Harry gave Pirate another bone. “Pay her no mind.”
30
January 22, 1788
Tuesday
Apart from less pain, Ralston had more energy. He still needed to take breaks, to sit and breathe deeply, before returning to his chores, but all was in order.
Miss Frances cleaned his wounds and complained he wasn’t eating enough.
“Keep your strength up.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ralston knew she was taking as good care of him as she could, so he let her boss him about. Miss Frances lived to boss.
Snow packed down. At least when the horses walked, those who were not shod didn’t carry half-moons of snow in their hooves. That would make a horse lurch a bit; then the snow would pop out. This repeated process slowed them down. Not having to put up with it was a relief.
It still hurt to bend over to pick out a hoof, but Ralston did it with the sturdy hoof picks Dipsy forged.
Night arrived early. It was time to bring the horses in.
Spring seemed a lifetime away.
Tidbit, a small mare, nickered, running up to him when he entered the paddock. She followed him into the stable, zipped into her stall. As he liked her so much, he lavished special attention on her before heading out to bring in the others. For those girls he’d slip halters on his shoulder, lead ropes attached. No one pulled on him as he carefully walked into the barn. Once everyone stood in their assigned stall, he closed the doors. This ritual always involved each horse, save Tidbit, seeing if she could duck into another stall. The food might be better there. He’d call their names, admonish them, halter still on so he had some control. They’d go to their stall, crabby as they did so. Then he would head for the doors, smiling.
Equine antics never failed to raise his spirits.
Ferocious cold numbed his hands. He closed the door behind him to the tack room, removed worn gloves, held his hands toward the potbellied stove, which he religiously kept going all day. Dog tired at the end of the day, having to fire up the stove seemed like the last straw—hence his devotion to that potbellied stove.
Hands working again, he walked out, finishing his chores. The last was sweeping the center aisle, straightening out anything hanging on hooks that may have become a bit crooked.
Finally back in the tack room, he pulled his pallet nearer the stove. Removing his clothing, he sat with his back to the stove. His healing puncture wounds itched. The heat also helped his back muscles loosen. The cold tightened him up. Ralston was determined to regain his suppleness and strength.
A small window, glass handblown so a bit wavy, bits of old towels stuffed around it, showed brilliant stars.
Seemed to the young man that the winter’s sky made the stars bigger and brighter. He watched them glitter, wondering if Sulli was watching the night sky.
* * *
—
Sulli, worn out, wouldn’t be able to drop into bed for at least another hour. The people living at the Hill often cried or put up a fuss. Wes, a slave so old his eyes were milky, would hold her hand at night. His mind was that of a child’s. Finally he would fall asleep. Then she could leave him. He cried frequently. Difficult and painful as Sulli’s situation was and appeared would forever be, she recognized that at least she was able-bodied and of sound mind.
Those most able at the house often assisted those who were not. Sulli, before her escape, rarely ventured down to the two-story cabin. The cooperation between the residents surprised her. This was the only life they knew. They couldn’t truly participate in the affairs at Big Rawly.
When Maureen was out of sight, with no snitches around, less afflicted people were free to follow their passions and curiosities. Small though that time might be, it was their own and they made the most of it. That was also the only life they knew.
Annie, same age as Sulli, would rock and sing the songs she heard others sing. She remembered every word, although she couldn’t carry on a conversation.
Olivia, frail now, had been in charge of the Hill since she turned twenty, a good fifty years ago. She thought of the residents as her children. Loving, patient, intelligent, Olivia never missed Sunday services at Big Rawly. She absorbed every reading, every lesson, memorizing parts of the Bible when she heard the Good Book read. Olivia couldn’t read, nor could most of the workers, including the white ones.
Wes now asleep, Sulli dropped on a stool in front of the stone fireplace. The logs’ aroma smelled wonderful.
Olivia, pulling her shawl tighter around her narrow shoulders, sat next to her in an old wooden chair.
“Cold gets me. Didn’t mind it so much when I was young.” She stared into the leaping flames. “Missus call for you?”
“No.”
“H-m-m, you’ve learned a lot in a short time. These children, even if they have snow-white hair, need gentleness, patience. If you gain their trust, they will try harder for you.”
“How did you wind up here? It’s a job nobody wants.”
“Meaning you don’t want it,” Olivia shrewdly said.
“I didn’t. But now—” She shrugged.
“They have no guile. It’s a gift God gave them. Their honesty is a rebuke to us.” Her quiet voice vied with the fire’s crackle.
“I’ve seen enough guile to last me until I’m as old as Wes.”
Olivia replied, “I expect you have. Don’t need to leave Big Rawly to see that.”
Shifting on the stool, Sulli bitterly remarked, “I believed William. I was a fool.”
Olivia tapped her foot, then slowly replied. “Every woman does that once. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”
Wrapped up in bed later, Sulli reviewed Olivia’s words. She vowed never to repeat her mistake. She thought of Ralston, sweet enough, but in time he would have pushed her around, given orders like William. Seemed to Sulli men were all like that.
She realized Olivia didn’t answer her question about how she wound up at the Hill. Was it because of a man? Would she ever know?
But she did know she would spend the rest of her life at Big Rawly unless Maureen sold her for spite. She’d tasted freedom. Sweet though it was, William soured it. Olivia’s words on being fooled came back to her again.
She didn’t think Maureen would sell her. She’d use her for an example, for show. Sulli took comfort in the thought that she’d outlive that bitch and she would make certain to outlive William. Anything she could do to bring pain upon him she would do. Slave she might be, but she wasn’t helpless. She would never be a helpless woman.
31
June 28, 2019
Friday
Susan allowed the motor to run. While not sticky hot, it was hot enough for air-conditioning as she was parked at Mags’s.
Harry fished in her purse. “Why is it, no matter what you want, it’s always at the bottom of your purse?”
Harry’s finger found what she was looking for. “Aha.”
She pulled down the visor, mirror on the reverse, and pulled off the cap.
“You and your magenta lipstick.”
“You bought a tube.” Harry lifted one eyebrow.
“To show you up.” Susan dug out her tube, top off, twisting the lipstick up. “Better than yours.”
Patting her now-vibrant lips with a Kleenex from the glove compartment, Harry rolled her lips inward. “Dream on.”
Susan grabbed the Kleenex, patting her own lips.
“Mine is better.”
Harry snatched the tube, holding it next to her own. “Close but no cigar.”
“Cigar, hell.” Susan grabbed her lipstick back. “Out of the car. We can see better in the natural light. Next year when the peonies bloom, we can compare for real.”
“How do you know we won’t have used up all our lipstick?” Harry challenged her
.
“Well, Harry, you could bite it in half. Then you’d have a magenta tongue and teeth.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Remember that line from our senior class play, Charley’s Aunt? Oh, you remember. ‘I’m…from Brazil. Where the nuts come from!’ ”
At this they both laughed.
Susan grinned. “What fun. Even funnier, my future husband played Charley’s aunt.” A deep sigh followed this memory. “I miss those days.”
“Because we were young?”
Susan thought. “Kind of, but more because we were innocent. We believed what we were told. At least, I did.” She paused. “You did, too.”
“Yeah.” Harry put the lipstick back in her small purse. “Isn’t it odd that we were all so silly at the AHIP fundraiser? A bunch of middle-aged women grabbing one another’s lipsticks. We aren’t silly enough, Susan.”
“That’s the truth.” Susan opened the door, tossing her lipstick on the driver’s seat of the station wagon.
“That will melt.”
“I’ll pour it on you.” Susan closed the door, not bothering to lock.
“Do you lock your car when you go into Charlottesville?” Harry asked.
“You know I do. I don’t know who those people are anymore.”
“You only have to worry about the city council.” Harry took a jaunty step. “They need money. They’d open your car. Might have pennies on the floor.”
Susan laughed. “How did we get into this mess?”
“We didn’t. We’re part of the county.” Harry squared her shoulders. “Everyone’s in a mess.”
“You know, Harry, I think about that AHIP fundraiser. To think that about an hour after our hijinks in the ladies’ room, Jeannie Cordle would be dead.”
“You never know.” Harry stated the obvious.
“At least she died happy. Almost on the dance floor.”
Mags, stepping out from her impressive home’s side door, waved. “You two are prompt. Come on.”
They walked back behind the house, through the graceful door to the garden.
Stopping at the end of the arbor, the entrance to the horseshoe garden, Harry asked, “Where’s the bench? Sort of Chippendale?”
“Moved it. Blocks the view and I have those table and chairs on either side of the door.”
Noticing the comfortable cushions on the chairs, Susan inquired, “Shouldn’t those cushions be waterproof?”
“Doesn’t matter. If it rains, I still have to wipe them off so I untie them, bring them into the outside shed over there. Granted, it’s one more thing to do, but I am not buying more cushions.”
“One good thing about daily chores, they keep you fit.” Harry’s eyes swept over the garden, even more lush than at their first visit.
“Your chores.” Mags laughed. “Come with me. Let’s stand in the middle of the horseshoe.”
As they did so Susan remarked, “I really love the way you laid this out. No juniper.”
“I thought you liked juniper,” Harry came back at her.
“I do, but this garden is so soft. Maybe I’m not using the right descriptive word. Juniper is kind of edgy. Spreads, though. It can be a godsend.”
Mags nodded in agreement. “I used juniper on the edges of the walk down to the creek. Trickle, actually.” She smiled. “I was going for the effect here of black locusts and hemlock on the curve of the horseshoe, a bit away, but then once in the horseshoe, I wanted color.”
“All your rhododendrons, azaleas give you that. The iris and coreopsis. Mags, you’ve done such an interesting job.” Harry meant that. “By the way, where is Janice?”
“Brewery. We each take two days apiece, one day together. The other two days go to the managers. You’d be surprised how exhausting running that brewery is.”
“Any time you deal with the public it’s exhausting.” Susan knew she was not born for any kind of service or retail.
“Your hops look good.” Harry then added, “Drove over with my boyfriend for a look.”
“Now, that was a fight. Janice said, ‘Why go to the trouble of growing our own hops when farmers around us are doing it?’ I swore just like wine, the earth leaves a distinctive taste. The soil is good at Bottoms Up. We have thirty acres. I prevailed and our beer is better than ever.”
“Fair thinks so, too.” Harry smiled. “I stick to Coca-Cola.”
“Bet I can change that,” Mags teased. “You two garden, have done so for all your lives. Susan, your mother and grandmother garden.”
“Keeps Gran young.” Susan adored her grandmother.
“You are both good to look this over with me. I have another reason.” Mags put her hands together. “Poisonous plants. The cause of Jeannie’s death disturbs me. I have jimsonweed here.”
“We all do, Mags,” Harry reassured her.
“What else do I have? You all will know. I go for size, texture, color. I’m not thinking about anyone eating my garden, including the rabbits.”
Harry and Susan looked at each other. Then Susan spoke first.
“So many trees and plants have parts that are poisonous or times of year when they are dangerous. See your impressive English yews?”
“Yes.”
“There’s poison in the berries.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Mags complained.
“Who is going to go to the trouble to climb up, get berries, and eat them? The berries are short-lived.”
“I see. So they aren’t dangerous?”
“Not unless someone makes a point of harvesting berries.” Susan then pointed to the rhododendrons. “Now, those can get you. They produce a honey-like substance and it’s poisonous. You don’t want horses to eat rhododendrons. As for us, we’d have to eat a large amount to kill us, but a small amount can make you sick.”
“Such a beautiful shrub.” Mags’s brows wrinkled. “But okay?”
“Sure. So are azaleas, which have a little goo, enough to make you queasy.” Harry shrugged. “Given all the pesticides people spray on their plants, that’s more dangerous than some of the plants. You breathe in the pesticides.”
“True enough,” Mags agreed.
“Foxglove, seeds, stems, flowers. Those happy flowers contain poisons.” Harry walked into the garden. “But then again, you’d have to go to a lot of work to collect the flowers, press them, find a way to make them edible.” She walked out and over to the yews. “Now, this stuff, jimsonweed. First, if you ingest a small dose, hallucinations. More, boom, you’re dead.”
“Should I pull it out?” Mags asked.
Harry smiled. “It’s all over Virginia. Unless you are planning to serve it to someone at Bottoms Up, no.”
“That’s just it, Harry. Someone did serve it to Jeannie.” Mags’s voice rose.
“No one knows how she got jimsonweed. All they know is, given the time frame of her death, the severity of the symptoms, she had to have eaten it at AHIP.” Susan stated the known facts.
“Someone knew what they were doing.” Mags crossed her arms over her chest.
“Yes, but maybe they did it to the wrong person.” Harry truly believed Jeannie could not have been the intended victim. “Look at the still way up behind my house, up in Susan’s walnut acres. Bones. A natural death? A murder? Then another still. Now we know the profits involved with selling black-market booze are enormous. Someone stole your beer.”
“I hope I get my hands on them,” Mags vowed.
“Not that Jeannie was involved in any such thing, but here’s another thought. What if timber is being harvested illegally on government lands and sold? Susan fusses at me, but I think we’re in the middle of either some kind of rivalry or a threat to illegal profit.”
“Mags, don’t get her going.” Susan then looked at the large plants under the English yew.
“You’re safe.”
32
January 25, 1788
Friday
The January thaw, a bit late this year, ushered in temperatures in the mid-forties during the day. Given the bitter cold and snow, this felt like freedom. People could wear lighter clothing, perhaps even dispense with a scarf.
Maureen looked over the mare her husband had bought as he stood next to her.
“She is uncommonly sweet, my dear. I thought if you wished to drive alone, she would be most reliable. I don’t want to take any chances with my bride.” Jeffrey called her his “bride” because she liked that.
“Not much to look at,” Maureen commented.
“No matter. All eyes will be on you.”
DoRe, hearing this as he was kneeling down to feel one of the elegant coach-driving horse’s legs, shook his head. Jeffrey knew exactly how to handle the Missus.
“And what coach do you suggest I drive?” She paused. “What’s her name?”
“Penny.”
“Ah.”
“In summer, you have many choices. I always like seeing you drive the dog cart.”
The dog cart was a short two-seater, two large wheels, a popular choice on many farms in warm weather.
“We’ll see. What about cold weather?”
“I prefer you be in a closed cart, my dear. No need to expose you to numbing temperatures. DoRe can drive you as he always does in rain, snow, cold.”
“Yes.”
At that point DoRe emerged from the far stall. He nodded, wiping his hands on an old towel hanging outside the stall.
“What do you think?” Jeffrey asked DoRe.
“About what, Master?”
“Barney’s leg.”
Maureen turned to her husband. “What’s the matter with Barney’s leg? Why wasn’t I told?”
DoRe stepped in to help Jeffrey, whom he thought a good man. “Missus, he’s stocked up. Now that the weather’s better, he can be turned out all day. He just stocked up.”
Furmidable Foes Page 18