A Woman so Bold (6 page)

She looked about her in bewilderment. “Who did all this?’

“I did.”

“You?”

“Who else?”

She took in my bedraggled appearance. My nightie was dirty around the hem from walking through wet grass to milk the cows, and my hair was loose, flecked with flour. There was a flash of temper in her calm, blue eyes. She took a ribbon from her apron pocket and gave it to me.

“We never work in the kitchen with our hair down,” she said. “Look at you, Landra. I told you
I
would make the breakfast this morning. You’re not ready for school! Where is Lily?”

I pointed to the table where Lily was eating a biscuit with molasses, her fingers sticky and her black curls tangled. “I helped!” she piped, beaming.

“I don’t attend school,” I said, matter of fact, “and it isn’t my fault you lay abed half the morning.”

“Don’t attend school? I find it difficult to fathom your father keeping a girl your age from schooling. Surely the county will be after you for truancy?”

“He told them I learn at home. Daddy says it’s too far to walk to school. It’s nearly eight miles to walk there and back in a day.”

“What do you do, then?”

“I learn at home,” I repeated impatiently, “when I’ve time.”

“Can you read and write? And cipher?”

I shrugged. “Not much.”

This was a lie. I had learned to read with Eric at my mother’s knee but felt no need to share this with Colleen. She threw her hands up in exasperation. “This is too much for me,” I heard her mutter, but she pointed at the door. “Go comb your hair and dress. We’ll discuss your education later.”

After the noon meal, when the dishes were cleared away, Daddy retired to the parlor to rest a moment before returning to the field. He insisted I sing for Colleen again, this time without any nonsense. I did so reluctantly, remembering my mother’s words at my first singing lesson as I walked to the piano. “Your voice is fine, but mild. You must fill your lungs and tighten your belly to make yourself heard over the sound of the music.”

I struck the first few notes and then began to sing, allowing the true tone of my voice to come through, sweet and resonant. Years later, Lily would surpass me in her playing, but my voice was my own. I would never have the depth of an opera singer or the perfect pitch of a proficient, but it was enough to me that I possessed this one beautiful trait. The performance was far from flawless, but it was as different from my first as could leave no doubt to what I had done. When I returned to my seat, Colleen was looking at me fixedly. I caught a glimpse of shrewdness in her eyes that I had not seen before. I had miscalculated her.

She turned to Daddy. “Landra ought to attend school,” she said. “Eric, too.”

“Mmm.” Daddy was paring his nails with his knife and did not look up. “I need Eric’s help about the place.”

“What of Landra?”

“Don’t you want her to help you cook and clean if Lenore’s to go? There’s a sight more she can do around here than you can, I’ll wager.”

Her lips tightened. “I can manage.”

“Lenore, go?” I cried. “No! She has to stay. She looks after us!”

They ignored me. “School in town is too far,” said Daddy. “Ain’t no school in Willowbend.”

“I have understood from your mother that the children were taught, before Elizabeth’s death, by the governess of the Monday children.”

“Yes’m.”

“That contract was dissolved?”

“After she died I didn’t see the point.”

“Point? Solomon, it is not right nor lawful to keep these children from an education if it is afforded them. Surely we can work something out, some form of payment.”

Daddy paused for a long moment, and I thought he would say no. Instead he murmured, “I reckon.”

That was the end of it. With those two words, Colleen had won.

“No!” I cried. “I won’t leave Lily alone with
her
.”

Daddy’s look after I said this convinced me I was in for a licking, but once more Colleen stayed him. “Let me,” she murmured, giving him a smile. “A woman’s hand is needed here, not a man’s. Come here, Landra.”

I obeyed, but I stared at my bare feet as she spoke, grinding my teeth.

“A girl with talent like yours ought not to waste it.

“Talent?”

“Yes, it seems you have talent for many things. Cunning, first and foremost. I went into your bedroom to see if it was tidy this morning and saw the books in your windowsill. You told me you couldn’t read.”

“I said not much.”

“They looked fairly well worn to me. That seems nearly to be proof of a falsehood. Then I went and visited your grandmother and spoke to her about the plans your mother had for your education. She doesn’t seem to like me very well, but I learnt the truth from her. And now I’ve heard you sing. A girl like you, with potential for accomplishment, ought to be educated.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Why?”

“Several reasons. Perhaps one day you’ll have need for an income. You can become a schoolteacher with your accomplishments, or a governess to a fine family. Perhaps you would like to go to college. There are colleges that take women now. And even if you do neither of those, a comely, accomplished woman can always attract a husband more easily than a plain, ignorant one.”

“I’m not comely,” I stated. “I’m plain and skinny. Letty Hamilton says red hair is the ugliest shade there is.”

“You shall not always be plain.”

I chewed my bottom lip. Daddy harrumphed. “Don’t give the girl false hope, Leen,” he murmured. “Lily’s set to be a beauty when she blooms.”

I glanced up and saw Colleen dart a look of reproach at him. She leaned forward and spoke softly to me.

“Even if Lily grows to be the most beautiful woman alive, do not allow it to invalidate you. A girl with a bit of beauty and a lot of wit can go far. I’ve only small measures of both, yet I’ve done well for myself. There is more to be said for dimples and large gray eyes than you might think.”

I neglected to tell Colleen that I thought marrying a farmer in the middle of nowhere was the opposite of “doing well.”

I said instead: “Granny says dimples are the devil’s fingerprints.”

Colleen gave a short, barking laugh that startled me.

“I’ve never met a gentleman who would agree with that!” she cried. “And I don’t know who this Letty Hamilton is, but you tell her your hair is auburn. It’s too dark to be called red.”

Thus, I returned to my lessons on the Monday estate three days a week. For some time in my teens, I went to them as a ward and lived full time. In my mind, Colleen was disposing of me, getting me out of her way. I was a grown woman before I fully understood the great favor she had given me that day, but I began to understand it as I continued my tale to William Cavendish.

“I guess Miss Northrop figured with our mother gone and our father remarried, we were liable to end up illiterates. Besides, she liked us better than the Monday children, for we were better behaved. It’s because of her Eric is studying law. When the school opened in Willowbend, she convinced Daddy to let Eric go and get his diploma. He earned a scholarship that way.”

“And what about you?”

“I remained where I was. I boarded at the Monday estate as a ward for three years.”

“For the benefit of their society, and as a companion to Ida,” interrupted Colleen. “Following that, we thought it best Landra remain at home. She’d gotten all the instruction she could ever need by then, and I’d been very ill and needed her help.”

“If you had a governess, then you must play the piano and speak French.”

“I do not play very well, but my French is not inconsequential.”

“She s
ings
divinely,” said Colleen.

“Eight years of lessons is a long time. She had to teach me something after I’d learned long division.”

He laughed. “Well, I find that intriguing. And what about you, Lily?”

Lily shrugged. “Landra taught me some, and I walked to school any time I couldn’t get out of it till very recently.” She smiled at him. “Four miles both ways.”

“Learning isn’t her favorite pastime,” said Colleen. “I’d say her favorite thing is her beau.”

“Mama!”

“He’s been your beau for two years, hasn’t he? I think it’s all right I mention him in passing. Lily’s beau is from here, but he lives in Columbus. He’s a dockworker there. We all think well of him.”

“All of us except Daddy,” said Lily.

No one disputed that.

When we had finished tea, Colleen invited Mr. Cavendish to join us for dinner the following Sunday, and he took his leave. Lily and I accompanied him to the door, and I followed him into the yard.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet my father.”

“It’s all right. I’ll meet him another time.”

I instinctively reached out and held his stirrup as he climbed into the saddle. I’d been holding my father’s stirrup since I was a girl of ten, and it came second nature.

“You needn’t do that,” he said curtly as his horse nickered at me. “She’s liable to spook.”

I stepped back, embarrassed.

“It’s no matter,” he said more gently. “She’s a trifle skittish is all! Good afternoon!”

He put on his hat and wheeled the horse around. She did a quick little step as he touched her with the reins and began to canter toward the pine lane, and I saw that I had been right about him not needing the crop.

At supper that night, Colleen told Daddy about our new neighbor.

“What sorta feller is he?” he asked, sopping up giblet gravy with his cornbread. He tended to be suspicious of anyone who wasn’t from the surrounding counties.

“Fairly well-dressed, and his manners leave nothing to be desired,” answered Colleen. For her, this was plenty recommendation, but Daddy looked unconvinced.

“He a farmer?”

“I didn’t catch his trade,” said Colleen.

“I believe he has been a foreman and a traveling salesman,” I put in, “but now that he’s inherited the Macready place, he intends to farm.” Ezra was in the seat next to me, and as he had taken to turning his yams into mush, I was pushing acre peas into his mouth.

“Huh,” Daddy murmured.

“He’s from Alabama,” added Lily.

“Hmmm. Pass the acre peas, Landra girl.”

I did so. “South Carolina, originally,” I added. “Studied agriculture at the state University.”

“He seemed quite taken with Landra,” continued Colleen, “although it was impossible to tell if she reciprocated.”

I looked up in surprise.

“I didn’t notice his being taken with anyone,” I stated, smiling at Ezra as he opened his mouth for a piece of ham.

“Don’t do that,” said Colleen. “He can feed himself.”

“The question is if he will,” I said. “He’s like a will-o’-the-wisp. Grow some meat on your bones!” I poked him in the ribs, and he shrieked, giggling. Daddy glowered at me. He did not like horseplay at table.

“He was taken with you,” said Colleen with finality, “but too polite to let on very strong.”

I tried not to take her words to heart, remembering how foolish I had made myself by holding his stirrup like a common stable hand, but I couldn’t help wishing she were right. He had been so handsome and so well-bred.

Chapter 7

Incorrigible Ida

Ida was my dearest friend in the world. Monday was her surname, and I never could seem to separate the two, they went so well together. We cemented our friendship early on, having known one another since babyhood. At the time, our parents associated with one another. The Mondays’ quail hunting estate was situated on the outskirts of the village, while ours was some miles away, but in those days they were some of our closest neighbors.

Ida’s folks were upstarts who took advantage of the upheaval of Reconstruction, buying acres of land on which the wealthy could hunt quail amongst the longleaf pines and wiregrass in which they thrived. In my teens, I often tried to convince Daddy to do this with some of our unplanted acres of longleaf pine, but he was stubborn. He informed me I knew nothing of money or making it.

When we were children, our parents got together as often as they could, in spite of the social and economic differences, so oft referenced in my mother’s journals, which stood between them. The source of the Mondays’ money before they arrived in our neck of the woods was an object of some speculation, as was the fact of how they had met. Apparently there was some idle talk that Mr. Monday had found his wife in a brothel at the age of seventeen.

As girls just out of babyhood, Ida and I were generally kept at home to learn women’s work, while our brothers ran rampant, but sometimes we escaped.

On such a day when I was five or six, I managed to tag along with Eric and Henry as they were traipsing through the extensive deer woods on the Monday estate. They paused in a clearing to let loose a special birdcall that was reserved for Ida’s brother, Clyde. He appeared moments later with Ida in his wake. Eric and Henry set up an outcry against this, which he firmly quelled when he shouted, “Yore dang sister’s here too! What was I to do? She give her nanny the slip. Sly little thang.”

“Send ‘er back, Mondee,” said Henry. “She’ll ruin that silk frock she’s got on.”

“She’ll scream fit to wake the dead if I do, and Mama’s got one of her headaches on.”

Eric groaned. “All right, come on, but both you girls better keep up.”

I did as I was bid and trotted right along behind them, catching frogs, grasshoppers, and fat green hornworms to store in a mason jar or picking flowers as they plotted imaginary treks across the game-laden woods to the fish pond. Ida, on the other hand, was hot and miserable in her silk pinafore, and she whined about every little mishap. When she set to shrieking over a dragonfly landing on her shoulder, Eric and Henry were fed up.

“She’s
gotta
go back,” said Eric in his most persuasive tone. “Every quail round here for miles is gonna get scared off.”

“
You’re
not gonna kill a quail,” I said pointedly. Eric was nearsighted. “You’re a heap more likely to get mistaken for one.” The boom of rifle fire had accompanied us throughout our travels.

“Hush!” snapped Eric, reddening.

“I’ve had enough,” said Henry. “If y’all don’t send these gals home, I will. Ya don’t see me draggin’ my sister along.”

“Your sister is
two
and still on the tit!”

Ida stamped her foot, the red ribbons in her honey-hued hair bobbing. “Don’t tell my brother what to do!” she shrieked at Henry. “Landra and I never get to play with you all. You oughta let us come along.”

“Don’t see a need for sendin’
Landra
back,” said Eric, coming to my defense. “Least when a little ole bug of some kind lands on her, she don’t scream like she’s been kilt. She’s right handy goin’ fishin’, even puts the worms on the hooks.” I beamed at him.

Clyde, choosing to side with his friends, gave Ida a push. “Go home, Ida. You ain’t wanted here.”

Ida crossed her arms, and yelled at the top of her voice, “I WILL NOT!”

Clyde drew his hand back and slapped her across the face. It wasn’t an especially hard slap, but Eric and I never struck one another, and I gasped, horrified. Ida sat down in the grass and began to cry. Henry groaned impatiently.

“All you boys are mean as snakes,” I said, using one of Granny Muriel’s favorite euphemisms. “Come on, Ida. I’ll take you home.” I offered her my hand.

She took it, and we set off in the direction we’d come. When we reached the great house, we were given a tongue lashing by her nanny, a young black woman named Mabel. She scolded us for running off with the boys and ruining our hair and clothes, but in time we were forgiven and sent upstairs to play with her daughter Tansy, a beautiful child with caramel skin and a cloud of dark, curly hair.

At home, I had a rag doll Mama had sewn and several cornhusk dolls, but I was floored when I saw that Ida had at least two dozen, all with painted china faces and beautiful silk or calico dresses. They were so lovely I was afraid to touch them. Finally, I took one, cradling it in my arms. When Tansy made no move to touch any of the others, I offered mine to her, but Ida snatched it.

“That girl don’t get to touch my things,” she snapped. I gave Tansy an apologetic glance, and she glared at me in stony silence. Mama had always taught me to be kind to Negroes. “You live in a man’s world, Landra,” she would tell me, “where men rule. Women do as they’re bid, and for the colored folks, it’s even worse, even if they are supposed to be free. You must treat them with kindness.”

Sometime later, Mabel entered and presented us with cookies and milk then left again, taking Tansy with her. They were not the rich, earthy molasses cookies I was used to, but dainty ones made of white flour and sprinkled with sparkling grains of sugar. Ida consumed hers in a couple of bites, but I ate mine in small, careful nibbles, relishing every morsel.

I was enchanted by the beauty and extravagance of the Monday children and their upbringing from that day forward. Their mother’s absence, their father’s obsession with his work, and the way these things increased Clyde’s cruelty and Ida’s passionate nature; all of this I observed with private interest. Ida had an unending desire for pleasure and excitement, even as she was surrounded by plenty. It took me years to realize she was the loneliest person I had ever known, even lonelier than myself, forgotten as I was by my father, unloved by my stepmother.

Ida’s mother, Hannah, had been struck by a low-lying branch while riding her horse when Ida was barely out of diapers. She lay unconscious for two days, and when she came out of her stupor, was no longer herself. The injury gave her frequent headaches and terrible mood swings, for which her doctor prescribed a mixture of water, whiskey, and opium. By the time we were in our teens, the only thing Ida’s mother cared about was what she called her “dose.” Her glazed eyes and listless manner gave away her dependence, and she spent most of her days prostrated on the chaise lounge in her boudoir, with the shades drawn to keep the sunlight from hurting her eyes. That is, if she got out of bed at all.

Meanwhile, Ida went about her business, selecting dress patterns from Godey Lady’s book for her tailor, defying her governess, bossing Tansy, and tagging along after Clyde so she could flirt with his friends, which included Eric. By the age of twenty, she was utterly overlooked in her own house. Her mother was a shade, and her father amused himself with his horses and his whores to escape the sepulcher of their once lively house. Ida was left to her private amusements: fashion, finery, and beaux, all of which she had a plenty.

She was known throughout our county and the next for being fast, yet even more renowned than her appetite for love was her beauty. She held men in sway like a siren of the ancient Greek sea. Even I was entranced by her, and my entrancement outweighed my jealousy, although I disliked my snarling curls and peasant girl face, and envied her. Dimples did not dare to degrade the perfection of Ida’s physiognomy, nor did freckles.

Her skin was not the alabaster pale that was the fashion in our day. She tanned easily, burnished golden by the ruthless Florida sun in summer, but in winter her complexion lightened to a rich peaches and cream. She had a pert celestial nose, a sweet chin, and two lovingly placed beauty marks, one above her delicate mouth, and another beside her collarbone. Her hair fell past her waist in one long, even swathe. It gleamed glossy and smooth as honey in the sunlight, and her lovers, meagre poets all, likened it to rivers of molten gold, waterfalls of wheat, and rays of liquid sunshine. We laughed behind our hands at these strange metaphors; none of them could touch the striking reality.

She cut her teeth on my brother at barely fourteen; he was sweet on her, and she thought he was terribly handsome, a fact she reminded me of every chance she got. For his fifteenth birthday, she sent him a lock of her golden brown hair. He took it silently from my hand, red-faced, and put it into the pocket watch Daddy had given him. To this day, I sometimes see him take it out and observe it in times of reflection. They kissed for the first time not long after that, another milestone I grew weary of hearing repeated, and before much more time had passed they became lovers.

I heard this tale as I was reading
David Copperfield
in the window seat of Ida’s girlhood bedroom. She sat trimming a new bonnet her father had bought for her. Tansy was with us. She sat on the floor, arranging a pile of Ida’s colorful bead necklaces into various patterns. As Mabel’s daughter, Tansy was often our companion. During the week she went to school with other Negro children, but on Saturdays she stayed with Ida, supposedly being groomed to become her lady’s maid. None of us knew what this meant, but Ida took it as an opportunity to boss Tansy within an inch of her life.

Just as Mr. Micawber was beginning to wax eloquent about his money troubles, Ida exclaimed, “I have a secret and I’m just bursting with it!”

I continued to read as Tansy stirred the pool of beads on the floor.

Ida made a noise of petulant impatience until I closed the book, saving my place, and looked up. The soft, wave-like roar of the beads quieted as well.

“About whom?”

“Me!”

I waited.

She leaned forward slowly, no doubt to heighten the suspense, and whispered, “. . . and Eric.”

“What now?”

“Well, the other night we were in the cupola, kissing. . .”

“Ida, please. I don’t wish to hear.”

“But! Something else happened.”

I stared at her, uncomprehending. “What happened, Ida dear? I’m
trying
to
read.
”

“You know. He and I, we were . . . together.”

“Yes?”

“Honestly, Landra, you’re so daft!”

The sound of Tansy tisking from her place on the floor startled me.

“You gone get yo’self in a mess of trouble, Miss Ida,” she intoned. “You best watch out.”

“Oh hush, and leave my things alone!”

Tansy removed her fingers from the pile of beads and was silent. She shook her head, her brow furrowed between her green eyes. She had features of incongruent but enviable beauty; golden brown skin, full lips, and a small, pert nose. Her thick, inky hair, as coarse as boar bristles, was combed into a simple but becoming coif, with a small pompadour in front and a round bun behind. I envied how well it kept a style when my own wispy tendrils were forever coming loose of their pins, and, unwittingly, stretched a hand out to touch it. She slapped at my fingers, her eyes flashing.

“It’s so beautiful. If only my hair stayed in place so.”

She eyed my messy auburn waves with doubt. “Ain’t likely to, but eb’m so, my hair ain’t fo you to touch.”

I swallowed guiltily. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t apologize to her,” Ida interrupted, then, desperate for our attention she continued, “You don’t even know what I mean, do you? We had our first roll in the hay.” She giggled at the silly expression. “That’s what Clyde calls it.”

I had never encountered the expression myself, but I began to catch her meaning. “You mean to say you’re compromised?”

“Goodness, no! I’m only fourteen and no one knows but us. Besides, if anyone can keep a secret, it’s Eric. I’d trust him with my dying wish,” she sighed. “You needn’t roll your eyes so! He’s like a hero from a novel!”

“You’ve never read a novel! Besides, heroes in novels aren’t nearsighted, with boots that stink so bad they have to be left outside. Did you notice
that
last night?”

“Not at all! I was too busy being made passionate love to!”

I regarded her, terribly uncomfortable but curious. “What was it like?”

She bit her bottom lip, considering whether to be dramatic or honest, then said, “It didn’t take very long but . . .”

This poetic description was interrupted by a laugh from Tansy.

Ida glared at her, stung. “You shut up! It was the loveliest thing I--” suddenly her eyes were full of tears and she swiped at them. “I’m sorry. He made me feel safe, is all. I can’t explain it. Well, I can
describe
it.” She leaned over and began to whisper into my ear. I was horrified by her words, and tried to pull away.

“You doan listen to her,” said Tansy.

“I thought I told you to hold your tongue you, you uppity mixed breed!” Ida cried. Tansy pursed her mouth and said no more, but her eyes were like burning coals. Ida held onto my shoulder and continued to whisper into my ear, pleased at her ability to shock me. I couldn’t look my brother in the eye for days after that discussion.

Tansy accompanied me downstairs as I took my leave, and she said, “You know Ida, well, she cain’t help it. She ain’t been treated right by some of the menfolk her Daddy works with. But you don’t go doing like her, Miss Landra. You ain’t got her money to proteck you.”

I smiled at this effort to ensure my safety and squeezed her fingers. “You don’t have to tell me,” I said.

In early April of 1890, Ida came to call on us. She never stayed long at the Pines. Our simple farmhouse with its bare, unpolished floors and whitewashed bead-board walls was plain and uninteresting to her. She would frown at our threadbare parlor furniture, or say of the tiny stove, simple pie safe, or nondescript buffet: “That’s a charming rustic piece. Does it still
work
?”