A Dream of Daring (13 page)

The man grinned,
tremendously relieved. “Oh, she haves me, all right!”

Tucking the trowel under
his arm, he took Tom’s hand in both of his and squeezed it vigorously, just as
a subject would grasp the hand of a ruler who had granted a wish.

Tom turned the gesture
into a handshake. “Congratulations.” Grit from the garden transferred from
Rubin’s palm to Tom’s.

“Thank you, sir. Thank
you! I tells Ally us got yer say-so!”

Tom watched his gardener
bow to him, then scurry away. Why, he wondered, would he ever want to have this
kind of say-so? When he could design a better seed drill to produce a crop
cheaper and easier, why would he instead want to manage someone’s carrot patch?
When he could design a new motor to transform farming, why would he instead
want to manage someone’s footwear? When the mysteries of harnessing science lay
waiting for men to discover them, how could anyone instead want to control the
gardens, the blankets, the spouses—the lives—of others? He felt as if his
slaves were shrinking his world just as surely as he was shrinking theirs.

He didn’t understand men
who wanted to harness other men, but he did understand the seed drill. He
attached the wood block to the back of it and gathered the materials he would
need to test his modification in the field.

After changing into work
clothes in the big house, Tom stepped out the front door to feel the sun
hitting his face, promising a rain-free afternoon for his work. At the
entrance, the sunrays hit Jerome too as he lay stretched out, fast asleep, in
the horse-drawn wagon that Tom had ordered.

“Okay, Jerome, nap’s
over.”

Jerome opened his eyes,
looking dazed for a moment. Then he jumped out of the wagon, smiling
confidently, as if nothing were amiss.

The inventor checked the
objects in the wagon: the seed drill, a bag of cottonseed, and some additional
tools. “Looks like everything’s here that I asked for.”

Jerome looked aghast at
Tom’s clothes. He seemed shocked to find his master dressed in the coarse
trousers, bulky shirt, and floppy hat that the slaves wore. Tom returned the
disapproving look at Jerome’s attire; his ruffled dress shirt and satin vest
were hardly suitable for the stable. Or perhaps Jerome planned on skipping his
work there that afternoon.

“Mr. Tom, you ain’t
fixin’ to work in the fields?”

“I am.”

“Then you be needin’
hands?”

“No.”

“You goes youself?”

“Yes.”

“But you can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“’Tain’t right, sir.”

“Why not?”

“You needs to stay here
an’ sit in that chair,” he pointed to the colonel’s rocker on the gallery.

“And do what?”

“Wait fer visitors.”

“Why would I waste time
waiting for imaginary visitors when I have work to do?”

“’Tain’t proper, sir.
Massas don’t work no fields.” He pointed with urgency to the colonel’s rocker.
“Somebody gotta sit there! Entertain folks that come a-callin’, like yer daddy
done, and his daddy ’fore that.”

“I’ll tell you what,
Jerome, since you seem to have nothing to do and you’re decked out for it, why
don’t
you
sit there and wait for visitors?
You
can entertain them
when they arrive. I have better things to do.”

Jerome, in dress clothes,
stood speechless as he watched Tom, in work clothes, head to the fields.

The place Tom chose for
his experiments was recently plowed and prepared for planting. It lay next to
Greenbriar’s main plantation road, where he could see the progress of his
plants when he traveled to and from town. He removed the seed drill from the wagon
and surveyed the rich alluvial soil before him. With his field hands sowing
corn in another area of the plantation and the main road quiet, he was happily
left alone. He recaptured his concentration on the absorbing problem of how to
improve cotton planting.

He filled the hopper with
seed, and then, using a harness, he pulled the device on foot across the field,
stopping at various times to make adjustments. Soon he had the first few rows
planted. He was so intent on his task that he was unaware of the sweat slowly
soaking his shirt, the dirt marks smearing his face, and the soil splattering
his pants. If anyone had traveled past him on the main road, he was unaware of
it—until an open carriage stopped alongside him and a voice called out from a
few feet away.

“Look here! We have a new
bondsman.” A white-gloved hand pointed to him as a male voice said mockingly,
“Why, it’s Mr. Edmunton!”

Tom looked up to see Nash
Nottingham, his formal suit and frilled shirt fit for a courtier.

“Is this what you’ve been
up to, Tom? Is this why we’ve hardly seen you?” A hint of anger heated the
sweet voice that used to sing to him in Philadelphia. Rachel was sitting in the
carriage beside Nash, with her servant and his driver on the bench in front.

Tom stared at the woman whose
sparkle had once dazzled him. Three weeks after her father’s death, she still
wore a black dress and bonnet in accordance with the rules of Victorian
mourning, but with a low neckline reminiscent of the feisty spirit that had set
its own rules at a time that seemed long ago.

“My dear, it seems your
good friend here would rather be in the company of little gadgets, nasty flies,
and grimy soil than be in your exquisite presence,” said Nash.

Rachel frowned at the
remark. Nash grinned smugly, looking pleased that his words hit a nerve.

“A cotton planter,” he
added gaily, “knows how to live, old boy. He enjoys the company of beautiful
women.” He bowed to Rachel, who smiled at the compliment. “And a cotton planter
enjoys a life of amusement, indulgence, and finery far removed from grimy
fields.”

“How can you be a cotton
planter and be removed from grimy fields?” Tom asked.

“But really, Tom, you
don’t have to labor in the dirt yourself, you know!” said Rachel.

“I’m trying to figure out
how to
save
labor, lots of it. Doesn’t that seem like a good way to
spend an afternoon?”

“Good heavens!” said
Nash. “We don’t need to
save
labor. We have too much of it already.
Whatever would we do with all of it that you saved?”

“I suppose this is part
of that new age you dream about,” Rachel added.

“It is.”

“And whenever will you
find time to join us in the
current
age? You remember, don’t you, the
world we actually live in?” Her voice was teasing, but her mouth pouted
reproachfully. “In case you haven’t noticed, some of our fruit trees are in
bloom. Nash was taking me to see his orchard and to taste peach brandy. Why
don’t you come along?”

The crescent curve of
Nash’s grin abruptly turned downward into a frown. “Why, Rachel, dear, I don’t
believe Tom is interested in such niceties. I mean, look at him in those
outrageous clothes with dirt on his face. He seems to revel in being an
outcast.”

“Do you, Tom?” asked
Rachel. “Do you revel in being an outcast?”

Tom stared at the young
beauty with the red hair and satin-white skin. As his eyes dropped to the
heart-shaped birthmark he knew so well, the memory of their past surfaced on
his face.

“You know,” she added,
“outcasts make other people feel . . . uncomfortable.”

“If
people . . . two people . . . are happy
being what they are, then why would they care if others felt uncomfortable with
them?”

“We all need people,” she
replied. “Even
you
can’t escape that, Tom Edmunton. We need our family,
and friends, and the pleasure of . . .”—she scoured the sky for a word to name
her feelings—“. . .
belonging
.”

“And our dreams? Where do
they belong?”

The two of them stared at
each other as if there were an ocean between them.

“Where do
you
belong?” Rachel asked pointedly. “Can we claim you in
our
world, Tom, at
least for the afternoon?”

“But Rachel, dear,” said
Nash, “how could you want this fellow coming along? Why, he must reek of
fertilizer!”

“That doesn’t stop you
from banking with me,” said Tom.

The remark jolted Nash,
who suddenly remembered his delinquent loan. “Oh, no offense, old boy. Between
us, I think you’re a fine fellow.”

“Between us, I didn’t
know
my
standing was in question.”

“Now, Tom, don’t get
sore. Of course, you’re welcome to join us . . . if you
must,” said Nash. His voice gave the invitation, but his face showed his
distaste for it. “We can wait at your house while
you . . . er . . . perhaps clean up a
bit.”

“Oh, do come, Tom!” added
Rachel. “What could be so important about that field of dirt that you can’t
take a few hours off to relax . . . with us?” Her face said:
with me
.

“I’ll wait for another
time of
our
choosing—you and me.”

“You mean, another time
when you have a minute to spare from the Holy Grail that’s your work—and you
can deign to consider matters of much lesser importance!” Rachel snapped.

“Look, old boy, you’ve
lived too long in a strange place. Allow me to give you some advice.” Nash
glanced at Rachel, as if more concerned with conveying his message to her than
to Tom. “Down here, we planters know how to live like gentlemen. Labor is for
the lower classes.”

Nash smiled haughtily at
Tom, then tapped his cane on the driver’s shoulder, and the carriage drove off.

Where had he seen anyone
as indolent as the man riding away with Rachel? Tom wondered. He instantly
thought of his stableman. But Jerome was robbed of his self-direction and
forced to labor against his will, so he had an excuse for his indolence. What
was Nash’s excuse for a laziness that he practiced as diligently as others
honed a profession? Tom wondered about the two men whose lives seemed as cool
as ashes from which a fire had never raged. Why did the man at the top of
society’s ladder seem as devoid of passion and purpose as the man at the
bottom?

And what happened to the
fragrant vision that had stirred his own passion? Where was the exciting woman
he knew in Philadelphia, with the bold dreams and joyful laughter, with an
inner fire as vibrant as her tumbling red hair? Why was the bright splash of
color that was Rachel so muted now that she had returned home?

When he finished his
work, the matter still lingered in his mind. He thought of the words of the
factory owner who had been forced to close his business:
You can’t change
the soul of the South.
Does the South stake a claim on its souls and
recapture those that stray from its grasp? Does it hunt down not only its
slaves but also its wayward sons and daughters . . . like
Rachel?

As Tom drove the wagon
back to the big house, he saw another puzzling spirit, one that seemed engaged
in its own clash with the soul of the South. He saw Solo riding one of his
stallions around a large pasture.

Her riding had begun
shortly after her arrival at Indigo Springs. Despite being assigned to the
kitchen, she had ventured into the stable one day in the late afternoon. She
had declared that her tasks were finished and now the horses needed exercising.
Then she proceeded to mount one and ride it around the pasture. Jerome
protested such liberties taken on his turf, but she ignored him. The slave
complained bitterly to Tom, but the master posed a question to his indignant
stableman that he couldn’t answer: “What harm is she doing, Jerome?”

After that, whether it
was the horses or instead the rider who needed a spirited jaunt through the
field, Solo exercised one of them each day as her self-assigned task.

Tom wondered where she
had come from, but she never offered any information. Often slaves of mixed
race didn’t know their origins themselves. A planter or overseer would deny
committing any indiscretions, so a child born of one could grow up ignorant of
who its father was. And pressure to remove such an offspring from the reach of
a suspecting wife could be so great that a mulatto child might be sold from its
original plantation and separated from its slave mother as well. If Solo had
been as unruly in childhood as she was now, she could have been sold
repeatedly, shuffled from plantation to plantation.

Approaching the big
house, Tom watched the young woman ride. She was absorbed in her task and
unaware of his wagon on the road. He thought he detected a quiet exhilaration
coloring her otherwise mysterious face. The fear and contempt that hardened her
features when she was among humans seemed to soften in the company of horses, a
species she obviously preferred. It seemed as if she could drop her guard with
the large, benign creatures that sought nothing from her except a little
kindness.

Despite repeated scolding
from Aunt Bess and the other elder servants, along with shocked stares from the
younger ones, Solo liked to wear men’s clothing, which allowed her the comfort
to move around and ride in the manner she preferred. As she jaunted along
bareback, straddling the horse like a man, she looked strangely alluring in her
oversized shirt and baggy trousers, with her white sleeves rolled to reveal the
metallic sheen of her arms and the sash holding up her pants tightened around
her waist, stressing its trimness. Tom saw lustrous rosewood hair tumbling down
the coarse shirt and slender legs outlined under the pants. He sensed the whole
of this beguiling image in an instant emotional reaction, which he hastily
suppressed before it could lodge inside him.

But he couldn’t stop
himself from contrasting the sight of Solo in trousers to Rachel in crinolines.
Solo was tied by slavery and had nothing, yet her spirit somehow seemed free.
Rachel was free and had everything, but her spirit somehow
seemed . . . constrained.

He wondered what to do
with the odd new addition to his plantation. In the four weeks since her
arrival, he had tried giving her different tasks, but she failed at all of
them. In the kitchen, she displayed an uncanny bent for overcooking and
underseasoning the food. This enraged Tom’s declining octogenarian cook, who
still had sufficient faculties to demand the girl’s removal. Solo did a stint
at housekeeping, which came to an end when she broke a prized vase passed down
from Tom’s grandmother. She was assigned to ironing but burned an heirloom
tablecloth. She proved equally inept at weaving and sewing.