Jalna: Books 1-4: The Building of Jalna / Morning at Jalna / Mary Wakefield / Young Renny (52 page)

“If only we can secede — save our country.”

“We will. Luck is with us. Right is with us.” Then he added testily, “I wish you’d let me make my preparations in peace. It confuses me to have you buzzing about — always on the point of tears.”

“I’ll try,” she said humbly.

The servant Jerry entered, carrying some freshly laundered shirts. “Ah’ve brought an extra pair of boots for you, massa,” he said, “along with the shirts.” He showed them, well polished.

“I don’t think it’s well to carry so much. One pair should be enough.”

“These is your mos’ comfortable ones, massa. Let me try them on you.”

Curtis Sinclair seated himself and the Negro knelt at his feet, trying the effect of the boots on him. “Ah wish,” said Jerry, “Ah might go with you, massa. Yo’ ain’t used to dressin’ yo’self. Yo’ need me to look after yo’.”

“There will be something more important for you to do,” said Curtis Sinclair. “I hope that before long your mistress will be able to join me. You will be needed to travel with her. Unless you want to remain in this country.”

“De Lawd forbid.” Jerry kneeling rolled his eyes ceiling ward. “Ah wants to go back to our plantation. So does Cindy. She wants to show her new baby to its pa. She ain’t nebber heard news of him. He may be livin’ and he may be dead.”

“Well, we shall soon know everything,” said his master. “In the meantime hold yourself in readiness to take charge when I send for you.”

When the Negro had gone, Curtis Sinclair walked up and down the room in some agitation, while his wife kept her troubled eyes on him, trying to discover all that was in his mysterious mind. The truth was that he was so occupied by the campaign in hand that he had little thought for domestic problems. At last he went to a drawer and, taking out an envelope containing bank notes, put some of them into her hand. He said:

“This money is for your expenses when I send for you. I would to God it were more.”

Lucy stared at it almost in consternation. She was so unused to any responsibility. “Wh-what shall I do with it now?” she stammered.

He snatched it in some irritation from her, put it in a leather wallet and returned it to the drawer. “Leave it there,” he said, “’till the time comes, then give it into Jerry’s keeping. He’s to be trusted. As for those two women, I don’t care a tinker’s curse whether they return with us or remain in Canada. Cindy has complicated travelling by producing a baby. I doubt whether her husband begot it. Annabelle is probably with child by that rascally half-breed.”

“No, no, I won’t believe that,” she cried. “Belle is a religious girl. She’s cried her eyes out over your anger. I mean when you caught them spooning by the river.”

“I gave him a bloody nose,” said Curtis Sinclair with satisfaction.

“These Indians are so revengeful. I am really afraid of what he may do.”

“He can do nothing to harm me.”

A shadow of suspense brooded over the house all that day. The following morning the Southerner and his host set out, mounted on spirited horses which seemed as eager to be gone as Curtis Sinclair. “I cannot attempt to thank you and Captain Whiteoak for what you have done for me and mine,” he had said to Adeline. “I never shall be able to repay you, but I hope that, in happier times, you will come to visit us in the South. We have the name of being a hospitable people, but nothing could surpass the hospitality of Jalna.”

“We have enjoyed every moment of your visit,” declared Adeline.

The two wives stood together in the porch watching the departure. Their arms were about each other and they smiled as they waved a goodbye. Yet a strange foreboding enveloped them. It seemed to rise out of the very earth which suddenly had taken the aspect of autumnal resignation. Grass and trees looked less green. A few leaves were fallen and a gusty wind shook the branches, as though eager to tear off the fragile armour of summer and expose their limbs to the onslaught of the equinox.

When the horsemen were halfway to the gate a figure in a blue cotton dress darted from between the trees and on to the drive. It was Annabelle. She fairly flung herself at her master’s stirrup and, clasping his spurred boot in her hands, raised her streaming eyes to his face.

“Forgive me — forgive me, massa,” she sobbed. “Ah didn’t mean no harm. Ah don’ wanna be left behind when you all go home!”

Philip Whiteoak laid a soothing hand on the neck of Curtis Sinclair’s restive horse and looked down with distaste into the distorted face of the girl.

“I won’t have any half-breed babies about,” Sinclair said harshly.

“No — no — dere won’t be none,” Annabelle sobbed, desperately clinging to his stirrup. He asked:

“Where is that fellow?”

“Ah don’ know. He’s gone away.”

“See him once more and you’ll be left behind!”

“Is yo’ goin’ to sell me, massa?” she wailed.

“I cannot sell you in Canada and no one would want you as a present.” He urged his horse forward. The pair trotted to the gate, held open by Jerry.

“Good luck, massa!” he called out. He stood watching them disappear down the road.

It was nightfall when Philip returned. Adeline drew him into their bedroom and closed the door.

“What news?” she demanded.

While she spoke excitedly, Philip answered with deliberation. “Sinclair was met,” he said, “by confederates. He is full of hope but, thinking it over, it seems to me a risky business. He will cross the border into the States tonight. Then his campaign begins. How is Lucy?”

“She’s bearing up well,” said Adeline, “but she’s very wrought up. Upon my word, I shall be thankful when we settle down into our own life once more.”

He was surprised. “I thought you enjoyed the Sinclairs’ visit.”

“So I have, but I’m a little tired of Lucy’s melancholy. She’s not always congenial. Also I’m tired of those blacks who are here, there and everywhere.”

Philip told her of the encounter with Annabelle on the driveway. “Why do women insist on being miserable?” he exclaimed. “There’s that negress. There’s Lucy Sinclair. There’s Amelia Busby. All determined to be miserable. It’s extraordinary.”

“Not in the least,” said Adeline. “In every instance it’s the men who make them miserable. As for me, I’m at my wits’ end to keep any sort of order now that Lucius Madigan is gone. God knows he was not much of a disciplinarian but better than none.”

“You have yourself to blame for Madigan’s marriage.”

“I had thought it would be easy to find a tutor to replace him but it seems impossible. Just look at that trio. They are completely out of hand.”

They peered out through the vine-embowered window and saw Augusta dressed in white pacing the lawn with one of Madigan’s books in her hand. She was declaiming from it.

Ah, Love, but a day,

And the world has changed!

The sun’s away,

And the bird estranged;

The wind has dropped,

And the sky’s deranged:

Summer has stopped!

Nicholas, the picture of boyish vitality and witless concentration, was walking on a pair of stilts, made for him by Jerry. His dark hair hung in thick waves, almost into his eyes.

Ernest was aloof; holding the tutor’s compass before him, he sang, “Always I’ve wondered if I was going north or south or east or west. Now I know! I’m going in a circle.”

A maid passed, carrying the baby Philip who was having a whole-hearted tantrum.

“’Twould break a mother’s heart,” mourned Adeline, “to see her children so fey.”

“Well, after all,” said Philip, “they are half Irish.”

N
EWS FROM THE
S
OUTH

Life at Jalna settled down to waiting for news of Curtis Sinclair. The weather was dim and, in the mornings, misty. By late afternoon a smoky sunlight gilded the trunks of the pines. The crops of the farmland and orchard were garnered. The children, free of restraint, roamed the estate like young vagabonds, carrying picnics into the woods, riding on the farm horses, or being taken, as a great adventure, to the lake shore to bathe. That shore, bordered by trees, stretched remote and beautiful all the way to Niagara. Life at Jalna was in a state of suspense, waiting for some impending change; it was not clear what it was to be. The two women, Cindy and Annabelle, did nothing to assist their mistress to any state approaching tranquility. Always were they fussing over her, making Southern dishes to tempt her appetite, carrying eggnog laced with sherry to her. They were the centre of continuous quarrels in the kitchen, for they thought nothing was of an importance comparable with her well-being. They continually asked her questions about their master, questions which she would have given much to be able to answer. How soon would Massa send for them? How would they travel back to their homeland? Would he soon send the money needed to buy them new clothes for the journey? Oh, how badly off they were for new shoes! Cindy’s baby had grown apace. Clothes for it had been provided from the outgrown clothes of the Whiteoak children. The tiny Philip sought to play with it, as with a toy. Once, when he saw it being suckled at Cindy’s bursting black breast, he had tugged to dislodge it and himself have a share. Laughing, Cindy took the nipple from her little one’s mouth and, heaving Philip on to her lap, offered it to him. Golden head took the place of woolly black head. The piccaninny was so replete that it made no protest. The two women screamed with laughter.

Annabelle had almost completely recovered from her infatuation for Tite Sharrow. After the encounter with Curtis Sinclair, he had disappeared. It was supposed he had gone on a visit to relations who lived on an Indian reserve, but again it was said that he had been seen in the company of Yankee spies. It was certain that Wilmott did not know his whereabouts and was inclined to think he would not mind if he never laid eyes on him again, so disgusted was he by Tite’s pursuit of Annabelle. Annabelle herself had returned, heart-sore but not heart-broken, to the shelter of her love of God. For earthly love she now turned to the devotion of Jerry in whose company she felt a security she never had experienced with Tite. In these days, laughter and tears were so imminent, each to each, that sometimes she wept in the midst of laughter, and laughed even while the tears were falling.

The three Negroes and the black baby took such possession of the basement at Jalna that frequent quarrels reached a climax in which the Whiteoaks’ cook, after receiving her monthly wage, simply disappeared without notice. She was a strong-willed country woman and Adeline depended on her. Without the cook, she wondered how this complicated household could be maintained. Life was altogether too complicated, Adeline told Philip.

“The house no longer belongs to us,” she said. “Those blacks are everywhere. They are dirty in their habits. As for order, I’ve never in all my life met a woman so untidy as Lucy Sinclair. She goes trailing about in her pink peignoir, with her hair streaming, looking like a dishevelled tragedy queen.”

“She’s awfully pretty,” said Philip.

He could scarcely have made a more unfortunate remark. Adeline’s eyes blazed. She retorted:

“And well she might be, for she never raises a finger to do anything but titivate. As for me, I’m entirely run off my feet. Up and down stairs all day long, trying to keep order, and every other person in the house making disorder.”

“Come and sit on my knee,” said Philip.

Adeline gave him a look of fury.

“Nothing that goes on in this house affects you,” she stormed. “The cook may leave. The kitchen may be taken over by blacks. Your children may become little savages — it does not matter to you, so long as things go well on the farm and in the stables.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Give the boys a taste of my razor strop?”

“Gussie is no more manageable than they. Today she informed me that she
cuts
the tangles out of her hair, rather than take the trouble to
comb
them out. Nicholas spends hours with the blacks. I cannot believe a word Ernest says. Even the baby, Philip, throws his pap on the floor if there is not enough sugar in it to please him.”

Philip made noises suitable to an outraged father. “I shall attend to them all,” he said heavily.

Silence fell between them while both brooded on the fact that home was not what it had been. Much as they liked the Sinclairs they could not deny that they wished this prolonged visit were at an end.

Philip said in a low tone, “Sometimes I wonder whether this venture of the Confederates can succeed. There are strong forces against it.”

“But their plans are so well laid,” cried Adeline. “They’re bound to succeed.”

Light footsteps could be heard running along the gravel sweep. The voice of Nicholas called, “Papa, are you there?”

Philip went to meet him.

“Mr. Busby is here,” said the boy breathlessly. “He wants to see you. He has news for Mrs. Sinclair.”

Elihu Busby now appeared. It was his first visit since the coming of the Southerners. He said, not attempting to hide his triumph, “Well, I guess your slave-owning friend has come to the end of his tether, Captain Whiteoak. He’s met his Waterloo.”

“What’s this?” demanded Philip.

Nicholas, now as bold as brass, with his father beside him, demanded in the self-same tone, “Aye — what’s this?”

Elihu Busby answered, “Simply that this Sinclair was captured by Union soldiers as soon as he crossed the border. He’s been put in irons, I believe, and I don’t doubt that he’ll be hanged.”

“My God!” said Philip. “This is awful. Some villain has betrayed him.”

“He’s a dangerous man.” Elihu Busby looked his satisfaction as he added, “They’ve done well to capture him. I’ve said all along that he was up to no good here. I’ve said all along that you and your wife have laid yourself open to suspicion in housing him and his.”

“Suspicion,” shouted Philip. “It’s no business of Lincoln or his gang what we in this country do. We’re British subjects and have naught to fear from them.”

“Well,” said Busby, “I just thought I’d let you know what has happened to your fine gentleman from the South.”

“You’re right,” said Philip. “The Southerners are gentlemen.”

“They’re defeated,” Busby said, as if laying down the law. “Those hotbeds of cruelty, their plantations, are laid waste. Their miserable slaves are free.”

“I’ll wager,” said Philip, “that those slaves are happier and as well cared for as the farm hands that work for you.”

“Thank God,” snorted Busby, “no man has ever called me master.”

“They’ve doubtless called you by worse names,” said Philip calmly.

He watched the angry Busby mount his horse and ride away. He turned then to speak to his son but Nicholas had slipped away, eager to bear the news of Curtis Sinclair’s disaster. Philip shouted thrice for him before he appeared.

“Have you told what has happened?” Philip demanded of him.

Nicholas hung his head.

“You have?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You young rascal! Come indoors with me.”

Nicholas went, with fast-beating heart. The punishment he received was severe. He could not restrain a cry or two, which being heard by the parrot, Boney, he raised his nasal voice in a stream of curses in Hindustani. He hung head downward from his perch flapping his bright-coloured wings, and showed his dark tongue in fury. “
Haramzada! Haramzada! Iflatoon!
” he screamed. Then added four newly acquired English words, taught him by it was impossible to discover whom. “I hate Captain Whiteoak!” he screamed.

Up from the basement kitchen came a still more piercing scream, followed by despairing wails. Cindy and Annabelle joined their voices in wailing.

Down from the attic flew Adeline, her face deathly pale. She was met by Philip.

“What in the name of God has happened?” she cried. She looked ready to faint. Philip put his arm about her, led her into the drawing-room and shut the door behind them.

“I have had bad news,” he said.

“From Ireland?” she asked, for she somehow associated bad news with that country.

“No. From the United States. The Yankees have captured Curtis Sinclair. Busby came to gloat over it. He says they will likely hang him.”

“Merciful heaven!” cried Adeline. “Oh, the poor man! Is that what the clamour is about? We must not let Lucy know. ’Twould be the death of her.”

“I have just been giving young Nicholas a hiding,” said Philip. “He overheard and did not waste a minute in running to tell the blacks.”

“The young villain — if I set eyes on him I’ll give him another.” At that very moment she saw him, as he passed the open French windows, his face flushed and tear-stained.

Philip restrained her. “He’s had enough,” he said. “What you must do is to go straight to Lucy. Tell her that Curtis is lucky to be alive. She must not hear of hanging. There she comes down the stairs now.”

Lucy Sinclair’s agitated voice was heard above the wailing from the basement.

“Captain Whiteoak! Adeline! Something terrible has happened. Oh, what shall I do?”

“Go to her, Adeline,” said Philip. “It’s your place to go to her.”

“I can’t — I can’t! You must go.”

For answer he took her by the shoulders and pushed her into the hall. The two women met at the foot of the stairs. Adeline opened wide her arms and gathered Lucy to her breast. “My poor shorn lamb,” she moaned, “my poor plucked duckling! Oh, those villainous Yankees! Before many months they will be invading this country and will carry off all the women and put the men to the sword!”

At those words Lucy Sinclair collapsed fainting in the arms of Adeline who half helped her into the library and laid her on the sofa there. Simultaneously Cindy and Annabelle tore up the stairs from the basement, with Jerry close behind. All three threw themselves at Philip’s feet. They wailed in unison, “Save our massa, Cap’n Whiteoak! They’s gonna hang him sure.”

Philip now took command. To the Negroes he said, “If you have any regard for your mistress, stop your howling.” To Adeline, “Bring brandy for Mrs. Sinclair, while I dispatch a man to fetch the doctor.” His authoritative voice brought a certain calm. After a small glass of brandy Lucy Sinclair regained consciousness. Adeline held a bottle of smelling-salts to her nostrils, reiterating, “There, there, now,” as to a child.

But consciousness brought hysteria. Nothing could restrain the Negroes from joining their voices to that of their mistress. Philip was almost at his wits’ end. He paced up and down in front of the house waiting for the doctor. When Dr. Ramsay came he administered a sleeping draught. Lucy Sinclair was enfolded in the comfort of oblivion.

When the doctor and Philip found themselves alone together Philip said, “This is a tragic business, Dr. Ramsay. I am very much afraid that the Yankees will execute our friend Sinclair, confiscate his estate, and leave his poor wife penniless.

“The best thing for you to do, in my opinion,” said the doctor, “is to get rid of her and her servants, as soon as you can. All the countryside look on Jalna as a centre of Confederate plotting. The Yankees are going to be top dog. We live next door to them. On my part, I’m against slavery, as you know.”

“So am I,” said Philip. “But I hope I am at liberty to choose my friends.”

The two men were in the porch, seated on one of two massive oak benches. Adeline now appeared in the open door. Her hair, of a copperish red, had become loosened, and had fallen over one shoulder. Her luminous dark eyes looked out from a pale face. Dr. Ramsay hid his admiration behind a frown.

“It’s rideeculous for you, Mrs. Whiteoak,” he said, “to wear such a tragic face because of the troubles of these people. ’Twill always be so. What does our greatest poet say?

Man’s inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn.

“My advice is — pack the Southerners back to their own country where they’ll be taken care of. Otherwise you will injure your own health.”

“Did you hear those blacks howling?” asked Philip. “Strange! They are quiet now.”

“They are quiet,” said Adeline, with great calmness, “because I have dosed them.”

“
Dosed them!
” exclaimed the doctor. “With what?”

“Laudanum.”

“Good God!” cried Dr. Ramsay. “Where are they?”

“In the little room at the end of the hall. Stretched out on the floor.”

And there they were revealed, snoring in the heaviest slumber. Dr. Ramsay knelt by each in turn, felt the pulse of each, lifted an eyelid of each, then rose to his feet with a sigh of relief. “You may thank God, Mrs. Whiteoak,” he said, “that you did not kill them, for you certainly dosed them heavily. How did you come by this laudanum?”

“I bought it from the chemist for Patsy O’Flynn’s toothache,” she answered simply. “It quieted the tooth and it quieted these poor darkies.” She looked with satisfaction at the recumbent forms.

Indeed the silence in the house was startling, after the violence of the grief which preceded it. Dr. Ramsay promised to return in a couple of hours. Philip and Adeline stood in the porch, watching him as he rode away. “We’re lucky,” said Philip, “to have such a good doctor in this out-of-the-way place.”

“If only,” cried Adeline, “doctors would not put on that superior, high and mighty tone! Now I feel superior to no one, yet, while he quieted only one fragile woman, I quieted three rackety blacks and made nothing of it.”

“I shall make myself scarce,” said Philip, “when they all wake up.”

At that moment the baby, Philip, toddled down the hall. Philip senior sat down and put his youngest on his knee. He allowed the little one to listen to the ticking of his massive gold watch, the heavy chain of which hung across his flowered waistcoat.