“Mawnin’, Miz Marietta,” the boy said pleasantly.
A tall, stringy youth of fourteen, Caleb had creamy, coffee-colored skin, enormous eyes, a slack mouth. Mattie called him “a no-’count nigger” and accused him of being shiftless and “totin’ things that don’t belong to him,” but I found the boy warm and friendly, a dreamy lad who was undeniably slow-moving but always eager to do errands for me. Too thin and sickly to work in the fields, Caleb did odd jobs around the place, like repairing the wheel, although Mattie claimed he spent most of his time down by the creek fishing with a bamboo pole.
“You goin’ to need me for somethin’ this aft’noon, Miz Marietta?” he asked in his softly slurred voice.
“Not this afternoon, Caleb.”
“You goin’ to make some of them molasses cookies an’ slip me some liken you did last week?”
“I’m afraid not, Caleb. I’m baking a peach pie for the master.”
“Peach pie,” he said dreamily. “Ol’ Mattie don’t never make us niggers somethin’ like that.”
“You ask real nicely, Caleb, and perhaps she will.”
The boy sighed and went back to his work. I strolled under the oaks that bordered the grounds and started across the field of cotton that seemed to stretch to infinity. The sky was a hard steel-blue, the sunlight blinding, and heat waves rose from the ground and shimmered in the air above the rows of sturdy green plants. I was soon perspiring and the bodice of my blue cotton dress clung damply to my breasts. A white apron was belted tightly around my waist. I lifted a corner of it to wipe my face. My hair fell in deep waves that seemed heavy and damp. I wondered how men could possibly work hour after hour in such intense heat.
I could see Hawke and Adam in the distance. Both men had hoes, and they were clearing weeds from around a row of plants. Adam wore no shirt. His back and shoulders gleamed like varnished ebony. The sleeves of Hawke’s white cotton shirt were rolled up over his forearms. The garment was plastered to his chest in wet patches. As I drew nearer, he put down his hoe and came toward me, removing his broad-brimmed straw hat and shoving a wet black lock from his forehead. Adam continued to work.
“You’ve brought my lunch,” Hawke said.
“I didn’t think Cassie should be out in this heat.”
“Nor should you,” he replied, taking the basket from me. “You could easily get sunstroke, not being used to it.”
“Then you’d have to buy another housekeeper.”
Hawke let the comment pass. He lifted the cloth and examined the food with considerable interest.
“Fried chicken, potato salad, cold biscuits with butter, even a jar of iced tea—you take good care of me, Marietta.”
I was startled. It was the first compliment he had ever paid me.
“That’s why I’m not going to do anything about that sarcastic remark,” he continued. “I suggest you guard your tongue in the future, though. I’m not likely to overlook another such barb.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, elaborately meek.
“What are you serving for dinner tonight?”
“Ham hocks, beans, cornbread. I thought I’d bake a peach pie this afternoon.”
“You spoil me, Marietta.”
He gazed at me, and for a moment there was something like admiration in his eyes. Flushed, sweaty, a streak of dirt across his cheek, he didn’t seem nearly as remote as he ordinarily was. That icy barrier was gone, and I sensed a warmth that had never been there before. He seemed about to say something more, and then he scowled, the steely reserve returning.
“Next time you come out in the sun, you wear a bonnet, you hear? I don’t want you getting sick on me. And if you’re going to bring my lunch to me, bring it on time! The niggers have already eaten their meal and come back to work. I should have had this basket an hour ago.”
“You’ll have it on time in the future.”
“See that I do,” he said curtly.
I turned and started back across the field, my cheeks burning. He was a monster, I told myself, without feeling. I had imagined that moment of warmth. I must have. Derek Hawke was incapable of warmth, incapable of any genuine human emotion. As I hurried back down the rows of cotton, I was horrified to feel my eyes stinging and trails of salty tears running down my cheeks. I brushed the tears away savagely, irate that I should have shed them. I was his servant, his slave, nothing more, and that’s the way it would always be. I hated him, I told myself. I hated him with all my heart, and I was glad he never noticed me, glad he never come down the hall at night and into my bedroom. He was cold and ruthless and hard and … and I was glad he didn’t want me in bed.
Passing under the oaks again, I moved more slowly across the yard, past the cabins, past stables and barn, trying to control the conflicting emotions inside. During those interminable weeks aboard ship, Jack had shown me the true meaning of passion, and he had proved beyond a doubt that I was my mother’s daughter. Her blood was in my veins, but I would overcome it. I felt a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach and an undeniable aching sensation inside every time I was near the man who owned me. I desired him, yes, but it was a purely physical sensation. I would thrust it aside. I would forbid myself ever to think of him in that way again. I would bank those fires in my blood, smother them, and I would be as icy and frigid as Derek Hawke was himself.
I worked furiously that afternoon, scrubbing the kitchen floor, cleaning woodwork, polishing the furniture in the front parlor. Later on, while Cassie sat at the kitchen table cleaning the silverware, I made the peach pie, sorry that I had mentioned it to him and was therefore obliged to make it. There would be no more special dishes in the future. I promised myself that. I would do the work he had brought me here to do, and I would cook his meals, but I would never again go out of my way to please him. He could take his peach pie and … and choke on it!
The kitchen window was open and after I took the pie out of the oven, I set it on the window sill to cool. As I did so, I heard a wagon coming around the side of the house. Hawke and his men were still out in the fields, and I wondered who could be calling at this time of afternoon. Wiping my hands on my apron, I stepped out the back door to see. The old farm wagon was pulled by a plump gray horse, and the woman holding the reins was almost as plump as her horse. Eccentrically dressed in scuffed black kid boots and a shabby emerald-green riding habit that was deplorably soiled, she had a lined, leathery face and wildly untidy steel-gray hair piled on top of her head in what resembled a bird’s nest. Stopping the wagon under one of the oaks, she alighted with surprising agility for one her size.
“You must be Hawke’s new housekeeper,” she said warmly. “I’m Widow Simmons, gal. I own Magnolia Grove, the plantation to the east o’ here. You can call me Maud. Everyone else does.”
“I’m Marietta Danver.”
“Lands sake, honey—I hope you don’t mind my being frank, but you don’t look like no convict gal I ever saw, and you sure as hell didn’t pick up that accent in the slums o’ London. I mean no offense, honey.”
“None taken, Mrs. Simmons.”
“Maud, honey, call me Maud. I’ve been dyin’ to meet you so’s I could spread the word to all the other planters. We’re a gossipy bunch, like to keep close tabs on each other. Hawke’s a loner, keeps to himself, and that makes him all the more intriguing.”
“What can I do for you?” I inquired.
“Actually, one of my horses pulled a muscle and I’m fresh outta liniment. Hawke generally keeps a bottle in the stables, and I thought I might borrow some.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I’ll go see if there is some.”
“I’ll tag along with you, honey. I rarely get a chance to chat with anyone. Runnin’ a big plantation like Magnolia Grove ain’t no job for a woman alone. I’ve been runnin’ myself ragged ever since my Bill died goin’ on twelve years ago.”
As we strolled toward the stables, I noticed Caleb lingering under one of the oaks, watching us closely. Maud Simmons moved along besid
e me in brisk strides, chattering merrily. She seemed an amiable soul, frank and earthy, starved for a chance to talk. A pungent odor clung to the skirt of her emerald riding habit, and I noticed that her boots were caked with mud. I hoped it was mud. We found a bottle of liniment on a shelf in the stables, and after we stepped back outside she seemed reluctant to leave.
“I’m glad Hawke’s got someone like you to take care of him,” she confided. “I’ve been worried about him for some time, I don’t mind tellin’ you. Ever since that awful woman did him the way she did, he’s been … well, antisocial ain’t the word for it.”
“Oh?”
“He never has anything to do with the rest of us, never comes visitin’, never invites anyone to Shadow Oaks. Ever since she ran out on him, he’s kept to himself, brooding, nursing his bitterness.”
I could see that she was eager to gossip, and although I knew it was wrong to encourage her, I couldn’t resist the opportunity.
“I … I suppose you’re referring to … Mrs. Hawke,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about her. He’s never mentioned her name.”
“I ain’t surprised,” Maud replied. “It’s been four years now since she ran off with that actor fellow, three years years since she died uv the fever in a squalid room in Charleston.”
“She … she was unfaithful?”
“Unfaithful? Honey, that ain’t the word for it. Even when they was first married and had just moved to Shadow Oaks, she had her eye on the other men. She was a pretty thing, one of them delicate blonds with sultry blue eyes and finicky ways. She wasn’t finicky about men, though. She came from one of the best families in Carolina, but she had the morals of a trollop.”
“Did he—love her?”
“He thought she hung the moon. In the beginning, that is. Later on, he stopped caring. He forced himself to stop caring. Her conduct was an open scandal, and she couldn’t have cared less. Then this group of actors came to the neighborhood and pitched their tent and put on shows. Alice couldn’t take her eyes off the leading man. When she ran off with him, I think Hawke was relieved. He refused to take her back. The actor dumped her after a few months, and she was stranded in Charleston without funds. She wrote to Hawke, begging him to come fetch her, but he wouldn’t even answer the letter—” Maud paused, shaking her head.
“What happened?” I prompted.
“She found herself another man. Her kind always does. We finally heard that she had the fever—some say it was the fever, some say it was something else, something polite folks don’t mention. A month later she was dead. Hawke sent money for her burial, but he refused to go to Charleston for the funeral. He’s been a different man ever since.”
“I’m glad you told me all this,” I said. “It helps me understand a lot of things.”
Maud examined me closely, her head tilted to one side. “You in love with him, girl?”
The question took me by complete surprise. I flushed, unable to reply.
“You are,” she remarked. “It’s plain as day.”
“I’m an indentured servant, a slave, and he—”
“That don’t matter in the least, not when it comes to affairs of the heart.” Maud took my hand and squeezed it tightly. “I don’t know anything about you, girl, don’t know how you happened to run afoul of the law, but I know character and breeding when I see it. Derek Hawke needs a woman like you, and I’m glad he’s got you.”
“I’m not his woman,” I said stiffly. “I’m his housekeeper, nothing more.”
Maud’s leathery old face registered complete surprise. “You mean he hasn’t—” She shook her head, the crazy gray bird’s nest threatening to topple. “I find that hard to believe—a gal who looks like you, a man as healthy as Hawke—”
“Mrs. Simmons,” I interrupted. “I really don’t think it’s any of—”
“Don’t you fret, gal. He’ll come round. He’s bound to. That woman hurt him, hurt him bad, and no doubt he bears a grudge against all women for what she done to him, but he’s a man and with a gal like you under the same roof—” She clicked her tongue. “It’s just a matter of time, honey. Just a matter of time.”
I made no reply, knowing anything I might say would be misinterpreted by this good-natured busybody. Maud said she’d best be getting back to Magnolia Grove, and I walked over to the wagon with her. Clutching the bottle of liniment, she swung nimbly up onto the seat, her swaying skirts exuding a pungent odor. She thanked me for the liniment, told me she’d had a delightful visit and, clicking the reins, bade me goodbye. I stood there under the shade of the oak, watching her turn the wagon around in the back yard and circle around to the front of the house.
I lingered under the tree for a long time, thinking of all she had told me. Then, realizing that it was getting late and knowing I should already have started dinner, I went back into the house. Cassie had finished cleaning the silver and was getting ready to mix up the cornbread batter. I had put the beans on much earlier, and they were bubbling on top of the stove with scraps of ham for flavor. Cassie seemed apprehensive, her lovely brown eyes full of alarm.
“I’ll do that,” I said, taking the wooden spoon from her hand. “Dinner should be ready on time. I had no idea Mrs. Simmons was going to stay so long.”
I cracked eggs on the side of the heavy blue bowl and began to beat them into the meal. At first I thought that Cassie was alarmed because she feared dinner would be late, but I could see that that wasn’t what was bothering her. I asked her what was wrong, and the girl seemed reluctant to answer. She frowned, gently gnawing her lower lip.
“It—it’s that pie, Miz Marietta. The one you done baked for th’ master.”
“What about it?”
“It’s gone,” she said. “One minute it was restin’ there on th’ window sill, coolin’ off, and th’ next minute it was gone. Someone took it, Miz Marietta. It wuzn’t me, I swears it.”
“Caleb,” I said to myself.
“He was hangin’ around in th’ back yard. I wuzn’t gonna say anything ’bout it—me, I don’t wanna get no one in trouble—but it must-a been him, Miz Marietta. He’s always takin’ things, sneakin’ into th’ kitchen to see what he can tote off. Mattie used to get after him somethin’ awful, but she never told on him—”
“I shan’t tell on him, either, Cassie. I’ll reprimand the boy myself. There’s no reason why the master should find out about it.”
“Th’ master, he knows Caleb’s totin’ ways. Mattie never told on him, but th’ master knowed anyway. He called Caleb in an’ told him if he ever caught him stealin’ food again, he’d peel his hide. He will, too. Th’ master don’t make idle threats.”
“Don’t worry, Cassie. I’ll cover for him.”
Through the open window I could hear the slaves returning to their cabins. Mattie and her girls were busy in the cookhouse, preparing the evening meal. I saw Caleb sauntering across the back yard, a satisfied expression on his face, and a few minutes later I heard Hawke come in. By the time he had washed and changed clothes, I had the table set in the dining room and was ready to serve his meal. He entered just as I was bringing the food in from the kitchen. As I placed it on the table, I told him that Mrs. Simmons had come by and that I had loaned her a bottle of liniment. Hawke grimaced, clearly disliking the woman, but he made no comment.
Returning to the kitchen, I found Adam and Cassie already sitting at the battered old wooden table. As Cassie took her meals here with me, I had requested that Adam be permitted to join us for dinner each evening. Hawke had shrugged his shoulders, saying that if I wanted the buck to eat in the kitchen with me it didn’t matter to him. Cassie had set a place for me, and she was buttering the cornbread as I sat down. Both of them looked grim. I could tell that Cassie had already told her husband about the missing pie.
“That boy goin’ to get his butt skinned yet,” Adam said. His voice was deep and throaty, somewhere between a purr and a growl. “I told him, I says, ‘Caleb, you better watch yore step,
boy.’ I told him th’ master wuz just spoilin’ for a chance to take th’ whip to him, but he didn’t pay me no mind. Effin th’ master finds out—”
“He won’t, Adam. Caleb’s just a boy. I’ll speak to him, and I’m sure he won’t do anything like this again.”
“That boy don’t have no sense. He don’t have no real job, jest gets to idle about while we’s workin’ in th’ fields. He have it easier’n anyone, and he pulls somethin’ like this. I’d like to whup him myself.”
“Eat your beans before they get cold, Adam,” I said, more sharply than I had intended.
Adam scowled, his expression quite fierce. With his great size and immense strength he easily dominated the table. Despite his patched tan breeches and faded blue workshirt, I could easily imagine him as chief of some proud, savage African tribe. I thought it a shame that such a splendid man should be little more than a beast of burden. Slavery had existed ever since the Greeks, of course, but that made it none the less unsavory. For all practical purposes, I was a slave myself.
When Adam finished his plate of beans, Cassie lovingly spooned out more for him, then got up to fetch more cornbread. As she put it on the table, she rested her hands on his shoulder, rubbing it gently, her eyes glowing with a love poignant to behold. Cassie found it hard to believe she had such a man, and she found it difficult to keep from touching him at every opportunity, as though to reassure herself that he was real. Adam accepted her worship as his just due, and though he frequently scowled and pushed her away, pretending indifference, I knew that he was equally proud of her. On occasion, when he thought no one was observing, he let his guard down, and I had seen that same love burning in his eyes as he watched Cassie going about her duties.
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