Rich Man's Coffin (48 page)

He knelt down behind her and carefully began unbuttoning the long line running from the floor to her back straight up the middle.
 
It was an odd moment, but they both knew that several more layers of petticoat would prevent his becoming privy to anything remotely improper.
 
Besides, this was the only way for a handyman to access the more delicate inner workings of what was more of a contraption than a woman’s accouterment.
 
He quickly folded back the flaps of the outer dress and inspected the folds within for the covered outlines of the elusive underpinnings.
 
Up high, above the hip, he discovered the origins of the first row of ribs.
 
A slender set of bones sat just off the hip in bilateral, semicircular halves.
 
These were easy to manipulate into position, needling them with fingertips through the thick cloth until they came around and dropped concentric to her flanks.

“One down, Miss Baillie.
 
Just a few more to go.”

“That’s fine. I’ll see the haberdasher later anyway.”
 
She droned with a sigh.

He continued with one of the larger rows of bones, down around her knees. It gave him a lower reference for all the bones above to line up with.
 
Black Jack wrestled with rustling frill and lace. He remained keenly intent on picturing the concealed bone in his mind as he gently moved it.
 
He felt like a surgeon working blind. He had watched Major Baillie on several occasions when he operated on injured farmhands, hands submerged in blood.

Black Jack felt the long, curved bone roll into place, carried by its own weight around its axis. It resurrected the largest hoop of the dress.
 
Black Jack leaned back on one knee to take a gander at the emerging outline of the skirt.
 
He felt proud of the way it was coming together, and he leaned back in to finish the job.
 
“I’m gonna get these ones in between, Miss Baillie.
 
I’m almost done.”

“Whatever, Mr. Alesworth.”
 
She said coyly. “Just hurry, please.
 
I cannot be late for supper.
 
And have you noticed how hot it has become in here?”
 
She grew louder on the latter part of the question, as if a slight delirium were coming over her.

“No, ma’am, but I’ll take your word for it.”
 
He said, as he fumbled for a medium-size bone.
 
He fluttered freely through the folds of her undergarment without fear of encountering of any lesser-known parts of her person.
 
He might as well be working on the large drapes in the great dining hall, he thought, as much chance as he had of encountering the secret boundaries of Miss Baillie’s womanhood.
 
He made a sweep to the outer left and easily found the bone there in its twisted sleeve. He followed with a swift check to the right to confirm the matching arc there.
 
All he need do now was to trace each of their paths to the middle and line them up.
 
Then Miss Baillie would be on her way, looking like a lampshade again.

As he began to cross over, he brushed superfluous fluff one way, and frilly folds the other; all the time working blind with his hand buried in satiny stuff.
 
He brought his other hand down to the small of her back to better steady himself as he anticipated feeling both ends of the bone halves meeting at the center.
 
His fingers walked slowly along the right bone. He leaned his head in and cocked one ear to listen for the muffled rustling of his progress.
 
His long finger reached the end of the bone first. He planted it there for reference. He stretched his thumb out into the breech to feel for the blunt end of the opposing bone.
 
His thumb stretched beyond the point where he imagined the end of the other bone to be waiting. After a few conservative swipes of his thumb into open air, he made one last desperate, broad stroke; all the while gripping the known bone tightly with his fingers.

His flailing thumb suddenly struck something wet.
 
She lurched forward and gasped, precluding the need for him to withdraw his thumb.
 
She spoke suddenly as if she had been far away.
 
“Arthur?” There followed a profound silence. She dared not turn around or change her stance.
 
She remained stiff, grasping the chair back.
 
Black Jack continued to work, now hurriedly, to fix her clothing.

After a few quick flicks of her undergarments to create a futile distraction in the fleeting seconds following the incident, Black Jack leaned back again to inspect her petticoat from a distance. He scanned for any sign of an opening that may have led to his transgression:
 
A tear perhaps, or a faulty flap that had been sewn loosely overlapping.
 
Nothing obvious revealed itself. He was left to re-inspecting her folds.
 
Black Jack suddenly noticed in the silence that it was growing rather warm in the hut.
 
He was bothered by something else as well.
 
He realized what it was:
 
Her silence!
 
It baffled and annoyed him at the same time.
 
Kneeling there, staring at her backside, up her back and over her golden locks of hair and resolutely turned head, her quietness bothered him!
 
She made no attempt to leave or make empty comments to abate the humiliation she must be suffering, he thought.
 
Nothing!
 
She just stood there, legs gone rigid and straight.
 
And she had called him ‘Arthur’!
 
No one had ever used that name with him, except his mother!

He ruffled her pleats more rapidly, in a last, frustrated attempt to locate the other bone.
 
It was right there!
 
Where is it?
He asked himself. He rifled through the rumpled rolls, his face flushing.
 
Why did she just stand there? All of it brought up the past and threw it into Black Jack's face.
 
He remembered feelings that he had forgotten when she had left for school as a girl.
 
He began to remember a time when, regardless of her class standing, her age would have made his futile thoughts of her forbidden.
 
It had always been her clothes, he thought:
 
How he would watch her in the cool, foggy mornings making her way down to the road, with her freshly washed face and neatly braided hair in a long ponytail down her slender back.
 
Her sheer, white blouse modestly boasting of newly flowered buds, and her crisp green-and-black plaid school skirt, all dangling delicately over smooth, tan thighs and knee-high socks.
 
A very smart uniform, indeed, he would comment to himself as he dressed for work.
 
His fascination would sometimes turn to surprised anger as he often fell for the flour-in-his-boots trick which one or all of the Captain's daughters frequently played on him.
 
Was it her all along?
He wondered.
 
The one who smelled of early morning dew when he helped her up on her horse?
 
There had been a time when she had sat upon his lap for some reason or other.
 
They had been alone in his hut, he remembered not why; but he had felt the pangs of something powerful rising within him for this girl who was quickly becoming more than a child.
 
He had wanted to feel guilty, but he had assured himself that it was something more.

Then she had gone away to the university.
 
It was hard for him. He had tried to forget her.
 
It was just fatherly concern, he told himself.
 
Nothing a little work won’t help me forget.
 

Reports from school had not been favorable, though.
 
Over the years, there were her unscheduled visits home that he did not think were holidays.
 
He heard rumors of her difficulties:
 
Problems with discipline, threats of expulsion for disorderly and 'unladylike' conduct, and something else about a trip to a boy's school.

On one of her small sabbaticals, she had visited him, looking all of a woman.
 
It surprised him.
 
She spoke as an adult; and they conversed freely about life and growing up.
 
She went on about a recent charge by the staff concerning a certain theft of school property.
 
She had maintained her innocence, although the Headmaster's baton had been found during a search of her hall.
 
She had sworn to Black Jack that she never used it on anyone.
 
He had told her that he understood.

 
        
Suddenly, it showed itself, the mysterious cleft in her underpinning that had been torn by a wayward bone tip.
 
The opening mocked him, as she continued to stand fast, seemingly unaware of his discovery.

She said suddenly, "Arthur, do you remember when I used to sit in your lap after school?"

Black Jack, surprised by her audacity, said, "Yes."

"I never came straight here like you thought."

Black Jack hesitated. "All right.
 
And what is the point of telling me this now?"

She said, "Me and the girls used to talk about you.
 
I used to duck home first and ditch everything from under my school skirt before I'd come down here.
 
They said you wouldn't notice, but I said you would."

Black Jack asked, "Why are you telling me this?
 
What is your point, young lady?"

"But you never noticed, you old goat.
 
I used to sit and listen to your babbling for hours, waiting for you to scold me; and you were never the wiser.
 
You old fool!"

He could take her teasing no longer. With a grunt of disgust he jumped to his feet and moved in close behind her.

         
She made no movement, as if she had resolved her opinion on the matter long before. It seemed to him that she was not surprised in the least.
 

“I don’t know, Arthur...”
 
But she knew, as well as he. A ball of fire combusted deep inside of her. She came to know Black Jack in the role of tutor for the remainder of the day.

"The girls and
I
, young lady."
 
He said.

She came several more times after that, and more frequently than her normal Sunday visits.
 
Baillie's daughter became inflamed with an insatiable lust for the kind, old, able black man who worked for her father. Her affection began to manifest itself in detailed attention to his particular needs.
 
Her dress and accoutrements, and in particular her personal grooming, became lavish in the extreme, with her outfitting herself some Sundays in what some cottagers began to say was “beyond appropriate” for casual schooling.
 
Several eyes also noticed that her clothing remained in the utmost condition until the moment that she was seen leaving a certain man's cabin.
 
Wet tongues began to wag.

         
On one occasion, she brought Black Jack the desk that she had promised.
 
She also brought a very fine pocket watch.
 
"Now we can keep proper time of our lessons."
 
She said.

"I've always had a good eye on the time, Miss Baillie.
 
I've lived here nearly all my life.
 
I can tell you what day of what season it is just by looking at the Sun."

"Oh, Arthur, the Great One!
 
I know how magnificent you are.
 
I just want to be sure.
 
You know, just to be safe."

"Yes, I know, Miss Baillie.
 
We wouldn't want you to tarnish your sterling reputation by being late."

She blushed.
 
"This desk will help us study properly, too.
 
No more fooling around."

"Oh, no, we wouldn't want that to happen."

"Now, stop, Arthur." She whined.
 
"Try to be serious.
 
I've brought you some very interesting books that should make our lessons easier.
 
These books will help you to learn to read better, because I think that you will be able to identify with them.
 
They've all been published recently around the world, so they're all on current topics."
 
She began to pull books from her large canvas shoulder bag and read their titles and descriptions aloud.
 
"Now here's a book by a gentleman by the name of 'Melville'.
 
He wrote about chasing a white whale called 'Moby Dick' around the world with an insane captain."