The Bargain (5 page)

Gareth's temptation wasn't about womanizing. It was about loving God enough to trust Him. It was about loving Precious enough to trust that she could love him back. Maybe he could trust that God would help him save Port Elizabeth.

He folded up the paper and avoided the urge to toss it into the flames. Stuffing it deep into his pocket, he stared at the sky. Was Gareth a big enough man to trust anyone's judgment other than his own?

He rolled onto his side and listened to the river and the latent whinnying of his horse. If he couldn't find the chief, he supposed he'd have to come to terms with God quickly. He was ready to die for Port Elizabeth, for Precious and Jonas. It would be good to firm up his salvation to be assured of his final destination when the end came.

Precious shifted her hands against her apron and peered out the window again. Two days and no Gareth. The stubborn man hadn't returned. Was he staying on the Margeaux, just to make her fret?
 

The nerve of him. She fumed and paced some more. He should have been back by now, safe in the house, not finding ways to vex her. She clicked her short heels against the floorboard. He should've never went in the first place. Clara was ready to burst and the baby hadn't turned.
 

What did Old Doctor Marsdale say to do? Every pot in the house had fresh water. The fireplace in the parlor and in the kitchen had some warming. Surely, that would be enough to keep things cleaned, just like the old man would do.
 

Oh, what would he say to get that baby pointed right? Grandmama said that Precious's own mammie just stopped in the fields, squatted and had Precious. Eliza wasn't built for that rugged life and from the looks of it, neither was Clara.
 

She started pacing again. Oh, what would Old Doc…her pa say to do? The more she thought about him and Charleston, the sadder her heart got. She would always feel some kind of way about never being able to acknowledge her pa. She had so many questions for him.

Her ma was a field hand at first. So she wasn't bred to be her master's fancy, but things can change. Was she forced…abused? Was she a mistress, if there could be such a thing when his family owned hers?

All Precious knew was that Old Doctor Marsdale had been a widower for many years when he took up with Ma. He made her a house slave until she died. Ma ain't had no choice of the field or the big house. So what could a captive do with the advances of a captor?

These questions couldn't be answered with both Ma and Old Doctor Marsdale dead in the ground. One thing for sure, Old Dr. Marsdale wasn't nothing like his son. He didn't trick Ma into the woods, abuse her, cut her brutally, and then lie on her saying she was a runway, insuring a whipping that scarred Precious on the outside too.

With shaky hands, she set about dusting. Not being idle would force the evil from her mind. Gareth's desk lay full of papers. That was as good a place to start.
 

Taking a cloth from her apron, she started polishing the mahogany top. She took care not to disturb his papers. But the mishmash of parchment and foolscap wouldn't do. A little stacking wouldn't hurt and would make his work surface very fine. Careful not to get things out of order or separated, she made a neat pile, but stopped on something that looked like her indentured papers. She examined the
 
lines of bold print. It proved to be them. Running a finger along his tidy script and her mark, she saw the date of service had been scratched through. A new date had been written in and initialed, June 3, 1819. That date marked the night they landed at Port Elizabeth. The night she saved his life. The night they kissed beneath the Xhosa battle. She'd been freed from service. He'd ended her indentured term, but why didn't he tell her?

She forced her breathing to slow. Precious Jewell was free, not property or a forced servant. If she wanted, she could walk at the door. Truthfully, she could've without these papers. Since they'd left London, he'd given her the ability and opportunity to do as she pleased.

When she'd refused his proposals, he didn't make any bargains or threats to persuade her. He didn't like her answer, for sure. But, he respected it. She felt that in her bones. Gareth was a good man. But could he truly be her man? Her heart was willing, but the terror in her head said no.

She heard a noise from upstairs. Precious trembled until silence again swept over the house. Why was she always so fearful?
 

She'd refused the master of the house, her employer. Surely, she'd hurt his pride. However, unlike all the other men who had power over her, Palmers the butler, the Marsdale men, retaliation never entered her mind with Gareth. Yet, dread still found a home in her brain. She lifted her shivering palms in the air. Maybe being enslaved so long had ingrained fear into her nature. Maybe her mind hadn't embraced freedom. When would she ever gain the strength to listen to her heart and not the darkness in her head? She shook her fists with fury. "God, Clara's God, Grandmama's God, take care of Gareth. And show some mercy on me."

The rain had started again. She looked out the window. Clouds blocked the view of everything, yet Precious was sure she'd be able to see Gareth's outline, the sway of him as he trudged to the door.

But he wasn't there.
 

Maybe God didn't answer little black girls playing wife in the big house. It was like she'd always known. God didn't care. He didn't care when her half-brother brutalized her in the woods. He didn't give a jot when he branded her flesh. God just didn't care.

She struck at the window. The chill of the windowpane met her palm. Moisture beaded on her skin, but she couldn't tell if it was from the window or the tears that leaked from her eyes.

The only man that did care was gone. He was out there in trouble with no one to help him.
 

A sigh built inside then spilled out. What if he were in trouble? What if he needed help?
 

What if he needed her?

She wrapped her arms about her mobcap as if that would smother her thoughts. It didn't. Nor did it push from her skull the look on his face when she refused him.
 

Like the rain outside on the glass, water now streaked her face. It wasn't God that didn't care. It was Precious. She let Gareth go without telling him how much she cared for him. How nothing would seem right if he didn't come back. She didn't tell him that the weeks here in Port Elizabeth, making this house into a home for him and Jonas were the happiest she'd ever spent.

"God, forgive my stubborn heart. Please take care of him."

Thunder clapped. Precious jumped. She wasn't given to fright of the weather, but there was this thudding in her chest. Time was running out. The Xhosa would attack in three more days. Gareth's dreams of Port Elizabeth would be gone.
 

Jonas squealed. Must be the booms of the storm.
 

With slow steps, she pounded from the parlor and headed upstairs.

Before she could grasp the knurled post at the end of the pine treads, a weak sound filtered between the boy's wails.

That heart of hers that had started to slow ticked up again.

"Precious." Clara's voice trailed to her. It was so small, absent of any cheer.

Precious swallowed and pattered down the hall. "Yes, Clara?"

"P—. It's time."

Precious wiped her face dry on her dark jade sleeve, and stole up the stairs. Her feet barely hit the treads. She swiveled for moment, unsure of whom to attend first - her Jonas or her friend.

"Precious!" This time the shriek was louder than the babe's. She pivoted and went into Clara's chamber.
 

The lady was on the bed. The sheets about her legs looked soaked.
 

"I'm leaking."

The baby's done kicked through. He's coming. Precious put her hand to Clara's stomach. The positioning was still all wrong. That little Narvel hadn't turned. Both the baby's and her friend's life was in danger. She tried to sound hopeful. "You just need to sit back. Keep calm and keep your feet up. We need to wait a little longer. The contractions haven't started. Lord Welling will be back soon."
 

Clara flopped her back onto her pillows. "I don't know, Precious. I just don't know. Doesn't the baby need this water to survive?"

Precious ran and gripped her friend's hand, "It's not blood. You're still giving that baby everything he needs. Give him your hope too."

"I'm in trouble. I feel it. My baby. I can't lose him, too." Big fat sobs flopped down Clara's red cheeks.

The air in the room drained away. It was all happening again. Just like Eliza except for no blood with the baby water. There was still time to make things right. Here in Port Elizabeth, there was no butler or doctor man to argue with about how to care for Clara. So Precious could do everything to help.

Well, there should be one man to argue with. Goodness how she missed Gareth's deep funny accent.
 

Clara reached up and touched Precious's lips. "That smile of yours gives me hope."

Nodding, Precious clasped her friend's hand to her heart, close to the imprisoning bib collar she always wore. "Well, nothing good can come from us both crying. You are going to be fine. Your baby's going to be fine."

"How do you know?"

"I will help you, Clara. And that God of yours… our God, He's going to guide me."

Admitting aloud that she was ready to trust in the Lord, felt right. Her spirit felt light in her bosom. At least for this moment, Precious chose to believe everything would be well.

Clara took in a deep breath and eased back onto the pillows. A smile crept over her strained features. "I believe too. We just need to convince this little Narvel."

Jonas wailed again. Precious whipped her head to door.

"Go check on him. I am going to be fine. The shock of the water frightened me so."

Precious swiveled to the closet and took out fresh sheets, the ones she'd cleaned to prepare for this moment. "I will go, but let me get you fixed up.
 

From her pile of clean linens, she pulled and tucked new sheets about Clara. While she worked, everything seemed to quiet. The ruckus Jonas made stopped. Her pulse raced. Perhaps his daddy had come home and held the little boy. She backed from the room, biting back a big grin. "You rest, Clara. The pains to push that baby out will start soon. You'll need every bit of your strength."

Clara nodded and closed her eyes. Her fingers sank into the Bible by her side.
 

"Once I see to him, I'll bring you some rue tea. Lots of fresh warm water downstairs to brew it fast."

"You don't have too rush. We'll be fine."

Precious nodded but she could've been agreeing to anything. She needed to go see Gareth. Almost breaking into a full run, she leapt to the boy's room and threw open the door. "You're…"

"No." She lit a candle and spun. Her mouth dropped open. Her feet felt cold and numb. Someone had picked up the fussing boy, but it was not his father.

"What are you doing?" Precious hated the sound of her voice. It sounded weak, full of shock and disappointment. "Mzwamadoda, why are you here?"

The African, tall and black, bounced the boy in his arms. The boy's white pinafore contrasted like night and day in the warrior's grasp. "Decided to come for a visit, to see the Precious one and meter the progress of my friend, the captain. Has he found my chief?"

She unglued her feet, and charged forward with arms outstretched. "Gareth's not here. Give me my boy."

Thick chuckles fell from the man making eyes at Jonas. He was perfectly dark, almost hidden by the night sky that shone in the window. The small candle didn't do justice to the strength of his outline, but the distant lightning strikes silhouetting him did. He was powerful. A man others would fear.

Yet, Precious wasn't frightened by him like she was of most. Though, maybe she should be. This man had saved her life and taken care of Jonas until her wits returned. Gareth thought of him as a friend, a man of reason. Deep in her bones, she knew this man, though different, had principles just like the baron. She waved her hands again. "Please, give Jonas to me."

A laugh bellowed out of him. He spun a bit, causing Jonas to giggle. His chubby little arms flopped and swayed with the quick movements. "You like that, little mate. Aye?"

The warrior stopped twirling, but still lifted and lowered Jonas. The boy spread his arms like a big old eagle. "Tell the Conroy to come up."

She put a palm on the man's arm, her fingers sinking into his soaked cloak. The smell of wet fur mixed with the scent of fresh rain, filled her nostrils. It made her nose wriggle. "You are getting water on him. Just give him to me."

 
"My pretty Precious, the lad and I are old friends, and you must be busy since you let the future killer scream his head off."

She fisted her hand and drew it to her hip. "I told you not to call him that." Mother bear growling within, she wrapped her arms about Jonas and stole him from the brash man. "Go down to the parlor and dry your cloak in front of the fire so you'll stop dripping on the floor."
 

"What, no care for me? If I catch illness, will you smash me against your bosom, too? An ample one such as I can tell."

"Look you." She yanked off the babe's wet pinafore, and tossed it at Mzwamadoda. Precious put Jonas back into his crib, and bundled him tightly in the blankets. "How did you get in here?"

The man hit at his chest. "I've seen better days and my kaross, or cloak as you call it, is designed for rain. I am not soft like the ones from England or from the Americas."

 
Undoing the folds, he let the fur drop. Only eight rows of a beaded necklace and a pair of buckskin breeches kept him from being naked. This time, the dim light of the small room showed everything. She didn't need the lightning to see the muscles and leanness of the man. "See, I am not worse for the wear. If you care, Precious one."

Like Gareth, he didn't allow idleness to make him soft and weak. And he definitely didn't need the threat of knifes to get his way. "How did you get in here or is there a path of water from here to the front door?"