The Kitchen House (35 page)

I forced myself to smile when I held my glass up to his.

“To us, Lavinia,” he said. “May we always be this happy.”

M
ARSHALL DID NOT COME TO
my room that night, but he did the next, and again he was inebriated. He was not gentle, and the act was not pleasant for me. However, I knew my responsibility and did not think to deny him.

In fact, I had hoped that our coming together might be a way to establish a closer bond. Soon, though, I realized that for Marshall, it was not an act of intimacy. Rather, it was a function to be done when intoxicated. In the weeks that followed, when he did visit, he did not stay the night but left soon after he finished. Alone then, I lay awake, wondering what had happened to the Marshall I had known back in Williamsburg.

M
ORNING WAS
M
ARSHALL’S BEST TIME.
He rose early, eager and ambitious to begin the day, but at dinner he began to drink, and his mood usually turned sour. Seldom was his frustration with me, for I anticipated his needs and always acquiesced if necessary. However, as the days passed, his anger escalated toward Will Stephens.

I began to dread our daily afternoon meal, when his tirades against Will began. I took comfort in having the security of Uncle Jacob’s constant presence in the dining room, and in Beattie, who came to serve the food. Often when she lifted or set a plate, she brushed my hand or caught my eye, and I was reminded that I was not alone.

A few weeks after our homecoming, Beattie wore the gold locket I had brought back for her as a gift from Williamsburg. Marshall noted it and, after a few glasses of wine, asked in a friendly manner who had given it to her.

“Miss Lavinia,” she said proudly.

“Miss Lavinia?” he said as he turned toward me. “And where did your mistress get the funds for such a fine gift?”

“From you, Marshall.” I smiled at him. “From the money you gave me in Williamsburg. You said I could buy gifts if I chose.”

His face turned hard. “Naturally, I assumed you meant Uncle, Aunt, or Meg.”

“But you said—”

“And who else in this household benefited from my generosity?”

“Marshall, please, you are embarrassing me.”

“Who else?” he shouted.

I shook my head, refusing to answer.

“Give it to me,” he directed Beattie, who removed her gift with trembling fingers. He slipped it into his waistcoat pocket and stood to deliver a final dictate to me. “You are never to buy gifts for the servants without my approval. They are your servants! For God’s sake, Lavinia. Try to elevate yourself to your new station!”

After he left the room, Beattie and I looked at each other, both of us shaken.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Beattie.

“It all right, Miss Abinia,” she said as she cleared the dishes, then left the room. As I sat at the table alone, I was reminded of the day Miss Martha first played her harpsichord for me. She spoke of loneliness, and this day I understood her position as never before. But with that memory, I became determined to establish a better relationship with Marshall and to find again the friendship that we had shared in Williamsburg. Then would I appeal to him for the needs for my family.

M
AMA
M
AE TRIED TO GUIDE
me into the role of mistress. It was her idea that we set aside time to inventory the house, to go through each room and empty cupboards and chests, drawers and linen presses, and to make a complete list of the household’s belongings. Mama suggested I tell Marshall of this undertaking, to let him know how I was spending my time. I did so, and when I saw his approval, I knew that Mama understood my role, and perhaps my
husband, better than I. Soon a good part of my day was taken up with sorting through the house.

I helped care for Miss Martha, and in the afternoons I took pleasure in reading to her. Some mornings after I was sure Marshall had left the yard, I ran down for a quick visit to the kitchen house. I knew that those times made Mama uneasy, but I went nonetheless, always hoping to see Belle on her own. She was the one I thought might answer the intimate questions I had about my marriage, but the few times I saw her, others were always with us, plying me with questions about my life in Williamsburg.

We had been home no more than a month, and a routine of dinner drinking had already been established. Without my knowledge, Marshall must have observed me on a morning visit to the kitchen house. At dinner that afternoon my husband nodded for Uncle to refill his glass, then he took my hand. “So, Lavinia,” he said not unpleasantly, “what have you been doing today?”

“Mama and I are doing an inventory of the nursery,” I said quickly.

Marshall squeezed my hand, and I realized too late the trap.

“But you were down in the kitchen house. I don’t want you down there. Do you understand?”

I tried to pull my hand away, but he continued to press with force. His eyes gleamed at my discomfort.

“But Mama and—” I whispered, glancing back at Uncle Jacob.

“Mama.” He spat out the word. “You are my wife. She is Mae to you!”

“Marshall! You’re hurting me—”

He continued to squeeze, and I gasped from pain as I tried to free my hand.

“I said you call her Mae! Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” I moaned.

When Uncle Jacob slipped from the room, I wanted to call out for him not to leave but dared not. Fortunately, Marshall had released me by the time Uncle returned. I sat stunned, my hand throbbing, while my husband resumed eating.

Suddenly, Mama burst into the room. “’Scuse me, Masta Marshall! Miss Abinia, I need you for helpin’ with Miss Martha!”

When she dashed from the room, I rose, alarmed. “I must go,” I said, and followed quickly. I rushed up the stairs behind Mama, and when we reached the blue room, she hastily shut the door behind us, then sent me into the bedroom while she stayed behind. Miss Martha, seated in her chair, smiled contentedly at me. Fanny stood by her but studied me anxiously. The three of us jumped when we heard loud bangs from the blue room. Fanny and I rushed out to find Mama banging a wooden chair against the floor.

“Mama!” I couldn’t imagine what she was doing.

She put her fingers to her lips, then whispered for Fanny and me to run back into the bedroom. “Like this,” she said, stomping both of her feet. “Go, go.” She waved us away.

Fanny ran heavily, and I wondered if they had both gone mad. Uncle Jacob knocked on the door. “Masta Marshall wantin’ to know if he got to send for the doctor.”

“No,” Mama said, “you tell him that we just need a lil time, that’s all.” When she came to me, she raised my arm to inspect my swollen hand, and I finally understood. “We gonna have to soak this,” she said.

“How did you know?” I whispered.

“He ring that,” Mama said. She pointed to the bell and tapestry panel hanging beside Miss Martha’s bed. I knew there was a system interconnected throughout the house, but in my experience, it had never been used. “If this ring more than one time, we know that Uncle Jacob callin’ for us. We always here to help.” Mama’s firm look held my eyes. “You understand this?” she asked.

I nodded.

She smoothed my hand. “Why he do this?”

“I’m not to go down to the kitchen house.” I fought back tears. “And I must call you Mae.”

Mama gave me a long look, and unshed tears burned my throat. “It just a name,” Mama said, “but when you calls me Mama, it sayin’ too much. You call me Mae, and I come fast as when you
call me Mama. The same thing with Papa—you call him George. He Papa to you, that we know, but Masta Marshall don’ see it like that.”

When I could speak, I gave Mama my word that I would do as she asked.

L
IFE BECAME INCREASINGLY UNEASY AS
winter approached. Marshall continued with too much drink at dinner, and I no longer dared go to the kitchen house to see Belle.

Almost always, once he was inebriated, Marshall’s focus turned to Will Stephens. The final break between Marshall and Will took place on a hog-killing day in early December. It seemed that Will had promised everyone a feast of fresh pork and a drink of brandy when they finished. Marshall took strong objection, seeing it as an extravagance, though Will argued that the workers not only anticipated it but deserved it. Marshall cited this as an example of Will’s excess and mismanagement of the farm. When Marshall came for dinner that day, he drank much and ate little. I tried to soothe him, but my comments only seemed to feed his agitation. Why was I standing up for Will Stephens and going against my own husband? he demanded. Was it Will Stephens I was more concerned about?

My face flushed at the suggestion, and with that I gave Marshall new fuel. “So! You have an interest in Will Stephens, is that it?” he shouted. I remained silent, but I could not control the burning of my face. I had seen Will Stephens only twice since my arrival, both times when he was still employed by Marshall. The first time was of an early morning scarcely a week into my return. I was brushing out Miss Martha’s hair, and Fanny was changing the linens on the bed. I had turned to draw the blinds up to let in the full measure of daylight when I caught a glimpse of Will as he came out of the horse barn. He was with Ben, and they were laughing. Fury such as I had seldom felt before flooded me, and when I turned back to Miss Martha, I could scarcely control my anger. How dare he be so happy! Fanny took note and came to look out the window for
herself. “That’s Will Stephens walkin’ with Ben,” she said plainly, as though wondering what had so affected me.

“For heaven’s sake, Fanny! Anyone can see that.”

“You remembers what you say when you lil?”

I was silent, remembering all too well.

“You always say you gonna marry that boy.” Fanny laughed.

“I was a foolish child!”

Fanny stopped laughing. “Maybe not so foolish. Will Stephens a good man.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake! Must we discuss that man all day?”

Fanny, not given to holding in her words, looked me over but said nothing further.

T
HE SECOND TIME
I
SAW
Will Stevens was a few weeks later. It was dusk. Again I was at the window, this time studying the purple, pink, and blue of the sky, when Will walked into my vision. I went weak at the sight of him. With his strong shoulders back, he strode with the gait of a man sure of himself. He was on his way to the kitchen house, where I guessed Belle and his son waited for him. I spent the night hating him but comforted myself after settling on a plan of revenge. I vowed that when I finally came face-to-face with Will Stephens, I would hold my head high and look through him as though he did not exist.

However, I did not have that opportunity, for this day, he and Marshall had an altercation that ended with Will leaving for his own farm.

I knew trouble lay ahead when Marshall left to vent his anger on Will, who was working in the kitchen yard alongside the people from the quarters. As the argument escalated and then climaxed, Marshall struck Will and knocked him to the ground.

It was Papa George who stepped in and somehow convinced Marshall that the day’s work could finish without him. And it was Papa who led him back to the house and settled him by the fire in the study with a bottle of brandy for company.

E
ARLY THE NEXT MORNING,
P
APA
George came to the big house with startling news. During the night Will Stephens had packed up and left for his neighboring farm, taking with him Belle and Jamie, as well as Ben and Lucy and their two children.

Incensed, Marshall rode into town. Mama and I were at the bedroom window when he returned later in the day. The sheriff rode with him, but what alarmed me was seeing another rider alongside my husband. It was none other than his old friend Rankin. I was about to turn from the window when Mama gasped. I looked again and this time saw a little boy seated on a horse in front of the sheriff. It was Jamie, Belle’s son. I took Mama’s advice and stayed with Miss Martha as Mama ran from the house to take the crying child from the horseman.

I
WAS REQUIRED TO SHARE
my afternoon dinner with these men. As Beattie and Uncle served us, we three listened to the men recount how they had taken the child from his frantic mother. Marshall claimed that Will had broken his contract, and furthermore, Jamie, at the least, was his property. Seeing Marshall’s delight, I wondered if this was what he had been planning all along.

When I could take no more, I declared a headache and excused myself. Once out of the dining room, I slipped out the back door and ran to the kitchen house. Mama frowned when I appeared. Sukey was sitting on a bench holding Jamie in her lap. The little boy was asleep with his thumb in his mouth, so exhausted by his ordeal that he did not disturb himself with his own loud hiccups.

“What can I do?” I asked Mama.

“You best go back,” she said.

“Surely there is something I can do.”

Mama didn’t have an answer, but to my relief, she said she had sent word to Belle that Jamie was safe. I told Mama of my suspicion that Marshall had maneuvered all of this, that he knew the law.