by Janet Dailey
Something rustled in the azalea bush near the detached kitchen. Phoebe stopped her churning, glad for an excuse to give her aching arms a rest. She spied her younger brother crouched next to the bush, careful to keep out of sight of the house.
"Ain't you done yet?" Shadrach whispered with an impatient frown.
Phoebe slid a cautious glance at the big house, then shook her head. "Hot as it be, I reckon it'll be a spell," she whispered back, careful not to look at him.
"Jus' leave it," he urged. "Ain't nobody gonna know. Miz Vi'toria be layin' down and Mama be cleanin' de parlor. Come on fo' we miss the whole mornin'."
She hesitated, knowing how much trouble she would be in if she did leave her work. But the temptation was too great. Watching the house, Phoebe left the butter churn and stole silently to the azalea bush to join her brother. Together, they ran across the prickly, dry grass, crouching low and dashing from bush to tree on a roundabout route to the schoolhouse. At its corner, they stopped. Phoebe struggled to quiet her breathing, conscious of the quivers of excitement that trembled through her, then followed Shadrach as he crept up to the open window.
Inside, the young mistress Xandra uncertainly mumbled the alphabet. "A ... B ... C... D ... F... G—"
"She forgots the Shadrach hissed at Phoebe, then picked up a stick and started making marks in the red dirt. "It go this way. A . .. B . . . C.. . D .. . E ... F..." He paused and frowned intently. "What do a G look like?"
But Phoebe couldn't show him the mark for a G. She didn't have as many chances to slip off as her little brother did. With him being so young and puny, he never had much work to do. But she hardly got to listen at all before her mammy or Miz Vi'to-ria yelled for her. She wished she knew how to make the marks like Shadrach did and what letters they stood for. But the A, the B, and the C were the only ones she knew, and those only because her brother had showed them to her at night.
Shadrach poked his head above the windowsill to peer inside. Phoebe grabbed his arm and yanked him down. "What you doin'? If we's caught, we be whupped sure."
Impatiently, he pushed her hand off. "I does this all the time. Ain't never been catched yet. Now leave me go. I gots to fine out which a G is." More cautiously this time, he rose up to look in the window.
Whispers. Eliza heard the telltale sound coming from the back of the room. She turned away from young Tom Murphy, who was reading aloud from the hornbook, and covertly scanned the cluster of pupils in the rear, looking for the culprit. Not that she could entirely blame them for letting their attention stray. The heat was stifling. She had difficulty concentrating herself. Her mind kept conjuring up images of the cool brook.
With her linen handkerchief, she dabbed at the beads of perspiration pearling above her lip, and then glanced to the back window. A dark head appeared above the sill and a pair of dark eyes looked in. It was the young Negro boy Shadrach, and it wasn't the first time Eliza had noticed him lurking outside the school-house. Curious, she wandered over to the window.
The boy bobbed from sight before she reached the open window. She paused to one side of it and looked out, half expecting to see him racing away. But he was still outside the window, squatting down and writing in the dirt with a stick. His sister Phoebe was beside him.
"This be a G," he whispered proudly and drew a crude likeness of the letter. Surprised, Eliza stepped closer and watched Phoebe's clumsy attempt to copy the letter.
The drum of hoofbeats broke across the morning's sweltering stillness. Eliza glanced at the road that wound past the school-house. Below her, there was a wild scurry of movement. When she looked back, the two black children were racing for the main house as if the devil himself were after them. She watched them go and thoughtfully considered the incident she had just witnessed.
"Miss Hall."
Eliza turned from the window, conscious again of the oppressive heat. Temple stood before her. "May I be excused? A visitor has arrived. Father is in the fields and Mother is resting. I should be on hand to welcome him in their place."
Eliza guessed the visitor was The Blade. In the past month, he had made frequent visits to Gordon Glen. Instead of responding directly to Temple's request, Eliza clapped her hands to command the attention of all her pupils. "No more lessons this morning," she announced.
Holding her skirts well clear of the ground, Temple ran across the lawn, then slowed to a sedate walk as she approached the front of the house. She rounded the corner, conscious of the heavy thudding of her heart and aware that it wasn't caused by exertion. She stopped to watch The Blade dismount, admiring his tall, whipcord-lean body.
His servant noticed her first. He said something, and The Blade turned. As she went to greet him, Temple could feel his gaze travel over her, heating her skin with its invisible touch. She felt a tingling excitement, and an odd sense of power.
"Welcome to Gordon Glen."
"The daughter of the house greets me herself. I am a fortunate man," he declared in a voice all husky and warm.
His intent gaze challenged her to come even closer. Temple started to, then stopped and turned when she heard the front door open. Black Cassie stepped onto the veranda. Smoothly, Temple turned back to The Blade. "You will be staying for dinner, won't you?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Stuart will be sharing dinner with us, Black Cassie. Make sure a place is set for him at the table."
"Yes'm, Miz Temple." She continued to stand by the door. "Shall we go inside?"
At his nod, Temple led the way into the house. Again, she felt the strain of his presence—of being with him and not being held by him. Not once during his recent visits had she been able to manage more than an unsatisfying minute or two alone with him. Either her mother was there, or her father, or her sister and brother, or the tutor, Miss Hall.
In the great hall, she paused and glanced impatiently at Black Cassie. The Negro woman bobbed her kerchief-wrapped head respectfully as she walked by them toward the stairs.
"I be lettin' Miz Vi'toria know she gots a visitor," she said.
"No," Temple ordered sharply, then tempered her voice. "Let her rest. I will entertain Mr. Stuart until she comes down. You may go about your work."
She waited to be certain Black Cassie didn't climb the stairs, then took The Blade's hand and led him into the main parlor. Once they were out of sight, his hand tightened its grip on her fingers. Her pulse raced at the commanding pressure. She didn't pretend to resist when he turned her around and pulled her to him, slipping an arm around her waist to hold her against his body. She smiled up at him, made faintly breathless by the contact, and confident, too. This was what she had wanted, but her pleasure was doubled by the knowledge that he had been impatient for this moment as well.
The glitter in his half-closed eyes was both possessive and accusing. "I think you have given me a love potion."
"If I did, then I have drunk it, too." She slid her hands over his shirtfront, glorying in the feel of his taut muscles underneath.
When his mouth came down to cover hers, Temple indeed felt that she was drunk on some magic potion that turned her bones to liquid. Nothing else explained the fire that burned deep in the pit of her stomach and made the blood race through her veins. She was sensitive to everything—the smell of him, the taste of him, the trembling of her flesh at the slightest touch of his hands.
Eliza made certain the school was tidy before she left it to venture into the morning's heat. She could hear the giggles of the two young girls as they trailed after the boys to the brook. But she chose not to accompany them today. Instead, she followed the brick path to the house.
As she approached the detached kitchen, she saw the slave girl Phoebe sitting in its shade, straddling a butter churn and vigorously pumping the dasher up and down, her head bowed as if she were trying to avoid Eliza's notice. A second later, Eliza spied the black girl's younger brother slinking along the log wall. She altered her course and started toward the kitchen.
"Shadrach," she called to the
boy, stopping him before he could make a quick dash away. "Come here. I want to speak to you and your sister."
With feet dragging, he came slowly back. Phoebe stopped her churning and glanced guiltily at her younger brother. Eliza could almost feel both of them cringe from her. Not visibly, perhaps, but in every other way. Why? They had no reason to be afraid of her.
"What were the two of you doing outside the school window this morning?"
"Nothin', ma'am," Phoebe mumbled.
Shadrach scuffed a bare toe in the dirt, digging a small furrow. "We jus' be listenin'. We din't mean no harm."
"Did I see you writing in the dirt with a stick?"
"Yes'm."
"This is not the first time you sat outside the window and listened, is it?" Eliza knew the answer to that, and the knowledge of it was a wondrous, exciting thing.
"No'm," he admitted reluctantly.
"Why do you sit out there?"
He glanced at his sister, then chewed uncertainly at his lower lip and shrugged.
"You were trying to learn to read and write, weren't you?" Eliza stated, inwardly thrilled. Southern bigots might scoff and say these Negro children were nothing more than monkeys copying what they saw others do. But in her heart, Eliza knew better. Here were two young minds eager to learn. No, they were more than eager, she realized. These two hungered to learn. There was no discovery more exciting, more challenging, or more fulfilling to a teacher than this one.
"Is you gwine t' tell Master Will?" Phoebe hunched her shoulders forward, drawing her body into a protective ball as if anticipating punishment.
Eliza hesitated, touched by her earnest plea. "We shall see."
"We wasn't doin' no harm," Shadrach insisted, striving for defiance although the quiver in his chin made it a pathetic attempt.
"I know." A daring thought began to form in her mind. But just how she could carry it out, Eliza didn't know.
A wave of coolness washed over Eliza when she entered the plantation house. She paused, appreciating the thickness of its walls that held in the cool of the previous night and blocked the heat of the day.
The house was silent. No voices came from its rooms. Frowning, she wondered where Temple had gone. She suspected that wherever she found The Blade she would also find Temple. He was too bold for Eliza to believe that young Temple was entirely safe alone with him. She really needed to take Temple in hand and teach her that primitive passions had to be suppressed, otherwise such feelings would hold sway and lead a girl to ruin. Busy hands, brisk walks in the open air, and cold-water baths usually banished those pernicious sensations. If those failed, a camphor compress was a certain remedy.
A faint soft sound like the whisper of clothing came from the main parlor. Thinking one of the house servants was there cleaning, Eliza went to the archway to inquire after Temple's whereabouts.
Short of the opening, she came to an abrupt stop, her eyes widening in shock at the sight of Temple and The Blade locked in an embrace that could only be described as passionate, their bodies pressed so tightly together that not even a feather could slip between them. It seemed to Eliza as if The Blade were devouring Temple's lips. She suddenly felt incredibly hot all over, so hot she was almost weak at the knees. When his hand glided up to cover Temple's breast, Eliza turned and fled blindly, too shaken to remain.
In the dimness of the great hall, she didn't see the large object in front of her until it was too late. She ran right into it. Before the impact could knock her backward, she was caught and held. Dazed, Eliza stared at the collar of a man's shirt before her eyes. When she looked up, she found herself gazing at Will Gordon's face, solidly boned and strong, his brown eyes dark with concern.
She was suddenly assaulted by a hundred different impressions—the sensation of his large hands digging into the flesh of her arms, the broad band of his chest before her, the heat of his body radiating around her, the warm, heavy smell of him, and the hard planes of his body pressing against hers.
"Are you all right, Miss Hall?" A brown eyebrow arched in sharp question.
Suffused with heat, Eliza hastily pulled away. "Yes. I... I regret I failed to see you." She groped for the words, fighting this sense of embarrassment that was totally without cause.
"Father." Temple called to him from the parlor. Eliza turned guiltily, her cheeks hotter than before. For an instant, she could only stare at the black brilliance of Temple's eyes and the softly swollen look of her lips. She looked so ... satisfied, so alive. Something twisted inside Eliza. Involuntarily, she pressed a hand against her stomach, trying to rid herself of the awful ache. "I thought I heard someone." Temple smiled, easily and naturally, then turned to include The Blade when he stepped into view. "The Blade is here."
Seeing them together, so boldly unconcerned, as if they had done nothing wrong, Eliza had to escape. When she saw Will Gordon's gaze narrow on his daughter, she felt she was somehow to blame for Temple's lapse. She hastily murmured an excuse and hurried to the staircase.
Shortly after the noon meal was over, The Blade rode off in the company of his Negro servant, Deu. Will watched them leave.
"Are you coming in?"
Roused by Temple's question, Will turned and followed her into the house. "Young Stuart has made a habit of stopping here lately."
"I know." She smiled, looking quite pleased with the knowledge. "But I don't think you should call him young Stuart. He is a man, Father."
That, Will did not doubt at all. He paused momentarily, watching as Temple swept into the dining room to help her mother lock the china and silver in the glass cabinets. Hearing Victoria's dry, hacking cough, Will tried to remember when she had been young and healthy, when their love had been new and strong. So much pain, grief, and guilt had come between them with the death of their babies, yet rather than bring them together, the tragedies had made Victoria turn from him.
He started down the hall. Eliza stood at the bottom of the staircase, one hand resting on the carved newel post. He nodded to her as he walked by.
"Mr. Gordon."
He stopped and looked backward over his shoulder. "Yes?"
"I should like to speak to you ... privately." She had that stiff, no-nonsense look on her face that she usually wore around him.
His frown deepened as he considered her request and the possible reasons for it. "Shall we step into the library?"
Eliza preceded him into the room, her back ramrod-straight and her chin jutting at a determined angle. He wondered if she was unhappy here. Did she wish to leave? Or had she encountered difficulties with one of her pupils? Kipp. Will sighed, certain his son was the cause of the requested meeting.
"What did you want to talk to me about, Miss Hall?" He walked over to his desk.
Eliza glanced at the portrait above the fireplace, then at him. Squaring her shoulders, she drew herself up to her full height. "Phoebe and Shadrach ... the children of your house servant Cassie... this morning, I found them outside the school window."
"Is that all?" Will frowned. "Do not concern yourself about it, Miss Hall. I will see that it doesn't happen again."
"No. You misunderstand," she said impatiently. "Both of them seem quite eager to learn. Shadrach has taught himself to write the letters of the alphabet. That is a remarkable accomplishment, one that should be rewarded, not punished."
"What are you suggesting?"
She raised her chin a fraction of an inch higher, the light of battle gleaming in her eyes. "I want to teach them."
"What? Why?" He was stunned into sharpness. "They are blacks. What good would it do—"
"I should think it would accomplish a great deal of good," she retorted. "They have shown an inclination to learn. Why not encourage it? Surely an education would increase their value. With a farm and a house this size, accounts must be kept. If these children can be trained to do such work, it would mean less for you and Mrs. Gordon."
She went on, but Will stopped listening, taken aback by the vehemence with which she argued
their cause. She reminded him of a bantam hen coming to the spirited defense of her chicks.
"Well?" she demanded.
Belatedly, he realized a silence had preceded that single challenging word. She was waiting for an answer from him. "I will consider it, Miss Hall."
She hesitated, as if debating whether to take up the cudgel again. "Whatever you decide, Mr. Gordon, I do hope you will not find it necessary to reprimand them for this morning. They were curious. They meant no harm. Of that, I am certain."
"Is there anything else?"
"No."
When she turned and walked from the room, Will half expected her to change her mind and come back to argue further. But she didn't.
7
Dusk settled on the ridges and spread its purple glow into the valley that was Gordon Glen. Eliza wandered along the brick path that led from the log school to the mansion, her thoughts on the less-than-satisfactory meeting with her employer. He had agreed to nothing.
They were children. Surely Will Gordon would not be so cruel as to punish them over such a small thing. It would be her fault if he did. She wished now that she had said nothing to him. Perhaps she should appeal to him again, without being so argumentative this time.
When she glanced toward the house, she saw a large figure moving silently among the trees. His height, the wide spread of his shoulders, the way he carried himself—Eliza recognized Will Gordon instantly. Seizing the opportunity, she picked up her skirts and ran quickly across the lawn to intercept him.
"Mr. Gordon." When she saw him pause she slowed her own pace, covering the last few yards at a fast walk. Unconsciously, she lifted her head, trying to appear more like a schoolteacher and less like a nervous schoolgirl. "I want to speak to you."
"Again." He sounded amused, but his face was in shadow. She couldn't see his expression to tell whether that hint of humor was kindly meant.