JoAnn Wendt Page 16

  “Now for the London society news, wife,” Mr. Byng droned on.

  Flavia leaned forward. Often there was news of titled persons she’d known. Mr. Byng droned on, reading of sumptuous balls, of titled births, marriages, deaths.

  “Her Grace, the duchess of Tewksbury—”

  Flavia jerked. The sharp point of her needle jabbed into her finger. A drop of rich, red blood sprang up. She jerked the finger to her mouth and sat trembling . . .

  “—died of the smallpox on the twenty-first day of September, in the year of our Lord, 1753. The earl of Dunwood set sail for Virginia on—”

  Her ears roared. The slipper slid down her gown and fell to the floor with a light clunk. She could not get her breath. Fighting dizziness, she tried to find her feet, tried to leave. But her feet were numb stumps.

  At last she managed to pull herself up. Panting, she stumbled to the door and went outside. A cold wind cut through her thin muslin work dress, but she scarcely noticed. She lurched out into the dark yard, groped her way to the low stone fence and fell against it.

  Dead. . . dear heaven, everyone thought her dead. . . . She had assumed this, she had prepared herself for this; but now that the moment was here, she realized she’d made no preparation for it at all. Shock. Numbing, terrifying shock. . . her ears rang with her own death knell.

  For the next few days, she went about her chores in a fog. Dazed and heartsick, she tried to come to terms with it. Flavia Rochambeau is gone . . . gone . . . only Jane Brown lives . . . Jane . . .Jane . . . and what will become of this Jane? Who is she? What does her future hold?

  * * * *

  Autumn deepened. The nights grew crisp and leaves began to fall. Flavia’s breath punctuated the chill night air and hovered there—a trail of icy steam in the lantern light—as she hurried to the barn to settle Neddy for sleep. The boy wouldn’t be allowed to sleep in the kitchen until December, and she worried about frostbite.

  Pushing open the creaking barn door, she let herself in, hung her lantern on a hook and turned, smiling as Neddy’s cheerful shout greeted her. A single window spilled moonlight into the dark barn, and Neddy had been playing with his top in the patch of moonlight.

  “Jane! Play—play.”

  She went to Neddy and patted his smiling face. Peach fuzz had sprouted on his cheeks. Soon he would be a man physically, and life must grow even crueler for him.

  “No more playing, Neddy. Bedtime. But first we must tidy up the barn. Come, get up. Help Jane pick up things.”

  “No. Play!”

  “Come, Neddy. Help Jane tidy up. If Mr. Byng finds shovels and terrapin lances all over the floor, Mr. Byng will scold.”

  The boy’s face darkened with fear. He scrambled up and looked about him, bewildered by the array of tools to pick up, unable to formulate a plan to begin. Tears of frustration rose in his eyes.

  By accident, Flavia had discovered the boy could learn and remember if she set tasks to music. Music seemed to soothe and settle him. She began to sing softly:

  “First Neddy picks up the lances, the lances, the lances . . . ”

  Neddy’s face brightened. He joined in the singing and dove to the task. Soon the barn was tidy, and Neddy climbed into the hayrack, snuggling into his nest of hay and tattered blankets.

  “Jane,” he demanded, “find doll.”

  Flavia searched for the doll for several minutes. Finally she found it in the sheep pen, half under an ewe. She had to kick at the ewe’s thick flank to get her to move. The smelly beast bleated, then lunged to its feet, turning and butting at Flavia.

  The doll was a cornhusk one that Dennis Finny had made for Neddy. Flavia had completed it, painting wild berry stain on its face for eyes and lips. She’d made a tiny jacket for the doll. Neddy spent hours putting the jacket on and off.

  She put the doll into Neddy’s demanding hands. He cuddled it under the covers and squeezed his eyes shut. He began to sing.

  “Now Neddy go . . . sleep, sleep, sleep. Now go sleep . . . ”

  Shivering, she was glad to extinguish the lantern light and step back into the warmth of the kitchen, even if it meant another tedious evening with the Byngs. Shedding her cloak and hanging it on a hook, she gathered up her workbasket and sank to a bench by the fire. She threaded her needle with scarlet wool twist and picked up Mrs. Byng’s calamanco dancing pump.

  On the other side of the kitchen, Mr. Byng sat in the sputtering light of the rush lamp, reading his Sabbath sermon to his wife. Mrs. Byng rocked in her Philadelphia chair, rubbing her face with a piece of cut lemon as she listened. The lemon was her nightly beauty preparation, supposedly to bleach and whiten her complexion for the Tates’ ball. It was not working, in Flavia’s opinion. The woman was as ugly as ever. She punctured her husband’s droning with shrill outbursts.

  “How true, Mr. Byng. You have hit the nail upon the head, husband. Lust is the cause of all sin and sin is the cause of all lust.

  “I shouldn’t wonder that when your sermon reaches the ear of the bishop of London— you will be wanted there.

  “La, husband, you shall be wanted at Kensington Palace. I shouldn’t take it amiss, sir, to be called to London—”

  Kensington Court? London? Flavia couldn’t help but snicker. Her scornful snicker was only the slightest sound, but the Reverend Byng caught it and looked at her immediately. It was as though he’d been tuned to her every movement, her slightest utterance.

  “You’ve an opinion of my sermon, Jane?”

  A chill passed over her. It was frightening to be watched so closely. And the curious flame that burned up in Mr. Byng’s eyes. . .

  “No, sir,” she whispered, quickly dipping her head to her needlework. Instantly she regretted lowering her head. The firelight would play in her red hair, warming it to copper. Often she’d been aware of Mr. Byng staring at her hair, the lids of his eyes hooded to mere slits.

  “Jane has no opinion,” Mrs. Byng sputtered, rocking faster. “Jane is a bondslave. Bondslaves have no opinion at all.” She turned to Flavia. “Go to bed, Jane.”

  Flavia rose to obey, but Mr. Byng lifted his hand.

  “Jane shan’t retire until after prayers, my dear. No one is excluded from evening prayers. Excepting Neddy, of course. But Neddy is a fool, and I cannot abide praying over a fool.”

  Flavia tensed as Mrs. Byng swallowed her annoyance and smiled sweetly at her husband.

  “Nor can I, husband. You’ve no idea, husband, how vexed I am at the thought of Neddy sleeping in the house this winter.”

  She threw Flavia a vengeful look.

  “Perhaps, husband, Neddy could stay the winter in the barn?”

  Flavia trembled for Neddy. Her hands stiffened and the calamanco pump thumped to the floor. Darting a scared look at Mrs. Byng, she snatched up the shoe, brushed it off and whirled to Mr. Byng.

  “Please, sir? Neddy will freeze sleeping in the barn. It is too cold for the child.”

  When Mr. Byng seemed to consider Flavia’s soft words, Mrs. Byng’s annoyance warmed to anger.

  “Neddy is not a child. He is a half-wit, an animal. All animals have the knack of staying warm.”

  Flavia lost her senses. “He is not an animal! He’s a little boy. Trapped in a man’s body.”

  Instantly, she knew she’d been foolish to argue. Color rose in Mrs. Byng’s face. Clutching the shoe, Flavia backed away, fearing the woman would fly up out of her chair and smack her.

  But Mrs. Byng attacked from a new and bewildering direction.

  Smiling sweetly at her husband, she simpered, “I vow, sir. Should the wife of Maryland’s finest preacher endure a scolding from a mere bondslave?”

  Mr. Byng puffed up in pride.

  “Indeed not, my dear!” Flavia found herself the target of two sets of angry eyes.

  “You will repent, Jane,” Mr. Byng ordered. “Come here, chit. Kneel. We shall begin evening prayers at once.”

  Heart ticking fearfully, Flavia obeyed. Mrs. Byng came and knelt, too. A prim, pl
eased smile played over her tightly pursed lips. Mr. Byng knelt between them, placing one hand upon his wife’s bowed head and one upon Flavia. His touch made her cringe. His touch frightened her far more than did the odd looks he sent her way when he believed no one was watching him.

  Pompously and in a pulpit voice, Mr. Byng began to pray aloud. Flavia tried not to listen, tried not to stiffen in growing anger when his prayer dealt with her.

  “Lastly, Gracious Creator, there kneels before Thee the most contemptible of Thy creatures, Jane Brown. Thou hast put Jane into my care. Thou hast marked her with flaming hair that we might be warned of the lust that burns in her wicked heart. Cleanse and purify this miserable creature . . . ”

  * * * *

  The long-anticipated invitation to the Tate dancing assembly arrived, and from that moment on, talk in the Byng household and talk throughout Chestertown centered on the ball. It was to be the grandest Kent County had ever seen. Mr. Tate was sparing no expense. Guests would come from Annapolis, Baltimore, Philadelphia and even Williamsburg. Gossips reported that Mrs. Tate had ordered expensive guest “favors.” Each gentleman guest would receive a silver snuffbox to commemorate the ball; each lady, a tiny silver nutmeg grater.

  To Flavia’s disgust, Mrs. Byng waxed ecstatic anticipating her silver nutmeg grater. She chattered that no woman of quality traveled about without one, and that at quality tables it was fashionable to take one’s silver grater and a nutmeg from one’s bag and genteelly season one’s food and drink. Indeed, she demanded of Flavia, hadn’t Mrs. Tate so seasoned her rum toddy the day she’d called at the Byngs to see the Philadelphia chair?

  Rumor said Maryann Tate was the reason for the lavish ball. Gossips predicted Maryann’s betrothal would be announced. The same gossips insisted the silver favors would be engraved with the entwined initials of the happy couple. Privately, Dennis Finny confirmed both rumors to Flavia. Flavia took a small, bitter pleasure in withholding that news from Mrs. Byng.

  A few days before the dancing assembly was to open, Mrs. Byng went into a nervous tizzy. No one could please her. Flavia couldn’t iron the flocked silk ball gown to Mrs. Byng’s exacting standards. Being a novice at pressing, she had to do the gown over and over. Then, when tears of hot exhaustion blurred her eyes and she’d made a tiny scorch mark on the hem of the underskirt, Mrs. Byng flew into a rage and slapped her.

  Mrs. Byng was also vexed that she had no maid to take to the ball.

  “Everyone shall arrive with a Negro, Mr. Byng,” she observed gloomily as she sat in the dining room over an uneaten breakfast. “All of the ladies will bring a slave to fetch and carry for them. All except myself.”

  Mr. Byng helped himself to another square of steaming corn bread as Flavia served the platter.

  “Not so, my dear. Only ladies of quality will bring their Negroes.”

  Mrs. Byng’s sharp little cry pierced Flavia’s eardrums.

  “Indeed, sir! Am I not quality? Are you not quality?”

  Mr. Byng scowled.

  “Of course we are quality. There is no one in the county to say we are not. But Negroes are costly.”

  Mrs. Byng sighed. Propping her elbows on either side of her uneaten breakfast, she rested her chin in her hands.

  “I quite sympathize, husband. The church is stingy.” She sighed again. “Still, it will be so odious for you at the ball, Mr. Byng. It will be so humiliating for you to know that your wife must brush off her own shoes and powder her own wig between dancing sets.”

  Flavia glanced at Mr. Byng. He reddened, a sign he was becoming angry.

  “You shall have a maid at the ball.”

  Mrs. Byng’s small eyes glittered with triumph. She pounced upon the corn bread as Flavia held the platter to her.

  “You shall take Jane,” Mr. Byng announced.

  Mrs. Byng dropped the corn bread as though it were poisoned.

  “Jane!” she spat. “Jane is not a Negro, Mr. Byng. Jane is nigh worthless.”

  Flavia flushed, anger choking her. She would never get used to this humiliation, never. To be discussed as though she were a trussed chicken, hanging from a tree on Market Day.

  Rashly she said, “I will not serve at the ball!”

  Two sets of astonished eyes turned to her. She quaked. Mrs. Byng was quickest to recover.

  “You see, Mr. Byng?” she crowed. “You see how cheeky and insolent bondslaves are? No Negro would dare speak so.”

  Lest she drop it, Flavia set the shaking platter on the table. Mr. Byng’s face was purple with rage. He rose slowly, his eyes baleful.

  “To my study, chit. At once. An hour of kneeling in prayer will mend your disobedient ways.”

  Fear raced through her. She swallowed hard. “Please, sir, I—sir, Mrs. Byng would have me finish her dancing slippers.”

  But he pointed to his study, and there was nothing she could do but obey. She moved toward it, gooseflesh racing up and down her arms. Behind her, Mrs. Byng’s vicious snipe hissed, “ ‘Tisn’t prayer Jane needs, but a whipping.” Mr. Byng’s steps followed Flavia into the study. The door banged shut, and Flavia knelt quickly, her stomach churning in revulsion. Mr. Byng’s knees cracked in chorus as he knelt beside her. His breath was rancid, carrying the odor of a tooth gone bad. Flavia shrank from him, trying to prepare herself for the inevitable touch. His hand—hot and fleshy—slowly groped to her shoulder.

  * * * *

  Listening intently, Flavia thrilled to the violin music that flowed out from the ballroom, spilling down to the brick terrace. Laughter drifted down too, and the empty terrace was fragrant with the smell of lemon trees that stood in clay pots, gracing the brickwork.

  Flavia hugged her shawl to her shoulders and stepped out of the way as a file of Negroes padded softly out of the night and began to trundle the potted lemon trees from terrace to greenhouse where the delicate trees would be safe from the night air. She supposed the pots would be trundled out again in the morning for the pleasure of the guests. The Tates had overlooked no detail.

  The Negroes sang softly as they worked. They hummed to the rich violin strains, glancing over their shoulders at the brightly lighted ballroom windows where, in time to the music, silks and varicolored brocades whirled by.

  When the Negroes were done, Flavia slipped up on to the terrace and hid herself behind a huge, brick-encircled oak tree where she might have a clear view. The ball was a splendid one. Brilliant light fell upon the terrace in patches. The music drew her ever closer, setting her heart alilt. Cares drained away. How she missed such pleasures!

  She knew she should be knitting in the maids’ cubbyhole, alert to Mrs. Byng’s needs. But the night was too fine, the gaiety of the ball too seductive.

  A sticky leaf drifted down from a high branch of the huge oak tree, catching onto her skirt. She flicked it off. She must take good care of the gown, even if the gown was only cheap lutestring silk and heavily mended. It was a used gown Mrs. Byng had received from her sister. Too small for Mrs. Byng, the gown was destined to be unraveled this winter and its silk thread sent to the weaver to be rewoven into heavier cloth for chair pads. The gown fit passably well. Mrs. Byng’s lips had pursed with annoyance, seeing its drab olive color come to life when set against Flavia’s red hair. Mrs. Byng had directed her back to the muslin gown, then again reconsidered. If the Byng maid wore muslin to the Tates, might not the Byngs be considered cheap?

  The elegant violin music ceased in the Tate ballroom. Musicians in dark green livery filed down from the platform in the music alcove. Three black fiddlers ascended the platform. They raised their instruments and at once a merry country jig began. Laughter exploded and everyone clapped. With great hilarity, the strange, hopping dance began.

  The happy music was infectious. Flavia tapped her toe to the rhythm. On impulse, she lifted her skirts and tried to imitate the curious American step. She stumbled over her own feet, falling against the oak tree, laughing.

  “Lord, but you’re a clumsy wench!” a low voice teased.<
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  Her laughter froze in her throat. She whirled around. She could see no one.

  The good-natured voice came out of the darkness again. “You must be a Londoner. Londoners never can catch on to our jigs. The jig is Negro, you know. To learn it proper, you must go down to the slave cabins at Corn Festival.”

  Seizing her shawl from where it had dropped, she made to go. But her way was blocked. Striding up into the light was a tall, very handsome young man with very black hair. He had Irish eyes. Eyes designed for laughter.

  “Here, wench. Let me teach you.”

  He held out a hand for her to take, but the hand was encumbered with a man’s powdered wig. He stared at the wig as though he’d forgotten he held it. His rich easy laughter made light of his gaffe.

  “Lord, I’m an oaf,” he said, tossing the wig aside and sending a scowl after it. “Damned thing’s too hot. Boils my brain.”

  He laughed again and studied her. Ducking her head, Flavia moved to slip past him, but he’d have none of it. He caught her wrist, and unwillingly she was pulled into the bright elongated rectangles of light that fell from the ballroom windows to the brick terrace.

  “You want to learn the jig. And so you shall.”

  Fear fluttered in her throat. Not fear of the young man. Fear of Mrs. Byng.

  “Please, sir. I should not be here. I’m only a bondservant.”

  “I can see that,” he said good-naturedly. “No guest would wear such a ragged gown.”

  Her breath caught. The female in her made her hands fly to the largest of the mended spots, hiding them.

  “It is a crime,” he went on with insolent good humor. “Whoever made you wear that gown should be marched to the whipping post. No creature so ravishing should be made to wear such awful clothes.”

  She made to slip away again. Again he caught her wrist.

  “You want to learn to jig, bondslave. And so you shall. Now, raise your right hand. Slap it to my palm.”