“Hush, Elizabeth.” Old Missy’s voice was stern. “When did you last see this headrag, Sophie?”
The question was a trap. What else could it be, with those clear blue eyes fixed so intensely on her face? But without knowing what she was meant to have done, Sophie couldn’t think of a single thing she could safely say.
Mrs. Charles tapped her rawhide. “Come now, girl. The truth shouldn’t need thinking over.”
Sophie took a steadying breath. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just I can’t remember exactly the last time I wore it. Not since harvest started, I think, or maybe a bit before.”
“But when did you last see it?” Mrs. Charles insisted.
“Hush, Lucy,” said Old Missy. “Sophie, where do you keep the headrag when you’re not wearing it?”
“Under my pallet, in the dressing room.”
“And where do you think we found it?” Mrs. Charles asked.
“Under my pallet?”
Mrs. Charles’s hands gripped her rawhide. “Don’t be insolent.”
“Do you recognize this, Sophie?” Old Missy unfolded the tignon, revealing a silver-backed brush etched with a pattern of roses and lilies intertwined.
“No, ma’am.”
Mrs. Charles made an impatient noise. “Why do you persist in this charade, Mother Fairchild? You have only to look at her face to know she’s guilty.”
Old Missy ignored her. “Look again, Sophie.”
Leaning in to examine it, Sophie saw a little flat space in the middle of the design with a monogram engraved: eFc. F for Fairchild. E for Elizabeth. She didn’t know what the C was for.
Her heart gave a big, choking thump. “It’s Miss Liza’s brush,” she said. “But I didn’t take it, I swear. I haven’t been near Oak Cottage.”
“You were there on Saturday,” Mrs. Charles pointed out. “Mrs. Fairchild sent you. Furthermore, I wonder why you’re so quick to deny a crime of which no one has yet accused you.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Lucy. Yes, Sophie, it’s Miss Elizabeth’s brush. Aunt Winney found it in the bottom of my armoire. The question is, how did it get there?”
Sophie knew Miss Liza had put that brush in Old Missy’s armoire herself, just as sure as if she’d watched her do it. “I don’t know, ma’am,” she said miserably. “When did it go missing?”
“Why do you ask?” Mrs. Charles snapped.
Old Missy quieted her with a gnarled hand. “It’s a reasonable question. When did you notice the brush gone, Elizabeth?”
“Yesterday evening,” Miss Liza said. “I even had Antigua pick through all the washing piece by piece, in case it might have been gathered up with the dirty linens.”
Sophie didn’t doubt it. “I wasn’t at Oak Cottage yesterday,” she said. “I was with Old Missy.”
Old Missy shook her head. “Not every minute. There was an hour at least between noon and one when you were nowhere to be found.”
“I was eating my dinner,” Sophie said, trying to keep her voice steady. “You can ask Africa. Or Sally—she went down to the kitchen with me.”
“And both Africa and Sally will say they saw you, whether they did or not. You know perfectly well, Mother Fairchild, that servants can be counted on to lie to protect each other.” Mrs. Charles leaned forward. “And what if I said Mr. Beau saw you loitering in the back gallery yesterday afternoon?”
“I wasn’t at Oak Cottage, ma’am,” Sophie said. “Not yesterday.”
Miss Liza widened her eyes. “Are you saying Mr. Waters told a lie?”
Sophie’s mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. “Oh, no, Miss Liza. He must have been mistaken, is all.”
“Mistaken!” Miss Liza gave an angry titter. “And I suppose you don’t stick out among the other servants like a grub an anthill.”
“That’s enough, Elizabeth,” said her grandmother. “Nobody doubts that Mr. Waters saw a light-skinned slave near Oak Cottage yesterday. It needn’t have been Sophie. I myself am more distressed by what I observed this morning. You can’t deny, Sophie, that you were very nervous and most reluctant to leave the house when you were ordered.”
“Yes, ma’am. But . . .” Sophie stopped. But what? She couldn’t say that she was nervous because she was afraid of Mr. Beaufort Waters.
“No buts, Sophie: that’s what happened. And you knew Aunt Winney would be turning out the armoire, because I told you.”
Sophie clasped her hands together tightly. “Please, ma’am, I don’t know anything about the brush. Please believe me.”
Old Missy’s wrinkles deepened with distress. “You do admit this is your tignon?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you keep it in my dressing room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And who has business in my dressing room, other than you and Aunt Winney?”
“Nobody, ma’am. But anybody can go in. It’s not locked.”
“Why would anyone want to go into my dressing room? I hope,” Old Missy said coldly, “you don’t expect me to believe that Aunt Winney would steal Miss Liza’s silver hairbrush and try to make it look like you took it?”
Not Aunt Winney, Sophie thought, but all she said aloud was, “No, ma’am.”
Old Missy’s expression hardened. “I’ll give you one more chance, Sophie. Did you take Miss Liza’s hairbrush and hide it in the armoire?”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t take the hairbrush. I swear.”
“I told you, Mother Fairchild,” said Mrs. Charles with satisfaction. “A thief and a liar.”
“So you did, Lucy,” said Old Missy, but she didn’t sound at all happy about it.
“Naturally,” Mrs. Charles went on, “you can’t let this go unpunished.”
“I was thinking about sending her to the sewing house.”
Mrs. Charles brushed the notion aside. “That’s a rest cure, not a punishment. Dr. Charles always says there’s nothing like a stint in the fields to give a difficult house servant a new perspective.”
Sophie stared at her clasped hands while the debate over her future went on, wondering what she’d do in the fields. She didn’t think she could bear to cut cane.
“A good whipping is what she needs,” Mrs. Charles said.
A real whipping with knotted thongs, she meant, tied over a barrel. Sophie swallowed nervously, and the room got darker and narrower.
“I promised Robert I’d take care of her,” Old Missy said.
“It seems to me, Mother Fairchild, that Robert would thank you for breaking the girl of a pernicious habit.”
Old Missy shook her lacy cap. “Whipping does nothing but make servants hard and sly. My mind’s made up. Sophie must work in the fields until she’s learned the consequences of her actions, but I won’t have her whipped. Winney, ring the bell.”
Sally answered so fast and looked so goggle-eyed that Sophie knew she’d been listening at the door.
“Bring Mr. Akins,” said Old Missy, and Sally scurried away.
Sophie tried to think of something, anything she could say that wouldn’t make things worse.
“Look at her,” said Mrs. Charles. “Smug as you please, trusting in her face to get her off lightly. I declare, Mother Fairchild, I don’t know how you can bear to have the creature near you.”
“Her face isn’t her fault, Lucy,” said Old Missy sadly. “It’s Robert’s fault, if it’s anyone’s. And if it saves her a whipping, that’s the most it will ever do for her.”
Old Missy spent the time waiting for Mr. Akins lecturing Miss Liza on kitchen gardens. She sounded perfectly calm, but Sophie hadn’t spent all those weeks waiting on her without learning to read her moods. Old Missy believed Sophie had stolen the brush and lied about it, and she was deeply disappointed with Sophie for being like her no-account father, with herself for having trusted her. She wasn’t going to get over it anytime soon.
After a long, uncomfortable time, Sally showed Mr. Akins into the parlor. He looked and smelled as though he hadn’t w
ashed since harvest started, but at least his broad-brimmed hat was in his hand rather than on his head.
He grinned, his teeth yellow in the briar patch of his unshaven jaw. “Afternoon, Miz Fairchild. I hear you got a new field hand for me.”
Old Missy did not return the smile. “Sophie has been very foolish, Mr. Akins. I’m hoping that honest hard labor will teach her more wisdom.”
“Sure to, ma’am.” He turned to Sophie. “Come along, wench. You hear Miz Fairchild. Time you do some honest work.”
Sophie stared from one white face to another. Mrs. Charles looked satisfied, Miss Liza maliciously gleeful. Old Missy just looked old.
Sophie turned and bolted for the door.
A strong hand closed around her arm and jerked her to a halt. Sophie clawed at it, sobbing that she hadn’t done anything, that it wasn’t fair. Mr. Akins spun her around and pinned her neatly, with her elbows nearly touching behind her back.
“Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I better take care of this directly and get back to the sugarhouse.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Charles. “Thank you.”
Mr. Akins hauled her down the back stairs and out through the cool, green garden, muttering under his breath about the time he was wasting on women’s foolishness.
“Scrawny thing, ain’t you?” he remarked. “Smart thing would be to sell you off in New Orleans.” He spat in the dirt. “Women!”
As they reached the cane brake, a panting field hand emerged from the wall of green. “Mist’ Akins, sir! Old Guam say come quick to Devon Cut! Henry done sliced his leg near clean off!”
“If that don’t just beat the devil! Here—” Mr. Akins shoved Sophie into the man’s arms. “Take this wench and shut her up somewheres.”
“Where?”
“Don’t matter. Somewheres with a lock. And tell Ajax to send a horse for Dr. Charles.” And Mr. Akins ran off down the road like the devil was snapping at his heels.
The field hand set out for the yard at a fast clip, jerking Sophie along by one arm, dragging her up when she stumbled, ignoring her tears, and generally making it clear that he had more important things to tend to than a high-yellow house servant who probably deserved just what was coming to her and maybe more.
By the time they reached the stable, the only things keeping Sophie going were the field hand’s strong grip and her own stubbornness. She stood stiffly while he talked to Ajax, then staggered after him as he went to the woodshed behind the blacksmith’s shop, opened the door, and shoved her inside. The door closed, the bar fell, and she was alone.
The dark inside the woodshed was streaked with sunlight leaking through the gaps in the walls and heavy with the smell of cut wood and dirt. Sophie groped around until she found a pile of wood to sit on, took off her glasses, and dried them on her petticoat.
The last time she’d been shut up was her first day at Oak River, when Mammy had locked her into the linen room for being sassy. Then, she’d more or less deserved it—by Mammy’s lights, anyway. She’d been lost and confused, fresh from the steamboat and all the rush and worry of Mr. Robert’s sudden departure for France.
It was odd, that she could hardly remember what her father looked like. She did remember he loved to sing, though. She’d even sung with him, sometimes. Her father hadn’t thought she was a liar and a thief. He used to take her driving down the River Road by the big white-columned plantation houses and the brick refineries, and he’d sent her a pretty dress to remember him by.
Then he’d gone to his new life and left her behind, just like he’d left his dogs.
Sophie picked up a stick, threw it as hard as she could into the darkness.
That’s what she was to all her family—a pet dog. As long as she was quiet, tidy, above all obedient, they’d pat her head and give her treats. Any sign of disobedience brought immediate punishment. She was nothing but a disappointment to Old Missy now, a puppy who had turned out to be a chicken-killer but was too valuable to shoot. She wondered if Old Missy would write Mr. Robert in France to tell him what Sophie had done, what he’d answer if she did. Would he defend her? Would he wash his hands of her? Would he even care?
Would he care if she cut off her leg like poor Henry in the cane fields? Would Old Missy?
Sophie cried then, long and hard. And when she was cried out, she curled up on the dirt floor and went to sleep.
Chapter 16
Sophie was awakened by a creak and a crash and a male voice demanding to know what she was doing in the woodshed.
She sat up stiffly and squinted at the dark shape silhouetted against the door. “Mr. Akins shut me in.”
The man came into the woodshed. It was America, the blacksmith. “You Sophie from up to the house, ain’t you? The one who stole Miss Liza’s earbobs.”
“It was her brush. And I didn’t steal it.”
America laughed. “’Course you didn’t. And I ain’t seen you lying behind that there woodpile, so there ain’t no reason to bar the door.”
As soon as America left with his armful of wood, Sophie slipped out to the outhouse, then dipped a bucket of water from the cistern and washed her face and hands. Brushing the woodchips from the yellow calico dress, she hoped she wouldn’t have to give it back now she was banished to the fields. It wasn’t as nice as Mr. Robert’s parting present, but she’d hate to go to church in homespun.
Canny’s face popped up beside the cistern. “I hear you in deep trouble, Soph. I hear you steal Miss Liza’s pearl necklace and Mr. Akins whup you bloody, but I don’t believe a word.”
Sophie had to laugh. “It was her hairbrush. And I didn’t get whipped, only locked up in the woodshed. But I didn’t steal anything. Miss Liza hid it in Old Missy’s armoire.”
Canny frowned. “Why she go do a thing like that?”
Sophie had been thinking about that. “Dr. Charles scolded her for throwing her shears at me, right in front of me, too. She’s always hated me, especially after what Miss May said about us looking alike.”
“That sure sound like Miss Liza,” Canny said. “What you going to do now?”
Sophie retied her headwrap around her unraveling braids. “Old Missy sent me out to the fields.”
“You can help us bring the food to the field kitchen,” Canny said. “That in the fields. Come on. We doing that now.”
So Sophie joined Paris and Rome and the other yard children, who were ferrying sacks of cornmeal and vegetables from the storehouse to the stable and packing them on flatbed carts with barrels of salt pork. When all was stowed, she clambered up a wheel to the high seat where Canny was sitting by a man with a face like a shelled pecan and a beard that would have put Methuselah to shame.
“This here’s Uncle Italy,” Canny said. “He the only man alive can make Old Thunder here mind him.” She pointed at the mule, which looked almost as old as Uncle Italy, in a mulish way.
Uncle Italy laughed toothlessly. “Old Thunder don’t mind me, child, not ’xactly. We been knowing each other nigh on twenty years now, and we got an understanding.”
“This here’s Sophie,” Canny went on. “The Big House folk done took against her, so she working with me for a while.”
Uncle Italy turned a rheumy eye on Sophie. “You done anything you ashamed to tell me, girl?”
“No, sir. But I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”
Uncle Italy nodded and slapped the reins against Old Thunder’s neck. The mule twitched its droopy ears, sighed windily, and heaved the cart out of the yard.
The sky was clear and the air warm and still between the tall, leafy stockades of ripe sugarcane. Sophie gripped the seat edge to avoid being shaken off her perch as Old Thunder heaved the cart over the rutted track. As they passed Devon Cut, a cluster of cane rats scuttled across the road. Behind them, the cane began to pitch and heave. Sophie saw a dark head appear, a dusty arm grab a stalk, a flat-bladed knife flash once, twice, three times, cutting away the long leaves, and then once again to sever the cane.
A moment later, the row was open and Sophie could see clear to where two men were gathering the cut canes and piling them on a cart.
Sumpter Cut, a little farther along, was half-bare, with long leaves carpeting the earth between clusters of sharp cane stumps and groups of three and four hands moving down the unharvested rows like rats nibbling down a row of beans.
There were three field kitchens at Oak River, carefully placed with easy access to shade and fresh water. Old Italy drove to Sumpter Cut, where an old woman with a corncob pipe clamped between her teeth supervised the unloading and stowing of half the sacks in a makeshift wooden shed. Under a tree, Becky and Jane, who Sophie knew from the kitchen, stirred an iron kettle of salt pork and mush and chopped greens on a trestle table. Sophie’s mouth watered at the smell. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday, and she felt very empty.
Across the fields, the noon bell rang and a commotion like an ocean wave swept through the fields. Men came out of the rows, sticking their cane knives through their rope belts and wiping their faces with sweaty bandanas, to collect bowls and cups and stand in line for dinner.
The old woman set Sophie to dipping water into each hand’s tin cup. One man had a gash on his arm bleeding sluggishly through the coating of sticky cane sap and dirt. Sophie soaked his headrag so he could clean it and asked him if he’d been whipped.
“Not today, sister. Sugar-cane leaf mighty sharp, cut clear to the bone if you ain’t careful.” He smiled at her. “Cain’t say but what I’d sooner catch a whupping.”
“I’d sooner catch a crawdad,” said a girl behind him. “Hey, Soph. What-for you ain’t drinking lemonade up to the Big House? You and Old Missy have a falling-out?”
It took a minute for Sophie to recognize Tibet. She had an inflamed cut on one cheek, and looked much older than the girl who’d talked Sophie into joining Old Betsy’s funeral.
Sophie tipped water in her cup. “No, ma’am. I just thought I’d like to have me some of them good times out in the fields you’re always going on about.”
Tibet laughed—not hard, but enough so Sophie felt she’d said the right thing. Then she stepped aside to make room for the next thirsty field hand.
Delia Sherman Page 15