Somerset

by Leila Meacham

  Jessica glanced up at him, startled, and a chill wafted across her skin at the little knowing glimmer she caught in Jeremy’s eyes. Was his remark about Sarah another of his double entendres meant to imply he’d perceived the real reason she hoped to hire Guy Handley? It was as if Jeremy had read the tutor’s letter and seen the tiny circle that served as a dot drawn over the i in “Cordially yours” at the letter’s closing. Ordinarily, the substitution for the proper mark would have meant nothing to Jessica, but in Sarah Conklin’s letters she had noticed a similar circle affixed over the i’s in both their names. Only those aware that codes were a form of secret communication in the Underground Railroad would pay attention to the coincidence. Was Guy Handley, the tutor she hoped to employ to teach her son, an abolitionist?

  Chapter Forty-Six

  JUNE 30, 1848

  It may be nothing, that little circle over the letter i. It may be only a personal conceit, and not an identification code, but such a whimsical liberty taken with the written language does not seem like Sarah, a purist when it comes to writing and speaking English, nor like Mr. Handley. I would not dare inquire about the practice in my correspondence to Sarah for fear that a postal clerk, seeing a letter addressed to a northern city, would open it to expose a sympathizer. In regard to Mr. Handley, I keep looking for signs but so far there has been no indication “the tutor of Houston Avenue” supports the Northern cause. We—and the DuMonts and Warwicks—refer to him in that vernacular because he now tutors their children in the afternoons following his lessons with Thomas.

  Mr. Handley arrived two months ago. I collected him from the coach station and brought him here for our interview. He was not as I, nor Silas, expected. I could tell that Silas was surprised when they were introduced. We discussed the subject later in private. Both of us had thought we’d meet a pale, myopic, fastidious man with lily-white hands and a limp handshake, definitely someone who spent most of his days indoors, absorbed in a book when not tutoring students. Mr. Handley, while slight of build and of no great height, quickly proved our assumptions wrong. We could read his intelligence and zest for life in his clear-eyed, steady gaze and feel his confidence in his firm handshake. His attire was indeed impeccable without giving the impression he was above removing his spotless frock coat and rolling up his crisp linen sleeves if a situation called for it. Silas and I, Jeremiah and Maddie—unerring weather vanes of people—and especially Thomas, liked him immediately, to my great relief. Our son even showed a little jealousy at having to share his tutor with his friends.

  We installed Mr. Handley in the apartment above the carriage house, which he says suits him perfectly, and have settled down to a routine. From nine o’clock in the morning until noon, he tutors Thomas. He brought books with him, the latest editions addressing reading, writing, and arithmetic, but Thomas’s favorite part of the session is the study of Homer’s Iliad. It will be interesting to hear from Thomas the slant Mr. Handley gives the poem. Will he emphasize that war is glorious or that it decimates families and property and constitutes a waste of time and human life?

  I have tried to sound Mr. Handley out about the growing tensions between the North and South to determine if we have an abolitionist in our midst, and if so, whether he’s an active member or a simple believer, but neither by word or deed has he given me a hint of where his loyalties lie. He treats Jeremiah and Maddie with a respect deeper than the common politeness a superior accords a servant, perhaps because he feels he shares their status. On one occasion, he stepped in for Jeremiah, who was ill, and a guest mistook him for our houseman. Our guest treated him with the contempt a man of his self-importance would, and upon his departure when Mr. Handley handed him his cane and hat, the man snapped, “Is this my hat?”

  Without missing a beat, Mr. Handley replied, “I wouldn’t know, sir, but it’s the one you came with.”

  The Mexican-American War ended in February, and Mexico ceded approximately seven territories to the U.S. that in time will be annexed to the Union. The acquisition has incited another confrontation between anti- and pro-slavery members of Congress. If the territories are admitted as free states, the balance of power will be upset, and the North can outvote the South on issues regarding slavery—could even abolish it.

  I asked Mr. Handley straight out for his view of what will be the outcome of the debate, hoping he would confide to me what should be the outcome.

  “Compromise,” he said, “where neither side gets what it wants.”

  His neutral answer left my curiosity unsatisfied, but not dampened, and so I decided to smoke him out by revealing where my sympathies lie. I wanted him to know that he was not alone.

  The Warwicks and DuMonts are frequent guests to our house, and Guy Handley has become a welcome addition to our gatherings. He has great wit and charm, and Jeremy and Camellia, Henri and Bess are delighted with his instruction of their children. He even has the boys reciting passages from Shakespeare’s plays, and in August there is to be a theatrical performance of Macbeth in which our sons and Nanette DuMont are to be players.

  My sympathies are no secret among these, our closest friends. They are like family to Silas and Thomas and me. None of them possess slaves, and if truth be told, out of the group, only Silas believes slavery is essential to the southern economy. I picked my moment well. We were all seated at supper, and I said, quite casually, “I understand there is to be a Women’s Rights Convention held in New York next month.”

  “Really?” Camellia said, her blue eyes round. “Whatever for?”

  “To declare that women should have the right to vote, to have access to equal education, control of their body and property, and equal pay for equal work,” I recited.

  “I read about that,” Jeremy said. “Good luck to them, I say.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Henri said.

  Silas looked down the table at me, a smile curving his mouth. “I thought our ladies already had those rights except the one to vote. Gentlemen, can you imagine what would happen if we denied our wives anything they want?”

  There was laughter at this, and then I said, “That is only saying that we ladies at this table are not called upon to fight for what should rightfully be ours, but the truth is that in this country women have no more rights than a field Negro, may he live to see the day that he is free.”

  Mr. Handley stared at me while the others spooned up their dessert, no more bothered by my remark than if a mosquito had landed on their dollops of cream. I had no idea what he was thinking. Was he merely shocked that the wife of a slave owner held such an opinion, or that he’d discovered a fellow ally in the enemy camp? Whatever his thoughts, I had declared myself. Now I must simply wait to see what happens.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The fourth Saturday of every month when cold weather set in was among Silas’s most happily anticipated days of the year. The tradition of meeting at Somerset with Jeremy, Tomahawk, Henri, and all their sons as they grew older had begun a number of winters back. Tomahawk had stayed on in Jeremy’s employ, serving generally as his indispensable right-hand man. His knowledge of animals and nature and terrain fit right in with his additional learning of the timber business and the cattle operation Jeremy ran on his deforested acres, replanted in rye that he sold for feed, but the job he most enjoyed was hunting game for his employer and his friends.

  One Saturday morning when the temperature had dropped to thirty-two degrees, he and Jeremy had arrived at Somerset with a couple of field-dressed, blood-drained deer slung over their horses. Tomahawk’s kills were especially prized. He could be counted on never to shoot his prey in the belly, not only because of its inhumanity, but because the carcass would spoil rapidly and prevent aging, a process that made the meat more flavorful and tender. Aging was accomplished by hanging the deer up by its hooves for several days to a week to allow enzymes to break down the tough connective tissue. Hunters inexperienced with this step in field dressing were reluctant to hang a deer longer than a few hou
rs for fear the meat would spoil, but Tomahawk knew the exact hour to cut down his quarry and take it home for the table.

  Never an avid hunter, Silas and his family greeted their visitors gratefully, and for the rest of the day they stayed to help butcher the carcasses and assist Jessica in distributing a good portion of the meat among the slaves. Before long, spits were turning in the yard of Somerset and the slave compound, the aromas of roasting meat from their individual fires mingling in the distance between them. As a reward for Jeremy and Tomahawk’s labor and generosity, nothing would do but for them to remain for supper and a nip or two of blackberry wine.

  Jeremy’s largesse and Tomahawk’s hunting skills led to including Henri in the Saturday ritual, but by then Jessica was living in town, leaving only the men to butcher, dry the meat for jerky, and encase the sausage. Plenty of food and drink, laughter, conversation, and horseplay suitable only for male company took the edge off the labor. Soon after, the fourth Saturday in the colder months was marked on the calendars in the Toliver, Warwick, and DuMont households as “Men’s Day at Somerset.”

  So it was that Silas and his longtime friends and their sons gathered on a clear but frosty Saturday morning the last of October 1850. On these occasions, Silas wished he’d retained the log house now occupied by his overseer. The single-room log cabin he’d erected as an office and sleeping quarters in its place was too small for feeding and sheltering four grown men and six growing sons, but the ground outside was hard packed and suitable for setting up tables and chairs.

  By early afternoon, the butchering had been done, and the spits were turning. A keg of ale from the tavern in town, already tapped, stood nearby, and pots of cocoa Jessica had sent along for the boys were keeping warm over the coals of the campfire.

  Silas relished these moments of relaxation with his male companions in the heart of his kingdom. He especially enjoyed sharing them with Thomas, now thirteen. The boy was so like him in looks, manner, and bearing. As much as he searched and yearned to find it, Silas had not discovered so much as a freckle of Jessica in their son, a deficit she noticed, though Thomas loved her dearly. Just this morning he’d come upon the two of them in the kitchen, Jessica in her robe, Thomas in his hunting clothes. She’d gotten up early to supervise the hampers of food they’d be taking to the plantation. Thomas had come behind her and wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist to lay his chin on her shoulder. He’d become of such a height he’d had to bend down to reach the niche that had once accommodated his head so comfortably.

  “You’re too tall for that pillow now, Thomas,” she’d said.

  “I’m not ready to be,” he said.

  Thomas’s reply had pleased her, Silas could tell. She turned in the circle of his arms and wet her fingers with her tongue to smooth the recalcitrant line of his black eyebrows, so like his father’s. As she looked at him, Silas saw the poignant gaze of someone who must set a beloved bird free, nursed from a fledgling.

  “Yes, you are,” she said softly and drew his thickly thatched head down to kiss his brow. “Enjoy your day with your father, my son.”

  At such moments, Silas ached for his other son buried in the local cemetery. Somerset would never have claimed Joshua’s devotion as it had Thomas’s. Joshua would have stayed close to Jessica’s side.

  In a pensive mood, Silas stretched out his legs and laced his hands over his still firm midriff to look over the heads of the group gathered around the campfire. A small smile assured his engagement in the banter without his really listening to it. With the exception of the manor house he had imagined overlooking his vast acres, his dream of Somerset had come to pass. There was still much to be done—land to acquire, slaves and animals and equipment to buy, buildings to enlarge, but the essence of the plantation had been established. Everything he owned was his free and clear, even if not all attained by his own hand. Nonetheless, he had no debts, and production had been so abundant the past years he’d been able to set aside a part of his profits not needed for expenses to pay back Carson Wyndham. This time he would not fail. He would not yield to any temptation to lure him from his goal. He figured it would take two more years to settle his account with a man for whom time had not softened his loathing. Silas hoped only that his father-in-law, now approaching seventy, lived long enough to receive his payment in full.

  It was something Silas felt he must do: pay back Jessica’s father to satisfy that small part of her heart never his. After all this time, Silas sensed that Jessica held a piece of herself in reserve that not all his loving and caring and giving could gratify. There was still that faint but lingering echo of how she’d come to be his wife in the first place and the question of whether he’d have wanted her if he’d had a choice. Silas was determined to put that doubt forever to rest. Having lost to death the stepson she’d loved like her own and the boy she’d birthed to a system she hated, Jessica would at least have the assurance that her husband wanted and desired no other woman beside him but her.

  Silas moved his attention to the sons of his three friends. They were good-looking lads all, an amalgamation of their lovely mothers and handsome fathers. The oldest boys—Thomas and Jeremy Jr. and Armand—were as inseparable at thirteen as they had been in their nappy days. The second oldest—Henri’s son Philippe and Stephen Warwick, aged twelve and eleven—had forged as tight and long a bond. Robert, the caboose of the Warwick train, somewhat of a worry because of a chronic bronchial condition, and Henri’s exquisite little seven-year-old daughter, Nanette, were close in age and had been playmates, but at nine, Robert had moved beyond the little girl’s company into the exalted sphere of his brothers and their friends. This was Robert’s first year to join the all-male group at Somerset. Silas would like to have included Guy Handley in their gathering, but he had been hired as the teacher of the public school when it opened, and the boys—his students—would have found his presence restricting.

  Conversation grew serious as it turned to the provisions of the Compromise of 1850, ratified by Congress and signed into law by President Fillmore in late September. All concurred that Texas had been favored. By the state giving up part of its territory, the United States had agreed to assume the debts of the former republic, a move that could only be good for Texas’s economy. But one provision in the compromise disturbed Silas greatly. It admitted California into the Union as a free state, and now both houses of Congress were controlled by abolitionists.

  The discussion was suddenly interrupted by the high pitch of barking dogs and the hard clop of horses’ hooves headed in the direction of Somerset. It may have been Silas’s imagination, but he thought he heard total silence fall over the slave compound a quarter of a mile away.

  The men, women, and children housed there would recognize the sound. It was the din of patrols looking for escaped slaves. Silas and his guests were on their feet when a body of a half dozen men, led by Lorimer Davis, rode up. Silas did not miss the flicker in Lorimer’s eye taking in the social gathering to which he and his son had never been invited. Though Thomas liked Jake, Silas had never quite taken to Lorimer or his wife. The planter had a mean streak in him. He liked to ply his whip too much, and Silas found Stephanie nauseatingly pretentious.

  “’Afternoon, gentlemen,” the planter said, tipping his hat. “Sorry to raise dust on your vittles, but we’re looking for one of my blacks who ran away last night, and no ordinary field hand, either. He was my houseman at the plantation. That’s loyalty for you. Mind if we search your slave compound? He couldn’t have gotten far.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Silas said, setting down his tankard of ale. In no way would he have Lorimer and his thugs ransacking his workers’ cabins looking for the man, scaring the liver out of them with their whips and guns. He was sorry to hear that the runaway was Ezekiel. The Davises’ houseman had been with them a long time and had a kind way about him, especially with children. Thomas and his friends were fond of him. Silas could see the boys’ distress in their arrested attention on the m
en.

  “I will, too,” Jeremy said, squaring his formidable shoulders in his woodsmen’s jacket.

  “And I as well,” Henri volunteered and planted his strong figure next to Silas. “Boys,” he said to their offspring, “you stay here and keep the fire going.”

  The search unearthed no escaped butler from the Davis plantation. The compound was left as it was found, and Silas’s slaves, their gratitude to their humane master and his friends almost palpable in the presence of other men whose cruelty they could smell, went back to their dancing and turning spits. On the minds of all of them at Somerset—black and white—was the dreadful image of the punishment Ezekiel would receive when he was caught.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  I was reminded of Thomas Jefferson’s words in 1782 in his Notes on Virginia when I read that abominable tripe,” Jessica said, speaking to Tippy of the Compromise of 1850 when her friend finished reading its articles reprinted in the Democratic Telegraph and Register of Houston.

  Tippy reached to take a sandwich from the plate Jessica offered. “And they were?”

  “Jefferson said, ‘Indeed I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just.’”

  “Amen to that,” Tippy said. “It’s only a matter of a few years before the South feels the whip of that justice for enslaving the black man. All this compromise does is to buy time until war is declared between the North and the South. It’s inevitable. The North will never abide by the Fugitive Slave Act, and the South will never tolerate its disobedience to it.”

  “God help us,” Jessica said, attacked by the icy fear that knotted her stomach when she thought of the conflict in relation to her son and only child. Thomas was thirteen. In a few years he would be of conscription age.