Wilde, Jennifer (14 page)

"Answer
me!" Hawke thundered.

"Ye—yessir,"
Cassie stammered. "She baked one."

"What
happened to it?"

"It
done disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Miz
Marietta set it over there on th' window sill to cool an' then that lady in th'
wagon come an'—an' I wuz cleanin' th' silver and that pie just vanished."

"Was
Caleb anywhere around?"

"Well
sir, I—"

"I
gave
the
pie to him," I said quickly. "He was hungry, and—"

Hawke
whirled around, his eyes flashing. "You shut up! Adam, go and fetch Caleb.
Take him out to the barn and tie him up. I warned him about stealing food. It's
time he had a lesson!"

Adam
hurried out the back door. Cassie began to cry. I gathered her in my arms,
staring at Derek Hawke with fear and loathing. He stood with his hands on his
thighs, legs spread apart, his face a mask of rage. I had never seen him like
this, and it was frightening. I wanted to plead with him for the boy's sake,
but I was afraid to open my mouth. He glared at me for a moment, and then left
the room. I could hear him going upstairs to fetch his riding crop.

"I—I
wuz afraid to lie, Miz Marietta," Cassie sobbed. "I was afraid he'd
blame
me."

"That's
all right, Cassie," I said, releasing her. "Stop crying now. There's
nothing either of us can do."

I
heard loud, frantic wails in the back yard and, stepping over to the window,
saw Adam holding Caleb by the wrist, pulling him toward the barn. The boy
struggled violently, wailing all the while, and Adam finally wrenched his arm
up between his shoulder blades and clamped a hand over his mouth. Caleb
squirmed, looking like a tiny, helpless doll in the clutches of the powerful
black man. They disappeared into the barn, and a moment later I saw Hawke
strolling under the oaks, riding crop in hand. I could feel the color leave my
cheeks when he stepped into the barn. I turned to Cassie, my throat so tight I
could hardly speak.

"You—you'd
best go start clearing the dining room table," I told her. "We have a
lot of work to do."

I
began to stack up the dishes and cooking utensils. There was an ominous silence
in the barn. Cassie came back in with more dishes. As she set them down, a
plate slipped and fell to the floor with a loud crash. Both of us jumped.
Cassie began to sob again. I spoke to her sharply, ordering her to sweep up the
pieces and dispose of them in the dustbin. I was tense, listening, waiting, and
finally there came a sharp, hissing sound immediately followed by a
bloodcurdling scream. It seemed to go through me like an arrow. My knees
buckled. I gripped the drainboard tightly to keep from falling.

The
sounds came again, and again, and I knew I couldn't stand it any longer.
Without stopping to think, I flew out the back door and hurried across the
yard. I stumbled over the root of an oak tree and fell to the ground, my breath
knocked out of me. As I climbed to my feet there was another sharp hiss,
another shrill scream. I rushed to the barn, catching hold of the door to
steady myself. Fading gold rays of sunlight streamed into the interior,
illuminating the nightmare scene.

Caleb
was naked, his wrists strapped together, the rope pulled taut over one of the
rafters, forcing the boy to stand on his tiptoes. His back was to me, so I
couldn't see his face, but I saw the bare buttocks, the smooth brown skin
already streaked with tiny red threads. Adam stood in the shadows beside the
ladder leading up to the loft, holding the boy's clothes, his face
expressionless. Hawke stood behind the boy, and as I watched, he flexed his
wrist and drew his arm back again. The riding crop sliced through the air with
a savage hiss, and the thin leather thongs made contact. Caleb's body jerked
convulsively, and his scream was deafening, one long, shrill note of agony.

Hawke
drew his arm back to strike again.

"No!"
I cried.

I
rushed over to him and seized his arm. He was startled, that for a moment he
stood immobile, staring at me with cold fury. Then he caught me by the
shoulders and thrust me away from him with such force that I crashed against
the wall several feet away. I crumpled to the ground against some sacks of
grain, so stunned that it took me a moment to focus properly. Hawke spread his
legs, took careful aim and slashed again, and again, and again. When he finally
stopped, his white shirt was drenched with perspiration, plastered wetly
against his back and shoulders.

He
put the riding crop down. Caleb hung limply, almost unconscious. Hawke shoved
his hair back from his forehead and turned to Adam. He looked weary now, all
anger spent.

"Cut
him down," he ordered. "Take him to his grandmother and see that she
tends to him properly." He prodded Caleb's calf with the toe of his boot.
"You, boy—I hope you learned your lesson. You got off lightly this time,
just ten lashes. If there's a next time, it'll be fifty."

Caleb
sobbed something unintelligible. Hawke turned to look down at me. I was still
on the ground, clinging to one of the bulging sacks as though for support.

"Don't
you
ever
try to interfere like that again, do you understand?" His
voice was chilling. "You may be white, you may speak with a fine accent,
but you're my property, same as they are. You try something like this again and
you'll pay for it. You'll pay dearly."

Then
he turned around and walked out of the barn. The orange light was fading
rapidly, deep blue-black shadows gathering. Adam took a knife and cut the rope.
Caleb collapsed on the ground in a heap, sobbing. Adam scowled and pulled him
to his feet.

"You
goin' live, boy. Stop that blubberin'. You done brought it all on
yoreself." He thrusts the boy's clothes at him and wrapped a powerful arm
around his shoulders to keep him from falling. "Stop that blubberin', I
says. Th' master only give you what you deserved."

Holding
the boy firmly against him, Adam turned to look at me.

"You
all right, Miz Marietta?"

I
nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"Want
I should send Cassie out to you?"

I
shook my head, and Adam looked hesitant, not certain whether he should leave me
alone or not. Caleb whimpered quietly. After a moment Adam frowned and
tightened his grip around the boy's shoulder, leading him out of the barn. I sat
huddled there against the sack of grain and watched the orange light glow paler
and paler as the shadows multiplied. A few chickens wandered into the barn,
clucking noisily and scratching the dirt. A long time passed, and still I sat
there, nourishing a terrible pain that had nothing to do with my fall. When I
finally forced myself to get up and leave the barn, the first stars had already
begun to twinkle frostily against the cold night sky.

Caleb
waved and came running as I started across the back yard carrying the lunch
basket. It had been two weeks since he had been whipped, and I hadn't seen him
since then. He showed no effects of the beating now, I noticed, pausing under
one of the oaks to talk to him.

"What
you got in that there basket?" the lad inquired. "Somethin' good to
eat?"

I
nodded. Caleb wore an expectant look. "I'm afraid it's not for you, Caleb.
I'm taking it to the master out in the fields."

"When
you goin' to bake some more of them cookies?"

"I—one
of these days, Caleb. Doesn't Mattie feed you?"

"I
reckon," he drawled, "but she don't make good things like you does,
Miz Marietta. That peach pie—I reckon it wuz worth th' whuppin' th' master give
me."

"How
are you, Caleb? I haven't seen you around."

"Mattie,
she done forbid me to hang around th' back yard. She says I gotta stay back
behind th' cabins mendin' things lessen you sends me for somethin'. I been
bein' busy, fixin' things an' helpin' Mattie. My backside wuz sure sore, but
Mattie done put some stuff on it for a couple-a-days an it's healed up now. Th'
master, when he whups, he whups good. There ain't nothin' in that basket he
wouldn't miss?"

He
looked for all the world like a great, gawking puppy dog, his wide brown eyes
full of entreaty. Unable to resist, I reached into the basket, took out a crisp
brown drumstick and handed it to the boy. Caleb's eyes lit up with pleasure
and, taking the drumstick eagerly, he bounded away just as Mattie stuck her
head out of the door of the cookhouse and yelled for him to get back to work
'fore she kicked him good. Caleb disappeared behind the cabins, Mattie shook
her head in despair, and I waved, calling good day to her.

It
was an extremely warm day, the sun pouring down in furious rays, but this time
I wore an old wide-brimmed yellow straw hat with brown ribbons that tied under
my chin. The hat protected my face, but my dress was soon damp with
perspiration. Light beige cotton sprigged with tiny brown and blue flowers, it
was faded and patched, the puffed sleeves dropping off the shoulders, the
bodice low-cut and clinging tightly. Shabby as it was, it was the most fetching
garment I owned, and I wondered if Derek Hawke would notice the way it
accentuated my bosom and slender waist. Probably not, I told myself, moving
along the rows of cotton.

I
had hardly exchanged a dozen words with him since the incident in the barn. He
had not referred to,
nor had I, but since then his manner had been even
colder and more remote. When it was necessary for him to give me an order, his
voice was like chipped ice, his expression always harsh. After what his wife
did to him, I supposed he was not anxious to get entangled again. Of course, I
was his chattel, his property, and, as a woman, beneath his notice. I accepted
that, and I fought the feelings he was able to arouse simply by being in the
same room with me. I tried to hate him, tried desperately, yet I couldn't help
feeling that behind that icy barricade dwelt an extremely vulnerable man
greatly in need of warmth and understanding.

Mattie
sounded the gong in the cookhouse. The blacks working in the fields put down
their tools and started toward the line of oak trees where, under the shade of
the boughs, they would have their lunch. I saw Adam in the distance, moving
toward the trees with the others, towering over them. Hawke never lunched with
the slaves. Although he permitted them half an hour's break for their meal, he
stayed out in the fields himself, pausing just long enough to eat the basket
lunch brought to him, then going right on with his work.

I
wondered why he drove himself so hard. The other planters didn't When she had
come back to Shadow Oaks to return the liniment, Maud Simmons had told me quite
a lot about life among the gentlemen planters. Most of them, I learned, had
hired men to manage their plantations for them, leaving them free to live a
clubbish sort of life with cool drinks on the verandah and hunting parties and
constant socializing at their various plantation houses. Hawke had never
participated in any of these leisurely pastimes, had always taken the full
responsibility of Shadow Oaks on his own shoulders. He had done extremely well,
too, Maud confided. The annual yield at Shadow Oaks had been more than
satisfactory, and by rights Hawke should have a tidy sum stashed away in the
bank at Charleston. He didn't. There was only a few hundred dollars in his
account there. Maud had discovered this the last time she had made a deposit
and had talked with that charming bank manager. What on earth, she wondered,
had happened to all of Hawke's money? It was a question I was unable to answer.

He
certainly hadn't poured it back into Shadow Oaks. True, I had cost a great
deal—more than he could afford, he had told me—but I knew that he had bought no
other slaves during the past four years, nor had he spent money refurbishing
the house. Everything was shabby and rundown, and to all outward appearances
Shadow Oaks was little more than a farm. Yet his crops had consistently brought
him a great deal of money, as much as many of the larger plantations. It was a
bloomin' mystery, Maud told me, adding that she had heard rumors that he had
been sending vast sums to a lawyer back in London for a period of years. Hawke
had come from England originally, though no one knew anything about his
background there. He'd simply appeared in Carolina, married Alice Cavenaugh and
promptly purchased Shadow Oaks "for a song," turning a broken-down,
second-rate plantation into one that yielded a generous profit each year. He'd
been here for ten years, ever since he was twenty-three years old, and for ten
years he had lived like a poor man.

I
had thought about all Maud had told me as I strolled across the fields, basket
in hand. I had always assumed that Shadow Oaks was poor, that Hawke had to
struggle to make ends meet, yet as I gazed at the acres and acres of vivid
green plants—and this was only one section of fields—I could easily see how the
harvested crop would bring in a large sum. I couldn't help wondering what had
happened to the money. Was he indeed sending it back to a lawyer in England? If
so, why? The more I learned about Derek Hawke, the more enigmatic he became.

I
could see him up ahead now, working with a hoe. His boots were covered with
dust. His dark tan breeches were old, almost threadbare. His thin white cotton
shirt was damp with sweat, open at the throat, sleeves rolled up over his
forearms. Although he was superbly built and wonderfully handsome, he
nevertheless looked like a poor dirt farmer. Why? He could be sitting on the
verandah in glossy boots and an elegant suit, taking his ease. Why did he live
in a poorly furnished, tumbledown house when he could transform it into a fine
mansion? Hearing me approach, he turned around, leaning on his hoe. As those
cool gray eyes rested on me, I felt that familiar response inside, wanting him,
hating myself for it.