and her skin was a creamy brown. Tall and slender, she wore a pink calico dress that clung to her generous curves. She looked exhausted this morning, and I detected a faint grayish pallor about her cheeks.
“Sorry I’m late, Miz Marietta,” she said quietly. “I’m feelin’ bone-weary, an’ my stomach’s actin’ up somethin’ awful. I—I thinks I’m breedin’. I ain’t bled for th’ longest time.”
“Sit down, Cassie. Here, let me pour you a cup of coffee. Did you have breakfast with the others?”
Cassie shook her head. “Mattie’s already done fed th’ others an’ they’re already goin’ about their work. I … I just couldn’t seem to pull my bones outta bed
this mornin’. Adam scolded me somethin’ awful, told me to git myself over to th’ big house ’fore th’ master come and whup me.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” I remarked, reaching for a fork to turn the ham sizzling in the skillet.
“He would so, Miz Marietta. Th’ master treats us fair, treats us much better’n most of th’ planters treat their slaves, but he don’t tol’rate no slackness. He don’t whup any of us very often, but when he takes a notion to do it, he whups so’s you ain’t likely to forgit.”
“He … he hasn’t beat any of the slaves since I’ve been here.”
“No ’urn, there ain’t been no need. None of th’ niggers uv given him a reason to whup ’em. He ain’t never used that ridin’ crop on me, ain’t never used it on any of us wimmin that I know of, but me, I ain’t lookin’ to be th’ first.”
Derek Hawke had only thirty slaves, far fewer than most of the other planters in the area, and the majority of them were field hands. Since Mattie had been banished to the cabins, Cassie was the only ‘house nigger,’ assigned to help me with my chores. They all lived in the row of cabins behind the barn, Cassie sharing a room with her husband, Adam, Hawke’s chief hand, a powerful black who acted as overseer to the other slaves. Adam’s father had been a king in Africa, Cassie informed me, and there was an undeniable majesty about Adam himself. Captured by slavers when he was ten years old, Adam was magnificiently built, his skin like polished ebony. Other planters had offered Hawke a small fortune for the buck, but Hawke adamantly refused to sell.
“I … I’d better help you,” Cassie said. “It’s gettin’ late. Th’ master’ll be expectin’ his tray.”
“You sit still, Cassie. Finish your coffee. I’ll prepare his tray.”
The girl looked relieved, slumping lethargically in the wooden chair. I took the skillet off the stove and placed the fried ham on a plate, then opened the oven door to check on the biscuits. During the two months I had been at Shadow Oaks I had become a pretty fair cook, an accomplishment of which I was exceedingly proud. Mattie had taught me everything she knew. Weighing well over two hundred pounds, slow-moving, amiable, Mattie had served as Hawke’s cook-housekeeper ever since he had purchased Shadow Oaks twelve years ago. She was well over sixty now and delighted to be relieved of her heavy responsibilities. When she wasn’t supervising the slaves’ meals out in the cookhouse, she spent most of her time rocking on the porch of her cabin and dipping the snuff Hawke so generously supplied.
“There,” I said, “the tray’s ready. Don’t stir yourself, Cassie. I’ll take it to him.”
“You … you ain’t never done it before. He might not like it, might think I’m shirkin’—”
“Nonsense.”
“I cain’t just sit here, Miz Marietta. I has to be doin’ somethin’.”
“You can start peeling those peaches in the bucket over there. I’m planning to bake a peach pie for his supper this evening.”
“You’s always doin’ somethin’ special like that,” Cassie remarked. “You caters to him like he wuz a spoilt little boy, havin’ everything just so for ’im. His things ain’t never been kept so fine, the house ain’t never been kept so clean an’ proper. He ain’t never been fed so well, either. Mattie never baked him no peach pies.”
“It’s my job to see that he’s pleased, Cassie.”
“An’ he treats you just like one of us niggers. When he brung you to Shadow Oaks and gave you his wife’s old room, we all reckoned you was goin’ to be his woman as well as takin’ over Mattie’s chores. He ain’t never even tried you.”
“That’s none of your concern, Cassie,” I retorted, my voice much sharper than I had intended. “It’s not your place to gossip about the master’s—the master’s business.”
“I’m sorry, Miz Marietta. I wuzn’t meanin’ to be uppity, but … well, it’s just that you’s a white lady and beautiful as sin and it don’t seem natural-like, him havin’ you in th’ house an’ not wantin’ you. Ticularly when you’re hankerin’ for it.”
“That’s enough, Cassie! Get started on those peaches!”
Taking up the tray, I left the kitchen abruptly, my cheeks burning. The girl had meant no harm, I knew, but her remarks had been much too close to the bone. Derek Hawke had not touched me, not once during the two months I had been here, nor had he shown the least inclination. His manner had been cool and stern and remote. Although I knew he was pleased with my work, he never commented on it, and he rarely spoke unless it was to issue an order. I told myself that I was fortunate that he didn’t expect me to perform those more intimate services, but deep down I had to admit that I would have performed them almost willingly.
The wide main hall that intersected the house was still dim, the walls washed with soft blue gray shadows, although rays of early morning sunlight slanted through the glass panes above the front door. Shadow Oaks was much smaller than those houses we had passed on our way back from the auction. Its one-story white frame structure had a wide verandah on three sides and a bricked-in kitchen in back; Shabby, run down, sadly in need of a new coat of paint, it had no impressive columns, no elegant trimmings, and the furnishings could hardly be called splendid. The giant oaks that surrounded the house added a touch of regal beauty, but the “plantation” was actually little more than a farm.
I tapped softly on the door of the master bedroom, then pushed it open. The faded gold brocade draperies had already been parted, sunlight spilling through the windows to make bright patterns on the threadbare rose-and-gray carpet. The huge mahogany four-poster was empty, pillows dented, sheets and gold brocade counterpane pushed back in a tangle. Hawke stood at the mirror, shaving, his back to me.
“You’re late, Cassie!” he said sharply. “You should have been here a good half-hour ago. I should already be out in the fields. Set the tray on the bedside table and then get out of here. I’m in a foul mood!”
“So I see,” I remarked.
Hawke had put his razor down and was wiping his face with a wet cloth. He turned around, startled by my voice.
“Where’s Cassie?” he demanded.
“She’s in the kitchen. She’s not feeling well this morning.”
“Oh?”
“I think she’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Hawke looked pleased. “She and Adam are both splendid creatures. Their child—a son, I hope—is bound to be superb, worth a good deal of money.”
“Undoubtedly.”
I set the tray down and turned to leave.
“You think me callous?” he inquired.
“It’s not my place to judge you one way or another, Mr. Hawke.”
“That’s quite true. You do, though. I can see it in your eyes. You think me a callous, mercenary brute. Slaves are like cattle, extremely valuable livestock. Mine receive much better treatment than most.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“I feed ’em, I cloth ’em, I see that they have a warm, dry place to sleep, fetch a doctor for ’em when they’re sick. I work ’em hard, yes, but that’s what they’re for.”
“Indeed.”
“I don’t breed ’em for a profit—a number of planters I could name run regular breeding farms, even hire out their bucks for stud service. I don’t do that, though I’ve been offered a pretty penny for Adam’s services. When my fellow planters couldn’t buy him from me, they wanted to rent him to service their wenches. I—hell, why should I be justifying myself to you!’
“Why indeed,” I replied.
Hawke stared at me, not certain whether or not a rebuke was called for. Had I been impertinent? He had already pulled on his tall boots and gray breeches, but his chest was bare. His torso was lean and smoothly muscled. The sight was mildly disturbing, and I lowered my eyes, wishing he weren’t so young and strong and handsome, wishing I could hate him as he deserved to be hated.
“If there’s nothing else—” I began.
“We’ll want to lighten Cassie’s duties somewhat,” he informed me. “I wou
ldn’t want to risk anything happening to the child. She’s not to take on any of the heavy work, no lifting, no straining. I suppose I could bring one of the other wenches in to help out—” He hesitated, clearly not taken with the idea.
“That won’t be necessary,” I replied. “I can manage nicely with Cassie handling the lighter tasks.”
“Fine,” he said curtly.
I left the room and returned to the kitchen. Later, when I was certain he had left the house, I went back up to his room and made the bed, smoothing back the sheets that still smelled of his body, pulling the counterpane back over the pillows. As I ran my hands over the silky gold fabric, I wondered about this strange, enigmatic man who owned me, who was apparently unaware of me as a female. I wondered, too, about his wife, Alice, who had slept in a smaller room down the hall, the room he had assigned to me. What had happened to her, and why had it been necessary for them to have separate bedrooms?
Hawke had never once referred to her in my presence, and when I had questioned Cassie and Mattie about her, both women had looked frightened. Mattie finally confessed that the master had forbidden any of them to so much as mention her name.
“She wuz a bad un, Mis Marietta,’ Mattie told me. “Lawd, what she done to th’ master—it ain’t fittin’ to speak about.”
She had refused to say more, and I had not pressured her. I wondered if Alice was responsible for that icy, impenetrable shell he had built around himself. It seemed likely, I thought, longing to know more about the woman who had once lived at Shadow Oaks, whose name Hawke forbade any of the servants to speak.
Cassie ordinarily carried Hawke’s lunch out to him where he was working in the fields. I didn’t know whether this qualified as “heavy work” or not, but after I had finished packing the basket and folding a clean cloth over it, I told the girl that I would take the master his lunch myself. Cassie looked relieved, for it was an extremely warm day, the sun blazing fiercely. The heat and the long walk to the north field wouldn’t have been good for her.
Leaving by the kitchen door, I stepped outside, passed under the giant oaks that veiled the yard with hazy violet-gray shadows, and moved past the weathered old barn with hay spilling out of the loft, past the stables and the row of cabins. Half-naked black children were playing noisily in the sun. Two strapping wenches in cotton dresses and bandanas were stringing laundry up to dry. Mattie was sitting in a rocker in front of her cabin, heavy, lethargic, contentedly dipping her snuff. I smiled, waving, and the old slave acknowledged my wave with a nod. Her grandson, Caleb, was halfheartedly repairing a wheel on the old wooden wagon I had slept under so many weeks ago.
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