Or Give Me Death (11 page)

***

T
HIS DAY
J
OHN
was in the paddock, brushing down Small Hope.

"Hello!" His voice was hearty. He was as tall as Pa now, and broad in the shoulders, too. He wore his hair tied in back in the manner of the day.

"How is she doing?" I asked. I knew he ran her every day.

"She's about in as high perfection as she'll ever be."

Small Hope had won the purse in last fall's four-mile heat in Devil's Field. After that people were starting to respect horses that were Virginia born and bred. And John, as an upcoming horseman.

"I'm riding over to Dorothea's this afternoon," he told me. "Will you explain?"

I said yes. It meant, of course, lying to Pa and Patsy, saying he was riding over to Uncle John's. I saw he had his saddlebags packed with extra clothing.

"You missed breakfast," I said.

He grinned. "Pegg took care of me in the kitchen."

"Pa doesn't like your not being at table with us."

"I know. Here, let me help you mount." And he did.

I looked down from Patches's back at my brother John. He was no longer a boy. I knew how much he loved Dorothea, and I knew she had a lot of beaus.

Suppose she chose somebody else?

I ached for him. We were friends, he and I, cut from the same cloth, of the same mind about so many things. When I was Betsy's age, he'd protected me, even lied for me, often enough to save me from Patsy's wrath. Without him around here, I might indeed go mad.

"Have a good ride," he said. And I said I would. He waved to me and held the gate as I rode Pitches out of the paddock.

Sometimes he let me ride Small Hope, while he clocked her. It was our secret. Barley knew but would never tell. And oh, I felt so proud, riding her. So free, and proud because he trusted me with her.

Tucked under me, my skirts exposed my legs up to the thighs. But the warm sun felt good and John paid no mind, except to laugh.

"Your reputation is getting sullied," he said.

Lord knew, he'd heard Patsy's words often enough.

"Yes," I said.

"But you are affable, cheerful, and cleanly industrious, and perfectly qualified to ride Small Hope in the steeplechase. If they let girls do it, I'd let you ride for me."

Oh, and he would, too!

I hadn't worn my riding habit because to go into the house and get it would have meant a confrontation with Patsy.

I cantered across the field, feeling the wind on my face and wishing I was John and could just pack a saddlebag and leave for a day or two.

But I wasn't, and I had to face my own thoughts.

I know Patsy blames Pa for what happened to Mama. But when he comes home, she seeks to reclaim him with smiles and flattery. And Pa allows it because he needs her.

She lies, Patsy does. I've known for a long time that she drinks Mama's tea in secret. And wears her silk when Pa isn't home, and she sits at the head of the table. Oh, she says she doesn't like it, but I know she does. We don't tell, none of us. Which makes us part of her lie. It's important for her to wear that silk dress, I suppose. It makes her feel like the mistress of the plantation.

Well, one red silk dress wasn't going to insure or take away the freedom of the colony. Or even the country.

But her lies have no purpose. And mine do. At least that's what I told myself as I rode across the countryside.

"A
NNE, ARE YOU
ready? Mr. Thacker is waiting."

"Let him wait."

It was two days later, and Patsy had stepped into my room as I was leaning over to buckle my shoes, after yet another ride.

"Did you wash?" she asked. "Or is Mr. Thacker to be treated to the perfume of horse?"

I straightened up. "If he is, it's a magnificent perfume. Yes, I'm ready. Where are we to do this dolorous act?"

"It isn't dolorous," Patsy explained as she guided me to the front parlor. "Mr. Thacker has ridden here on a snowy, miserable day to buy some of Pa's property along the Holston River."

"Then why doesn't Pa sign Mama's name? He's done it before."

"Ssh!" She shushed me. "That's not to be bandied about. Mr. Thacker does not know Mama is sickly. And he expects two signatures. Now go down and fetch Mama, and bring her to the parlor."

I did so. The fetching part wasn't difficult. Pegg was downstairs already, plying Mama with tea with laudanum in it. Dressing her. Fixing her hair. Mama would have a glazed and distracted look about her, but to the unpracticed eye of a man who would be ushered into a room to meet with her for only five minutes, nothing would be discerned that wasn't ordinary.

"Come on, Mama," I urged, holding her arm and guiding her up the stairs. "Wouldn't you like to take your tea in the parlor?"

"I was in the parlor," she said. Many times she did not know where she was, belowstairs.

"If your pa was here, I wouldn't have to do this," she complained. "He had to go and die and leave legal matters to me. It's never good, a woman having to sign legal papers. Our minds are not fit for such. What property is this man buying?"

"Along the Holston River," I told her.

She humphed. "Got that land from my father, he did. Sheer wilderness out there. Not even under cultivation. Well, I suppose we could use the money. Where is this man? Does he wish to keep me waiting?"

I sat her down in a chair by the window and put a blanket over her knees. "I'll fetch him, Mama."

Pegg stayed with her and I went down the hall to fetch Pa. and Mr. Thacker and, of course, Patsy.

***

I
WAS GOOD ENOUGH
for this, I pondered, as Patsy set down the quill pen and ink and paper on a small table.

"Mrs. Henry, how good of you to give me your time." Mr. Thacker was short and squat and balding. He wore no wig. His suit of clothing was of the plainest linsey-woolsey, which he likely wore to put him in a good light with Pa. He knew better than to show up in any clothing of English cloth or making.

Mama smiled. "Mr. Thacker, that's some wilderness land you wish to buy."

"Well, yes, ma'am. For my sons. I buy it for my sons."

"It was my father's land. My father was a prosperous planter, you know."

"Ah yes, indeed." It was obvious that all Mr. Thacker wanted to know was that Mama would soon sign the deed. Behind him stood Pa, but as usual, Mama never acknowledged Pa's presence. He was dead.

I prayed she wouldn't make mention of that now.

"But he had a penchant for running into debt. My husband bought this property from him, lest the sheriff take possession of it."

"I understand," said Mr. Thacker.

"And now you shall own it. I wish you well with it, Mr. Thacker."

I guided Mama's hand, for it shook. Painstakingly, she wrote out her name. Sarah Shelton Henry.

"If my husband were here he would cry out like a crow that could not fly in a field of corn," she said.

"My wife's recent illness has left her somewhat weakened," I heard Pa whispering to Mr. Thacker.

The paper was signed. Mama sat back in her chair like Queen Charlotte, as if she had just delivered a proclamation. "I shall have another cup of tea now," she directed.

The look in her eyes was one of triumph. And I knew why. Because Pa was "dead" and she had stepped in and taken his place in matters legal.

Mr. Thacker and Patsy left the room. Outside, the snow continued to fall thickly. I shivered, but not from the cold. I shivered because, in my bones, I knew that somehow, in the act of guiding Mama's pen, of propping her up and making her appear normal, I had betrayed her. And become, if only for a few minutes, part of the madness in our house.

***

P
A'S FATHER DIED
in January. In March, Pa made another one of his successful speeches, and Spencer Roane, who was a friend of John's, came to tell us about it. His father was a burgess from Essex County.

"What a speech your pa made at the last session!" Roane told us. "My father is in a rapture because of it."

We were in our barn. Young Roane loved horses as much as John did. I thought him handsome, and I think he took kind notice of me, too. But I was only ten and still considered a child.

"People are saying that your pa is a man set apart," Roane said. "Edmund Randolph says his imagination paints the soul."

I was at the age when just being near a handsome man made me mindful of all my shortcomings, when I dreamed, for hours after, of how he'd looked and what he'd said.

Roane came to supper. My sister Patsy made him repeat everything being said about Pa. Then she took advantage of the enthusiasm of the moment and asked Pa if she and MyJohn could wed. Pa said yes.

Patsy was nothing if not conniving. She had a fancy wedding that September.

"Do you think it's in keeping with the tone of the times?" MyJohn asked her. "With all the colonies indignant over three pence per pound on the tea?"

Patsy thought so, yes. "It might be the last time we are all together in celebration," she said.

Well, it was in keeping with the tone set by our new governor, Lord Dunmore, anyway. He rode around in a coach given to him by George the Third, just like Mama said he would. They say he is a very good-natured, jolly fellow, who likes his bottle and is known for his midnight sorties.

When my brother John was in Williamsburg for the steeplechase in the summer, he himself saw the governor and his drunken companions clipping the tails of the chief justice's carriage horses. I think the man is more mad than Mama. But, of course, he is a man and in a position of power. Thus he is called a jolly good fellow.

So Patsy had her wedding in the front parlor. Guests feasted out under the trees.

She wore Mama's wedding dress. Blue striped satin, and pale blue calamanco shoes. I didn't even know Mama had kept these things. And I felt a little jealous because Patsy, as first daughter, got to wear them.

The weather was perfect. Pa's uncle, Reverend Henry, married them. The food was chicken, roast beef, pork, duck, pheasant, oysters, mince pies, custards and blancmange, and wedding cake.

Pa was dressed in a manner worthy of his position—a peach-blossom-colored coat and a dark wig tied behind. His mama and two sisters came over from Mount Brilliant for the wedding.

My grandmama is from an old Virginia family. And people sometimes still called her "the Widow Syme," from the name of her first husband. At seventy-five she was feisty as ever. She and her daughters had become Methodist evangelists. Pa's sister Aunt Elizabeth was all the time quarreling with him about my mama, and how he gave her too many children. About neglecting Mama. About slavery. She freed all her slaves.

It made for a lively gathering. Especially with all the talk about the East India Company storing seventeen million pounds of tea in warehouses in England. And having no market for it but America. And wanting us to pay three pence tax per pound for it.

In the coolness of the September afternoon, I'd have paid a three-pence-per-pound tax for a cup of it, without question. I missed my tea.

But then, I had no backbone. Even I knew that.

I think it was the last good time we had in our family. Mama behaved well. Pegg and I dressed her in a good dimity and a lace-trimmed cap. I don't know if she understood what was going on. But she did tell one guest this: "When I married my husband, my dowry was Pine Slash, three hundred acres cut off from the rest of the world."

When Pegg and I put her to bed that night, she smiled at us. "The tea," she said.

"You want tea, Mama?" I asked.

"The water will run brown with it," she said. "And after that, it will run red, with blood of Patriots."

I shivered. "Yes, Mama," I said.

"Don't you ever wed, Anne." She gripped my hand. "Marriage is not a good state. A woman gives up all her property and rights and privileges."

I thought of Spencer Roane. He and his father had been invited to the wedding. He'd sat next to me and talked to me about horses. "It's refreshing to meet a girl who can talk about more than bread pudding," he'd said. And I'd shivered then, and I shivered now.

But again I said, "Yes, Mama." I blew out the candle and left her there in the dark, with her visions of water turning brown from tea, and then red from blood.

***

P
ATSY CAME BACK
from her wedding trip different, worse than before.

She was mistress of Scotchtown now. And everyone must be made mindful of it, from the smallest Negro child on the place to me and Will and, of course, Betsy.

The only one who escaped her mouth was little Edward, who was loved and pampered by everybody.

The first morning back, Patsy made us all stay at the breakfast table after MyJohn kissed her and went to ride his horse out to the fields.

"I am responsible for everyone on this place now. Every time you go farther than the stables or the quarters, I am to know of it. William and Anne, that goes mostly for you two. John, I must be informed of your whereabouts, also."

John sighed, set down his linen napkin, and stood up. "Please, Patsy," he said. "You take yourself too seriously."

She glared up at him. "And what mean you by that?"

"Give the children their rein. They'll be grown up soon enough. Isn't life hard enough for them?" His eyes went to the floor beneath us.

"That is precisely why I must
not
give them rein, John," Patsy said. "And I would appreciate at least being informed when you go to stay the night at the Dandridges."

He shrugged. "You never needed to know before."

"Pa still is not mindful of your courting Dorothea."

"I'm not courting. We're just friends. And Pa knows that."

"Still, he should know how often you go there."

"To what end?" John challenged.

Patsy had no answer.

"You'll not hold sway over me," John said. "And you'd be well advised to loose your grip on Anne."

With that, he turned and strode from the room.

Oh, I thought, as my eyes and my heart followed the tall figure with the broad shoulders and firm feet in those polished boots. Oh, if only I were a boy!