But regardless, Erin made a mental note to be more alert to the ubiquitous housekeeper in the future.
During the ride, Erin observed that Annie seemed upset. Her enthusiasm was absent, and instead of gazing happily out the window, she sat with eyes downcast, hands folded in her lap.
Finally, Erin offered, “If something is wrong, Annie, I wish you’d tell me. If I’m going to trust you, you’re going to have to trust me back, you know.”
Gloomily, Annie agreed with that, then worriedly asked, “But am I gonna get in trouble?”
Erin firmly shook her head. “Not if you just keep silent and do as you’re told.”
Annie thought about that a minute. “But what is it I’m not supposed to tell?”
With a resigned sigh, Erin knew there was nothing to do but confide in her. She had no trepidation, really, in doing so. The girl was almost fawning in her desire to please, and she’d made it clear she despised Eliza. Candidly, she explained, “I’m going to be helping some of your people who aren’t treated as well as you are, Annie.” Erin watched her face closely for any sign that Annie might react negatively to what she was hearing. When Erin saw only excited interest, she went on to say, “There may be times when I’ll want you to see if someone has left a message for me somewhere close to the house. You will have to be extremely careful in slipping it to me. Master Youngblood is not to know and certainly none of the other servants. Do you think I can count on you to do that?”
With awe and admiration, Annie leaned forward, almost trembling in her excitement. “Oh, yassum. Yassum, fo’ sure.” Confidence renewed, she rushed on to share the gossip she’d heard from the other slaves. “Miz Erin, I know only too well how me and the rest at our place need to give thanks every day for how good we’re treated. It’s true, Miz Victoria can be mean sometimes, screamin’ and yellin’, and one time she slapped me and gave my hair a yank when I accidentally broke somethin’ while cleanin’, but she didn’t have me whipped. I don’t know of anybody that’s ever been whipped at Jasmine Hill. She threatens, sure as God’s in His heaven, that she’s gonna beat somebody’s worthless hide, but she don’t never do it. She might, if’n it won’t fo’ Mastah Ryan, but he’s jest like his daddy, good to the bone, he is.
“No, ma’am.” She sat back, shaking her head in positive assurance. “You ain’t never got to worry about me tellin’ nothing.”
Suddenly she snapped her fingers and brightly cried, “Are you lookin’ fo’ a hidin’ place for somebody to leave you somethin’? I know just the place—Miz Henrietta’s pot.”
Erin blinked, sure she hadn’t heard right. “Miss Who’s what?”
“Miz Henrietta,” Annie explained impatiently. “Don’t you know about her? She was Mastah Calvin’s wife, the one he named Jasmine Hill for. She’s buried right there out your bedroom window, almost. You can see her grave when you look out to the left.
“And it’s said,” Annie continued uneasily, “that when the jasmine is in bloom, and the night air is just sick with that sweet smell, that you can sometimes see her walkin’ around down there, sniffin’ them flowers, ’specially if the moon is full, and—”
“Annie,” Erin cut in to stop her ghost story, “what about her pot?”
“Her flowerpot. It sits right there on top of her grave, in front of the tombstone. My momma tol’ me that her momma tol’ her Mastah Calvin had it carved out of marble sent all the way from Italy. He used to have flowers put in it every day when there was any bloomin’. And when there wasn’t, he’d have paper flowers made up. Momma said her momma said that was one eerie sight, seein’ them paper flowers stickin’ up outta the snow.
“But,” she finally concluded, “nobody never put nothin’ else in that pot after he died, so it’d make a good place fo’ somebody to leave you whatever it is you’re lookin’ for.” She flashed one of her special toothy grins, eyes shining in anticipation of praise.
She received it. “Thank you,” Erin said, and meant it. “Now all you’ll have to do is tell me when you find a flower, paper or otherwise, in that pot. I’ll know what to do then.”
Annie was so proud, happily wiggling in her seat to think how she was such big help to her mistress. “What kind of flower you gonna have, Miz Erin?” She wanted to know, anxious to keep the conversation alive so the good feeling would last. “You gonna have a jasmine? They bloom the longest, but they’d be kinda hard to make out of paper.”
Erin did not have to think long on that. She smiled to herself as she whispered, “No. Not a jasmine. A rose.”
Always it had been her favorite flower, but never more so since Ryan had showered her with so many. Maybe, by adopting the blood-red rose as her special signal, she contemplated, it would help assuage her feeling that she was, in a way, betraying him.
Ryan took the back steps three at a time. Dashing through the service porch, he passed by Eliza as though she were not even there. Through the years of growing up with her watching his every move like a barn owl after a field mouse, so she could tattle to his mother, it was second nature to disregard her at every opportunity. But, after dashing through the house and not finding Erin anywhere, he was forced to address her.
“Did Miss Erin tell you where she was going?”
Eliza was ready with her answer. After all, Miss Erin had not told her, but Annie had, and he didn’t ask her about Annie. “No, sir,” she replied in the proper enunciation Miss Victoria had taught her, void of dialect. “Miss Erin didn’t say anything to me.”
He turned away without further conversation. She heard him going down the back hallway toward his study. Tiptoeing behind him, she peered in through the half-opened door, just as she had done that morning, when she’d seen Miss Erin take something out of his drawer and copy it. She didn’t know what it was, but maybe Miss Victoria would, and she sure intended to tell her. Miss Victoria was going to be very mad about all of this, anyway. And Miss Ermine wasn’t going to like it, either.
Eliza liked Miss Ermine, because after the betrothal was announced, she had made it clear that when she married Master Ryan and moved in, she might be bringing some of her own servants with her, but Eliza would still be in charge, even if something was to happen to Miss Victoria, she had whispered. Eliza knew what she meant. Miss Ermine would be mistress of Jasmine Hill when Miss Victoria passed on, and Eliza was pleased to know she’d still be in charge should that happen, and not any slaves Miss Ermine brought into the house.
She could see Master Ryan writing something on a piece of paper. Moving from the doorway, she eased on into the parlor directly across the hall and waited. In a few minutes, she heard him come out and go up the stairs. Then he hurriedly came back down and left the house.
Eliza went straight to Miss Victoria’s room. She wasn’t about to think of it as belonging to Miss Erin, because once Miss Victoria got back from her trip, she’d take over again.
She found the note lying on Miss Erin’s pillow. She could not read the lines that explained he had received word Quincy Monroe’s mare was about to foal, and he was going over there. He might not be back till late, maybe even on into the morning. He would miss her, he wrote, but he would be thinking of how wonderful it was last night, and he hoped when he came home he would find her in his bed again.
No; Eliza could not read. Victoria Youngblood felt there was a certain limit to how learned a slave should be. So Eliza did not know what Master Ryan had written and didn’t care. All she knew as she tucked the paper in her apron pocket was that by doing so, she was helping maybe to make Miss Erin unhappy, and maybe she would start thinking how she never should have married Master Ryan. Eliza was also confident Miss Victoria would approve.
Erin was doubly pleased when she arrived at her mother’s. First of all, Zachary was nowhere around, and, second, her mother was dressed and sitting on the side veranda. “I’m so glad you’re better,” she cried with a kiss of greeting.
Arlene, with forced gaiety, replied, “It’s such a lovely afternoon I couldn
’t bear to be indoors.” Actually, she had not felt like getting up at all, and only with Rosa’s help had she been able to get her clothes on and make it to her favorite rocking chair. But she’d anticipated Erin’s visit and did not want to worry her by still being bedridden when she arrived.
Rosa brought mint tea, and Erin noticed she would not look her straight in the eye. She waited till it would not appear so obvious, then followed her inside to corner her in the service kitchen. “I’ve got the diagram of the labyrinth,” she said hurriedly, not giving her a chance to protest or refuse to take it. She stuffed it in the pocket of her apron and continued, “Tell Mahalia there is a grave on the river side of the house. She can’t miss seeing it. There’s a big tombstone. In front of that is a marble flower vase. When she wants me to meet her in the center of the labyrinth, tell her she’s to leave a red rose in that vase. If she can’t find one, she’s to make one out of paper.
“Tell her,” she rushed to finish, “that I’ll always have money for her. Maybe not as much as I’d like, but when she’s in need, I’ll be there with something.”
Rosa just looked at her with fear-widened eyes and lips trembling.
“Rosa, just do it!” Erin snapped impatiently. “After this, Mahalia will know how to contact me without involving you.”
Rosa managed a quick nod and turned to scurry out the back door and head for the outbuildings.
Erin stared after her with a chilling stab of foreboding. Was there another reason, she wondered, why Rosa was so nervous? She did not know, knew only that something within was urging her to get her mother out of that house of evil as soon as possible.
Erin stayed till there was just enough time to get back to Jasmine Hill before dark. “I’m going to send a carriage for you early Sunday morning so you can come and spend the day with us,” she promised, giving her a hug, thinking once more how sickly her mother looked.
Arlene was reluctant to promise. “Maybe. We’ll see.” Then, suddenly, although she hated to, she felt she had to tell her, “Zachary isn’t at all pleased about your getting married while he was away. He thinks it shamed him.”
Erin wanted to say he had always done a good job of bringing on his own shame and certainly didn’t need to give credit to anyone else. But her mother knew that, and there was no need to cause pain by reminding her. “He’ll get over it,” she soothed. “Besides, soon it’s not going to matter how he feels, because you’re going to come and live with me.”
Arlene managed a smile but inside felt no optimism, for she could not help wondering how much longer anything would matter.
When Erin arrived home to find Ryan had not returned, she was disappointed.
When the evening wore on, and he still did not come back, she became angry.
When, at last, it was time to go to bed, she went to her own.
It was nearly three in the morning when Ryan returned from the Monroe farm. He was in very high spirits. The mare had indeed delivered twins—a colt and a filly. Quincy had obligingly given him his choice, and he’d picked the filly. Erin could choose the name, because he was going to give it proudly to her. She could raise it and help train it, and then she’d have a good-blooded mare to ride alongside him around the plantation.
He had ridden almost at full gallop to get home. Not only was he anxious to tell her about his gift, but he also couldn’t wait to find her in his bed. Maybe, he was starting to think with a warmth in his heart, they really were going to be happy together, and maybe, he smiled to the night world around him as he rode, she might one day return his ever-growing love.
The grooms had all gone to bed, and the stables were dark. He unsaddled his horse himself, gave him a quick rubdown, because the animal was well lathered from the hard ride. Then he hurried to the house.
He approached from the rear. Eliza slept in a small room just off the service hallway, assigned there by his mother years ago to keep an ear out for his comings and goings at night. He avoided going in that way whenever possible and, through force of habit, turned to go in the front of the house.
He glanced up to the east wing as he started up the stairs and wondered why Erin had not left a lantern burning for him. Maybe she had decided he would be out all night. No matter, he grinned to himself, quickening his step, he was going to wake her up and let her know differently, by God!
He entered his room through the door that opened out into the main hallway and walked in the darkness straight to the bed. “I’ve got a surprise for you, Erin,” he called softly, not wanting to startle her from slumber. He reached out, expecting to touch her soft skin, to feel the sensual curves of her warm body.
His hand flattened on the spread and mattress.
Blinking in bewilderment, he groped about to realize she wasn’t there. Whirling around, he made his way out and into the parlor. There was a quarter moon, scant light, but enough to keep him from bumping into anything. Then, opening her door, he was slammed with disappointment and anger as he made her out, contentedly sleeping in her own bed.
Was this her way, he wondered bitterly, of reminding him that she had married him for one reason only—and that it had nothing to do with wanting him, much less loving him?
He shook his head in discouragement, stepped out of the room, and quietly closed the door.
Chapter Nineteen
Erin was not about to ask Ryan why he never came to her that night, nor did she inquire as to exactly when he returned home. She pretended not even to notice. In turn, he never mentioned the note he had left or asked why she had ignored his request.
In the days following, Ryan told himself it was time he became more involved with the actual workings of the plantation. By so doing, it took his mind off Erin and his brooding over the invisible wall between them. He called together his overseers for reports; then, satisfied that all was operating smoothly, he began to devote himself entirely to his favorite pastime, his prize horses.
Erin, meanwhile, looked forward to her mother’s visit. She was also ever on the alert for the right time to approach Ryan about the tense situation at Zachary’s. But it was starting to look as if the opportunity just wasn’t going to come. He stayed away from the house during the day, and if he did come around, he was cool and withdrawn. It was no different at night. His lovemaking was as tender and satisfying as ever, but afterward, they were like strangers. There was never the proper milieu for intimate conversation. As the days passed, she found it difficult to believe that one special evening had actually happened.
She ached inside, but on the outside, she pretended not to care. But there seemed to be so many empty hours with nothing to do. Then she hit on the idea of restoring the garden area around Henrietta Youngblood’s grave. It would give her an opportunity to check the spot herself, without anyone wondering why. With fall approaching, there were fallen leaves to remove anyway. If Ryan even noticed, he said nothing. It was as though he never gave her a thought until bedtime. He began to take his meals in his study, locking himself away for the evening. Erin did not say a word, merely had Annie bring her a tray to the upstairs parlor.
It was on Saturday evening when Erin’s patience finally grew thin. All week, she had been cooped up inside the house, save for the time when she puttered around the grave. In the morning, she would be sending for her mother. It was for her sake that Erin wanted to try and make sure there’d be no tension between her and Ryan, for a little while, anyway.
Deciding she was just going to have to talk to Ryan, Erin went to the serving kitchen and told Eliza to let her know when he came into the house.
Eliza did not speak or acknowledge her request.
Suddenly, standing there, the subject of the woman’s blatant disrespect, Erin could contain herself no longer. “Eliza, I am talking to you.”
Eliza was polishing silverware and did not look around as she dully responded, “I know that. And I heard you.”
Erin resisted the urge to stamp her foot childishly for emphasis. “Then act like you hear
me.” She bit out the words tightly, evenly, fighting to control her rage as the woman insolently continued to keep her back turned.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want…” Erin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I want you to say politely, ‘Yes, ma’am, Miss Erin, I’ll be glad to let you know as soon as Master Ryan comes into the house.’ Then I will be sure that you heard me, and that you will carry out my request.”
In a maddening monotone, Eliza sarcastically obliged. “Yes-ma’am-Miss-Erin-I-will-be-glad-to-let-you-know-as-soon-as-Master-Ryan-comes-into-the-house.” She still did not turn around.
Erin swiftly walked over to her. Her fury was not motivated by the insolence of a slave to a mistress. Far from it. Her ire was provoked by the fact the woman was deliberately being impudent and arrogant. “Eliza,” she began in a heated rush, “servants at my stepfather’s house will tell you I am a very easy person to get along with. I make no unreasonable demands. I do not scream. I do not yell. And, most certainly, I have never lifted a hand against any of them. But I want you to know that I won’t stand for you treating me this way. I’m going to have to speak to my husband about this.”
Eliza did look up then, and the eyes she locked on Erin gleamed with contempt and challenge. “You do that. You just go right on and do that. And the sooner the better, so he can tell you just how it is around here, how I don’t have to answer to anybody in this household except Miss Victoria. Not even him. That’s the way it’s always been. That’s the way it will always be. If you want someone to slave for you, then you call Annie. Not me.”
Erin was aghast and could not believe what she was hearing. “We’ll see about that,” was all she could trust herself to say at that moment.
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