Somerset (3 page)

T
ippy drew the brush from Jessica's forehead down to the end of a long, waxed lock. She had repeated the movement over and over until Jessica's naturally frizzy hair shone like springy streamers of russet satin on her shoulders. Shortly, Tippy would fashion it into an evening coiffure inspired by the Romantic Era in England called the Madonna. The style called for parting the hair in the middle with ringlets at the crown of the head and sides of the face. A gown of cream brocade hung from a wire dress form shaped to the measurements of Jessica's figure. The frock featured the latest fashion details designed to show off creamy shoulders, small waists, and slim ankles.

“It's a perfect style for you,” Miss Smithfield, the seamstress who had sewn the dress, had pronounced in her shop in Boston, but it had been Tippy who had designed it and selected the fabric. Accessories were laid out: square-toed slippers in matching satin, elbow-length gloves, a small evening bag in green to complement the emerald brooch Jessica's father had presented to her in honor of her birthday.

When sitting straight before the mirror, Tippy directly behind her, Jessica could see only the wispy puff of her maid's hair (another oddity since it was not wiry like other members of her race and its light brown shade was in contrast to her dark skin), the flare of her ears, and the sharp points of her constantly moving elbows. Hardly taller than a fireplace broom and wafer thin, Tippy had been bestowed with remarkably large ears, hands, and feet that made her look grotesque to those who did not know her or appreciate her talents.

“Whatever was the good Lord thinking to stick all that extra yardage on my girl's skinny little face and body and then not have enough to make her a second lung?” Willie May was often heard to lament.

Jessica wondered as well. She thought Tippy the oddest-put-together human being she'd ever seen, but she'd found her diminutive frame and disproportionate features enchanting since they were children. With her agile mind and creative imagination, Tippy reminded Jessica of the mischievous sprite in her favorite storybook. Jessica had fancied her a chocolate elf dropped in from another world whose oversized ears and hands and feet, delicate as a fairy's, could morph into wings and carry her back to the realm from which she came. She had worried about Tippy's fragility since she was old enough to understand her friend had been born without an important working part, and Jessica might wake up one morning and find the angels had come for her playmate. Looking at Tippy's swiftly working hands, picturing them picking cotton under the broiling sun, a heavy ducking sack slung from her thin shoulders, was enough to make Jessica nauseated, but her father wouldn't do that to Tippy. Jessica was sure of it. He knew his daughter would never forgive him, but he could—and would—separate them. She must remember that.

“I don't have anything to wish for anymore,” Jessica said. “Isn't that awful, Tippy? To be eighteen and out of wishes.”

“I wouldn't know nothin' 'bout wishes no mo' 'cept now I'se home, to hope for sugahcane syrup to go on mah co'nbread,” Tippy said.

Jessica turned from the mirror to frown at Tippy and lowered her voice. “Must you speak like an ignorant field hand when you're with me, Tippy?”

“Yessum, I do, les' I forget where I'm at. It's safer for us bof.”

Jessica turned back around to her vanity. “I'm sorry now that I didn't leave you in Boston with Miss Smithfield at her dressmaker shop. You would have made a fine living with your needle and thread. There you'd have had many wishes, and they'd have all come true.”

Tippy placed her mouth close to Jessica's ear and spoke literately, “Your daddy would have sent men for me, but I wouldn't have stayed anyway. I wouldn't let you come home without me.”

Jessica listened for her father's footsteps in the hall. He wouldn't enter without knocking, especially now that she was grown, but he still allowed little time to answer. Yesterday morning when Tippy was allowed to return to Jessica's room from the kitchen, Jessica had told her of her mother's warning, one that Tippy had already heard from Willie May. “They want to separate us because we're so close,” Jessica had explained, “and Mama has threatened you'll be sent to the fields if I don't cooperate. We have to pretend that you're my maid and I'm your mistress.”

“That won't be hard to do,” Tippy had said. “I am a maid, and you are my mistress.”

“In name only.”

They agreed they had to be very careful. Willie May had laid it out to Tippy. No more calling Jessica “Jessie” without the
Miss
attached followed by a little curtsy. No more shared giggles and secrets. No more lazy sessions reading to each other. No more show of friendship. “And,” Willie May had added with a stern eye at Tippy, “no more speaking like a white lady or parading your learning for master and slave to see.”

The girls had hooked thumbs—their ritual to seal an agreement. Hearing only silence from the hall, Jessica said with a smile, “I'll make sure you get all the sugarcane syrup you want, even if I have to smuggle it up here.”

“No, no, Jessie—
Miss
Jessie. Don't show me any—
no
—​f
avoritism
. It's too dangerous.”

Jessica sighed. “I'm so disgusted with the way things are. The South shames me. My family shames me—”

“Sssh, you mustn't speak like that. You mustn't even
think
like that.”

“I can't help it.”

“That new teacher comin' from the No'th…I know what she be up to, Miss Jessie. Please don't let her get you into no trouble. I'se beggin' you—”

“Jessie! It's Papa. I'm coming in!”

The strong voice of the man Jessica both loved and feared boomed through the door. Only a few seconds passed before it flew open and Carson Wyndham strode in, the strike of his knee-high boots hard on the wood floor and their shine dazzling. A short, fit, ginger-haired man of powerful build and brusque manner, he inspired the impression that throngs would part at his appearance and woe to him who did not step from his path.

Tippy, reacting quickly, cocked her head at Jessica's startled reflection in the mirror and said loudly, as if continuing a dialogue Carson Wyndham's entrance had interrupted, “…Yoah hair is so pretty jus' like dis. A cryin' shame to put it up.”

“I agree,” Carson said, coming to stand by his daughter's dressing table to inspect the subject of discussion. “Why the devil does a woman feel she has to torture her hair into twists and turns and God knows what all when it's so much more attractive hanging unfettered as the good Lord intended?” He fingered the delicate mesh of the head covering that hung from a finial of the mirror. Jessica had worn it at luncheon yesterday, her loose hair filling the gold-filigreed, pouch-like bag. “I liked this…whatever it's called, on you, Jessie. Why aren't you wearing it this evening?”

“Oh, Papa, a lady can't wear a
hair net
with a party gown.”

It was the kind of riposte her father liked to hear from his daughter—mindless and feminine and vain. He favored her with a smile. “I suppose not. Do you like your brooch?”

“I love it. Thank you again, Papa.”

He had presented it to her at the luncheon attended by her parents' closest friends. The affair was to be part of her birthday celebration, but it had really been held to show off her father's distant relatives from England, Lord Henry and Lady Barbara, the Duke and Duchess of Strathmore. Had it not been for the delightful company of Lettie Sedgewick, her only contemporary there besides her brother, Jessica thought she would have died of boredom if not from sheer disgust. Conversation had deferred to His Lordship and his opinionated wife and was all about the deplorable rise of the British middle class, the audacious attempt of farm laborers in Dorset to form a trade union, and grouse hunting. Their listeners and servile admirers, except for Lettie, had hung on every imperious word, interrupted only when Michael proposed a toast to honor his sister's homecoming.

There was much Jessica liked about Lettie Sedgewick. Jessica had looked forward to resuming her association with her former tutor when she returned from Boston, sharing what she had learned in school and exchanging ideas, but Lettie was now engaged to Silas Toliver, a widower Jessica remembered as strik­i
ngly
handsome who had plans to start his own plantation in Texas. Jessica recalled that Silas's first wife had died in delivering the little boy who would soon become Lettie's stepson. Lettie was the highly intelligent daughter of a Presbyterian minister, well versed in language arts. The Wyndhams, members of her father's church, had engaged her to teach Jessica penmanship and classical literature to supplement her public school instruction before leaving for boarding school. Lettie had gone on to earn a teacher's certificate at a college in Nashville and now taught in the public school in the small town of her father's church, Willow Grove. The community was described as a stone's throw either way between Charleston and the parallel rows of plantations known as Plantation Alley, where the most prominent sugar and cotton estates were located. Silas, like Jeremy Warwick, had not been included in the luncheon party because they did not know Jessica well. They would be attending the ball.

“You would think South Carolina still a colony of the British Empire, considering how slavishly devoted some of us are to all things English,” Lettie had said to Jessica with a twinkle in her eye when they finally had a chance to chat privately.

“Except for slavery,” Jessica said. “The British have had the humanitarian decency to abolish the slave trade.”

Jessica could have bitten her tongue. She'd leaped without looking, but Lettie Sedgewick's tolerant nature and Jessica's experience with the minister's daughter invited controversial confidences. When tutoring Jessica, Lettie had not minded, and had even encouraged, Tippy to sit in on their sessions, albeit secretly. It was against the law to teach slaves to read and write, and the tutor could have endangered her father's position as minister of the First Presbyterian Church in Willow Grove if she were found out.

Humor flitted across her friend's countenance. “Quite so,” Lettie said. “I see you haven't changed much, my dear pupil, but may I caution you to think first where you are before speaking.”

“I must learn to do so.”

“I heard from Silas about the little incident on the disembarkation dock in Charleston yesterday. Jeremy Warwick was in the area to pick up something for Meadowlands. He told Silas that he did not show himself for fear of causing further embarrassment to you and your mother and brother.”

“No doubt Mr. Warwick thought the worst of me.”

“Not at all. He told Silas he thought you awfully brave.”

Or awfully stupid, Jessica thought, looking at her father's sober face in the mirror. Had Michael told him of the incident in Charleston yesterday, and he was here now to chastise her?

“Jessie,” Carson said, “I want you to look especially nice tonight.”

“We'll certainly try, won't we, Tippy?” Jessica said, relieved. “Is there any particular reason other than it's my birthday?”

“No…no reason. I just want to feel especially proud of my little girl who's home at last after two years, so please appear your best.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “See you at the party. And Tippy?”

Tippy stood at attention. “Yessuh?”

“See that it happens.”

“Yessuh, Mister Carson.”

He strode from the room, and the women exchanged long, interrogating looks. “What was that all about?” Jessica asked.

“Jeremy Warwick,” Tippy answered promptly.

“Jeremy Warwick?”

“I heard all about it in the kitchen. Your papa wants you to make an impression on him with the hope you two will get together. You're to be seated next to him at the supper table.”

“Jeremy is Silas's age—too old for me—and I understand they're going to Texas together. Why would my father want me to marry him?”

“I don't know. The Warwicks are rich. Maybe to ward off the bucks who aren't?” Tippy batted her lashless eyes meaningfully. “Jeremy Warwick is a good man, so they said in the kitchen. A good master. I can't understand why he's still unmarried. Maybe your daddy wants you to set your cap for him before someone else snatches him up.”

“No, Tippy, that's not the reason,” Jessica said in sudden understanding. Hurt plunged through her. Her father had learned about the brouhaha on the dock. Michael would have informed him, and her mother, too fearful to keep secrets from her husband, must have told him about her views on slavery. “My father wants to be rid of me before I cause trouble.”

But only if taken out of South Carolina by a good and rich man. Her father loved her that much, she thought. Jessica felt anger slowly overtake her hurt. Well, she had news for him. She would never marry a slave owner.

S
he was to be presented in a receiving line in the ballroom rather than strike a grand entrance from the top of the staircase. Staircases were for great beauties. The arrangement suited Jessica just fine. Her right glove was smudged by the time she had finished shaking the hands of the fifty guests attending her birthday party, and she could not feel the stem of her champagne glass for moments after she was free to seek out Lettie standing with
Silas
Toliver and Jeremy Warwick before her five-tiered, flower-​​
b
edecked
birthday cake.

“It's lovely,” Lettie exclaimed in wonder at the cake when Jessica joined them. “Do I recognize Tippy's hand in the design?”

“Of course. She made the flowers from beaten egg whites dipped into sugar and hardened.”

“Well, it's exquisite, as are you, birthday girl. What a lovely gown! From Paris?”

“From Boston.” Jessica felt her face grow warm under the gazes of the men. She looked the best she possibly could, but by no means would they agree she was exquisite. Lettie saw beauty in everything and everybody and could well afford to do so.
Exquisite
described her, as was plain to see in Silas's eyes. They made a dazzling couple—he, tall, dark, and handsome, a Lord Byron with his unruly raven-black hair and green eyes and attractive chin dimple, and she, petite and blond, porcelain-skinned and dainty, perfectly fitting the subject of the poet's poem “She Walks in Beauty.”

“And your blush is becoming, too,” Jeremy Warwick said with a little bow and the trace of a devilish grin. Was he making fun of her? Jessica ignored the compliment and said to Lettie, “I can't tell you how delighted I am to be chosen your bridesmaid.”

“I can't tell you how delighted I am that you accepted. Shall we go shopping for your dress fabric next week in Charleston?”

“I'd love to, but I'm hopeless when it comes to such things. Tippy has the best eye for material and color. She has marvelous taste. She's responsible for the design and fabric of my gown. I always take her along to help me select my wardrobe. May she come, too?”

“Tippy?” Silas interposed. “That's twice I've heard her name. I don't believe I've met her.”

“Uh…Tippy is Jessica's maid,” Lettie explained, her look slightly uncomfortable.

“A Negro maid has better taste than her mistress?” Silas said, addressing Jessica incredulously.

Jessica's chin went up. “Mine does.”

She felt her elbow taken in a firm, masculine grip. Was its pressure a warning? “I believe that's the supper bell,” Jeremy said, placing Jessica's arm through his. “I'm to have the pleasure of your company on my left at table, Miss Jessica. How did I get to be so lucky to sit next to the birthday girl?”

“It was by my father's design, Mr. Warwick,” Jessica said, suddenly feeling suffocated. She cast decorum to the wind, or rather to the oppressive waft of perfumes permeating the room. “If at all possible, I'm to entrance and beguile you with the hope you will not find me unweddable.”

Her audience stared at her with mouths agape. Jeremy's chuckle broke the stunned silence. “By Jove,” he said, “I believe I'm already entranced.”

Jessica was combing out her curls from their party do when her father's short, staccato knock came at the door. Jessica saved herself the bother of responding, for it opened immediately, and he entered wearing a smoking jacket and smelling like cigar.

“Well, my girl, did you enjoy your party?”

“Yes, Papa, very much.” It had been a stultifying evening, the conversation boring and predictable except for hearing Silas and Jeremy discuss their plans under way to lead a wagon train to Texas in the spring. It was to be half a mile long, and they hoped to make at least two miles an hour, enabling the emigrants to make ten miles a day, depending on the weather and sundry other obstacles. The journey sounded dangerous, fraught with the unknown, and she wondered how Lettie would fare from the rigors they would surely face. The only other interesting subject discussed had been the safe arrival that afternoon of Sarah Conklin from Massachusetts, who would be taking Lettie's teaching position at the local school. The Sedgewicks had picked her up at the dock in Charleston and taken her to her new home in Willow Grove.

“Is she pretty?” Michael had wanted to know.

“Very,” the Reverend Sedgewick had pronounced, coloring slightly.

Jessica had offered no information of her acquaintance with the new schoolmarm, though she suspected that Lettie had been surprised her friend had used her influence to secure the job for an outsider and a northerner to boot.

Her father sat on the settee, the height of the seat too low to stretch out his legs comfortably, but its position providing a vantage point by which he could observe his daughter's face in the mirror. “I hope you're not simply telling me what I want to hear and that you did enjoy yourself,” he said. “It was hard to tell. What did you think of Jeremy Warwick?”

Jessica teased a strand of waxed hair from its curl with the hairbrush. “I found him pleasant.”

“
Pleasant!
Is that all you can say? Why, there's not an unmarried woman in all the South who wouldn't find him stimulating, lively, amusing. Many married women, too, truth be told.” He worked his eyebrows knowingly at her reflection, his attempt at drollery so ludicrously foreign to his humorless nature it was hard for her not to laugh.

“Then why isn't he married?” she asked.

“Too particular, I guess, but rumor has it he lost the girl he loved to typhoid fever when he was younger. I must say, Spook, you didn't much try to impress him.”

Jessica met his eyes in the mirror.
Spook
. He had not called her that since she was a little girl. The name had come from a game they'd played when she would pop out from a hiding place to surprise him.
Boo!
she'd cry, and he'd laugh and swing her around and call her his spook. Her throat tightened with an almost forgotten ache her father could waken in her.

“I was supposed to try to impress him, Papa?”

A pink flush cropped up around Carson's ears. “Well, yes, Spook. I admit to trying to play matchmaker. Jeremy is the most eligible bachelor in South Carolina other than Silas Toliver, and he's asked for. Besides, Silas has no money. Jeremy does. He would look after you properly.”

“Silas has no money?” Jessica glanced in surprise at her father in the mirror. “How can that be? Queenscrown is a prosperous plantation.”

“Benjamin Toliver left Queenscrown to his older son, Morris. Silas is no more than the hired help. That's why he's going to Texas.”

Alarmed for Lettie, Jessica asked, “How can he afford to do so?”

“He has some money of his own that he's sunk into the venture, and the rest he's borrowing from me.”

Jessica shuddered for Lettie. Not only would she be facing untold hardships in making the journey and starting a new life in Texas, but all would be done on borrowed money. It would probably take years to pay back her father before the plantation was up and running and Silas saw a penny of his own. Perhaps love would be enough to sustain them and see Silas through to the dream he and Jeremy had apparently long harbored.

Jessica turned on her dressing-table stool to look at him. “Why are you in a hurry to marry me off, Papa?”

“Well, you…you're not getting any younger, you know. Your mother was married at your age, and frankly, I can't think of another man more worthy of you than Jeremy.” Carson pinched at the air with two plump, strong fingers. “You've got to pluck him out of the pot before someone else does.”

“That depends on whether Jeremy is willing to be plucked.”

“He looked willing enough to me, but you rebuffed him.”

“He's nearly thirty, eleven years older than I am.”

“What difference does that make? I am eight years older than your mother, as is Silas older than Lettie, and look how happy she is with him.”

Jessica allowed that, yes, Lettie's happiness was evident to everyone at the party. She wondered if there was a man alive who could put the stars in her eyes that Silas had placed in Lettie's. She did like Jeremy. She
had
found him stimulating and lively and amusing, but he could never be interested in someone like her. Her father had witnessed merely a gentleman's courtliness toward the daughter of his host, and her indifference had been caused by resentment at being exhibited like a filly at a horse auction.

“He's going to Texas, you know,” she said.

Carson's glance fell to his house slippers. “Yes, I know.”

Jessica rotated back to the mirror. In this house, more was related—and understood—in the silences of her family's conversations with one another than in spoken words. The moment's lull clearly admitted her father's sad but true willingness to see her married to someone suitable as soon as feasible and carried away as far as possible. Jessica remained silent, the rhythmic sound of the brush strokes censorious in the quiet.

Carson raised his head and asked suddenly, looking around. “Where is Tippy? Why isn't she here to attend you?”

“I sent her to her room. There was no point in her waiting up to see me to bed.”

Carson rose, frowning. “She's supposed to be here until you retire—
then
she can go to her room. You spoil that girl too much, Jessie. I won't have it.”

“Yes, Papa,” Jessica said, continuing to brush. Tippy had pleaded to stay up to hear about the party, but an attack of pleurisy that afternoon had almost brought her to her knees. Jessica would not dare remind her father of Tippy's lung condition, aggravated by the day's sudden cold snap. With few exceptions, he had little tolerance for useless property. “I'll see that she earns her keep,” Jessica said.

“You better.” Carson paused, locking eyes with his daughter in the mirror. She saw distress in his; felt tears rise in hers. Again, silence fell, speaking louder than tongues. “Spook, my dear, why can't you be more like…a Wyndham?” he asked. “How was it you were born so different from the rest of us?”

“I don't know, Papa,” she said, attacked by a sudden apprehension that left her cold, “but I fear my dissimilarity of birth will cost me dearly.”