The Kitchen House (24 page)

Uncle Jacob gave me a whistle. It was a miniature, made from a small reed, and when he had me blow it, it sang a high wild note. “That the call for me,” he said. “If you gots the trouble, you take that out and blow that. I listen good for that sound.”

I don’t know if it was the pitch of that whistle or his gentle words that touched me, but I could not stop the tears and leaned in to Belle as I began to cry. She hugged me while Papa began good-natured teasing to bring me back. Everyone laughed when he told me that I’d better use the whistle carefully, because Uncle Jacob couldn’t ride a horse very well. Papa drew mind pictures for us of Uncle riding to Williamsburg, desperately hanging on to a horse while calling out that he was coming to save the day.

It worked. I was laughing through my tears when everyone said good night.

B
ELLE HELPED ME PACK MY
trunk. There was room for everything but my collection of bird nests, so Belle suggested that I take only two and that she safeguard the rest. I reluctantly agreed, but I had little choice, as my trunk was full the next morning when Ben carried it up to the big house and strapped it to the coach.

Everyone came to see us off. At the last minute, Miss Martha decided she did not want to leave. After futile attempts at gentle persuasion, Mr. Madden commanded Ben to lift her up and deposit her into the carriage.

I was the last to enter. The horses were eager to leave, and I was grateful for Ben’s help when he assisted me up the carriage steps. He gave my hand a tight squeeze, but I dared not meet his eye. As the door closed, I saw Sukey running up the hill from the kitchen house. I had talked to her early that morning and had explained that I was leaving for a while. She had listened carefully and appeared unperturbed as she went about her morning business. She must have been forgotten in the excitement, and now she came carrying her heavy winter shoes and her moppet doll. “Wait, Binny, I comin’ with you,” she called, “I comin’ with you!” Before she could reach the carriage, Papa George scooped her up in his arms.

We were off, but I couldn’t keep myself from looking back out the window as the carriage pulled away. Sukey was frantic, and Papa was having a hard time holding her as she kicked and hit, trying to break free.

Inside the carriage, Miss Martha’s screams spoke for me.

Belle

I
SURE DO MISS
L
AVINIA.
A
FTER
she goes, I find out how much I don’t like being by myself. Nights are the worst. Even though Marshall is still up in Williamsburg and Will Stephens says Rankin is long gone, just the same, I got a bolt put on my door and sleep with a knife next to me. One of them shows up, this time he’s a dead man.

During the day I don’t have time to think about this too long. Even though everybody in the big house is gone, I got my hands full with the gardens and Jamie and Sukey.

I wonder how Lavinia’s doing without her Sukey. At night Sukey was crying, keeping me and Jamie awake, until Mama finally takes her and puts her with Beattie. That helps her some, but now she’s not wanting to eat. Mama says it’s like that little girl lost two mamas. First Dory, now Lavinia.

Truth is, when Mama took Sukey at night, it made it easier for Ben to come see me. He can’t stay away, and I don’t want him to. First, though, I go to Ida to get something so I don’t get caught with no baby. She said it only works for some, never did work for her, but so far it’s working good for me. My Jamie’s everything to me, but I don’t want no more babies. Come a day I got to run, one child’s enough for me and Ben to carry.

Then there’s Lucy. Me, I don’t like her. Just thinking about her living there with Ben makes me mad, but Ben don’t want her knowing about us. He says if she finds out we’re getting together, it’s gonna hurt her, and Ben says she already got hurt enough in this life.

Then, too, we don’t want Mama or Papa to know about us. But I know Mama. She’ll find out soon enough, and then look out! Last night we got to laugh when I say to Ben that something’s not right that at twenty-four years old, we’re still watching out for Mama.

Lavinia

I
N
1797 W
ILLIAMSBURG WAS NO
longer the capital, but the town was noted for three remaining institutions. One, the focus of the town and the local gathering place was the courthouse. It was an impressive brick building, centrally situated, and appeared much as an anchor for the main thoroughfare, the Duke of Gloucester Street. A man of law, Mr. Madden was intimately familiar with this workplace.

The second, also central, was the College of William and Mary. Established in 1693, it had maintained an excellent reputation as a school for higher learning, particularly for law. It was at this institution that Marshall would further his education.

The third, the one that eventually took on most significance for me, was the public hospital. It, too, was a fine brick building. This one, built in 1773, sat on the edge of town and was more commonly known as the Hospital for the Insane. Its reputation was growing, and it was to this hospital that Miss Martha was admitted. The hospital accepted only those who were dangerous or curable. I was never told under which of these two categories Miss Martha was signed in.

The Maddens had an inviting home. Within easy walking distance of the courthouse, it was a rambling clapboard house, and though certainly impressive in size, it was not as large as the big house I had left behind. There were many rooms in this home, but the ceilings were low, and the rooms were more compact, more intimate, than those in Tall Oaks. Many of the windows held cushioned window seats, while on other wide windowsills, indoor plants flowered, often perfuming the room. Although there was a
library, books were casually set about in other rooms, and I guessed rightly that reading in this household was routine. The furnishings here were not as extravagant as at Tall Oaks, but they were substantial enough for one to know that this home belonged to a family of means. At first glance I was taken aback by the colors of the rooms, painted in rich and vibrant hues, although in a short time I adjusted to that particular style of decoration.

To my great astonishment, I was given my own small upstairs room. Later, I was to learn that I was placed here, as this room was attached to the larger bedroom next door that was intended for Miss Martha’s use on her return from the hospital. Nonetheless, I was astounded to be sheltered in the main house and to have it decorated so prettily. My room’s lively green contrasted pleasingly with a white coverlet on the footed bed. A circular braided rug covered much of the pine floor, and on the edge of it set a small oak desk in front of a gabled window.

I looked out at the broad and busy street below, outlined by large elm and locust trees, and through them I saw other homes similar in character. Some appeared in need of repair, but almost all were surrounded by lush gardens filled with flowers, herbs, and shrubs.

My hosts had only one child: a much loved daughter named Meg. On my arrival in Williamsburg, she greeted me enthusiastically. She was twelve to my thirteen years, and though we had both grown since our first meeting years ago, now she was significantly shorter than I. She was slim, and her limp was more pronounced than I remembered, but her frizzed brown hair floated out as before, and I must say that on first approach, she struck me as an odd creature. She wore round eyeglasses, but while listening to you speak she removed them and peered directly at you, her large brown eyes never leaving your face, almost as though she were trying to study what generated your thoughts.

For the first few weeks, I was so shaken by my abrupt change in circumstances that I am not certain how I would have made it through had it not been for Meg. I found it especially difficult to
reconcile living within the confines of a town. The constant activity unsettled me, and I found the sudden shrieks of neighboring children or the unexpected rattle of carriages going by unnerving. During the day, with so many around, the atmosphere of town living felt constricted, and I longed for the open fields and forest paths I had left behind.

But in Meg’s bedroom, I found solace. In it was the world of birds and botany, the natural world that I thought I had left behind. I was delighted to see that she collected nests, too, and had them lined up across the windowsills amid rocks and leaves of all kinds. Framed fern species covered most of one wall, while prints of birds covered another. All of them, she told me, were indigenous to the region.

As I studied the prints more closely, I was startled to hear a gravelly voice call out from a far corner. “Hello!” I swung around.

“Sinsin,” Meg said, going over to a large wicker cage, “you must be nice.” She opened the door of the cage and held out her hand. A large black bird stepped out, hopped to her shoulder, then, cooing, nuzzled her ear.

“This,” said Meg proudly, “is Sin.”

“Sin?”

“Yes, I called him Sin. Mother named him. He is not her favorite. ‘Black as sin,’ she said the day I got him.”

“Would he come to me?”

Meg beamed. “Of course.” The bird came willingly and gave me giggles while he searched my hair with his beak.

“What does he eat?” I asked.

“Mice, frogs, peanuts, fruit…”

“What kind of bird is he?” I stroked his iridescent black feathers.

“He is of the genus Corvus. A black crow.” She spoke formally, as a schoolmistress might. “I found him when he was very small, and he imprinted on me. He is quite intelligent, and I’ve taught him to speak.” While she put him through his paces, I looked about the room.

A small plant, roots and all, was propped on her desk, and I saw on an open drawing pad the beginnings of a sketch. Seeing my interest, Meg brought out another prized possession: a long oval-shaped tin box painted a light blue. She explained that it was used to collect plant and animal specimens from the outdoors. It was attached to a leather strap, and she slung it over her shoulder to demonstrate how she could open the attached lid with one hand. The lid itself was delicately hand-painted with white and pink wildflowers, though some of the decoration had been worn away from use. It was a vasculum, she said, rolling her tongue around the word as though it were candy.

I was awestruck when she pointed out her shelf of books. They were all gifts from her father, she said, meant to assist her in her studies. After Sin flapped to a perch above the desk, I sat in a small chair to recover myself and stared about in fascination. Meg was thrilled at my interest in her world, and within days we were bonded.

A
T THE BEGINNING
I
WAS
scheduled to take only reading and writing lessons with Meg. I was given some household duties, and Miss Sarah had her Negro servant, Nancy, instruct me in those chores. Desperately lonely for the family I had left behind, I tried to establish a friendship with Nancy and her daughter, Bess.

Nancy and her husband, along with Bess, lived on the Maddens’ property in a small home out back of the kitchen house. The two women cooked and cleaned and kept up the home under the supervision of Miss Sarah, while Nancy’s husband maintained the property and the substantial gardens.

While working at my chores, I made overtures to Nancy and her daughter, but they, knowing nothing of me, kept their distance. One afternoon, finding myself with free time and thinking to pursue their friendship, I went out to the kitchen and there asked if I could be of help with the cooking. They looked at me, stone-faced. No, I was told, everything was just fine. They didn’t need my help.

Later that day Miss Sarah came to me and asked that I not
disturb the servants. They were very private, she said, and did not like others in their workplace. In my naïveté, I was confused by their rejection of me but made no further attempts to win them over.

At first I thought Miss Sarah overbearing, but in time I came to understand that her intentions were well meaning. Miss Sarah took her household seriously, and though her family was her first priority, her social obligations were also of great concern. Since her childhood, she had been afforded a place in society that carried with it luxury and privilege. Her mother had stressed the obligation of station, and Miss Sarah was determined to carry out her duty. I often heard her state how she felt obliged to help the less fortunate, and there was no doubt that my welfare was included under that dictum.