The Triumph of Grace (17 page)

F
or four days, Melly kept Grace busy scrubbing out the springhouse so it would be ready for the fresh cheeses. When she finished, Melly set her to work with the broom, and for the next two days Grace swept away the last of winter's debris and prepared the kitchen for summer.

"Mmmm, summer," Melly cooed. "Berries and fruits a'plenty. We puts it all out back in de dryin' baskets so's it can dry in de sunshine."

"My Mama Muco used to dry fruit that same way in Africa," said Grace. "Fish, too."

Grace pulled down the last vestiges of the dried herbs that hung in bunches from the kitchen ceiling.

"Soon you will help me gather fresh ones," Melly said.

Melly scrutinized the sprinkling of onions, turnips, and beets that still hung in the far corners of the kitchen. Just after the fall harvest, she had braided their stems together and suspended them from the rafters, but most of the root vegetables had been eaten through the winter.

"A bit withered, they be," she said. "Still, we hasn't any fresh vegetables in the garden yet. We best leave those last ones be."

"Honeysuckle? Honeysuckle!"

It was Mistress Eva's voice. When the head slave didn't immediately answer her call, Mistress Eva headed for the kitchen.

"Honeysuckle!"

Honeysuckle puffed obediently down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"There you are," Mistress Eva said with more than a note of irritation. "Spring is in the air, Honeysuckle. Time for shrimp pie. Master and I have decided that Melly should prepare one for our luncheon today."

"Yes'm," said Honeysuckle with a smile. "That be a fine idea, ma'am."

"Oh, and Honeysuckle," Eva added. "I am not pleased with the condition of the house. It's not scrubbed and polished to my satisfaction. Why do you have Grace at work here in the kitchen with Melly instead of allowing her to keep up with her own duties in the rest of the house?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Honeysuckle, the smile still pasted on her mouth. "I will see to it at once."

Eva sighed in exasperation and swept from the room.

As soon as the door closed behind Mistress Eva, Honeysuckle's smile vanished. She lifted her apron and mopped at her face.

"Call for Tucker, Melly," Honeysuckle said. "Give him your dishpan and send him to the city at once to find the shrimp man. And you, Grace—"

At that moment Dorcas, a scrawny slave who spent her time in the scullery scrubbing the laundry and minding the other dirty work of the house, stuck her head into the kitchen."Wot of me? I needs help, too," she whined to Honeysuckle. "I gots soap and candles need makin'. Who's goin' to help me?"

"You take Phiba to stir your soap," Honeysuckle said to Dorcas. "Grace, you best get back to your own work."

Each of the mornings that Grace had spent spring-cleaning the kitchen, Honeysuckle had done her best to keep up Grace's responsibilities in the family's private chambers. But the rest of the work had been set aside for the time. Which meant Grace had much to do. She hurried to begin her rounds.

From one private chamber to another, Grace rushed. She fluffed pillows and made up beds with crisp white sheets. She picked up the clothing strewn across the floor, folded it, and stacked it on wardrobe shelves. She emptied chamber pots and scrubbed them clean. She refilled mantle water pitchers with fresh water. She dusted and she swept.

Mistress Eva's chambers she cleaned first, then Master Pace's. Grace bypassed Master Timothy's—she did her best to enter his chamber only when she knew him to be safely out of the house—and went on to Miss Angel's chamber.

When no one answered Grace's knock at Miss Angel's door, Grace opened it and went in. Miss Angel, dressed in nothing but her boned stays and gauzy pantaloons, sat at her dressing table.

"I'm sorry, miss," Grace gasped. "I will come back later."

"Never mind," said Angel with a wave of her hand. "Just clean up my room."

Grace moved to the rumpled bed. Angel picked up a fluff of cotton wool, dipped it into a dish of flour on her dressing table, and liberally dusted the flour over her pock-scarred face. While Grace made up the bed, she sneaked glances over at the yellow-haired young woman who was applying flour to her face again. When Angel's face was ghostly white, she dipped her finger into a pot of red stain and touched it to her cheekbones, taking care to rub away the color that pooled in the pox scars. Angel bit her lips just enough to bring color to them. She touched her lips with the same red stain as was on her cheeks.

Angel looked around in irritation. "Where is the blue and white dress I laid out on my bed?" she demanded.

"Oh, I am sorry, Miss Angel," Grace said. "I folded it and put it away in the wardrobe."

"Well, get it out for me!" Angel ordered. "I would not have laid it across my bed had I not wanted it, would I?"

"No, ma'am," said Grace.

She hurried to get the dress out of the wardrobe.

"Well?" said Angel.

"Yes, Miss Angel," said Grace.

Grace helped her mistress into the dress just the way Mama Muco used to help Grace into her own dresses. As Grace reached up to adjust the clasps at the neckline, her rich mocha hand brushed against Angel's flour- white face.

"Foolish darkie! Foolish slave!" Angel scolded.

Dark always meant slave. White always meant free. How could it be that for so many years Grace had failed to understand this simple concept?

Grace was at work in the parlor when the clock on the mantle struck two o'clock. Time for her to report to the kitchen and clean up after luncheon. Grace preferred to keep a distance between herself and the dining room during mealtimes, even though it cost her a share of the plate leavings.There, too, Timothy made her extremely uncomfortable, the way he leered at her with half a grin on his pimply face. One time, as Grace passed him, he had actually grabbed at her leg under the table.

Grace put her cleaning rags in the bucket and headed toward the kitchen.

"Mmmmm." Grace breathed in appreciatively at the pungent fragrance that greeted her in the kitchen. "Onions and green peppers."

"Fried in hog fat," said Melly, who smiled proudly. "I puts the shrimps in last of all."

"Phiba ain't back with the water bucket," Honeysuckle said. "So you have time to eat somethin', Grace. I saved you back some scrapin's of the shrimp pie."

With the plates and glasses and pans washed and stacked back in their places, with the worst of the dust wiped from the family rooms, with the master and mistress and Timothy and Angel closed up in their chambers for their afternoon rest, Grace took up her rags and bucket and headed for Master Pace's study. It was not a room she entered often, so everything in it was coated with a thick layer of dust.

Grace paused at the doorway and gazed in delight at the sight of an entire wall of shelves stocked with bound books.She knew she should beat the rug and mop the floor. She knew she should clean and polish the intricate carvings of the chairs and the massive desk legs. She knew she should wash the grime off the windows. But Grace's eyes kept returning to that wall of books.

Do not let anyone know you can read.
That's what Captain Ross had warned.

Well, Grace would not let anyone know. But that didn't mean she could not sneak a peek at the wonderful volumes when no one else was around.

A surge of fear mixed with nagging guilt as Grace dusted her way over to the bookshelves that held the bound treasures.She glanced back over her shoulder, then moved closer to the books. The light from the single window was hazy, so Grace was forced to lean in close in order to read the names on the covers. She traced the title on the nearest book with her finger.

Grace's lips moved:
Robinson Crusoe,
by Daniel DeFoe.

She touched the next book, a leather-bound volume.
Hudibras,
by Samuel Butler.

The next book was crisp and new, and gold-leaf letters spelled out the title:
The Critic,
by Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

The one after that had a well-rubbed leather cover:
Gulliver's Travels,
by Jonathan Swift.

At the sound of footsteps on the stair, Grace leapt away from the bookcase. Her heart pounded as she dropped to her knees and rubbed furiously at the leg of the desk.

The footfalls approached the study. Grace shook uncontrollably.

But the steps passed on down the hall.

Careful! Careful! Grace must be oh, so careful!

C
ome now, Grace, tell me a story," Timothy Williamson insisted in his most teasing voice.

Early that morning a parcel had arrived for Master Pace from Thomas Heyward, and it had absorbed every bit of his and Mistress Eva's excited attention. Timothy had taken advantage of the distraction to set upon Grace with determined bedevilment.

Grace started for the parlor door—Timothy blocked her way. Grace glanced desperately at the window—it was locked tight. She thought about crying out—what would she say? She was naught but a slave, after all, and he was the master's son.There was no way out.

"Tell me about the trickster!" Timothy ordered. "I always did love to hear those stories. Honeysuckle used to tell them to me when I was a little boy."

"You are not a little boy anymore," Grace said.

Grace had been scrubbing the parlor floor before Timothy came in, but she did not dare get back down on her knees.Not with Timothy in so menacing a mood. So Grace hurried over to the fireplace and busied herself with the sheen of the marble.

"You are not Honeysuckle, either," Timothy said. "But I
am
your master. And I
do
order you to tell me a story."

"I have a great deal of work to do," Grace insisted.

"That clever, conniving old rabbit," Timothy said. "Tell me a story about him."

"Mistress Eva was quite clear that this work must be completed today," Grace said. "She will be angry if it is not done."

"Mother has other things on her mind," Timothy laughed."She has already forgotten about her instructions to you. Tell me about the spider and the tortoise."

"Please, Master Timothy, allow me to do my work," Grace pleaded.

Timothy stepped toward her. The smile faded from his lips."I command you to tell me a story!"

Grace made a dash for the door, but Timothy caught her by the arm.

"Now!" he said.

Grace tried to pull free, but Timothy's grip was strong. Her mind worked furiously. She looked up and stared into his blue eyes, thinking . . . grasping . . . searching . . .

Finally Grace said, "Lion was hunting. He saw Goat lying on top of a big rock. Goat worked his mouth. He chewed something. Lion crept up to catch Goat. When Lion got close to Goat, he watched him very closely."

Grace paused and again tried to pull away from Timothy.

Timothy tightened his grip. "The story," he ordered.

"Goat kept on chewing," Grace said. "Lion tried to find out what it was that Goat ate, but he didn't see anything except the bare rock which Goat used for his nap. But Goat chewed and chewed and chewed. Lion still couldn't figure out what was going on, so he came close and said, 'Hey! Brother Goat! What is that you eat?' Goat was mighty scared to see Lion right there in front of him, but his heart was gallant and brave.So Goat answered: 'It is this rock that I chew. And if you do not leave me alone, when I finish eating the rock, I will eat you, too.' Lion was so terrified that he ran away."

"That's the story?" Timothy demanded.

Grace nodded.

"What does it mean?"

"It means that a bold person gets out of a troublesome spot, but a cowardly person loses his life," said Grace.

Timothy loosened his grip just a bit.

"How about you?" he asked. "Are you a bold person or a cowardly person?"

"A bold person," Grace said in a steady voice. "If I were not, I should no longer be alive. I am bold like Goat."

Timothy glared at her. "I am your master," he said. "Do not think you can mock me with such a story."

"Mock you?" said Grace. "I am but a slave who obeyed her master's command."

Timothy laughed out loud. "Yes," he said. "I believe you are bold. Still, as you say, you are but a slave."

"Timothy!"

Timothy dropped his grip on Grace's arm and wheeled around to face his mother.

Eva Williamson glared at her son. Timothy's pale face flushed crimson.

Still looking at the boy, Eva spoke to Grace in measured clips. "I believe the upstairs is in need of your immediate attention," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," Grace said gratefully. She grabbed up her cleaning supplies and piled them into the bucket. Pushing past Timothy, she hurried out of the parlor and on up the stairs.

Uncertain as to what was expected of her, Grace set to work rubbing the stairway banister to a sheen. Eva slammed the parlor door closed. At first, all Grace could hear was a background of voices in a subdued argument. But as Eva's voice raised to a shout, it carried through the closed door.

"Why must you persist along so destructive a path?" Eva exclaimed in frustration. "God expects us to maintain the proper order of creation—coloreds are to keep to their own kind, and we are to do the same. That is what the good Lord intended." In tearful exasperation, she exclaimed, "Why must you behave as such a fool, Timothy? Can you not understand that we are the superior race?"

When the parlor door opened, Grace pulled back behind the top stairway landing. But the door quickly closed again, and the house fell silent.

By mid-morning, Angel had departed the house by carriage.Grace had not seen Master Pace since the parcel arrived, though Timothy had told her his father was on his way to see Thomas Heyward. After such a lecture from his mother, Timothy was not likely to be in Grace's vicinity; Eva would not let him out of her sight. All these thoughts crossed Grace's mind when she noticed that the door to Pace Williamson's study was slightly ajar. She looked down the stairs and saw no one. So she picked up her cleaning bucket and eased into the study.

Grace crossed over to Master Pace's desk and gave it a cursory swipe with her polishing rag. The smooth mahogany was richly inlaid with soft leather. To one side stood a fine pewter tray supplied with four holders, each of which contained a finely trimmed turkey feather pen propped upright. Two inkwells off to one side and a pounce pot of fine sand to dry the ink more quickly sat along one side of the tray. On the other side lay a sharkskin case that held Pace Williamson's tools for fashioning quill pens.

It was Grace's intention to take another quick look at the books in Master Pace's library. But her attention was waylaid by a parchment document centered on Master Pace's desk.Across the top, in large, beautiful letters, it read:

In Congress, July 4, 1776

Under that heading were the words:

The Unanimous Declaration of the thirteen United States of America

Carefully, gently, Grace ran her hand across the fine sheet of parchment. She leaned down close so as to better see the opening lines:

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness . . .

Grace stopped reading. She could not believe the words before her. Could this document, which lay on the desk of the man who owned her and over one hundred other slaves, actually say what she thought it said? Grace picked the parchment up and whispered the words as she reread them:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights—"

"What is the meaning of this!"

Grace jumped. The parchment dropped from her hands, onto the desk.

"I was . . . cleaning, Master," Grace stammered. "Cleaning up your desk, sir."

Terror rose up in Grace as she raised her dusting rag for him to see. The rest of her cleaning supplies were all the way across the room, right next to Master Pace's feet.

"You were reading," Master Pace accused. He did not raise his voice, which somehow made the fury that burned in his face even more terrifying.

"I could see the marks and they were so pretty, Master," Grace said. "I just wanted to see them more closely. The pretty marks, that is."

"You . . . were . . .
reading!"
Master Pace exclaimed.

Grace stood in the parlor, in front of her master and mistress.Pace and Eva Williamson sat uncomfortably before her.Timothy stood behind his father.

"Put her in my care, Father," said Timothy. "I can handle a slave who reads."

"You have done quite enough for one day," Pace Williamson said.

"The worst of it is that I
trusted
her!" said Eva. "I say we must make an example of her. Turn her over to Asa and entreat him to apply his whip most liberally."

"And then what?" asked Pace.

"And then nothing," answered Eva. "Asa should whip her to the end of her life."

Pace glared at Grace. "Whip to death a slave for whom I paid thirty shillings? More than eight hundred American dollars? Absolutely not! We shall put her back on the auction block and sell her. Let her be someone else's predicament."

"We cannot pretend to be unaware of this most undesirable flaw," Eva said. "Yet if we let it be known that this slave can read, no one will buy her."

"I paid a goodly sum for Grace," Pace insisted, "and I fully intend to get my money back!"