Ned hunkered down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. “River take a whole mess of things down to New Orleans,” he said. “Cotton, sugar, molasses, black folks, white folks. But it ain’t going to take you, honey, not unless Mast’ Robert come up and fetch you.” He stood up and pulled her gently to her feet. “Come along now. Mammy in a taking as it is. Don’t want to make it any more worse.”
Mammy greeted Sophie’s return with her mouth pleated up like she’d been eating pickled lemons.
“She weren’t running or hiding,” Ned said. “She sleeping right out in the open, where anybody can see.”
“All I care about is Mrs. Fairchild’s mighty put out. Get along, Ned, and tell Mr. Akins to call off the hunt. The lost sheep is found.”
Ned bowed and left. Sophie studied her muddy feet and figured this was one of those times to keep her mouth shut.
“Blood will tell,” Mammy said, sounding a lot like Mama. “You come along to Mrs. Fairchild now, and I hope you’re ashamed of yourself.”
“I got lost,” Sophie offered humbly.
“A liar as well as a runaway,” Mammy said. “What you need is a good whipping.” Taking Sophie by the ear, she pulled her painfully upstairs to the parlor, where Mrs. Fairchild was sitting very upright in a wing chair, her plump hands folded on the head of her gold-handled cane, scowling like an angry baby.
“Here she is,” Mammy announced. “Full of sass and excuses.”
“Why did you run away, Sophie?”
“I didn’t run away, ma’am. I got lost coming back from the dance.”
Mammy gave her ear a painful shake. “I’m warning you, girl. I can smell a lie like a dog can smell a coon.”
“It’s not a lie. It was dark and I was alone and I got lost.”
There was a long silence. Sophie’s heart was beating so hard the calico fluttered over her chest.
“I’m inclined to believe you,” Mrs. Fairchild said, and Sophie went limp with relief. “But it’s a very serious matter for a house servant to stay out all night without permission.”
Sophie bit her lip. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Well, we’ll just pray you are.” Mrs. Fairchild turned to Mammy. “Mammy, you run along. Sophie, I was too worried over you to go to church this morning. You shall make some small reparation by staying here and reading aloud from the Bible while I rest my eyes.”
Mammy ran along, her opinion of Sophie plain in the set of her head. Sophie fetched the big Bible and turned, as Mrs. Fairchild directed, to St. Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians. It was pretty heavy going, but she plowed on ahead, not paying much attention to what she was reading until Mrs. Fairchild said, “Now, I want you to read verse six with particular attention, Sophie.”
“Yes’m. ‘Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ; not with eye service, as menpleasers; but as the servants of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart’.”
“Well?”
“Ma’am?”
“What did you learn from reading that verse, Sophie?”
Sophie thought for a moment. “That I should obey you as if you were Jesus?”
There was a startled silence. “I hope,” Mrs. Fairchild said coldly, “that you do not take my leniency as permission to say whatever foolishness comes into your head.”
Sophie glanced up, met an angry blue glare, looked down hurriedly. “No, ma’am.”
“Sophie, you have disappointed me. You’ve caused us all a lot of worry and fuss looking for you. Mammy said you were selfish and willful, but I didn’t believe it until now. I prefer to guide my household with kindness, not rule it by force. But I will not be taken advantage of, and I will not be defied. If you do anything like this again, I will have to discipline you severely. I trust I make myself clear.”
Sophie knew this speech. She’d been hearing variations of it, mostly from Mama, ever since she could remember. Mrs. Fairchild was just more direct. The Creature didn’t understand. Sophie had gone along with being treated like a slave because she didn’t know what else to do. And Mrs. Fairchild, well, she wasn’t all that different from Grandmama—sugar until she was crossed, then vinegar straight through.
Mrs. Fairchild’s voice cut impatiently through Sophie’s thoughts. “I’m waiting for an answer, Sophie.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I was thinking about St. Paul.” The lie came easily. “I didn’t mean to be disobedient. You’ve been very kind to me, kinder than I deserve. I won’t stay out late ever again.”
“See you don’t,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “Now, close the shutters and soak a cloth in lavender water—you’ll find some in the dressing room. Then help me to the day bed and bathe my temples. I do believe I could sleep.”
Chapter 11
After Sophie’s Saturday night adventure, Aunt Winney kept her as close as a mule keeps his hide. The only time Sophie was allowed out of the Big House was when she went down to the kitchen for meals. Even that was no relief, because somebody who had been at the dance was bound to tease her about magic horseless carriages. On good days, Sophie teased them right back with tales of machines that could let Old Missy talk to Dr. Charles at Oak Cottage without getting up from her chair. On bad days, she just gritted her teeth and pretended she hadn’t heard.
Eventually, something came up a whole lot more interesting to talk about than the new girl’s lies. Miss Liza had a beau.
His name was Mr. Beaufort Waters, and he came from Seven Oaks Plantation upriver in Iberville Parish. His family had sent him down for the summer to Doucette, the plantation next to Oak River, so he could learn the sugar trade from Mr. Robinson. According to the gossip under the kitchen oak, Mr. Waters had asked Miss Liza to dance no fewer than three times at the Midsummer Ball in June. He’d followed this up by fetching her fried chicken at the Romero’s picnic a week later. Soon he took to riding over to Oak Cottage every few days so he could make himself agreeable to Mrs. Charles over tea and walk with Miss Liza in the garden. On the days he didn’t come, he wrote, and Miss Liza wrote him back.
“I like to run my feets off between Doucette and Oak River,” Antigua complained one heavy afternoon as she ate her mush and clabber.
Asia shook her head. “You a pure fool, Antigua, you don’t get two cents out of him for each of them letters. When Master Francis sweet on Miss Lotty, I done made me five dollar before she get bored.”
Antigua looked sly. “Ten cents apiece.”
Asia gasped. “Whooee! Ten cents! My land! He one open-handed gentleman!”
“Pretty-spoken, too,” Antigua said. “Yesterday, he say he hope Miss Liza treat me kind. I say just as kind as she treat him, and he laugh real big and give me five cents more.”
The women exchanged glances. “You just take care,” Hepzibah said, “that fifteen cents ain’t buying something you don’t aim to sell.”
“Pooh,” said Antigua. “He don’t mean nothing by it. He a perfect gentleman, Mr. Beau is.”
Saturday, Sophie got a chance to see Mr. Beau for herself, sitting by Miss Liza at dinner, discussing vacuum extractors with Dr. Charles and asking Old Missy respectful questions about plantation management. He was a slender young man with sandy hair slicked back with pomade and a small, sandy mustache that he stroked from time to time with his thumb and forefinger, like he was checking it was still there. Sophie thought he was good-looking, though his eyes did bug out a little, like gooseberries.
In mid-July, the steamboat Pretty Lady pulled up at the Oak River dock to deliver the long-expected vacuum extractor apparatus. Samson gave Mrs. Fairchild the news, and she insisted on going down to the bayou to chat with the captain, bringing Sophie with her to carry her reticule and her palmetto fan. Mr. Akins and Dr. Charles were already there, overseeing the delicate operation of unloading the heavy crates from the steamboat and onto the flat-bedded cane wagons pulled up to the landing.
For the ne
xt two hours, Sophie stood on the steamboat’s upper deck while Mrs. Fairchild drank coffee with Captain Shaw and caught up on the news of the world outside of Oak River. She could hear the squeaking of the pulley and the groaning of the ropes and Mr. Akins and Dr. Charles on the dock, shouting to the hands to be careful.
“Don’t think much of that Douglas fella,” Captain Shaw said. “Next door to an abolitionist, if you ask me.”
“Surely he’s not so bad as that Black Republican Lincoln.”
“You ask me, no Northerner’s going to understand the Southern states’ rights to control our own slaves as we see fit, without no Yankee meddling.”
“Dr. Charles thinks some compromise is possible, but I just don’t know. Would the South still be the South under a Republican president?”
Captain Shaw looked grim. “It don’t bear thinking about, ma’am. Why, didn’t them abolitionists send rifles to John Brown? There’s already fighting up the Mississippi over whether settlers can bring their slaves into Missouri. No ma’am. If Lincoln wins this election, we Southerners will have to take care of our own interests.” He gave the rifle leaning against the railing behind him a significant pat.
Mrs. Fairchild looked shocked. “I do hope, Captain Shaw, you aren’t talking about fighting here in Louisiana!”
“Well, we must hope it don’t come to that. But if it does, I’m ready for it. By the way, Miz Fairchild, we got a trunk from Mr. Robert for you.”
“Thank you, Captain Shaw. Sophie, tell Peru to step here when he’s free and fetch Mr. Robert’s trunk up to my room. Sophie?” She shot an annoyed look at Sophie, who’d stopped fanning. “Stop gaping, child, and run along.”
Sophie curtsied and ran to find Peru. This was it. This was when Old Missy found out Mr. Robert hadn’t sent her to Oak River. Sophie would be exposed as an impostor, a stranger, a liar, and possibly a runaway. Mrs. Fairchild would have her whipped for sure, and probably sell her off first chance she got. Surely the Creature would take her home before that happened.
But she didn’t trust the Creature anymore.
By the time she’d found Peru and helped Old Missy off the steamboat and back to the Big House and got her some lemonade and Peru had deposited the trunk by her chair, Sophie was just about beside herself.
“I’m surprised he didn’t wait and send it with you,” Old Missy said. “Just as well, I suppose, given what happened to your papers and all. Here’s the key.”
Sophie unlocked the trunk with trembling fingers and lifted the domed lid. Inside, a thick stack of papers tied up in black tape and a small wooden box were packed with a pretty white dress with a scarlet sash, a paisley shawl, and a silk bonnet. On top of it all lay a letter, sealed with red wax.
Old Missy took the papers in her lap, broke the seal and handed the letter to Sophie. “My eyes aren’t what they were. I hope you can read writing.”
Mr. Robert’s writing looked like a bird had stepped in ink and danced across the paper. Sophie stared at the scrawl, wondering if she dared make up a story about how he was sending his daughter to Oak River to be brought up like a lady. Then the words began to come clear.
“My darling Mama,” she read slowly. “As you read this missive, your humble and most disobedient child will be smoking a cheroot on the deck of a steamer bound for France. The papers contain the reason for my somewhat precipitate departure—you may safely guess the rest. Having heard there are no slaves in France, Louisette insists upon accompanying me, and my faithful Russia also. The shawl is for you, the bonnet for my esteemed sister-in-law, and the dress for my little girl. Please tell her from me to be good and mind what you tell her, lest she suffer the fate of
Your Prodigal Son,
Robert Fairchild.”
Mrs. Fairchild squinted at the papers. “Well. That’s that, I suppose. Everything sold for debt—horses, house, slaves, furniture. Louisette is your mother, I collect.” She glanced at Sophie, who nodded dumbly. “Hand me that letter and fetch Dr. Charles. No, he’ll be fussing over those vacuum pans. Fetch Mrs. Charles then—no, fetch Mammy. A frilly dress. Isn’t that just like Robert?”
Old Missy never mentioned the letter or Mr. Robert again, not in Sophie’s hearing, anyway. The white dress was hung up on a hook in the attic room Aunt Winney shared with Sally and Korea, for Sunday best. Sophie wondered about “my girl” until her brain fizzed, but couldn’t come up with any reasonable explanation except that Mr. Robert had maybe meant the dress for Miss Liza.
If he had, though, it would have been too small for her. It fit Sophie pretty well.
Mr. Robert’s letter put an end to any mystery lingering around Sophie and her place at Oak River. Before long, everybody but Antigua had stopped teasing her about her glasses and asking for stories about New Orleans.
As the days passed, Sophie herself became less and less clear in her mind about where and when home was. Grandmama and Aunt Enid, even Mama and Papa and Lily, began to feel like characters in a book she’d read when she was little. Diana and Metairie Country Day and math class and her room at home faded from her mind. Real life was waiting on Old Missy, being initiated into the mysteries of hair arrangement by Aunt Winney, reading Little Dorrit by yellow lamplight, listening to two sermons on Sundays, avoiding Antigua, keeping on the bright side of Mammy and Mrs. Charles, and listening to the stories and gossip under the kitchen oak, weather permitting.
In July, the talk was all of whether or not Mr. Beaufort Waters was going to marry Miss Liza.
It began when Luxembourg the gardener heard Mr. Beau asking Dr. Fairchild for his daughter’s hand in marriage through the office window one morning. Before the evening bell, the whole plantation knew as much about it as if they’d been right there in the flower bed, listening. Dr. Charles had said Miss Liza was too young to think of getting married, and Mr. Beau himself in no position to support a family. Mr. Beau had taken it pretty well, Luxembourg said, but when Miss Liza and Mrs. Charles found out, they were fit to be tied.
“Mrs. Charles, she so stuck on that man, you think she the one walking out with him,” Antigua said. “She dead set on Miss Liza marrying him. And she will, too. You just wait and see.”
Sophie was not surprised when Mrs. Charles showed up in Old Missy’s room next morning with Miss Liza in tow, looking pale and red-eyed. “Well, Mother Fairchild,” she said, brushing past Sophie as if she wasn’t there. “What are we going to do about Charles?”
“Charles?” Old Missy said blankly. “What’s wrong with Charles?”
Miss Liza wailed, “Oh, Grandmama!” and burst into noisy hysterics.
Sophie had to admire her stamina. Not even Miss Liza could possibly scream all morning, but it certainly seemed like she did. Old Missy sent Sophie running for vinaigrettes and hartshorn and glasses of restorative cold tea, but Mrs. Charles didn’t do a thing to make her stop. She just patted her hand and told Old Missy how wonderful Mr. Beau was and how rich a plantation Seven Oaks was and how her little girl’s heart was broken past repair. She wouldn’t be surprised, she said, if Miss Liza stayed an old maid for the rest of her life.
Miss Liza, an old maid! It was all Sophie could do to keep from laughing out loud.
Old Missy was not amused. “Don’t talk nonsense, Lucy. Charles is absolutely right. Liza is far too young to commit her future to the first passably handsome young man she meets, especially with the political situation so unsettled. Oh, do stop crying, Liza. You’ll make yourself sick.”
Miss Liza cried even harder.
Next day, Mrs. Charles came over to inform her mother-in-law that Miss Liza was laid down on her bed, pining away with love. Old Missy went down to Oak Cottage with the intention of shaming her granddaughter out of bed. But Miss Liza could not be shamed. Over the next week, Sophie watched mother and daughter wear Dr. Charles and Old Missy down bit by bit. On Sunday, Mr. Beau Waters was invited to dinner, and by suppertime, he and Miss Elizabeth Fairchild were engaged to be married.
The oak-tree gossips were shocked
.
“She ain’t nothing but a baby!” said Hepzibah.
“She plenty old enough to make a man’s life a misery,” said Antigua. “Besides, there ain’t going to be no wedding for two years, nearly. Dr. Charles, he put his foot down she can’t marry until she turn eighteen.”
China said, “Your life ain’t going to be worth living, girl.”
“It ain’t now.” Antigua sighed. “Mrs. Charles, she promise Miss Liza to celebrate with the biggest ball this parish ever seen. They already making up the guest list.”
The ball was set for the second week in August, to give Old Missy’s daughters, their husbands and their children, time to travel to Oak River, stay for a nice visit, and get home again in good time for harvest. That would make at least ten guests sleeping and eating at Oak River for two weeks or more, plus their servants. Forty guests were invited to dinner before the ball, and two hundred more to the ball itself.
This meant that every room in both houses had to be turned out and cleaned. Feather beds had to be beaten and aired, the guest linen pressed, the rugs swept, the spare lamps cleaned and filled, the furniture rubbed with beeswax and linseed oil, the doodads dusted, and all the good china and crystal washed and dried and set out in the pantry.
It was too much for Sally, Korea, Samson, and Peru to accomplish, even working dawn to dark, so Old Missy loaned Sophie to Uncle Germany to help.
“Library needs dusted,” he told her. “Take all them books down—every last one—and wipe the shelves clean. And put them back just like they was, or Dr. Charles’ll have my hide. Don’t you go reading none of them, though.”
It was like telling a starving person not to eat.
Fortunately, most of the Fairchild library was made up of books Sophie would never dream of reading, books with titles like The Seven Lamps of Architecture and Cyclopaedia of Useful Arts and Manufactures. More tempting were the set of Jane Austen and the works of Sir Walter Scott and James Fenimore Cooper. Leatherstocking she shut after the first page, but Ivanhoe was harder to put down. And when Sophie discovered Emma, she was lost. She was standing by an empty bookshelf, feather duster forgotten, immersed in Emma, when the library door opened. She started guiltily, then relaxed when she saw it was only Antigua.
Delia Sherman Page 11