Ella Wood

by Michelle Isenhoff

  Deena clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Shame. Serve dat Georgia right, though, flauntin’ herself de way she do. Don’ hurt her none to miss her mark now and again.”

  Lewis stood and stretched, handing the finished spoon to his wife. “I’m startin’ to feel like a rooster in a henhouse. Think I’ll leave dese two squawkin’ chickens to you, Miss Emily, and go see what Zeke be up to.”

  Josephine tossed a handful of potato skins in her husband’s direction. He dodged the projectiles and ducked through the door with a burst of laughter. “Squawkin’ chickens, indeed,” she huffed.

  Emily smiled to herself and used her thumb to smear a shadow across the corner of her page.

  The women fell back to their gossiping, which was soon interrupted by the sound of quarreling children.

  “I am not, Herod,” Lottie exploded, shoving her brother firmly through the doorway.

  “How can you deny it? I seen you wid my own eyes.”

  Perhaps seventeen years of age, Herod had even features, the slim musculature of an athlete, and a cocky attitude to accompany them. He stopped short at the sight of Emily and replaced his taunting grin with a fulsome smile. “Afternoon, Miss Emily.”

  She replied with a short nod. They’d grown up together, and she knew Herod for a slippery sort. He always displayed that agreeable face, but the moment it suited his purpose he could turn devious. She’d lost many a childish game to his cheating, though she could never prove it. Contests he probably could have won without deception.

  With a longsuffering sigh that asked what else might interrupt her afternoon, Josephine snapped at her children. “What you two bickerin’ about now?”

  Lottie rushed to her mother’s side. “Mama, Herod called me a monkey.”

  Josephine glowered at him in disapproval.

  “I’m jus’ encouragin’ her to be her own self, not a copycat o’ someone else,” Herod explained in a reasonable voice.

  Lottie tugged on Josephine’s arm. “He tol’ me I be followin’ Lizzie around like a monkey.”

  Emily had noticed how the little girl shadowed her maid, emulating her facial expressions and completing each task in exactly the same manner, but she kept her fingers busy shading in the planes of Deena’s face.

  “Mo’ flowers, Herod?” Josephine asked wearily, eying the arcing bouquet of purple butterfly bush blossoms the young man grasped. “You ain’t no monkey, Lottie. An’ you have mo’ courage dan others I know of,” she said with a pointed look at her son. “When you gunna be brave enough to give dese away yo’self, boy?”

  “You don’ have deliver ’em dis time, Mama. I picked ’em special fo’ Miss Emily.” He presented the flowers with a low bow.

  “Thank you,” Emily said coolly. “Did you steal them from my father’s garden?”

  “Oh no, miss,” he replied with all sincerity. “Dey’s a plant grows wild up on de ridge.”

  Emily tossed the bouquet on the floor next to her feet. She didn’t believe him for a second.

  Josephine shooed her children toward the door. “You two get on outta here ’fore I find y’all somethin’ to do.”

  Deena cackled again when the children had cleared out. “He still ’spectin’ his mama to do his courtin’ for him?”

  Josephine shook her head in exasperation. “All brawn but no mo’ sense’n a rock.”

  “He’ll outgrow it. All boys become men someday.”

  Emily was pleased with the picture that had taken shape under her hand. After touching it up with a few final details, she turned it around for Deena to view.

  “Well, look at dat,” the old woman said, squinting at the portrait. “I be a tired old woman, jus’ like I warned you.”

  Josephine took in the image with more appreciation. “It look jus’ like you, Deena,” she exclaimed. She studied it for some time before favoring Emily with a rare smile. “I never seen anything like it. You found yo’ callin’, chil’.”

  Emily knew the praise of a slave didn’t carry much weight, but it filled her with unexpected warmth, nonetheless. If only her father would agree.

  5

  Emily, minus her hoops, stretched out on the front lawn and soaked up the late autumn sunlight as she doodled in the margin of her textbook. She had spread her blanket beside a row of azalea bushes that offered a fantastic view of the river while shielding her from the windows of the house and her mother’s disapproving eyes.

  After spending the last three days inventorying the larder with her mother and configuring a list of winter supplies for the Negroes, the last thing she wanted to do was catch up on algebra. But her tutor, Mr. Lindquist, would arrive that afternoon, and he would expect the assignment completed. She wished Malachi lived near enough to ask him for help.

  Zeke approached with Sophia in tow. “Miss Emily,” he said, bowing stiffly, “Mrs. Buchanan to see you.”

  Emily sat up and straightened her skirts. “Thank you, Zeke. Please send Lottie out with tea.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “What would your mother say if she saw you sprawled across the grass?” Sophia asked when Zeke had gone. “And with your shoes off!”

  “Don’t tell her.” Emily closed her book with a grimace and tossed it onto the blanket. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

  “You do realize that the sooner you marry, the sooner you can put an end to schoolwork forever, don’t you?”

  Emily slipped on her shoes, not bothering with the buttons, and led her guest to a pair of cushioned lawn chairs. “And just who would you have me marry?”

  “You danced with James O’Neil, didn’t you?”

  “Twice,” Emily said, recalling the Georgetown planter.

  “Did he call on you afterward?”

  “Yes. He was arrogant and stupid.”

  “Emily Preston, I’m astonished at you! Mr. O’Neil was the most eligible young man at your party. The other girls would kill for his attention.”

  “They’re welcome to it.”

  Sophia huffed. “Did you receive any other callers?”

  “A few.” Mischief loitered in the corners of her smile. “But I managed to avoid most of them by taking Chantilly for long rides during calling hours.”

  “Emily Preston!” Sophia burst out again. “You are the most stubborn—”

  Emily laughed. “Who do you think I learned my tricks from? I recall a former neighbor of mine who sneaked out her back door and ran all the way to my house when a certain unwelcome suitor showed up.”

  Sophia giggled. “You’re right. I’m sorry. If you haven’t met the right one yet, you haven’t met the right one. But I don’t think you’re paying nearly enough attention to the qualities that matter most—like the size of the man’s bank account.”

  Emily shook her head. Marriage hadn’t changed Sophia. Not a bit.

  Lottie approached with tea and a selection of sandwiches and fruit. Emily could see Deena hovering just out of earshot near the kitchen at the side of the house. Apparently she’d taken the little girl’s training upon herself. When Lottie set down the service and made to rejoin her, Deena shooed her back toward the picnic where she stood with her hands folded in front of her, quietly awaiting further instructions.

  Emily poured a cup of tea for herself and one for her guest.

  “Did you hear Mrs. Barton is having another baby?” Sophia asked, dipping an apple slice in honey.

  “I did not.”

  “At her age, can you believe it? She must be fifty! You’d think she would insist on separate bedrooms after the first dozen. It’s not as though her husband doesn’t visit the slave women.” She bit off half the apple and chewed vehemently.

  Emily felt her cheeks grow hot.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Sophia said, a little smugly. “I forgot who I was talking to. Of course you wouldn’t know about such things.”

  Emily was quite aware of the number of light-skinned slaves found throughout the South. She lived on a farm. She could put two
and two together. A protest was forming on her tongue when she realized Sophia was simply flaunting her new married status. “What’s it like?” she asked, then blushed deeper. “I mean—not—” She stammered to a halt and took a breath.

  Sophia snickered.

  “I mean…what is it like being in a home of your own?” Emily was sweating through her shirtwaist.

  “Unlike anything you’ve ever imagined.”

  Emily bit her lip, unsure which question was being answered.

  Sophia laughed again, enjoying her friend’s discomfort. “I already mentioned the lack of tutors. And I’m free to do what I want without the necessity of a chaperone, even if St. George’s is in the middle of nowhere.” Her chin lifted to a haughty angle. “There is the railroad, at least. And when I do go into public, you should see the looks of envy and admiration I receive at being Matthew Buchanan’s wife instead of Walter Cutler’s daughter.”

  “You sound happy,” Emily observed. “But isn’t running a household a great deal of responsibility?”

  “I have slaves to do the work.”

  Emily thought the answer sounded too flippant. She knew how many tasks her mother performed each day. But she didn’t press the issue. “Have you…any plans for children?”

  Sophia shrugged without enthusiasm. “They’re inevitable, I suppose. I try not to think about it.” She changed the subject. “Do you have any of those tiny tomatoes your grandfather used to grow? I do love those.”

  Grandfather Preston had written to a botanist in Greece for the unusual cultivar two decades before. Since that time, cherry tomatoes had become a popular novelty unique to Ella Wood. “I believe Josephine still has some baskets of them in the springhouse.”

  Sophia called to Lottie. “You, girl. Run and fetch some cherry tomatoes.” When the child had scampered off, Sophia resumed her line of questioning. “So tell me, who else has called on you this week?”

  “Mrs. Frederickson, Emma Thompson, Biddy Parkinson, and every other gossip in the county. All hoping for details of my abduction. I’m fine, by the way. Thank you.”

  Sophia waved off her sarcasm. “Not them. I’m talking about gentlemen callers.”

  “I thought we discussed this already. Nobody I’m interested in.”

  “I must know who you’ve ruled out if I’m to help you consider new prospects.”

  “Honestly, I think the election has wiped thoughts of courtship from every male head in the South. Since we returned from the city, visitors have been coming at all hours, riding up the drive on lathered horses and spending great lengths of time in the study. My father might as well have stayed in Charleston.”

  “Well, he was an assemblyman.”

  “I am ever so anxious to have it done with just to put an end to the speculating. Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln—as often as I hear that name in a day, you’d think the man had moved in. It is a wonder I never heard it mentioned at the ball.”

  “If you did not, it was only out of courtesy for the guest of honor.” Sophia rolled her eyes. “It is all Matthew and my father speak of. I leave the room whenever they start in on it.”

  “Yet, I sometimes wish I could listen at the door,” Emily admitted. “Aren’t you just a little curious what they’re saying?”

  “What do I care who runs the country?” Sophia glanced at her nails with a bored expression. “It will blow over. The crops must still be harvested no matter who sits in Washington.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Now, if you can stay on subject for three minutes together, I want names.”

  Emily sighed with exasperation. “Sophia, I told you, I was out riding and didn’t entertain any of the other gentlemen.”

  “Oh, you and your silly mare. I don’t know how you abide the smell.” She wrinkled her nose. “What do you think of my brother? He’s quite taken with you, you know.”

  “Jovie? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m serious. Did he call?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “I suppose he couldn’t have,” Sophia mused. “He went back to Charleston with Jack Sunday morning.” She considered Emily carefully. “If you play your cards right, you could be mistress of Fairview one day.”

  “I will leave both your brother and any card playing to Jack.” Emily picked up her textbook, hoping to put a swift end to the conversation. “I’m stuck on this problem right here,” she said, laying the book open on her lap. “Do you know how to figure the value of x?”

  Sophia popped open her reticule and made a show of checking her timepiece. “Oh, good heavens!” she exclaimed. “I’d like to stay and help you. Really I would. But I told my mother I would be back in time to help serve luncheon to her sewing circle.” She stood up—and stepped directly into the path of Lottie, who was returning with a bowl of tomatoes. The child collided with Sophia’s backside and fruit scattered over a six-foot radius. Sophia shrieked and battered the little girl with an open palm. “Clumsy oaf! Watch where you’re going!”

  Deena rushed over, apologizing profusely. “So sorry, Mrs. Buchanan. De chil’ be new to service.” She cuffed Lottie lightly and set her to picking up the tomatoes. “Should I go fin’ Lizzie to wait on you ladies?”

  “There’s no need now,” Sophia snapped. “I’m on my way home. Really,” she sniffed, addressing Emily, “I’d think you’d have the sense to employ a seasoned servant in the presence of company.”

  Emily stood, noting the child’s wide, bewildered eyes. She well remembered Lizzie’s confusion at that age. She gave the girl a discreet wink. “It was an accident, Sophia. Your dress doesn’t have a single spot on it.”

  Sophia turned her back and pulled on a pair of white gloves. “You are still planning on visiting me in January, aren’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Good. I shouldn’t expect such a display of poor behavior from the slaves at Maple Ridge.”

  Emily picked up the half-filled bowl and held it out to her friend. “Would you like to take some of these home with you?”

  “After they’ve been on the ground?”

  “They grow on the ground.”

  Sophia just gathered her things, pausing to give Emily a stiff hug. “I must be off. Good luck with your studies.” And she disappeared around the corner of the house.

  Emily sank onto her blanket and kicked off her shoes. Popping a cherry tomato into her mouth, she saw with satisfaction that Deena had embraced the weeping child as she ushered her toward the kitchen.

  6

  Two days later, Emily rocked along the lowlands at an easy canter, following her father who sat upright on Tobias, his bay gelding. Overhead, the sun leapfrogged through fluffy clouds while the horses’ hooves kicked up the fresh, brown smell of decaying vegetation. At such a speed, bare hardwood branches blurred like mist among an evergreen cloak of bayberry, myrtle, live oak, and cypress. Emily couldn’t contain a silly grin of happiness.

  Pleasure outings with her father were rare events. Though he included Emily in many of the everyday details of Ella Wood, she seldom escorted him out into the fields. In truth, he rarely ventured onto his own land. The day-to-day management was entrusted to the capable hands of their overseer, Edward Turnbull, leaving William free to pursue his own interests. But today, William was mixing business with pleasure by allowing Emily to tag along.

  He changed direction, slowing enough to call out, “I have a crew lumbering off the back corner where it butts up to Northrup’s land. I’d like to check on their progress.”

  Emily signaled her agreement.

  They passed fallow rice fields laid out in neat fifteen-acre sections, each one surrounded by dikes that held the river’s tides at bay. Despite her mother’s warnings about snakes and alligators, the fields had been Emily’s favorite place to play as a child. She still liked to be on hand when the gates were opened and water rushed through the irrigation ditches to flood the land. The river held such power, but it could be contained and controlled by the
simple mechanisms in the gate.

  Turning inland, they circled acres of spent tobacco, hay, potato, wheat, cotton, and other necessary staples as well the back rice fields. Too distant from the river to make use of tides, they depended on the old system of reservoir flooding and drainage. Though the method was less reliable, her father still managed to turn a profit when the weather cooperated.

  They ascended a low ridge rounded like the back of a sea turtle, and Emily began to make out the dull thud of axes. William halted on the crown where they had a panoramic view of the wide swaths being gouged from the forest. “I’m just clearing these few acres,” he said, arm encompassing the valley below. “I’ll get a tidy sum for the lumber, and I can pasture a few dozen head of cattle out here.”

  As he spoke, a tree crackled and fell. Emily watched with fascination as the slaves sprang into action. In a surprisingly short amount of time, they stripped the branches and sawed the trunk into manageable sections. These they fastened behind mules and towed down a makeshift road toward the river.

  “Isn’t that Cage?” Emily asked, catching sight of a returning team. The driver’s thick torso and white skin were hard to miss. “Did you hire him?”

  “He’s clearing a section of his own land,” William answered, pointing out an area on the other side of the ridge. “I gave Northrup permission to use our tote road to access the river.”

  The young man looked up as he approached the base of the ridge. Emily raised a hand in greeting. Cage nodded in return.

  “Shall we continue our ride?” William asked. “I am expecting Mr. Turnbull in my office within the hour.”

  Emily gave Chantilly a nudge.

  They followed the ridge through untamed woodland until it merged with low, tilled fields. These they covered at a quick lope. As they neared home, Emily slowed her pace, giving Chantilly a chance to recover her breath.

  “You remind me very much of my grandmother,” William told her as he matched her pace. “She was quite a horsewoman.”