“Uncle Mooney!” His gasped name escaped me before I could stop it. Like a spooked deer, I sprang into the cool night air and dashed through the trees. I expected him to chase after me, but I whisked through the fauna without the echo of footsteps on my heels. The night opened its gullet and swallowed me whole. With tormenting pleasure, the trees rearranged themselves, and I stumbled from one to the other.
Is it the world, or is it I who is turned upside down? Where is the moon? Has it disappeared along with my belief in the moral standards by which I was raised and measured?
The branch of a hickory nearly swept me to the ground, but my legs refused to give way until more distance was put between me and the image of perverse entitlement disguised as my uncle. In my confusion, I strayed from the path, unsure if my direction was north or south. I slowed to catch my breath and bearing. I ran in the direction opposite the main house, up on the hill. If Uncle Mooney searched for me, he would begin there. Relief took my hand and led me deeper into Mud Run. I emerged from the wooded area of the living quarters. The earth sloped into the flatland where I had danced with Elijah the night of the shucking. A murky fog had settled into the belly of the valley, and if not for the pale lantern glow glimmering through the open door of the distant blacksmith shop, the world around me would have appeared in disarray. At odds with my presence, gauzy tentacles of mist swirled through the fauna and around my feet, bringing with it the prickle of imminent danger. A twig snapped to my left, dropping my heart into the hollow of my stomach. I bolted toward the lanterns in the distance, but a hand pierced the fog and yanked me backward. My shriek ripped through the trees and echoed up across the ridge.
“Let me go, Uncle Mooney! Don’t hurt me!”
The hand tightened and tugged me closer. The force spun my body to face him; however, the eyes leveled on me were not angry, vengeful, or Uncle Mooney’s at all.
“Livie!” I flung my hands over my face, unable to catch my breath. Livie gathered me in her arms and bolstered me when my legs wobbled beneath me.
“Girl, you is shakin’ like a mouse caught in a snowstorm. What’chu doin’ out here by yo’self?”
Livie snuggled one arm firmly around me as she pulled her shawl from her shoulders and wrapped me in it. The night air chilled me, but when Livie pressed her cheek lovingly to mine, I was warmed by the care and concern in her embrace.
“What’s happened, Hannah? I know you ain’t spooked fo’ nothin’.”
“I was looking for
you
, Livie.” I panted. “I couldn’t find you.”
“Well, now you found me, girl,” she said with a heavy sigh of relief. She led me over to a boulder so we could sit and face each other. “Hannah, your cries done scared me half to death.”
“I went to your cabin.”
“Oh, chile,” she moaned. “You didn’t go inside lookin’ fo’ me, did you?” We both knew the answer before the words were spoken.
“I saw something no eyes should ever see . . . something vulgar.”
“So when I grabbed yo’ arm jes’ now, you thought I was Massa, didn’t you?”
“You know about Uncle Mooney?”
“Know what, Hannah?” Livie’s mouth twisted with disgust. “Know about Massa Reynolds’s late-night visits to the quarters? Why do you think I am out here in the dark, passin’ the time?”
“Oh, Livie . . .”
“I fetched some biscuits down to James because Massa Reynolds got him workin’ night and day makin’ extra shoes fo’ the horses of some town folk. That piss-ass driver, Willy Jack, chased me off, saying James can’t be bothered on the job. No good will come to me if I show up back at the cabin before Massa is finished with his business.”
“Uncle Mooney’s done this before?”
“Folks say he used to lay down with young Maude over at his place, but she done dried up after she lost a baby in childbirth last spring. Massa is partial to light eyes and almond skin, so since the harvest, he’s been layin’ down with Fatima.”
“My God . . .” I sputtered. “Does Aunt Augusta know?”
“Don’t know how she couldn’t,” Livie said, matter-of-fact in her words, but her eyes lit with contempt. “Where do white women think their men is goin’ when the shadows fall and darkness veils their whereabouts? Jes’ one more chore we colored gals do fo’ the mistress.”
“Livie, I have been so naive.” I blinked indignant tears I had no right to cry. “Has he . . . has anyone . . . hurt you like that?”
“Not yet,” she said, letting me take her hand in mine. “But Marse Twitch has been watchin’ me hard lately.”
“I would never let him hurt you, Livie.”
“I know you mean that with all of yo’ heart.” Livie’s smile was forced with the hint of resignation. “But you can’t protect me any more than you can protect Fatima and t’others. Livin’ together in the cabin, Fatima is like family to me. So they is hurtin’ me bad without layin’ a finger on me. What they do to one, they is doin’ to all of us. That’s jes’ the way of it.”
“Then I will find a way to protect Fatima as well.”
Livie patted my hand, and we sat quietly, watching the moon peel its way through the heavens. One by one the stars revealed themselves once more. Sharing it with my friend, I felt at one with the miraculous display. The stars seemed to look down at us with the same appreciation that we felt looking up at them. We held our breath and each other until the distant clank of hammer hitting anvil shifted our thoughts to James.
“He’s a fine man,” Livie sighed. “James don’t say much, but there is a heap of gentleness inside him.”
“He cares for you, Livie.”
“He stayed by me night and day since the shucking, when I was mighty low down. At first he didn’t say a word; he jes’ stroked my hair when I cried and kept fresh logs on the fire. One mornin’ I got prickly and told him to get on out and leave me alone, but he jes’ lit his pipe and kept on rockin’ in the chair alongside my bed. Finally, I cried away the last of my tears and lay wrung out on the bed. I watched him as he stared at the fire, and wondered what he was thinkin’. James said, ‘Livetta, we all gots’ta do our livin’ in the now. No good comes from livin’ in the past or waitin’ fo’ a life somewhere down the road. All we got is here and now, girl.’ Then he looked over at me, his eyes flickerin’ with feelin’, and I knowed he wasn’t jes’ talkin’ about me. He was talkin’ ’bout hisself too.”
I smiled, seeing her face come alive as she spoke of James. “You love him, don’t you, Liv?”
Livie closed her eyes, letting the
tap, tap, tap
of James’ hammer serenade her. “My ache was so heavy, it sank me into a sorrowful pit. That man lifted my heart and me right along with it. He been so busy with Massa’s work since then, ain’t been much time fo’ love.” Livie settled a wide grin on me. “But he sure do like it when I bring him biscuits and sit by his forge while he finishes his chores.”
“You do love him!” I giggled and looped my arm around Livie’s, jostling her until she giggled too. “Why, Miss Livetta, you are so full of him I can practically see it spilling out of your ears.” Livie laughed and jostled me back. Instantly, our giddiness was shattered when a thunderous voice echoed through the trees.
“Hannalore! I know you are down here. Show yourself at once.”
With swift reaction, Livie pulled me behind the rock. “It’s Uncle Mooney,” I whispered frantically. The path of his search was traced by the flicker of his lantern winding down the hillside and into the far edge of the quarters.
“I have searched the house, so I know you are here. Come, now, Hannalore. You are not in trouble; I simply want to talk with you.” Uncle Mooney’s voice was tight with harnessed anger. The charm he attempted to wrap around his words was as transparent as a butcher coaxing a plump hen to the chopping block. “I don’t know what you think you saw,” he continued in a forced melodic voice. “But it won’t matter one way or the other if Augusta suspects you have been down here mingling with the chattel.”
His lantern wove among the bare trees and closed the distance between us. Crouched against the rock, Livie tucked around me like a cocoon. She whispered in my ear, “Stay quiet and let him pass.” The glow from his lantern crept toward us, bathing the brush and fauna surrounding us. We shrank into the shadow cast by the rock and remained locked together so securely it was impossible to distinguish where Livie’s trembling frame ended and mine began. The thick stench of whiskey announced his presence, and as he moved nearer, we nudged our bodies with the shifting shadow to stay out of sight. The heavy clank of tin crashed above us as Uncle Mooney slammed the lantern down on the rock.
“Damnation on you, girl,” he grumbled as the lantern teetered above our heads. A glimpse of Uncle Mooney’s hardened figure revealed him hastily dressed, with the buttons of his vest crooked and out of order. His neatly groomed muttonchop whiskers were moist with perspiration and his eyes were ablaze. Taking stock of himself, he loosened and reordered the buttons of his vest, then tugged his lapel and collar into alignment. The glow around us swirled as he snatched his lantern and panned the darkness in front of him, unable to contain his fury a moment longer.
“This is not over, Hannalore,” he snarled as he stepped beyond us and descended the hill toward the flats. “No one crosses me without retribution—least of all the orphaned offspring of darky-loving traitors. I harbor no family obligation toward you or your parents, so you would be wise to remember who you are dealing with, or you will meet the same fate as them.”
My jaw dropped in confusion and fear. All I could do was shudder in Livie’s arms as Uncle Mooney disappeared from sight, his words delivering a blow that knocked me breathless.
Chapter 16
B
y the time Aunt Augusta returned from Roanoke, the Yule log had been raised from the swamp along the Horse’s Bend, lifting the mood of the plantation as it did every year leading up to Christmas. To my surprise and utter relief, Uncle Mooney did not reappear or confront me during this time. Perhaps he had been too intoxicated to remember the incident, or simply too busy with the sale and distribution of his hams to dwell on the matter. Still, Livie and I had doubts about Uncle Mooney’s intentions, so she came and stayed with me in my room, sleeping on the trundle bed as she did when she first came to Hillcrest. I halfheartedly resisted, but was inwardly grateful when she prevailed in her faithful concern for my well-being.
No outward proclamation was ever made about the slave who escaped from Uncle Mooney’s stock, which was highly peculiar and piqued my curiosity about the crooked building behind West Gate. I fought the temptation to reveal my back-lot discovery to Livie. I did not want to stir her melancholy back to the forefront of her mind by rehashing the night she had mistaken the fleeing man for Marcus. James became a steady fixture by her side as the lessening burdens of the holiday season allowed the Runians a little extra time on their own. Soon, the annual holiday ball hosted by Aunt Augusta was upon us. Winston headed a group of Runians sent into the highlands to cut the blue spruce most worthy of our hearth, where it was then trimmed with candles and ornaments of fine silver.
For me, the holiday brought wistful thoughts of Christmas past. A warm, festive cabin filled with laugher and hugs. Happy people with faces I could barely remember, playfully tousling my hair and kissing my cheeks. I ached for the snugness I felt when tucked in my bed in the cabin’s loft, with the sound of song and dance swirling below me. Each year those memories faded a little further, keeping me awake through restless nights, trying to fill in the lost pieces of those days. Although Uncle Mooney’s denigration of my parents raised questions within me, I refused to allow his assault to dampen my mood.
What a pleasant surprise to find myself looking forward to the holiday at hand. Colt arrived home two days earlier, after spending five months in Richmond under the guidance of his mentor Dr. LaValle. Colt was euphoric upon his return and filled with stories and experiences of treating the ill and downtrodden, and seemed more of a man than when he left for the city. As I stood with him at the parlor window, watching a small line of snow geese follow the flow of the river south, it was as though he had never left. After Colt’s first month gone, I had written asking him to purchase a ring on my behalf as a surprise for Livie. I carefully traced a circle on paper as measure for size, and printed detailed instructions for a ring of simple pewter with the letters L and H etched side by side in delicate balance. I was delighted with his choice, and it pleased him when I kissed his cheek in gratitude.
“If I had known payment was to be so sweet, I would have bought the entire display of fine baubles and presented them to you day after day until your heart was mine, Miss Hannalore Blessing.”
I giggled at his teasing remark as I ran my gloved thumb over the letters of the ring, bringing forth more luster. When I looked up into the gold dust sprinkled in Colt’s dark eyes, they were soft and penetrating, without a hint of boyish silliness. I realized Colt was not teasing me. My heart and breath failed me, leaving me motionless until I willed them back to life. Suddenly, I was flushed and unbalanced. I opened my mouth to speak, but my words fell over themselves, unable to find root in the emotion Colt was hoping to pull from me. I loved Colt, dearly and completely. In his absence, I often ached for the comfort his nearness afforded me. But did that make him a potential suitor or a brotherly confidant? I had never seen sincere desire looking at me through a man’s eyes, but my instincts recognized it now. He leaned closer to me, searching my eyes for invitation. My heart wobbled, unsure whether to retreat from him or protect his vulnerability. He lifted a finger and placed it gently on my lips.
“Say nothing for now, Hannah. I am surprised by these feelings as well. But given time to digest them, you will realize as I have, the affection has been seeded and growing for years.”
His finger hesitated before leaving my lips, then brushed along my cheek and up under my chin, tilting it upward to catch my mouth with his. My eyes never closed as I watched him savor the taste of my lips. His kiss ached with tenderness, raising a warm tingle within me where his hands caressed my face, releasing like a wave down the nape of my neck and across my breast. I stepped back with cheeks flushed where his hands had stroked me.
“I must go and ready for tonight,” I gasped in full retreat. “There is much to do, and I need time to prepare.”
Colt brushed his hand from my elbow to my fingertips, bringing them to his lips before releasing them with a smile. “Go then, Hannah. Take all the time you need to ready yourself. Preparation is vital. The celebration will be all the more memorable and enriching once you are ready.”
Colt’s meaning was clear and had little to do with the night’s festivity. As Colt made his leave, the sliver of composure I had held on to left me. I sprinted up the steps, stumbling twice on the hem of my dress as I navigated the stairs as awkwardly as my journey between girl and woman. I did not know what to expect or feel. Common sense told me to stop, slow down, and get my footing under me. First the stairs, and then whatever else followed.
Alone in my room, I sat at my vanity, gazing into the looking glass without notice to the perplexed image fretting back at me. My thoughts continued to swirl with confusion, until the chorus of banging pots and clanking dishes echoed from downstairs, reminding me the house was humming with last-minute preparation for guests on the brink of arrival. The door swung wide and Livie came rushing at me from across the room.
“I jes’ knowed you be up here dawdlin’, girl,” she said as she loosened the pins in my hair so she could stroke my locks into order. “Folks will be comin’ soon. I am helpin’ Esther Mae downstairs. Everything is fine and fanciful. Never see’d nothin’ like it. Massa Charbonneau’s cold heart never felt nothin’ special ’bout Big Times. He say the sun come up and go down like any other day. Sometimes we worked, or sometimes Massa be gone and the overseer saw fit to give us a day to tend to our own chores. Folks on ol’ Massa’s plantation said t’other massas roundabout don’t even call their properties out fo’ work fo’ two, even three, days in a row come Big Times. Some said that no workdays come with a jar of blackstrap molasses fo’ each cabin, and visitin’ papers fo’ them with family scattered on other plantations. I shrugged ’em off as tall tales, since nothin’ seemed no different from where I was sittin’.”
“Charbonneau? Is he the cruel owner you ran away from?”
Livie halted, realizing she let slip a detail of her past that had remained unknown even to me. Anxiety wrenched her face, so to make light of her revelation, I fought back my curiosity and shifted our conversation to what she could expect of Christmas at Hillcrest.
“Tonight’s festivities will be grand, with the finest families of the county invited to join us for a Christmas Eve feast followed by dancing and singing in the parlor. Shortly after sunrise tomorrow, all the Runians from oldest to youngest will gather around the front porch. Winston stands midway on the steps, greeting everyone, and when all heads are accounted for, he begins playing cheerful tunes on his fiddle. The littlest pickaninnies are lifted onto wooden crates placed along the porch, where they dance and clap with the music coaxing us from the house. When Aunt Augusta and I hear the fiddle, we come out onto the porch and are entertained by the singing and dancing. When the last note floats up the mountain, Aunt Augusta formally acknowledges the Runians for their loyalty and the year’s production. She instructs Winston and two chosen field hands to open the crates and disperse two pounds of salted pork, two jars of molasses, and a peck of cornmeal to the head of each family or cabin. Each slave receives a new pair of ox-hide shoes and a coat for the coming year. The men stand in line to receive a set of wool trousers and cotton shirt, while women receive a pair of wool stockings and skirt with cotton shimmy. Chambray cloth is given to each household for the women to make additional clothing as needed, and each child is given two oranges delivered north from the warm groves south of Georgia.”
Livie had stopped brushing my hair and stared at my reflection, as if I were telling her a bedtime fairy tale. I thought she would squeal with glee, but she stood more like a woman than I had ever seen her. She soaked it in, as if needing time to understand the motive. So I continued.
“I love the excitement, although some Runians are simply dutiful in their participation. It is a brief moment of being connected to each other, usually soiled by Aunt Augusta’s expectation that each Runian come forward to thank her for her generosity and for being such a fine mistress. Satisfied with their well-orchestrated reverence, she dismisses them with the promise of no call to duty while the Yule log burns. Of course, the house slaves find no reprieve in this decree; however, their duties are lightened greatly once tonight’s party has concluded. Only then will they have time to spend with their families.”
“Do Massa Reynolds do the same over at West Gate?”
“Of the two plantations, Aunt Augusta is held with better regard for her treatment of her slaves—a wise calculation in her mind. When Uncle Mooney scoffs at her allowances, she tells him, ‘Loosen the reins enough to allow them to gallop and prance. Then when the reins are pulled tight again, both mind and muscle will be ripe in the bridle.’”
“Does he follow suit?”
“No, he simply sucks his cigar and puffs smoke rings into the air, as if considering her suggestion, then snorts in amusement at her yearly urging.” Disappointment dulled Livie’s eyes as she took in my words, so with a coy smile I sparked them bright again. “Uncle Mooney may not gift his stock as much as Aunt Augusta; however, his slaves are not called to duty during the burning of the Yule log as well. You and James can enjoy your own Big Times this week.”
Livie’s smile radiated enough pure joy to keep it glowing several hours later as she joined the ranks of the kitchen help in serving warmed spiced cider to our guests as they arrived. Uncle Mooney’s carriage rumbled onto the property first. As Winston opened the door, Uncle Mooney walked in full stride from the porch.
“Winston, why aren’t these lanterns lit? If not for the full moon, we would have misdirected the horses into the side yard.”
“Sorry, sah,” Winston said, dipping his head as he removed Uncle Mooney’s coat. “De wind must have snuffed ’em.”
“Send your boy out and spark them immediately.”
“Yas’sah, Massa Reynolds. I’ll send Elijah out directly.”
“Good evening, Winston.” Colt nodded as he came in behind Uncle Mooney. Then, when his father was out of earshot, he added, “No rush on those lanterns. The heavens are shining brighter than seventy lanterns burning as one. No sense wasting wick for naught.”
Twitch pushed by and threw his rawhide coat at Winston. Christmas Eve was the one time of year when Twitch entered our house as a guest. Uncle Mooney insisted on including him in the festivities, with the promise that his usual rogue appearance would be groomed and dressed properly. And though Twitch’s suit was tailored and his whiskers trimmed, no amount of polishing could make a cinder shine as a pearl.
“Good evenin’, Hannah,” Twitch said, straightening his pantaloons indiscreetly as he neared me. “You look fine enough fo’ a gentleman to fo’get his manners.” His spongy teeth were bathed in the scent of whiskey.
I remained nonchalant. “I shall remember your words the next time I am in the presence of a gentleman.”
Not to be outdone, he countered with a low, snide whisper that curdled in the pit of my stomach. “I won’t deny your point, ’cuz a gentleman could never enjoy the thoughts I am havin’ about the soft parts of you, warm and waitin’ underneath all that lace.”
“What’s that you say?” Colt stepped to my side, but it was apparent he had not heard the content of Twitch’s suggestive prodding. However, the uncomfortable turn of my face had Colt on guard.
“Nothin’, Purebred. I won’t waste breath on a spineless do-good like you.” Twitch smirked and then moved on to leave Colt to stew in annoyance.
“What did he—”
I took Colt’s arm and led him into the parlor. “Let’s not let Twitch darken the evening. He would love nothing more than to rile us tonight. I will not give him the satisfaction.”
Colt escorted me to the hearth draped with ribbon and evergreen boughs, where we watched the lively Yule log snap and dance. “While I was away, you have blossomed into a confident and mature young woman.” He stepped closer and rested his hand against the small of my back. “You are no longer a child, and there is not an unattached man in the room who is not looking at you as a beautiful and enticing woman.”
I laughed lightly and kept my eyes on the fire.
“Seriously, Hannah. There was a time when Twitch knew exactly what to say or do to bring you to tears. Now even he is off balance in your presence.”
“If he is off balance, it is more whiskey than me.”
“I am merely cautioning you to stay on guard.” He grinned. “The man sleeps with hound dogs, for God’s sake.”
The cider I sipped burst from my lips in laughter. Colt and I giggled together, unable to stop, as one wave of giddiness receded and another rushed over us. We were chums again. No awkwardness of evolved feelings or changed roles. We slipped back into easy banter and private jokes and the blessed comfort of friendship. It was the best gift Colt could have given me.
The splendor of Hillcrest unfolded like a poinsettia sprinkled alive with Christmas gaiety. The room swelled with music and laughter as thirty guests rode in from the surrounding countryside. All braved a brisk December evening to be present and accounted for at a social event that skimmed and separated the cream of the county from a commoner’s pail. The Watkins family arrived with Mabelle, who would remain with us for the week visiting with Granny Morgan. Mr. Snead the banker was there with his wife, Charmaine. Colonel Richards, dressed in full decorative uniform, pranced from one available debutante to the next. The enthralled women welcomed his advances by using their laced fans and polite curtsies to conceal the fact they were elbowing each other for the privilege of hanging on his every word. The Henderson family and Moffett clan completed the elite circle, all mingling to strengthen business connections, search for suitable matches for sons and daughters, and, above all, toast the superiority of Southern life. Every plantation within forty miles was represented by men dressed in their finest suits and women adorned in velvet, hooped gowns. All were smitten with the pleasure of status.