Miserere

by Caren J. Werlinger

  Conn fingered the duct tape. “I didn’t think anyone outside the military knew about this stuff. My dad always had some.”

  “Oh, you can find it if you know where to look,” Molly said. She stood up. “How about a glass of cold milk?”

  “Yes, please,” Conn said. She glanced back out to the other rooms. “Did you do all those?”

  Molly nodded as she handed Conn a glass.

  “May I look at them?”

  “If you like,” Molly said with a shrug.

  Conn got to her feet and limped out to the dining room, Vincent hobbling along behind her.

  “You two are a matched pair,” Molly chuckled. “He’s paying you quite a compliment. He doesn’t like many people.”

  Conn grinned down at him, her hand dropping to his head, feeling the remaining nub of his right ear. She looked back up at Molly, smiling bigger. “I get it. Vincent.”

  Molly laughed. “Not much gets by you, does it?”

  Conn grinned again, but said nothing as she leaned to get a closer look at some of the canvases. Most of the scenes were of woods and wildlife. There were amazingly detailed studies of chipmunks and birds, the paint gleaming as if feathers and fur were reflecting summer sunlight. Conn paused before a painting of a stream.

  “It looks so real, I expect to see a fish jump out of it,” she said.

  Just then, they heard a car come up the drive and brake to a stop. A moment later, there was a rapid knock on the door. Molly opened it to find Elizabeth standing there with Will peering out from behind her.

  “Hello, Miss Molly,” Elizabeth said breathlessly. “Jed Pancake said my daughter is here and that she was hurt.”

  “Hi, Mom,” Conn said brightly as she hobbled into the entryway.

  “What happened?” Elizabeth demanded as she spied the bandage on Conn’s leg.

  “Uh…” Conn stammered, looking uncertainly up at Molly.

  “Connemara and Jed wandered onto my property by accident,” Molly said, and it occurred to Conn that she had not told Molly her name, “and she cut her leg on one of those old pieces of equipment I have lying around.”

  Conn looked at her gratefully as Molly added, “It was a deep cut, but I disinfected it and washed it. It’s got one of my salves on it and should heal up fine.” She went back to the kitchen and returned a moment later with the small crock. “Here’s some to take home. Good for all kinds of cuts and scrapes. Reapply some a couple of times a day.”

  “Thank you, Miss Molly,” Elizabeth said in relief. “I’m sorry she bothered you.”

  “She was no bother, Elizabeth,” Molly said. “No more than you used to be.”

  Elizabeth blushed and smiled sheepishly. “Well, we’ll get out of your way.”

  “Just a minute,” Conn said, limping back to retrieve her rucksack and give Vincent a last pat on the head. When she got back to the entryway, Will was already sitting in the car. “Thank you, Miss Molly.”

  Molly looked down at her for a moment. “You are welcome. And you can come back anytime, Connemara Ní Faolain.”

  ***

  As Conn climbed into the car, she was bursting with questions about Molly Peregorn, but guessed that she would get more forthright answers from her mother if she waited.

  Elizabeth, meanwhile, had questions of her own which did not need to wait. “What were you and Jed doing on Miss Molly’s property?” she demanded as she drove.

  Conn, watching carefully which route they took home since she had lost all sense of direction in the tunnels, replied, “We didn’t mean to trespass. We got lost and came out of the woods on her land.”

  Elizabeth glanced over at her. “Jed Pancake got lost in the woods around here?” she scoffed. “More likely he talked you into teasing Miss Molly by sneaking around her house. It’s always been a favorite thing for kids around here to do.”

  “I would never do that,” Conn protested, stung to think her mother would suspect her of such a thing.

  “Jed said that old lady shot at you,” Will piped up most unhelpfully, standing up in the back and hanging over the front seat.

  “Shut up,” Conn said crossly.

  “Watch your language, young lady,” Elizabeth scolded.

  “She fired her shotgun to scare us off,” Conn explained, but hastened to add, “But she fired way over our heads. She wasn’t trying to hit us.” She was beginning to recognize the road they were on.

  “You leave the house before dawn; you’re gone for hours; you don’t leave any indication of where you are,” Elizabeth began, and Conn could tell she was just getting warmed up.

  “Well, if we’re going exploring, we don’t bloody well know where we’re going or how long we’re likely to be, do we?” she retorted sarcastically.

  Elizabeth braked hard, stopping the car in the middle of the road. Will quickly sat back in the back seat, trying to get out of the line of fire.

  “What has gotten into you?” Elizabeth asked angrily.

  Conn set her jaw mulishly and didn’t respond.

  Elizabeth continued driving home, her mouth tight. She didn’t speak again until they were pulling into their drive. “I think you need to spend the rest of the day in your room and think about a few things. Go.”

  Conn limped into the house and up to her room, feeling confused. She wasn’t sure what had come over her in the car. She never spoke to her mother like that. She threw herself down on her bed. The day had warmed up and she could hear the drowsy buzz of bees outside her window. She would apologize to her mother later….

  §§§

  There was a renewed flurry of activity as Lord Playfair made preparations to return to England. The three months he had been at Fair View had been almost pleasant, Caitríona had to grudgingly admit, owing mostly to the fact that while the masters were there, Batterston had been kept in his place. And without the wives, there was not nearly as much extra work for the servants.

  Orla had been right. Lord Playfair did seem to suspect some dishonesty on Batterston’s part. He insisted on riding out most days, accompanied by Hugh and Batterston, to inspect nearly every acre of the plantation and do a detailed study of their current crop rotation. When they returned to the house each day, Orla was called in to transcribe Lord Playfair’s notes into the plantation’s ledgers.

  “Things look very different now to how they looked before,” she whispered to her sister. “I think it’s going to be obvious if Batterston tries cheating the books again.”

  One day not long after his arrival, Orla had come rushing to find Caitríona. “He wants to see you!” she said.

  “Who?” Caitríona asked, looking up from the dishes she was washing.

  “Lord Playfair! Who else?” Orla exclaimed in exasperation. “Come quickly.”

  Caitríona dried her hands on her apron as she removed it and followed her sister back to the study. There, she found Lord Playfair seated at the massive walnut desk that occupied one end of the room while Hugh sat in a chair near the fireplace, reading. She stood there for three or four minutes before he looked up and acknowledged her.

  “I require an inventory of the slaves,” he said, sliding a small ledger across the desk. “You will record their names and ages if they know them. If they have bred and produced off-spring, you will record those names and ages as well. See that this is returned to me within two weeks.”

  Orla could see the color rising in Caitríona’s cheeks and rushed forward to take the ledger. Thrusting it into her sister’s hands, Orla ushered her from the room.

  “Did you hear him?” Caitríona finally burst out when they got back to the kitchen. “They’re no more to him than cattle!”

  “We already know that. That’s how he thinks of us, too,” Orla reminded her. “Perhaps Hannah will help you.”

  Caitríona turned away quickly to hide the flush Orla’s suggestion brought to her cheeks. Fumbling with her apron strings, she said, “That’s a good idea. I’ll ask her.”

  She hardly noticed as Orla ret
urned to the study. She’d hardly seen Hannah since the night at the gazebo, but for some reason, the tingling she had felt in her middle as she gazed at Hannah that night had returned every time she thought of her. She hadn’t told Orla about it. Instinctively, she knew she shouldn’t talk about this.

  That evening, after supper, she went to Ruth and Henry’s cabin, and found Hannah there. Ruth was peeling bark from some branches she had collected for one of her medicines. Caitríona sat down at the table and began helping. She explained the task she had been set, and asked Hannah if she would help.

  Hannah glanced worriedly at Ruth. “What about the laundry I’ve got to wash?”

  “I’ll help you with that first thing,” said Caitríona, “and then while it’s drying, we’ll go start the… I can’t call it inventory. It’s just too degrading. English bastard.”

  Henry smiled. “Miss Caitríona, I love it when your Irish comes out,” he chuckled as he sat sharpening some of his planes and chisels.

  Over the next several days, Caitríona and Hannah visited the slave cabins and the fields. The cabins, mostly built to accommodate four or five people, held instead seven or eight, with sleeping mats stacked up in a pile to be spread out upon the dirt floors at night. She hadn’t realized how much work Henry had done to improve their cabin in comparison to these.

  Having become accustomed to being friendly with Hannah, Ruth and Henry, Caitríona was dismayed at the surliness with which she and Hannah were greeted as they talked to the other slaves, numbering over a hundred in all. The slaves answered their questions, but in as few words as possible.

  “I can understand why they wouldn’t trust me,” she said, “but why do they resent you so?”

  Hannah glanced over at her. “Because I work with the white folks up at the house, and because I’m mixed,” she explained as if this should be obvious.

  “What do you mean ‘mixed’?” Caitríona asked, frowning.

  Hannah laughed. “Do you see any others with light eyes? I’m not all African. They say my father was probably my mother’s master.”

  Caitríona stopped dead in her tracks, looking rather stupid as this fact hit her for the first time. It suddenly seemed obvious, and she felt childish for not realizing sooner that things like that happened. She glanced down at her ledger.

  “I’m confused. That last woman we talked to, Bertha, said she has three children, but said she has no husband. So who was the father?”

  “Her husband was sold a year ago,” Hannah said.

  “What?” Caitríona exclaimed, trying to remember. “But the masters weren’t here a year ago. I don’t recall anyone being sold.”

  “A lot happens that no one knows about,” said Hannah darkly. “Batterston sells slaves every now and again. Last year, he sold Bertha’s husband and three other men to a slave trader who came through here.”

  “Do you remember their names?” Caitríona asked as she made notes.

  ***

  “He did what?” Lord Playfair asked sharply, his eyes narrowing angrily as Caitríona presented him with the ledger, including a list of slaves Batterston had sold over the last few years. “Send Mr. Batterston to me at once,” he said, looking the ledger over.

  The tension in the house was thick enough to cut with a knife as Lord Playfair’s fury burst through the closed doors.

  “You have no more leave to sell my slaves than you do to sell my land!” he bellowed.

  Batterston’s oily voice could also be heard, attempting to placate his irate employer. “But, my Lord, the slaves I sold were trouble makers or laggards. I was told by young Master Playfair to deal with them as I saw fit.”

  “By disciplining them or sending them to work on another part of the plantation,” roared Lord Playfair, “not by selling them!”

  “And,” he added, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet level so that Caitríona had to strain to hear outside the study door, “I see nowhere in the plantation’s ledgers an entry for the sale of those slaves.”

  As Batterston was dismissed some minutes later, Caitríona barely had enough warning to move away from the door and begin scrubbing another part of the floor. Batterston stopped, looming over her with his fists tightly clenched. She stared back up at him defiantly as he said through clenched teeth, “You will pay for this.”

  “Why didn’t you have him arrested? Or at least discharge him?” Hugh Playfair was asking back inside the study.

  “This is something you will learn,” Lord Playfair said. “No one is honest. If I replaced him, I’d be dealing with the same problem, just a different man. But Batterston now knows I could have him hanged,” he said in a satisfied voice. “He won’t cheat us again.”

  Lord Playfair’s dissatisfaction with the overall state of the plantation extended to his son. His anger with Hugh had not been lost on the servants.

  “I sent you here to protect our investment,” he could be overheard as he and his son were out on the veranda one evening not long before his departure. “Instead, you’ve been drinking and gambling in Richmond.”

  “But, Father, the plantation runs itself. My presence here is not necessary. And there is no society in this god-forsaken wilderness,” Hugh complained.

  Lord Playfair fixed his cold stare on his son. “The estates in England and Ireland will go to your brother. You have an opportunity to gather yourself a greater fortune than he will have, and you whine about having no society!” He paced past the window, churning clouds of smoke from his cigar. “You will stay here and supervise the running of the plantation. I will return in three years, and if you have not increased our production, there will be a change in my will.”

  “Three years!” Hugh protested.

  “Yes, three years,” insisted Lord Playfair. “It’s not too great a sacrifice for a lifetime’s security. I shall return in the summer of 1863.”

  §§§

  Conn awakened to find her mother sitting on her bed, shaking her gently. Startled, she sat up, looking around her room.

  “You were really asleep,” Elizabeth was saying. “I’ve been trying to wake you.”

  Conn rubbed her eyes and lay back on her pillow. “Strange dream.”

  She looked up at her mother, remembering why she was in her room. Her mother had never sent her to her room before. “I’m sorry I worried you,” she said sincerely.

  Elizabeth smiled, running a hand tenderly through her daughter’s hair. “I want you to enjoy being here as much as I did when I was your age,” she said. “I ran around like a wild Indian, but,” she grasped Conn’s hand, “I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you.”

  Conn sat up again, throwing her arms around her mother.

  CHAPTER 21

  When Conn woke up the next morning, her leg ached something awful. The cut muscles pulled painfully when she moved her ankle. Wincing, she limped downstairs to the kitchen.

  “Let’s take a look,” Elizabeth said as she pulled the duct tape off and unwrapped the bandage, exposing the gash. The skin around the cut was mildly red and swollen, but otherwise looked pretty good. Gingerly, she reapplied some of the black gooey ointment Miss Molly had sent home with them and rewrapped Conn’s leg.

  “I think you’ll be climbing trees and running around soon enough,” she pronounced as she pressed the duct tape in place. “In the meantime, how about some oatmeal?”

  After breakfast, Conn took a book out to the back yard where she saw some digging tools lying in the yard. “What were you doing?” she asked her mother.

  “Well, now that we’ve got most of the inside work done, I thought I’d start cleaning up the yard, maybe plant some flowers,” Elizabeth said.

  “Want some help?”

  “I’d love some help if you feel up to it.”

  “So,” Conn said a few minutes later as she began digging up a weedy flowerbed with a hand trowel, “you knew Miss Molly when you were growing up?”

  “Umm hmm,” Elizabeth replied as she pulled out some dea
d plants. “She and Nana were good friends, so we were often over there or she was over here.”

  “She called her house ‘the witch’s house’,” Conn said. “What did she mean by that?”

  Elizabeth laughed softly. “I’d forgotten. The Peregorn witch.”

  “That’s what Jed called her,” Conn said. “Why do people call her that?”

  “It’s silly, but for generations, one Peregorn woman has never married, learning how to make medicines using herbs and roots and things. It probably started a couple hundred years ago, but that woman is always known as the Peregorn witch,” Elizabeth explained. “All because they’ve passed down old knowledge that other people have forgotten.”

  Conn was reminded of the seanmhair who made the prophecy to Caitríona.

  “But I think Molly enjoys the whole witch mystique,” Elizabeth continued with a fond smile. “I think Nana and I were the only ones she allowed around her house.” She sat on her heels, reminiscing. “It was fascinating being around her. She knew so many things about animals and the forest. I learned so much just sitting and listening as she and Nana talked.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” Elizabeth closed her eyes, trying to recall, “I could be wrong, but I think there was a Peregorn witch who befriended Caitríona when she first got here.”

  “What?” Conn asked, stunned. Could this be the missing connection she needed to find out what happened to Caitríona?

  “I’m pretty sure I remember Nana and Molly talking about it.”

  Trying to hide her excitement, Conn said, “She invited me to come back. May I go visit her?”

  Elizabeth nodded her consent. “As long as you don’t make a pest of yourself.”

  ***

  Later that evening, after they had eaten dinner and dusk was falling, Jed came by. Will was running around the yard, catching his nightly quota of faerieflies and Conn was sitting on the porch swing, her leg still too sore to run. She saw Jed’s untidy blond head appear at the curve in the drive. He stopped there, uncertain as to his welcome.