“Could you make a short broth? Something for the girl upstairs?”
“I believe so,” he said. “There are some lamb shank bones I was saving to make pocket soup.”
“Good, good,” she said, wiping her hands down the front of her skirt. “Oney, please mix up some willow bark tea. You’ll have to go to the apothecary for the bark.”
Oney curtsied and made for the door. “And be quick about it!” Mrs. Washington said after her. “We are to have ten for supper tomorrow, Hercules,” she said, turning back to him. “Can you do well enough without the girl? Should we hire in for the day?”
“I think I can do well enough with Nate here, Lady Washington,” said Hercules, nodding toward the boy. Mrs. Washington turned to examine the young man critically.
“Well, if you are sure …” she said nervously.
“I have ordered sweetmeats from the confectioner already,” he said. “Nate has a light hand with his pie crusts and he will get started on the tarts as soon as we are done preparing the meal for tonight. I’ll slice one of our Mount Vernon hams as well and that will help fill the table.”
Now Mrs. Washington smiled. “Good,” she said, and bustled out of the room.
The rest of the evening was filled with supper preparations and getting ahead of the work for the next day. Oney flounced in with the apothecary packet and made the willow bark tea, complaining all the while.
“Here, add this to your tray,” Hercules said to her, ladling some broth into a porringer.
“Madam better recover soon,” she said nastily. “I’ll not be her handmaiden.”
“Oney,” began Austin, just come in from the stable. “Have a care …”
She turned on him in a flash, ready to bicker, but before they could begin—she shrill and he calm—Nate straightened up from garnishing a standing pork pie with dough cutouts and set his knife down. He crossed over to where Oney was holding the tray and grabbed hold of its handles.
“I’ll take it,” he said, pulling the tray from her so a bit of the soup slopped over the side of the porringer.
“Well, well,” said Oney, smirking. “Miss your little shadow, do you?”
Nate opened his mouth to answer but Hercules cut in first.
“Be quick about it, then,” he said sharply. Behind Oney’s shoulder, he gave Nate a pointed look. “Oney, you best get on.”
Oney looked at Hercules over her shoulder and gave a sly grin.
“Yes, I reckon I best be,” she said, giving her brother an arch glance before walking out of the kitchen, head held high.
Nate turned with the tray to follow her out as quickly as he dared without the contents of the bowls being completely lost.
CHAPTER 14
HERCULES GLANCED OUT THE DOOR AT Margaret and Nate working in the chicken yard. He was mucking out the coop and she was sitting in a chair picking through a bowl of hominy and throwing the marred grains to the birds. Although it had been nearly two weeks since her illness, she was still pale and winded easily.
Nate had told him how he’d found the girl on the cot, delirious with fever, the counterpane splattered red from the bloodletting. She had mistaken Nate for her father and then cried when he was not. The boy had spent the better part of an hour up there until Hercules had bounded up the stairs in a rage, looking for him.
Unseen, Hercules had stood there looking at the pathetic creature lying there with Nate holding a spoon uselessly up to her mouth. Her skin looked clammy, like a plucked chicken carcass. Her hair was plastered to her forehead in greasy wisps.
For a moment he felt sorry for the girl, then quickly felt foolish. She was young, and as soon as her indenture was over her lot in life would be a damn sight better than his own. He’d returned to his kitchen and worked Nate hard for the rest of the afternoon and night until the boy, nearly falling from exhaustion, made his way to his own pallet and collapsed there.
Now the two were inseparable and Hercules had tired of making tasks to keep them apart—a difficult proposition in a kitchen where they all had to work together. All he could do now was hope to intervene when anyone of import might take note. Austin just shook his head when he walked by them and Oney had taken to calling Margaret Nate’s “specter” on account of her sickly pallor. Even Old Moll had watched them curiously as they sat together upon a bench, speaking in low tones as they snapped green beans.
Annoyed, Hercules grabbed a wooden bowl and headed out to where some wild strawberries clustered against the outside of the garden wall. There might yet be some that had survived the pelting rain of the last few weeks, and he would use them for an iced cream.
“Good afternoon,” a voice said pleasantly behind him as he stretched forward.
Hercules briefly looked up from where he squatted. There stood the scribbler who had been dogging him all those days in Philadelphia.
“Afternoon, sir,” he said politely but without any warmth.
“Perhaps you don’t recall,” the man went on. “I am Gilbert Stuart—we know each other.”
“I recall,” said Hercules, pushing aside leaves to see if he had missed any of the small red berries.
The other man did not seem to have an answer for this.
“I’ve just been to see your master,” he tried again.
Hercules paused for a split second before resuming his work.
“Yes, sir,” said Hercules, his mind racing. Had Stuart told the General about the incident in the city? If Washington believed any of his slaves were in danger he would certainly ship them all back to Virginia. They all knew he was already nervous about them taking advantage of the freedom law. Damn this man.
“I want to paint him, you see,” Stuart went on. “I am a painter.”
Hercules moved farther down the fence and forced his voice to remain calm. “There’s many as want to paint the General, sir.”
“Indeed so,” Stuart said. He followed Hercules’s progress by a few steps, hovering annoyingly as he gleaned the last of the strawberries from the patch.
“He refused me as a matter of fact,” said Stuart finally. “Rather a recalcitrant old fellow, isn’t he?”
There was no good answer for this, and Hercules didn’t want to give one, so he kept on at his work, hoping the irritating man would leave. Instead, the painter followed him along, watching as he worked.
“I didn’t tell him about the last time we met,” Stuart said finally. Hercules stood slowly and brushed the dust from the knees of his britches. Finally, the man had come to his purpose.
“And why is that, sir?” he said, trying to keep the relief out of his voice.
“I’m sure I can’t say,” answered the other man pleasantly. “I imagine it would not help my case.”
“I couldn’t speak to that, now, could I?” said Hercules, leaning over for the bowl.
“You are called Hercules, are you not?” asked Stuart, blocking the smaller man’s way.
Now Hercules narrowed his eyes. “It seems you are more of a detective than a painter, sir,” he said calmly. “First you follow me about the town and now we find you here.”
“So you knew—” said Stuart, his eyes widening, but then he stopped abruptly and smiled what Hercules supposed was the man’s most charming smile.
“I suppose I find you interesting, Hercules,” he said.
Hercules studied him a long moment. What did the man really want?
“Do you?” he said sarcastically. He’d had his fill of this crazed fool.
“Yes, I do,” said Stuart. “I should like to paint you, as a matter of fact.”
Now Hercules smirked openly. The man was truly insane, spouting mad thoughts, as if his wild hair and disheveled clothes hadn’t proved that enough. “I doubt you’ll be getting a commission from the General to paint the likes of one of his slaves. His horse maybe, but not one of his slaves.”
Stuart smiled again. “I don’t mean as a commission,” he said. “I would like to paint you for myself, Hercules.” He paused and lea
ned in closer. “I like the look of you.”
The man was a complete lunatic, thought Hercules. But then, that was often the way of white people—subject to whims and strange desires they expected to be fulfilled.
“And even if I agreed, how would you suppose a person such as myself could simply put aside the time to be painted as if he were a gentleman?”
Stuart’s face became serious. “Oh, I know you come and go quite freely, remember, Hercules? That’s how we met the last time.”
Hercules’s jaw hardened. The man was threatening him.
“I’m not sure I’d care to,” he said in a low growl.
“No, I expect you wouldn’t,” said Stuart, taking a step toward him. “But I suggest you consider it, or I might have to have a conversation with the General.”
Hercules hoped the panic wouldn’t show in his eyes. He forced himself to smile easily. “I suggest you do so then,” he said, bowing slightly. He made to move around the artist, hoping he would not call his bluff.
Stuart put his hand on Hercules’s arm as he passed. “Wait,” he said. “I wouldn’t care to do that—as a first resort. I doubt it would serve either of us.”
Hercules looked at the hand grasping his arm. The nails were bitten down to the quick and the skin was raw and red.
“Perhaps there is something else you want,” said Stuart. “Just think on it. I am at the small stone house about a quarter mile down the road on this same side of the street. There is a barn in the back that I use partly for my studio. There’s a weathervane upon it of an Indian drawing back a bow.”
Hercules stood stock-still, staring straight ahead, until the painter finally released his arm and went on his way.
He balanced the package of shirts newly made for him and Austin on top of his market basket. Kitt had been happy to let Hercules run this errand, preferring, as always, to use his time on whatever he did during his many trips out.
The tailor’s shop stood close enough to Stuart’s house that Hercules could gaze upon it easily. It was a small house surrounded by a rather large yard, set back from the street. The barn-studio was tucked away into the corner, fairly far from the road. As he watched, a charwoman emptied a slop bucket into the yard, sending an arc of dirty water high into the air.
Hercules studied the house a bit longer. Few people came down this part of the road unless they had business at the tailor’s or the apothecary, but that was daytime trade. The town tavern was at the opposite end of High Street.
There were no animals in the yard, not even a single chicken. Clearly Stuart did not mean to keep this house in Germantown long—no doubt only for the few weeks required to stay close to possible patrons during the summer.
Hercules doubted the painter was in enough coin to hire live-in help, and the charwoman he saw was probably a local who only came in during the days.
This could work.
Hercules turned, smiling, and headed back down the street toward the President’s House. He might have to pay Mr. Stuart an evening visit after all.
CHAPTER 15
MR. KITT HAD RETIRED TO HIS room, leaving the kitchen staff to finish clearing away the supper things. The night had been a long one, with the Washingtons returning the invitations of several of the prominent families in town who had entertained them during the summer.
Nate and Margaret stood at the deep washtub, shoulders touching. He was scrubbing the dishes and then handing them to her to rinse and dry. They murmured together in low voices, their words occasionally loud enough to float across the room to where Hercules was grinding cornmeal and Oney was sewing a mobcap. Beside her, her brother Austin was polishing his boots, stopping occasionally to tease his sister about her fussy stitching and talking about what he had seen and heard in the capital earlier in the day.
“Like a ghost town it is,” he said, taking up a soft cloth to rub on the boots. “Guess folks haven’t forgotten about what happened last year.”
“Is the fever back?” Oney asked her brother.
“Not much as I’ve heard,” said Austin, shrugging. “A few cases. Can’t be too bad if the General keeps coming and going.”
Oney considered this. “Still and all, you should try and stay away from folks as much as you can—sit up there on the carriage, away from the vapors, until he wants you.”
Austin smiled and nudged her playfully, “Yes, little mama.”
Margaret and Nate began to move about the kitchen putting away pans and crockery.
Oney swatted Austin away and then eyed them before going on. “I heard Mrs. Washington telling Nelly that terrible Betsey wants to come for a visit when we go back to Philadelphia,” she said.
Betsey, Mrs. Washington’s granddaughter, was Nelly’s older sister. She was known for her bossy ways and high temper. She stomped around the house and picked on everyone and everything. The only person she had eyes for was her step-grandfather, and the only time her voice didn’t reach a shrill pitch was when she spoke to him.
Austin only grunted and continued polishing his boots. Hercules kept grinding his corn.
Oney looked from one to the other of them and then pursed her mouth. “Y’all have nothing to say?” she said snappishly. “You know what a misery that Betsey is, and I’m the one that will have to tend to her. She’s a tribulation to be sure.”
Behind her Hercules saw Margaret raise her eyebrows at Nate, who shrugged.
“My dear Oney, everyone is a tribulation to you. Work is a tribulation to you,” said Hercules, amused. “You seem to forget that is the only reason why we are here.”
Austin smirked and put the boots on the floor.
“Lord knows that’s true,” he said. “Anyhow, why you working yourself up already? Betsey ain’t here yet.”
Oney gave her brother a narrow-eyed look. “Betsey ain’t here yet,” she mimicked him.
“Betsey might not be here for a year, but just the thought of her being here ever is enough to sour my stomach from now until then,” she said, standing up and clutching her sewing.
“Aw, Oney, don’t take on so,” said Austin, standing too. “I can’t imagine she could be any worse than any of them.”
“What do you know, Austin?” Oney said, pushing her face up close to his. “The closest you get to one of these uppity white ladies is to hand her into a carriage and out of it. You don’t have to hurry and fetch and arrange their clothes and clean their chamber pots and pretend it don’t stink worse than what comes out of your own black ass.”
“Oh!” Margaret burst out. Oney turned to her in fury.
“Don’t you act scandalized, Miss,” Oney hissed. “Floating around here like a sorry little cur. You may have this one feeling sorry for you”—she jabbed her finger toward Nate—“but the rest of us nigras ain’t fooled.” She took a step closer to Margaret and Nate moved forward.
“Be careful what you playing at, girl,” she went on in a low, threatening voice. She spoke to Nate. “Mind, one day she’ll walk on outta here free and you and me will still be cleaning shit and flinging slop. You think she’s gonna remember you then?”
“Oney! That’s enough!” Hercules boomed behind her. She was on the edge of going too far. “Go on now, get on upstairs. I’m sure Lady Washington will be looking for you.”
Oney didn’t answer. She stood there looking at them a minute more, breathing hard with anger. Nate looked like he was about to slap her, and Austin moved closer to the trio, ready to protect his sister. Margaret stood there, her face red and her eyes welling with tears.
Finally, Oney turned and marched out of the room. When she had gone, Margaret collapsed against Nate’s side. She buried her face in his sleeve.
“Don’t mind her,” he murmured, putting his arm around her. She sobbed against his chest.
Hercules caught Austin’s eye and gave a tiny head shake. Austin blinked to show he understood before both men turned away. Oney had said what there was to say for all of them.
Hercules tapped lightly on the
low door, keeping one eye on the yard and road beyond. Gilbert Stuart’s studio was little more than a hovel. The artist had divided his stable with a crude wall and Hercules could hear the man’s horse snuffling just on the other side of it.
When there was no answer to his second knock, he walked around to look in the rough window cut into the side of the building. Light shone through the shutters, so the artist must be inside.
Hercules returned to the door and gently scraped it open and was almost hit by a lantern swinging wildly in front of him. “Who’s there?” said Stuart, squinting as though blinded by the lantern he wielded so recklessly.
“Mr. Stuart!” Hercules said. “Sir! It’s Hercules—General Washington’s cook.”
Stuart lowered the lamp and peered at him.
“Well, come in, man, don’t just stand there in the doorway,” he said, leaning forward and pulling at Hercules’s arm.
Hercules resisted the urge to shake off Stuart’s hand and moved farther into the room, glancing around. The cheap lath and plaster that was used to coat the walls and turn the stable into a usable room was already crumbling away in spots. Hercules looked at him more closely now. Again, it occurred to him that the painter was quite mad. Brushes sat in a neat row on the table next to his easel. Sketch after sketch was flung onto the floor and every surface of the room. Country scenes, market day, ladies walking. Even Hercules knew that such things were worthless. In the new America those who could afford art—the new class of middling merchant—wanted portraits of famous men like Washington or Jefferson or even Hamilton, to hang in his parlor and gaze upon as he sipped his after-dinner port.
“I, ah—” Hercules looked at Stuart with his wild hair and over-bright eyes. The man stank too. “I’ve thought about your offer.”
“Yes?” Stuart said, leaning forward excitedly.
“I should like to be painted, I think,” said Hercules simply.
Stuart broke into a hysterical smile. He came forward and clapped Hercules on the back, pulling him farther into the room. Hercules struggled not to show his distaste.
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