Property (Vintage Contemporaries) (9 page)

“Then they have been there for some time.”

“The sheriff has estimated there may be as many as one hundred.”

“Surely that is an exaggerated figure!” I exclaimed.

He left off worrying his mustache and looked at me thoughtfully. “We can only hope you are right,” he said.

IN SPITE OF the elaborate secrecy with which the planters will veil their scheme to avenge this crime at Chatterly, there can be little doubt that the negroes there will know everything about it before they ride out, and that these runaways will be informed. Else why would they have taken such a risk and warned the very people they plan to rob of their intention to rob them? My husband marvels at their savagery; I am more astounded by their boldness. It must be their intention to lure their enemies into their neighborhood, where they have somehow learned to survive, even to flourish, and then to cut them down. The woods abutting Chatterly are on low, swampy ground; the undergrowth is impenetrable, full of snakes, thorn bushes, and all manner of stinging insects. Even with oxen it is difficult to haul out much timber, as Charles never stops pointing out, though it’s much the same here. In such a place a man on horseback must be an easy target for a man who has contrived to live in a tree.

These were my thoughts in the afternoon as I sat in my room at my sewing. They filled me with trepidation, for we are outnumbered here, as everywhere along the river, and when the planters band together on a hunt, their houses and relations are left undefended. But there was also the thin, scarcely voiced hope that my husband might go out and never return. I had set Sarah to ripping an old gown for quilting, and the repetitive whine of the tearing silk punctuated my musings. Her baby made small congested sounds in its crate. I could see its dark hand moving against the slats. She sat with her back to it, methodically tearing the cloth, absorbed in the task, or so it seemed. I wondered how much she knew about my husband’s urgent errand. Did she share my timid wish that it might put her master in danger? I could not ask this question, yet I had a desire to hear her speak. “What did the doctor say about Walter?” I said.

She glanced up at me, then back to her work, her expression as blank as a death mask. “He don’ hear.”

“Did he make any recommendations for treatment?”

“All master say is he don’ hear.”

“Does that one hear?” I asked, gesturing to the baby. For answer, Sarah laid the cloth in her lap, turned toward the creature, and clapped her palms together, making a sharp crack, like a shot. The baby’s hands flew up above the top of the box and it let out a soft cry of surprise. Sarah turned back to her work, her mouth set in an annoying smirk.

“Why not just answer me?” I protested. She had come to the hem of the gown, which she pulled free of the skirt in one long shriek.

LATER, WHEN MY husband came upstairs, I heard his footsteps stop before my door. He had drunk wine and brandy at supper, as he often does when the prospect of murdering negroes is before him. I lay still, staring at the doorknob, but it did not turn and presently he went on to his own room.

When Walter was born, I lost what little desire I had for my husband. I knew he was driven to my bed because he feared he had fathered the only son he would ever have. I was nearly blind with resentment and could only get through the ordeal of our conjugal encounters by recourse to a steadily waning sense of duty. I’ve no doubt my repugnance showed. I was too proud to beg for my freedom, my husband too absorbed in his own passion to notice my suffering. My revulsion turned to resistance and I discovered that this inflamed him further, that it could be useful as a means of bringing the unpleasant process to a speedy conclusion. And so I practiced a mock resistance. Afterward I wept with frustration while my panting husband collapsed at my side. “Don’t cry,” he said, patting my shoulder as he drifted off to sleep. “We will have a child. I’m sure of it.”

It was not long after my consultation with Dr. Sanchez that I found the means to make my husband quit my bed. Indeed, Dr. Sanchez unwittingly provided it—it was the sleeping tincture. I found that if I drank two glasses of port at supper and took two spoons of this excellent medicine before getting into bed, I was so perfectly indifferent to my husband that I could endure his embraces without feeling anything at all. I offered neither encouragement nor resistance; I was there and not there at the same time. This frustrated him beyond endurance. He pushed and pulled at me, repeated my name, all to no avail. One night, after only a few weeks of this campaign, he pulled me up roughly by my arms and slapped me hard across the face. I smiled and fell back on the pillow, tasting blood. I brought my fingers to my lips, smearing a little of the blood across my cheek. Abruptly he pulled away from me and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face between his hands. “Manon,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Are you finished already?” I asked agreeably.

“I’ve not much interest in making love to a corpse,” he said.

I laughed. How wonderful that he would call what we were doing “making love,” how amusing that he drew the line at a corpse. “If I am dead,” I said, “it is because you have killed me.”

He turned to look at me. To my surprise there were tears standing in his eyes. “The doctor is right,” he said. “You are unbalanced.”

“Is that his diagnosis?” I said.

He turned away, bending to the floor to pull on his trousers.

Unbalanced, I thought. So that was the name they had for a woman who could not pretend a villain was as good as a decent man. I closed my eyes and opened them again against a wave of nausea. The doctor was right; the balance was not perfect. A little less port in the mix, and maybe a few more drops of the tincture. “I don’t care,” I said as my husband took up his boots and went to the door.

He looked back at me, confounded.

“I don’t care what you do,” I said. “I don’t care what you think. I just want you to leave me alone.”

“So be it,” he said, and went out.

THERE IS CHOLERA and yellow fever in New Orleans. We have heard rumors of it, but Dr. Landry, stopping here this morning to rest his horse on his way to the city, gave us an alarming confirmation. In the last weeks the cases have been multiplying rapidly, hundreds are already dead, and he does not doubt that a full epidemic is under way. The yellow fever is more dangerous to those who have not long resided in the area—the Americans are particularly prone to contract it— but cholera respects no barriers and even carries away the negroes, who are immune to many diseases that attack the more delicate constitution of the Creole. He bade me bring my mother out of town.

My husband made a thoughtful face at this suggestion, dissembling his real feelings. Mother’s rare visits to this house have met with little success. She gives my husband unsolicited advice about farm matters, even criticizing his management of the livestock. Her servant, Peek, doesn’t get on with Delphine, and there is a good deal of sullenness in the kitchen. Worst of all for him, I’ve no doubt, is the necessity to hide the true state of his relations with Sarah. When Walter was a baby and easily banished to the quarter, it was easier, but even then he was forced to curb his temper and his eye when Sarah was about. Mother repeatedly remarks that it is uncommon to have a woman serve at table; why do we not have a proper butler? I enjoy his discomfiture, but unfortunately Mother’s criticism extends to my conduct as well. She encourages me to show more warmth to my husband, even if I do not feel it, as it is my duty and, with practice, must become my pleasure. She repeatedly cites the tiresome adage about flies, honey, and vinegar, as if it contains the wisdom of the ages.

“I will send for her at once,” I told Dr. Landry, and all my husband could do was nod agreement. When they had gone, I went straight to the desk and wrote the invitation. But no sooner had I finished writing and stood fanning the page than there was a clatter on the drive. A barefoot mulatto boy came running into the hall, breathless from terror. He said he had been stopped three times on the road by the patrols, who demanded his pass and quizzed him closely on his business. Fortunately my mother’s doctor had written “Urgent” on the letter he was carrying and stamped both the envelope and the pass with his seal; otherwise, the boy exclaimed, he would have been shot off his master’s horse.

I took the letter; a chill ran along my spine at the feel of it, and I sent the child to the kitchen to be fed and comforted by Delphine. I broke the seal and took out the single sheet of vellum.

“Dear Manon,” the letter read. “I’m sorry to inform you that your mother is badly taken. I fear she will not last more than a day or two. She has asked me to send for you. You’d best leave at once. Sincerely, J. Chapin, M.D.”

My husband came in as I stood rereading this brief message. I couldn’t remember Mother ever being seriously ill one day in her life. “It’s from Mother’s doctor,” I said to his questioning look. “He says she is dying.”

“Is it the cholera?” he asked.

“He doesn’t say,” I replied.

Fake sympathy muddled his expression. I saw through it his deep calculation, to which I dealt a sure and devastating blow. “I’ll be off as soon as I can pack,” I said, walking toward the stairs. Then, as if it were an afterthought, I added over my shoulder, “I’ll take Sarah with me.”

Part II

En Ville

NOTHING COULD HAVE been more laughable than the touching scene of our departure: the master bids farewell to his wife and servant, tremulous with the fear that one of them may not return. But which one? He wishes I might die of cholera, and fears that she may instead. I wish he might be killed while shooting rebellious negroes. She wishes us both dead. He actually had tears standing in his eyes. He took my hands and poured upon me a look of tender solicitude. “Write to let me know that you have arrived safely,” he said. Rose came in carrying Sarah’s baby, a sight that dried up his tears fast enough. The poor creature becomes uglier every day, and its hair has come in thick, curly, and red. Sarah took it up and rested it against her shoulder, patting its back absently. “What could happen to us?” I said.