JoAnn Wendt (21 page)

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.

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.”

It was useless to argue. She’d best humor the young man and get it over with. Within the ballroom, fiddlers had swung into an even jauntier jig. Shouts of gaiety echoed out to the terrace. She slapped her hand to his palm.

“Now,” instructed the young man, “follow my feet. It is step-hop, step-hop, step-hop. Move backward on every hop.”

He’d become so amusingly sober about playing the part of dancing master that Flavia giggled. Complying, she raised her skirts with her left hand and began to hop. She giggled at the silliness of the step. There was no dance like this in England. And certainly nothing so wildly improper had ever been danced at Tewksbury Hall. But the step and the music invaded one’s blood. Soon she was laughing gaily and hopping about as enthusiastically as her dancing master.

“And with whom do I have the pleasure of jigging?” he teased as he jigged her backward across the terrace.

“Flav—”

She stopped dead.

The young man was forced to stop in mid-hop, too. That, or run her down. She tore her hand from his and clapped it to her booming heart. Fear surged through her. In the light-heartedness of the moment, she’d forgotten . . . forgotten . . .

“Jane Brown, sir,” she gasped, gulping deep draughts of chilly night air. “I am indentured to the Reverend Josiah Byng of Chestertown.”

He bowed playfully.

“Your servant, Bondslave Brown. I am Raven McNeil.”

She died. Died a thousand deaths. The terrace spun giddily. She was disembodied, numb. Had no legs, no arms, no tongue. She could formulate no reply, make no movement.

He grinned wryly.

“I see you do not care for the name Raven. Well, Bondslave Brown, you must blame the name on my mother. While my late mother was the grandest of women, she was also a bit of a jokester. It seems that as I was being birthed, the midwife caught sight of this.” He gestured toward his thick black mane.

“Coo!” the midwife cried out, “it no be a babe, Mrs. McNeil, but a devil-black raven!”

He waited for her to laugh. When she didn’t,
couldn’t,
he said lightly, “Perhaps it is ‘McNeil’ that Bondslave Brown objects to.”

She groped for her voice. Long moments elapsed before she found it. Shakily, she whispered, “I do not object to either name. I have heard of the name McNeil.”

He grinned cheerfully.

“Of course you have. Everyone in Maryland has heard of my brother, Captain Garth McNeil.”

Her knees went weak. Reaching out to the oak tree, she steadied herself.

“He’s not here?” she whispered.

“Who?”

He gave her a puzzled look. “Oh. My brother? Why? Do you think he would do a better job of teaching you to jig?”

She hung suspended in terror as he went on teasing her. Then, as an afterthought, he threw out the information she prayed for. “Garth isn’t here. He’s in Amsterdam. Or London. Or,” he said with a laugh, “China, for all I know.”

She went limp with relief. Staring up at Raven McNeil, she searched his face. Of course, they were brothers. The family resemblance was unmistakable. If the two were set side by side and put to a comparison, Raven McNeil would come off the handsomer brother. His features were more even than Garth’s, his olive skin unroughened by sea wind. But Garth’s was the dearer face. The face she longed to see.

She wanted to run. Run from this misery. Yet, if she did, she would be cutting this slight thread. This thread that carried her close to Garth. Staring up at Raven’s handsome, puzzled face, she was overwhelmed with a larger thought. Raven is my baby’s uncle!

Wrestling her wild emotions into subservience, she finally managed to ask, “And you, Raven McNeil. Are you a ship’s master, too?”

He laughed as though she’d made an extremely funny joke.

“Lord, no. When I was ten, Garth took me to Barbados. I puked all the way there and puked all the way back. Seasick as a dog. When I was twelve we tried it again. Same puking story. When we berthed in Norfolk, Garth took me aside.” He cocked his head boyishly. “‘Raven, old man,” Garth says to me, “some of us are born to the sea, some to the land. You belong to the land. Stay planted, lad.”

He laughed at the memory, adding, “I manage the land part of our business, procuring shipping contracts. We’ve three ships now and enough business to take all the pleasure out of life.” He grinned. “I’d rather spend my time teaching bondslaves to jig.”

The music in the ballroom flared up, and Raven’s glance shot to the windows. He frowned and for a moment Flavia panicked, thinking he meant to go. There was so much more she wanted to know, wanted to ask.

“Do you live with your brother?” she blurted.

Again he laughed as though she were joking.

“God, no!” His eyes grew serious for a moment. “You’ve incredible blue-green eyes, Jane Brown,” he murmured, then flitted to her question. “Live with Garth? Not likely. I’d be a damned intruder. Garth usually has a woman. Not a doxy, mind you. A lady of quality. His current lady is the baroness Annette Vachon.”

Her heart fell. She’d known, of course. But to hear it confirmed was a different matter. Sadness tugged her shoulders downward.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Raven McNeil laughed cheerfully.

“See here, Jane Brown. I’ve taken a fancy to you and your incredible eyes. Will you become my mistress?”

Her head jerked up in shock.

“I shall buy out your indenture tomorrow. Tonight! This very hour!” he amended.

“No!” she cried out. “Oh, no. Never.”

He grinned ruefully.

“I haven’t the French disease. I’ve money. An even temperament. I’m always cheerful. Healthy as a horse. In fact,” he said with a laugh, “feel free to examine me as you might a horse you contemplate purchasing.” Hooking his finger into his mouth, he exposed even, white teeth. He accompanied this bit of foolery with a loud whinny.

Flavia’s panic subsided into laughter.

“I shall buy your indenture, Bondslave Brown. I shall set you up in your own small house in Williamsburg. You shall breakfast on sweetmeats every morning and dine on them too, if you wish. You shall have three Negroes to flog. And you shall go to the theater every evening in your own landau. At the theater you shall be given your own bucket of spoilt fruit, and you shall feel free to pitch it at any actor who displeases you.”