A Dream of Daring

by Gen LaGreca

  He heard voices coming from the storehouse and walked there to investigate. Through the window he saw two figures standing by a table, one wearing a chef’s hat. Intent on their business, they failed to notice him.

  “This next entry is something entirely new!” said Solo.

  Her dirt-splattered pants and shirt gave her the look of a farm boy at work, but her long tangled hair was emphatically feminine.

  “Whut the missus mean?” asked Jerome.

  Solo was holding a bound volume of more than one hundred handwritten pages. Tom recognized his mother’s housekeeping book. Jerome had recently asked him about the book, but he hadn’t been able to find it in his mother’s room. It must have been placed in the library, where the room’s newest visitor apparently had located it.

  Pearl Edmunton, like many other plantation mistresses, kept a journal of helpful tips for managing the domestic affairs of the estate. The book contained items as diverse as remedies for soothing sore throats and for treating cholera, techniques for dying fabrics and for polishing furniture, and recipes for making soups, meats, stews, breads, cakes, preserves, brandies, and other foods. Watching Solo read from the book, Tom was carried back in time, held for a moment by an image of the mother he loved, who had died six years earlier.

  “Mrs. Edmunton said she discovered something new to eat while she was traveling around the North,” said Solo. “She said it was delicious.”

  “And whut that be?”

  Glancing in the window, Tom was astonished by what he saw. To his surprise, the items in the room were labeled. Common cooking measures and ingredients were spread out on the table as if a lesson were in progress, with the name of each item written on a scrap of paper near it: teacup, teaspoon, tablespoon, pint, quart, mixing bowl, eggs, butter, milk, sugar, flour, yeast. On the shelves, he saw labels adhered with a spot of glue to containers of foodstuffs: raisins, molasses, peach preserves, pepper, vinegar. Tom also saw labels on cooking equipment: cake pan, soup kettle, sieve.

  “Mrs. Edmunton came back from her trip with a recipe for a new kind of cake,” said Solo.

  Jerome looked at the page she was reading. His face crinkled with the mental labor of deciphering the words.

  “Hmm,” said the chef in deep concentration, pointing to words in the recipe, then searching the items on the table to find the objects they named. His eyes moved back and forth, from the page to the labels, looking for matches. Finally, he found one. “Eggs!” he said in triumph.

  “That’s right,” said his teacher.

  He picked up a small basket of eggs and moved it in front of him. He repeated the process for a second item, then a third, and so on. In that manner, he gathered in front of him butter, sugar, and flour.

  “Good.” Solo nodded her approval.

  His finger paused on an ingredient in the recipe that had no matching object in the room. He scrutinized the table and shelves, trying to match the word that appeared in the recipe, and indeed also in the title of the dish, but without success.

  “This ain’t here. Whut this say?” Jerome pointed to the puzzling word on the page.

  “Chocolate,” said Solo.

  “Oh, that be cocoa. But that fer drinkin’, ain’t it?”

  “Actually, Mrs. Edmunton’s recipe is for a chocolate cake.”

  Jerome and his teacher looked surprised. Although cocoa was widely used as a beverage, they had not heard of anyone eating food made with it.

  “She has a note about it.” Solo read to Jerome from the book:

  There is a growing interest here and in Europe in using chocolate for eating. Through better roasting and grinding methods, companies are manufacturing a smoother, richer chocolate that brings out more of the flavor. Shops sell this chocolate in one-pound bars, which can be cut into smaller pieces and melted, then used to make quite delicious bonbons, candy sticks, and other confections.

  Solo looked up and smiled about this pleasant new discovery.

  Jerome’s eyes flashed with interest. “I’s gonna make this cake!”

  The man at the window felt sure that the chocolate cake from his mother’s book would soon appear on his table. He sensed what Jerome was feeling; he had felt the same eagerness in moments of surprise and discovery that had sparked his own life. In fact, he was having such a moment right then because, finally, he knew what to do with Solo.

  He stepped up to the open door to face the culinary explorers.

  They turned to him in awkward silence, with their book open, looking like two burglars caught with goods that didn’t belong to them.

  It was Solo who broke the silence. “I’ll tend to your horse.”

  “No, don’t go back to the stable.” Tom walked toward them.

  “I fix yer dinner, Mr. Tom.”

  “No.”

  Jerome seemed taken aback by Tom’s remarks. There was no trace of the slave’s ready smile and cheerful manner. He dropped his head as if expecting a reprimand. Solo didn’t follow suit; she kept her eyes on Tom, more curious than fearful—and perhaps more attuned to his nature than was her friend.

  “But Mr. Tom, you jus’ gittin’ home; you needs yer dinner—”

  “I don’t want you to go back to the kitchen, Jerome.”

  “But—”

  “And she’s not going back to the stable.”

  “Whut?!” Jerome looked terrified.

  Tom, intent on a new idea, didn’t notice his cook’s panic. “Somebody else can get me dinner and take care of the horse.”

  “But, Mr. Tom, you can’t send us to the fields! Fo’ Gawd, pleez, sir!”

  “What?” Tom was astonished. “The fields? Why would I do that?”

  “I knows Miss Solo can’t be learnin’ me. Pleez don’t send us to th’ fields! We gives back yer mama’s book and won’t do this agin.”

  Jerome took the housekeeping journal from Solo, closed it, and handed it to Tom. The slave then started to take the labels away from the items on the table.

  “No, stop, Jerome.” Tom spread his arm over the table to block the action. “What I meant was, you can stay here and finish your lesson.”

  Jerome stared at him.

  Tom held the book out to his confused slave. “I’d like to taste that new chocolate cake.”

  Slowly, Jerome’s smile returned. He reached for the book and grasped it gingerly with both hands as if it were a prized manuscript.

  Then Tom turned to Solo. “And I just realized what you could do here.”

  She looked at him, her eyes of melted chocolate waiting to hear his recipe.

  “You can give classes to the servants. Teach them to read and write. Teach them to want to learn about something. Teach them to care about something, anything. I want you to make me more Jeromes.”

  Her stunned silence suggested that she realized the proposal was unheard of, outrageous . . . unlawful.

  “And teach the children too. Of course, teach them.” Tom continued matter-of-factly, as if he were in another time and place, arranging a normal activity.

  Solo remained speechless with the dazed look of someone hit in the head and knocked off balance.

  “Would you want to do that? The job’s yours if you want it.”

  She cocked her head, assessing the matter. The proposal itself and being asked for her assent seemed to take her completely by surprise.

  “Well?” Tom waited.

  With his eyes searching hers, he wondered if he could reach something vital within her, as she had reached in Jerome, and as they both had reached in him. Out of the stagnant waters that trapped the three of them, their will and choice in how to deal with one another seemed to be surfacing like a current to carry them into a fresh new stream.

  When she said nothing, he finally turned to go. As he reached the door, he heard her reply.

  “I’ll make a list of what I need.”

  * * * * *

  The stores were open and business was brisk when Tom drove a wagon through the main street of a town ten mi
les from Greenbriar. He hoped the distance from home and his wide-brimmed hat would protect his anonymity. He hitched his wagon to a post, then walked past the display windows of various shops until he came to the general store. He paused at the entrance to lower his hat over his face, feeling like a criminal. He was buying items that would be used to commit a crime: slate pencils and boards, primers, and other supplies for Solo’s school.

  The new teacher had moved into his childhood tutor’s room in a secluded area of the big house. There she found items useful to her new role—a desk, a blackboard and chalk, and a bookcase containing Tom’s early lessons and schoolbooks. Slaves working at the big house and its dependencies were to comprise her first class. She would add the children and other adults later . . . after Tom traveled to other towns for more supplies.

  When she had asked to use an outer building for her classroom, he offered an alternative. “If you’re going to teach them to read, why not meet where the books are—in the library?” The offer of his house to the slaves for their meetings left her too shocked to reply.

  “Those books are just sitting on the shelves collecting dust, kind of like people who waste away with their potential untapped. Don’t you think we could tap that?”

  “Tap the people—or the books?” she asked.

  “Both.”

  She laughed, a quick puff of air with a sweet sound that was too rare an occurrence for his taste.

  Her expression quickly changed to worry. She sensed danger, and she surprised the two of them with her concern—for him. “If we meet outside, maybe you can pretend you don’t know about the class . . . if . . . anyone—”

  “And leave you to take the blame? In case you don’t know it, I would never do that.”

  She quietly absorbed his words of protection.

  “If anyone comes around, I have a plan to conceal the class. If it doesn’t work, then I’m the teacher and you’re just one of the students. And you can’t read or write.”

  “But—” she protested.

  “No buts.”

  She looked uneasy but accepted his resolve. She would give her class in the place she liked best, the palace of her life: the library.

  He felt he had a personal stake in the school. It was linked in his mind to the missing invention, the boarded workshop, the halted project—to the new age he couldn’t yet reach. The class was a step he could take along that road.

  The school created to liberate the servants almost began as an act of utter tyranny. The school’s self-appointed sergeant at arms and first student, Jerome, wanted to fill Solo’s class by ordering the slaves to attend. This required that they complete their tasks earlier than usual and give up some of their precious free time in the evening. When Tom heard of the plan, he shook his head. “You need to try for volunteers,” he advised. “You can force their legs to walk and their hands to work, but you can’t force this.”

  Heeding Tom’s words, Jerome tried persuasion, and Solo helped with the effort. To their surprise, they soon found enough servants willing to attend. Whether it was out of curiosity, constant prodding from the two advocates, or the added inducement of a piece of Jerome’s new cake—for by then he had gotten the chocolate and produced a fine product—nine servants arrived at the back door of the big house on the evening of Solo’s first class.

  Before the class began, Tom appeared at the library door. He inspected the empty room, checking to be sure the drapes were drawn, as he had instructed. With the bookcases stretching to the ceiling with musty tomes and the lamplight casting a golden tinge over the room, it looked like a scholar’s hideaway.

  While Tom observed the new classroom, its teacher appeared. He turned to her, amazed at the new image before him. She had broken with habit by wearing a dress. The feminine clothing looked surprisingly well suited to her. The dress was a simple slave’s frock, clean and ironed, but she wore it with a quiet dignity that made her look like a handsome farm woman. The frock’s high collar gathered in a simple tie at her neck looked demure, while the figure the dress hugged looked womanly. A ribbon fastened her voluminous hair, lifting it off her face. With her hair swept back, the lines of her face were even more striking.

  Tom broke with his conscious policy by letting his attention linger on her. Against his will, his glance traveled from the glistening almond eyes that dominated her face, then to the gaunt cheekbones, the pleasing slope of her nose, the etched lips, the tapered chin. Her face was still too arresting to evoke calm emotions, but the fury that was part of her usual countenance had vanished. She looked almost genteel.

  In answer to the surprise on his face at her newfound civility, she looked as if she were about to smile. Then thinking better of it, she simply stared back at him.

  “If you need me, I’ll be around,” he said, turning to leave.

  She looked astonished at the prospect of his being at her service.

  As he walked toward the front entrance, he heard Jerome on the back porch welcoming the new class. “Yer clothes gotta be clean. Lemme see them shoes! Hold out them hands! Git that dirt off yer knuckles! Y’all’s gotta be clean, clean, clean. And don’t be touchin’ nuthin’ in there!”

  After passing Jerome’s inspection, the slaves quietly passed Solo one by one at the library door. She gave them each a slate pencil and board, with a cloth for an eraser. She directed them to seats on the couch, on chairs, and on the floor. They formed a crescent around the tutor’s blackboard, which had been moved into the room. Their dark eyes glistened in the lamplight as they glanced up at the walls of books, absorbing a world completely new to them. They sat in unbreached silence as Solo closed the door and began her class.

  Outside on the gallery, a lonely figure sat in a rocking chair, a rifle resting across his lap. From his perch in the moonlight, Tom could see the road approaching the big house.

  The slave patrols that scoured the town appeared on his grounds infrequently, but always at unexpected times, to search for runaways. He had never heard of a planter chasing them away, and he didn’t intend to arouse their suspicions by being the first.

  Tom could also see the light filtering out through the drapery in the library. Close enough to see through the curtains, he noticed Jerome’s figure by the window. Tom had arranged in advance for his cook to sit there. Should anyone ride up the road toward the house, Tom would alert Jerome. The slave would then erase the blackboard, quietly get the students out the back door, and gather them by the pond. He’d direct them to begin singing hymns, and Tom, if necessary, would explain that they habitually gathered around the pond in the evening for songs. That was the plan if someone appeared whom he couldn’t turn away. The plan for dealing with strangers who needed persuasion to leave was simpler. He glanced at his rifle.

  He could see Solo’s lithe form through the curtain, standing before the group. From the dark veranda, unseen by the others, he heard her begin the class.

  “Before we get to your lesson for tonight, I want to say something.” She pointed to the bookcases that formed a literary cave around them. “You see these books? What do you suppose is inside them?”

  The class stared at her hypnotically, as if she were the priestess of this new temple.

  “The answer is: everything. The whole world is inside these books. Would you like to take a trip across the ocean? This book is an adventure story written by a sea captain.” She pulled out a volume and held it up to them. “Would you like to see what people and places there are up the river, where the steamers go? That’s in this book.” She selected another title, this one displaying a steamboat on the cover, and held it up to the group. She placed her selections on a table and continued searching the shelves. “Would you like to know what it’s like to be a princess in love with a duke who’s plotting to kill your father, the king?” She made another selection and held it out to the women in the class. “This book is called a novel, and it tells a story about that. You see, all of these books sweep you away from here and bring you to an exciting
new place.”

  Like the proprietress of a shop who knows the merchandise well, she brushed through the shelves with ease. As she spoke, she looked into the eyes of the servants in the room—the butler and maid, wearing the white gloves they used for formal dinners; the gardener sitting on a chair next to his girlfriend, the housekeeper; the weaver and spinner sitting together on the couch; the blacksmith and carpenter sitting on the rug; and Jerome at the window. They turned their heads to follow her as she moved among the books.

  “Would you like to know how people in history lived? How great empires of the world grew and crumbled? That’s in this book.” She took out one of the thickest tomes.

  “And did you ever think about how pretty a rose is? There’s a poem in here that describes that. This is a book of poetry.” She held up one of the thinnest books.

  “Did you ever wonder what goes on in the theater? This book takes you there. It’s a book of plays, which are performed onstage.” She held up the selection. “See how you can know the answer to everything in these books?”

  She picked another volume. She thumbed through it and displayed one of its illustrations to the group. It was of a beautifully dressed man and woman at a table dining; the couple displayed correct posture and a refinement in handling their silverware. “Would you like to have manners? This book is called Etiquette. It teaches you the manners that make you gentlemen and ladies. Manners mean that no one can be better than you. Now, you might not always want to show people your manners . . .”

  Outside, Tom wondered if perhaps she was thinking of her own outrageous behavior.

  “. . . but you’ll have your manners when you want them. And no one can ever take them away from you. These manners travel from the pages of the book straight to you. And they’re yours to keep.”

  The class members looked thoughtful as they heard about things that were theirs to keep and the magic of the books that awaited them.