Ryan's Bride

by James, Maggie

  Selma, in the process of turning back the covers of the bed, glanced up and saw her. “Wait, missy!” she cried. “I’ll fix the bed over there for you if that’s where you’re gonna sleep tonight.” Then she caught herself. Her mistress didn’t understand what she was saying, so she hurried to show her what she meant.

  Brushing by her, she proceeded to draw back the thick satin coverlet. It was a beautiful bed, Selma’s favorite in the whole house. It had a lace canopy overhead, and the matching skirt below the mattress hung all the way to the floor.

  Actually, the whole room was Selma’s favorite. Pale apricot brocade draperies covered the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that opened to the front balcony. Flowered satin in a deeper shade of apricot covered a pair of matching sofas, and a white marble fireplace was flanked by chairs upholstered in cut velvet.

  Selma had got in the habit of speaking her thoughts aloud in front of Angele since it made no difference. “You know, I never did understand why you and Master Ryan didn’t take this bed. It’s lots softer than that one over yonder with the horsehair mattress. This one’s got real goose down. I know ’cause I helped pluck the geese that made it. It’s somethin’ Miss Clarice wanted, and what she wants, she generally gets.”

  Angele went to the French doors and drew them open, lifting her face to the welcome breeze. Lightning lit up the darkening sky, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Selma rambled on. “Miss Clarice was plenty riled when she had to give up these rooms, but that probably ain’t nothin’ compared to how mad she is over you poisonin’ Master Roussel. Mammy Lou said she didn’t see how it could be an accident, ’cause the jar with the pigeon berry tea was way up on the shelf in the back of the cabinet. You’d have had to be lookin’ for ’em.”

  She folded the satin coverlet on a special mahogany rack in the corner, then began plumping the pillows. “Now if it was Miss Clarice you wanted to poison, I can’t say as I’d blame you ’cause there’s been times I wanted to do it, myself But Master Roussel, now he’s a good man. He’s cranky as an ol’ settin’ hen, but he’s always been good to me and my people. That’s why nobody can understand why you wanted to do away with him.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Angele turned from the balcony to face Selma.

  “And I don’t think it was an accident, either, Selma. I think it was done on purpose, and I think Clarice was the one responsible.”

  Selma dropped the pillow she had been holding and gave a little cry.

  Angele had spoken to her in English.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was the day after Angele had revealed her secret to Selma.

  They were on the banks of a rushing creek, where blackberries grew profusely. Angele was supposed to be getting ready to join Clarice and some of her lady friends for tea. But Selma had told her Willard wanted her to gather some blackberry root so Mammy Lou could mix up her own remedy for Master Roussel that she said would work better than the medicine Dr. Pardee had given him. Angele had wanted to go along. It was a wonderful day, with heavy melting clouds in a field of sky, and she didn’t want to be indoors. She might be late for tea, but so what? She had been with Clarice all morning, and all Clarice did was find fault with her. What was one more thing for her to fuss about?

  Selma, stooping to yank at a root, shook her head. “I swear, Miz Angele,” she said, “I just can’t get over you bein’ able to talk to everybody but not letting nobody know it.”

  Angele dipped a handful of berries in the cool water to rinse them. “I probably shouldn’t have let you know, either, Selma, but as I explained last night—I just couldn’t keep still another minute about that tea. But remember, you promised not to tell a soul. Not even Toby.” She popped the berries in her mouth and wondered how long it had been since she had delighted in the fresh-picked taste.

  “Yes, ma’am, I did, and I won’t, but if you let Miz Clarice know, she’d have to quit callin’ you stupid.”

  “I don’t care, and when the time is right, I will let her know, but I have my own reasons for wanting to keep it a secret for the time being.”

  “Well, I want you to know that I like you fine, and I wish you’d go ahead and take over the house. I’d much rather work for you than Miz Clarice.” She made a face. “Nobody likes her.”

  “Selma, I don’t think I want to listen to you talk against her. It isn’t proper.”

  Selma ducked her head. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  Angele could tell she had hurt the woman’s feelings, but there had to be propriety. She didn’t like Clarice, either, but it wasn’t something to be discussed with the servants. She had been taught that the less they knew about the family they served, the better.

  To get her mind on something else, she asked again about Roussel. “Willard did say he’s much better this morning?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but he was up most of the night. Kept Willard up, too, of course.”

  “Did Willard say he was angry with me?”

  “If he did, Willard didn’t tell me.”

  Her apron filled with blackberry roots, Selma straightened with a weary sigh. “I reckon I’ve got enough.” Squinting, she looked up at the sun to see how late in the day it was. “We’d best be gettin’ back,” she decided. “I’d say Miz Clarice’s guests ought to be arrivin’ right about now.”

  Angele longed to send Selma on her way, then stretch out on the creek bank, her face to the sky, and dream away the afternoon. But though she might be excused for tardiness, Clarice would have fits if she didn’t make an appearance at all.

  “Oh, Lordy, Miz Angele, look at your hands and arms.”

  They were stained with purple-pink blackberry juice, and she went to the creek and dipped them, then rubbed her hands together, but the color barely faded. “It won’t come off.”

  “You’re gonna have to scrub with lye soap. You got it all over your face, too,” she giggled.

  Angele laughed and threw up her hands. “I don’t care. This has been the most fun I’ve had since I got here, and I hope to do it again.”

  They had reached the blackberry patch by way of a path from the house, but Selma said she knew a shortcut. “We can cross by where I live.”

  The slave cabins were made of brick and close together in long, twin lines. Each had a window on each side of the front door with a small, flat-roofed porch across the front. Stones were stacked neatly to make steps.

  Wide-eyed children stared as Selma and Angele passed. Some of them were naked, and all played in the dirt with toys that looked to have been whittled or carved from sticks or wood.

  An elderly, plump-faced woman nodded obediently and Selma said, “That’s Rosa. She tends the young’uns while the women work in the fields. She’s too old to get out there and bend her back in the sun. We got a few other old folks, but they help out in other places where it ain’t as hot.”

  “Doing what?” Angele found herself wanting to learn more about how the servants lived and worked.

  “They help the artisans.” She made it sound like ar-tee-zuns. “Makin’ bricks, pots, and plates, weavin’ cloth, things like that. Some sit in the root cellar puttin’ up onions and potatoes for the winter. Everybody stays busy.”

  Angele smelled something delicious cooking and asked what it was.

  “Catfish.” Selma licked her lips. “That’s somethin’ else Rosa does. She tends the cookin’ pot durin’ the day. That’s so’s when the women come in, it won’t take ’em long to get supper for their men folk and young’uns. Tonight it’s catfish stew, and all the women have to do is get their own pots and have Rosa give ’em their share, then stir up some dumplings and drop ’em in.”

  “What else do you have to eat?”

  “We’ll fry some corn pone, and if the kitchen workers had time to bake, there might be a few pies to share.”

  “Then I suppose everyone goes to bed as soon as it gets dark, because they’re so tired.”

  “No, ma’am. We all like to have some
fun. It makes the time we’re workin’ a whole lot easier, so ol’ Barney, he’ll play his banjo, and Jed’ll bring out his fiddle. The young’uns will dance, and the old folks will sing and clap their hands and stomp their feet, and then after a while we’ll turn in.”

  Angele had sometimes heard music wafting through the French doors of the bedroom during the night and knew it had to come from the servants. It was surprising that they could even attempt to enjoy themselves amidst their woeful lot in life but was glad they did.

  “It sounds like fun,” she said wistfully. “I wish I could join you sometimes.”

  Selma laughed nervously. “You could never come down here.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “I get lonely sometimes, especially after supper. Mr. Tremayne goes back to the stables or for an evening ride, and that’s when Clarice spends time with little Danny.” Not that I want to be with her anyway, she thought.

  Selma couldn’t help sneering. “That’s the only time she spends with that little boy. She can’t stand young’un noises as she calls ’em, so she has Ruby—that’s Master Danny’s mammy—keep him quiet all day and away from around her. But just before his bedtime, she’ll read him a story and tuck him in bed.”

  Angele knew that and thought it very sad. She could count on one hand the number of times she had seen little Danny since coming to BelleRose, and he was adorable. When she had children, she intended to care for them herself, regardless of tradition or what anyone thought.

  “You still ought not come down here,” Selma said with a worried glance. “That’d make all the white folks mad.”

  There was a thick row of shrubs bordering the cabins. Beyond that was a wooded area.

  Selma turned. “We’ll go this way.”

  Angele saw a path curving around the woods that went toward the barns and chicken pens. She had been there out of curiosity and knew it was off to the side and would take much longer to go that way. “It’s closer to keep going straight.”

  “We can’t. That’s where Mr. Fordham lives, and he don’t allow slaves to go in there unless he sends for ’em.”

  Angele lifted her chin. “Well, I’m not a slave, and I’m in a hurry, so come along. He won’t say anything to you if I’m with you.”

  She started walking, but Selma leaped in front of her to plead, “Oh, missy, I wish you wouldn’t. Come on with me. It won’t take long to go the other way.”

  Angele saw that she looked absolutely terrified. “Selma, what is wrong with you? What are you afraid of?”

  “Nothin’. Just come on with me.”

  “He’s not going to hurt either one of us.”

  Selma shook her head wildly. “I just can’t. You go on if you want to, but I can’t.”

  The woods were thick with vines and undergrowth, the sun shielded by leafy oaks. It reminded Angele of every haunted forest she’d ever read about in fairy tales and decided to follow Selma instead.

  But she still wondered why the girl was so scared. Slaves were not to be mistreated at BelleRose. Ryan had told her it was an unbreakable rule. So what was there to fear besides a harsh scolding?

  As the house came into view, Selma pointed and said, “Look. I can see some carriages in front. Miz Clarice’s tea done started. You’d better hurry. I’ll take these roots to Mammy Lou, and then I’ll be right on up to help you with your bath. We’ve gotta get them juice stains off of you. I’ll fetch some lye soap.”

  Entering through the back door, Angele turned toward the rear stairs which the servants used. If she could make it to her room without being seen, Clarice would never know she’d been outdoors picking berries with Selma and think instead she had been out walking and lost track of time.

  But luck was not with her.

  Clarice was standing outside the double mahogany doors that led to the north wing.

  “In heaven’s name, where have you been? All my guests are here, and they’re waiting to meet you. And what is that horrid purple stain you have all over your hands and face? You look dreadful.” She threw up her hands. “What am I going to do with you?”

  Angele carefully stepped around her. “It’s berry juice, and it will wash off. I’m sorry I’m late. I’ll hurry and be right down. Please offer my apologies.”

  Clarice started after her. “Berry picking? What do you mean? You have no business out in the fields. My Lord, hurry up and bathe. I’ll make excuses for you.”

  Angele wondered if she was ever going to do anything right. When Clarice told Ryan—as she surely would do—he wouldn’t take up for her this time. She had sneaked away from the house, and he’d be angry about that, for sure.

  Selma came with a string of servants behind her, each carrying a bucket of hot water.

  Selma scrubbed her with the lye soap and managed to get the stains off, then slathered her with fragrant toilet water. But it seemed to take forever, and Angele feared the ladies would leave before she got downstairs, and that would make Clarice all the more angry with her.

  While Selma had scrubbed, Angele silently lectured herself to try harder to get along with Clarice, even if she was mean and nasty when no one else was around.

  She brushed her hair out smoothly and let it hang down her back. There was no time to do anything else.

  Hurriedly, she took out the first gown she got her hands on. It was a sheer, straight-line drape, caught to her figure only by a narrow high-waisted girdle that supported her breasts. It was cut low and the skirt was slashed to several inches above the thigh. The fabric was a thin silk in a soft melon color, and the only undergarment accompanying the gown was a cotton slip.

  The French stylist had insisted it was the latest fashion and predicted the rest of the world would, too, just as soon as windblown ships could carry the new designs across the ocean. Angele wasn’t so sure. It seemed a bit more sophisticated than the garments the ladies in Virginia wore, but there was no time to worry about it now. She stepped in matching slippers and rushed out.

  She could hear voices coming from the parlor and felt relief that the ladies hadn’t yet left. There was still time to make amends. Clarice had already told her none of them spoke French but that she would interpret.

  “There you are,” Clarice said with an irritable frown when Angele appeared in the doorway.

  The ladies raised their brows in unison as their eyes flicked over Angele’s gown. She knew then, beyond all doubt, that it really was too sophisticated.

  Clarice, blinking against her own reaction of disapproval, coolly said to no one in particular, “This is Ryan’s bride, Angele. Smile and nod and make polite noises, but she won’t know what you’re saying.”

  They were introduced in turn, and Angele decided they seemed nice enough.

  Servants were passing silver trays of sugar cookies, spice cakes, hot tea, and cold lemonade.

  Despite the large size of the parlor, Angele found it was charmingly informal and inviting. Three Palladian-style French doors were open to the side terrace, and the air was laced with the delicate fragrance of mimosa and lavender.

  Angele politely sat with the ladies and sipped her tea and munched a few cookies while they talked of mundane things that would not have interested her even if she had been able to join in. They gossiped about other women, the stale-as-day-old-bread sermons, as they called them, of Pastor Barnes. They also complained about lazy slaves who had to be watched every minute to make them get their work done.

  “Mary Etta, did they ever find those two runaways from your place?” someone asked.

  Angele concentrated on picking cookie crumbs off her skirt while carefully listening to the woman bemoan the fact that the two Negroes had disappeared. She said her husband, along with some of the other planters, were suspicious that an underground movement was going on, and they were keeping a closer watch on their slaves in case they thought about running away, too.

  “We don’t have to worry about that at BelleRose,” Clarice said ai
rily, lifting her little finger as she sipped her tea. “Our slaves are so well treated we’d have to run them off.”

  The ladies shared a laugh, and a few teased Clarice that she might be overconfident.

  Afraid her annoyance and boredom might show, Angele quietly drifted out the open doors and onto the terrace.

  “Oh, dear she’s leaving,” one of the women said. “I guess we weren’t very polite.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” came Clarice’s snickering response. “It’s like being around a deaf mute if you can’t speak French. Ryan is going to hire a tutor for her when he goes into Richmond in a few days.”

  “Do you think she can learn enough to carry on a small conversation, at least, by the time you have the ball?” someone else asked.

  “I hope so. It’s so awkward.”

  Another woman giggled, “Well, Denise speaks French, and I imagine she’s got a lot she’d like to say to her—although I doubt Angele would want to hear it.”

  Hearing Denise’s name, Angele’s interest was piqued.

  Then came a different voice to say, “Well, from what I hear, everyone thinks Ryan only married her because Denise turned him down. I’ll wager he still loves her.”

  “Of course he does,” Clarice agreed, as though stricken that anyone could possibly think otherwise. “He worships her, and, yes, I do think he married impulsively. Men do that sometimes when they’ve been hurt, and, according to Corbett, Ryan was truly crushed. He was positively sick all the way to France, and when he got there, he lost his head. But”—she gave an exaggerated sigh—“it’s too late now. What’s done is done. We have to respect the sanctity of marriage. I just hope Angele can make him happy. I adore Ryan, you know. He’s like the brother I never had.”

  Angele was glad her back was turned, because never would she have been able to hide the devastation that was surely mirrored on her face.

  Ryan loved Denise.

  He had asked her to marry him.

  And she had refused.

  So he had married her instead.