Glory Over Everything (30 page)

“I do,” I said spontaneously, surprising myself with this easy acknowledgment. “A girl. I have a daughter.”

“What is her name?” Addy asked.

“Caroline,” I responded, but upon using the name, I felt strange. There was only one Caroline, and she was dead. I must find another name for the baby.

“So you have an understanding of young women?” the father asked.

“Mine is but a babe,” I said, forcing myself to recover quickly, “but”—I smiled and nodded at Addy—“I see what is to come.”

“Sir.” Addy straightened herself. “I am not a child! I shall be sixteen before the end of this year, and I am generally quite mature for my age.”

The indulgent father smiled. “That might be an exaggeration, my dear.”

“Oh, Papa,” she said, sighing, “I dislike it so when you tease.”

“He wasn't teasing, Addy.” Patty reached her brown square-toed shoe across and poked at her sister's leg, causing Addy to yelp.

“Girls!” the father corrected, while I, having enough with their foolishness, turned away to catch a glimpse of the land we passed through. Addy was right to say that the place was dark and foreboding, for it was that. And I supposed she was right to say that many slaves had died here—from snakebites alone, since copperheads and cottonmouths were said to await their prey in the moss-covered trees. Her final assertion, that slaves were hidden out within the treacherous confines of this dangerous swamp, I guessed might also be true, but I wondered what level of desperation it would take for a man to live in a place as forbidding as this.

“Sir,” Addy said, pulling me back, “may I ask you a question?”

Her father inhaled sharply.

“Certainly,” I said.

“Was it a duel?” she asked.

“Pardon me?” I said. “Was what a duel?”

She raised her hand to touch her eye. “This,” she said, making reference to my eye patch.

“Adelaide Matilda Spencer!” her father said. “I see now how right your mother was in wanting to send you off to a school! Where are your manners?”

“That is a personal question!” the younger sister corrected.

“One I am happy to answer, Mr. Spencer,” I said, giving him a slight wink before turning toward Addy. “Yes, it was a duel. Although I was injured, I'm afraid that he was the one who did not survive.”

“And was the duel because of a woman?” she asked. The coach was silent but for the bumping and jolting of the road. I glanced at the father before I answered Addy. “It was,” I said, knowing it was time to end the charade, yet I was reluctant to let go of this distraction that kept me from my own gloomy thoughts.

“And she waits for you now?”

“No. I'm afraid that she died, too.”

Miss Addy stared at me, and when I felt the father's frown, I addressed his daughter. “I must apologize, for I'm afraid that I've have been having fun with you. The truth is, since birth I have been unable to see from my left eye, thus my eye patch, and though a duel did not take place”—here I addressed the father—“I did recently lose my child's mother.”

“Oh! You poor man,” Addy said with genuine feeling.

The conversation was skirting too close to the truth, and hoping to put an end to it, I turned to look out the window.

The father, sensing my discomfort, changed the subject. “You are traveling down for business?” he asked.

“I am here to paint birds,” I said, lying with the same ease that I had done for so much of my life.

“An artist!” Miss Addy exclaimed. “How exciting!”

I gave her a slight smile before turning back to her father. “I am here to study the birds and their habitats in this region.”

“Are you funded, then?” the father asked, rather to my surprise.

“I am,” I lied again. “By the Peale Museum in Philadelphia.” I crossed my arms and sat back, hoping this uncomfortable line of questioning would end soon.

“Very good.” He nodded his approval. “There are many in our area who have ties up there. I am sure they will be happy to welcome you.”

My heart thumped at the idea of word traveling down from Philadelphia, but I reassured myself that I would soon find Pan. Meanwhile, I would avoid most people and hope that word of any scandal involving me would not reach these rural parts.

“And where will you stay?” Addy asked.

“That has not yet been decided,” I said. “I was hoping to find an establishment outside of Edenton where I might observe the birds in the wild. Perhaps I could find lodging on a farm or a working plantation.”

“Well, Father,” she said, “why don't we have Mr. Burton stay with us?”

Caught unaware, I looked nervously at her father and then at her. “That is kind, Miss Adelaide, but I am looking to board somewhere within the vicinity of a place called Southwood. It is located—”

She gave me an open-eyed stare. “The land is next to ours!” she said.

Startled, I mumbled something to her about the coincidence.

The father turned to me. “It is true, we are neighbors of Southwood.” His eyebrows lowered. “But why Southwood?”

While traveling with Henry, I had already planned this lie, and now it came easily. “Apparently, it is a region that has an unusually large collection of birds I wish to study.”

“Well, we do have plenty of birds in the area,” he said, “though I've never given them much thought.”

Then came a sudden idea. With a personal introduction, this ordeal might be over with sooner that I had anticipated. “Are you familiar with the owners of Southwood? Are they friends of yours?” I asked hopefully.

“We have been neighboring farms for many years, but I'm afraid the owner is not in residence.”

“So it is not a working farm?” I asked, wondering why, then, slaves were needed.

“Oh, no, it is a working farm. Cotton, wheat, flax, they grow it all on a large scale. The owner and his wife live in Raleigh, but it is managed and overseen by Bill Thomas.”

“Is it a place where I might seek lodging?”

“I'm afraid it is not set up for visitors,” he said.

“I see,” I said, disappointed.

“Father, I insist that we invite Mr. Burton to stay with us,” Addy said. “Perhaps he can be persuaded to give us some art lessons?” She turned to me with the question, then looked back to her father. “You know how Mother always wanted that for us.” From the look on the father's face, I saw the trump card that Addy played by invoking her mother's name.

“Adelaide. I was about to extend an invitation, had you not spoken for me.” Mr. Spencer shifted his position in my direction. “Mr. Burton, what do you say? We are within walking distance of Southwood, though I am certain we have the same birds on our land that they have on theirs. If you decide otherwise, I will take you over myself and introduce you to Mr. Thomas, though I warn you, he is not the type to have you tramping through his property.”

I could not have wished for a more favorable resolution. If all went well, my imposition would be short-lived. “Well,” I said, speaking aloud as I thought it through, “I don't know. I wasn't expecting this kind offer. I don't want to take advantage, but it would certainly serve me well, particularly if you would be kind enough to give me an introduction to . . . Mr. Thomas, did you say?”

Mr. Spencer gave a quick nod.

“Do come! It would make the house cheerful. Since Mother . . .” Addy trailed off.

I looked to the father. I said, “I will do so if you would allow me, in exchange for a bed, to offer some watercolor classes to your daughters while I am in your home.”

“How wonderful!” Miss Addy sank back against her seat.

“And you, Miss Patricia?” I asked. “Are you in favor of learning to paint?”

She looked at me shyly with her deep-set brown eyes. “I am,” she said, “although of course you cannot expect me to do as well as Addy. I am only nine, and she is—”

“I'll soon be sixteen,” Addy interjected.

“Art is not a competition,” I said to Patricia. “If you have a natural inclination for it, art is a gift that you may choose to develop or not, regardless of age.”

“Well put,” said their father. “It was our good luck to share this last leg of our journey with you, Mr. Burton, and we welcome you to our home. Be assured that your presence will provide a much needed distraction. It will be difficult not to have Mrs. Spencer at home to greet us.” He turned his head to gaze out the window. Patricia clutched her father's arm and dropped her head against it, as Addy turned to stare out the opposite window.

W
HILE THE COACH
rolled on and the girls napped, Mr. Spencer told me of his wife's recent death in childbirth. Taking the girls to visit relatives in Williamsburg was his attempt to help them all with their grief. Needing some time alone to adjust to his sorrow, he had intended to leave the girls in Williamsburg for the summer months, but when it came time for his departure, they had carried on so that he felt he had no choice but to bring them back home, in spite of the summer's heat.

“Patricia most feels the loss,” he said. “Adelaide, although she was with her mother when she . . . Well, she seldom mentions her. I suppose she is older and more capable of understanding the realities of life.”

He went on to say again how grateful he was to have me return with them to their empty home, where my presence would serve as a buffer for the girls and a distraction for him as well.

W
HEN
I
FINALLY
get my feet under me and feel good enough to start walking around, I ask Sukey to put me to work. I remember working hard for Mr. Burton and how he keeps me on. I think maybe I can do the same with Sukey and work for her until Mr. Burton gets here.

Sometimes if my legs get shaky, she makes me lay down, but I don't like to lay back, 'cause then I start to worryin'. It scares me thinking about how mad my daddy'll be that I went down to the docks and got took, just like he said. But I don't care. He can whoop me if he wants to. I just want to see him again. I worry, too, why Mr. Burton don't come. What's gonna happen if he don't find me? I want to get home!

I don't mind helping Sukey out with the women who have babies, but one day they bring in a man they call a runner. Right away Sukey washes down his back, but when I'm wringing out the rags and handing them back, I can't hardly look 'cause he's so tore up. I'm holding a jar of her weed medicine that she's going to put on his back when in walks two white men. The room goes quiet. The runner stops his moanin' and even the two women having their babies don't call out no more. It feels the same way like after the thunder when you wait for the hit of lightning. The quiet scares me and my legs feel shaky, so I sit down on one of the beds. The men come on over to see what Sukey's doing, then they start telling the runner what's gonna happen next time he tries to leave the place.

The two men are laughing when the one with the missing teeth sees me and walks over. He makes me stand up and then he starts poking on my head. It hurts and I want to tell him to cut it out, but the way Sukey's got her lips squeezed together, I know to keep quiet.

“Is he getting steadier on his feet?” he asks Sukey.

She shakes her head.

He pushes me and I fall back on the bed. “Talk about a waste of money!” he says. “A runt, and now he's sick to boot. Won't never get no decent kinda work outta him. Better off he'd a died with the other one. Less trouble all around.”

I get scared and stand up. “I'm a good worker for my size,” I say.

He takes a good look at me. “Oh! You don't say?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “I know how to lay fires and how to polish silver and—”

“Well,” he says, smiling at the other man while he's talking to me. “Sounds to me like you work like a girl.”

“No! I'm no girl! That's what I did for Mr.—”

Sukey gives out a loud grunt at the same time the runner lets out a yell that makes all of us jump. The two men tell the runner to shut up, but he keeps callin' out for Jesus Lawd to help him with his pain. Sukey's standing beside his bed and waves at me to bring the medicine for his back. I take over the jar while the two men start walking away.

The one missing his teeth looks back at me. “I'll talk to Thomas about selling him off. Trader's coming through. Least we'll get a little somethin' for him that way.”

Soon as they go, the runner stops callin' out, but Sukey gives me a look that says I done wrong. “What did I do?” I ask her. She pokes the runner's hand and he speaks for her. “You got to learn to shut up, boy,” he says, sounding mad as Sukey looks.

My head is hurting and I go to my bed to lay down. I didn't do nothing wrong. I was just talking up for myself. And now what? They were talking 'bout sellin' me off? What if they do it before Mr. Burton gets here? Then how will he find me? When nobody's looking, I start to cry.

T
HAT NIGHT WHEN
the cook brings in the food, the grits look like they always do. I set down the wood bowl 'cause I don't feel like eating. I lay back on my bed, wondering how I can get myself out of here before they sell me for a slave. I'm crying when Sukey comes over with the can of grease. After she sits, she surprises me and grabs hold a my hand and starts rubbing it down. Least she isn't mad at me no more, but I still can't stop crying. I want to go home! I want to see my daddy. And where is Mr. Burton? Don't he know I'm waitin' on him?

She keeps rubbin' away until I settle down some, and then I figure out that she scratchin' out words in my hand. I'm a good speller, but it takes a while for me to figure out what she's saying. Why don't she just talk like everybody else?

“You got to be strong like my boys,” she writes.