“Granny left you warm biscuits and gravy,” she said, gesturing to the domed silver platter in place at the center of the table. “I have business at the bank. Therefore Winston will drive me into town later. Esther Mae indicates we are in need of some household goods, so she will accompany me to the mercantile as well.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Granny Morgan will have Livetta serve tea during Esther Mae’s absence this afternoon. I shall return in time to have supper with you and Lamond tonight.”
“As you wish, Aunt Augusta.”
Soon after Aunt Augusta departed, I made my way to the sewing room in the back corner of the house. There was a rear entrance used by the Runians who were summoned for their quilting expertise, so there was already a passel of women at work when I entered the windowless room. The winter months provided us with extra hands usually kept busy in the fields throughout the tobacco season. Aunt Augusta was of the popular opinion there was no idle time on a thriving plantation. Winter was the season of repair and preparation. Worn tools and wagons were fixed, fences mended, and necessities like cornhusk brooms and baskets were diligently produced while snow blanketed the hibernating acreage.
With Fatima gone, Tessie rose to head seamstress and all the fine clothing of the household was made under her hand or supervision. All other sewing was done by firelight in the cabins, using castoffs of the main house. The few selected to engage in the quilting were chosen by Esther Mae and required Aunt Augusta’s approval. I supposed this was because of the access they were given to the house, even though it was only this one room and back door. I enjoyed the social community of the sewing room, although I was aware it was more restrained when I was present. Livie joined us a short time later, and much of the morning passed before Lamond’s impatient knock signaled me to bid my leave and join him for the day’s lesson in the parlor.
In the presence of others, Lamond floated with an air of grandiose self-importance. Alone with me, he had become a bit boyish and flirtatious. Nothing inappropriate or lascivious, but considering our age difference, I found it disconcerting. Colt did not like Lamond, and was suspicious of his character since their introduction. Colt had been back on the plantation less than a week, summoned home to aid in a small outbreak of dysentery in the West Gate quarters. He made it his business to discreetly inquire about Lamond’s background with those who were familiar with the colonel’s family. Within days, Colt learned Lamond had fallen under the spell of liquor for several years, and after an embarrassing incident regarding a house of ill repute, his family cut him off from their money until he conquered his demons and regained his status as a gentleman. Supposedly cured, Lamond came to Echo Ridge in part to rebuild his reputation and to put enough distance between him and Asheville to ensure his charade go unquestioned.
“You appear distracted today, Mademoiselle,” Lamond said, wagging his finger at me. “The French language is not meant to be sputtered word by word. It should ooze from you like a seductive melody. Here, feel how it rolls in my throat.” He took my hand and pressed it against the fleshy knot that bobbed beneath his chin when he spoke.
“Je suis enchanté,”
he repeated in a hoarse whisper. “Do you feel it?”
“Yes, I feel it, Lamond.” I grew uneasy and attempted to retrieve my hand. However, he was not ready to part with it, and continued to paw at it with his sweaty palms.
“I am quite serious, Hannalore. You enchant me. Your beauty incites an earnest need deep within. . . .”
He released my hand when the doorknob rattled. He sat with his back to the door, so when he flushed, I realized he thought Aunt Augusta had returned. For me, the sight of Livie entering the room was a heavenly reprieve. She carried a tea service, complete with porcelain cups and a matching pot framed by a neatly arranged plate of almond scones. Amused by my welcoming face, Livie struggled to maintain a flat expression as she moved around Lamond to position the service on the rosewood table between him and me. Lamond did not acknowledge her presence, but midsentence, his remarks had shifted from personal to professorial without so much as a hitch or a stammer.
He lifted a book from his lap and read a passage to me in French. His absorption in the language allowed me to give Livie a devilish grin as she bent to place the tea service on the table. Biting her lip to restrain a grin, Livie glanced from me to Lamond. Instantly, her entire body jerked. The movement jostled the teacups back and forth with tinkling disarray as the pieces bounced against one and other. Livie threw one hand over the pot and cups to steady them, and when she did so, the tray slipped from her grasp and crashed at our feet. Livie dropped to her knees, frantically gathering shards of porcelain in her hands and tossing them onto the tray where it had fallen next to the table.
“I’s sorry, Miz Hannah,” she said in a subservient voice I didn’t recognize. “I’s jes’ a fumblin’ fool. I’ll clean this mess up rightly. I’s so sorry, miz.”
“You clumsy wench,” Lamond boomed as he kicked the tray across the room, causing Livie to cry out and shrink to one side.
“Lamond, stop it,” I said, jumping between him and Livie. “It was an unfortunate slip of the hand. That’s all!”
Still on her hands and knees, Livie scrambled across the floor with her head bowed low and retrieved the tray. Her bent frame convulsed as she brushed the broken cups into a pile. Blood trickled from a cut on her hand, mixing crimson with the puddle of tea surrounding her. All the while she kept uttering, “I’s sorry, sah. Jes’ slipped, is all.”
“Quit blabbering or I shall kick your teeth into more cracked pieces than those damn cups.”
“Step back, Lamond!” I burst out, yanking the lapel on his jacket. “This is not your concern.”
Lamond’s face bulged eggplant purple as I intercepted his fury. He stormed toward the window, bellowing about my “soft hand with coloreds.” Livie kept her head down until I moved close enough to shield her from Lamond’s sight. She looked up at me with doomed terror heaving in every breath. She mouthed a barely audible whisper.
“It’s young Massa!”
“Lamond?” Shock and disbelief twisted inside me. “He’s your master?”
“Massa Charbonneau’s boy has come lookin fo’ me. I’s as good as dead.”
I reached down and discreetly touched her cheek, although my trembling hand offered little reassurance for her or for me. “Don’t panic,” I whispered. “Keep your face turned away while I get him out of the room.”
Nerves set my skin ablaze, but with two calming breaths I willed a cool facade to overtake the wildfire of fear that scorched in me. I turned and moved toward Lamond, hoping my body would serve to obstruct his focus on Livie.
“Let’s move to the dining room, Lamond. Granny Morgan will serve tea and we can continue with our lesson.” Desperation had me batting my eyes at him. “I would like to learn more about the seductive melody of the French language.” To my dismay, his mood had soured.
“Women lack the wherewithal to strike fear into their darkies. Lend me the use of a whip. I will take this one out back and teach her a lesson in the proper way to serve her mistress.”
“It’s truly not necessary, Lamond. She is ashamed and regretful. There is no purpose in demanding more.”
Lamond snorted with impatience. “Demand more and get more. It is the only hope of wringing all you can from these ignorant creatures. Each lash of the whip reminds them their fate is in our hands. There are no accident, only shortcomings. Every shortcoming needs to be met with a greater punishment for there to be improvement in the breed. Hell, a good dose of punishment, even when it’s not warranted, keeps them cowering and desperate to please.”
His dry lips curled under the hook of his nose, obviously amused by a thought in his abhorrent mind. “I remember one of the house wenches who served my father and stepmother. As I recall, her name was Willow. My stepmother was a harsh and ghastly woman who knew how to handle her darkies. She despised Willow, but the wench was a wonderful cook. Once, when I was a month short of my twelfth birthday, I stole Father’s pipe and hid behind our barn for my first smoke of tobacco. By the time Willow called me for supper, I was green to the gills from puffing on that ol’ thing. Three bites into my meal, I vomited across my plate and onto the table.”
“Lamond!”
“No, wait.” He chortled. “That’s not the best part. My stepmother was furious and accused Willow of feeding us spoiled food. Delivering retribution, she forced Willow to fetch a spoon and eat every last bit of vomit I spewed, right down to licking it from the table.”
Porcelain shattered behind me. As shocked as I was at Lamond’s revolting story, I could not begin to imagine the outrage it struck in Livie. It was her mother who was the victim of this despicable behavior, and I would not have blamed her if she had thrown the jagged china at Lamond in response to his brutal enjoyment of her mother’s abuse. Instantly, Livie began smashing what was left of the cups onto the tray. Both of her hands were bleeding now, and she wept angry tears of eternal heartache.
Lamond was taken aback by Livie’s outburst. When she rose and lifted the tray of shattered finery from the floor, he headed her off at the door before she could escape the emotional lashing he had unwittingly laid on her. I feared what Livie might say or do as they stood face- to-face. The tray in her bloody hands rattled with fury. Lamond mistook it for cowering, but I knew better. She raised her eyes to his, challenging him to push her.
“What are you looking at, girl? If you want to bleed, I have a mind to hang you by your ankles from the nearest tree and beat every drop out of you.”
His words had no impact on Livie’s fiery stare. I had to intervene quickly. “You’ll do no such thing, Lamond. The poor girl is hurt. Let her go tend to her injuries.”
I angled close to Livie, begging her with my expression to move on while she had the opportunity. She relented to my silent plea, and the tray in her hands calmed. Livie tilted her head away from Lamond and stepped toward the door.
Lamond’s hand snapped up and grabbed her by the chin, wrenching her face back toward him as he snarled.
“How do I know you, wench? The curve of your face is familiar to me.”
The arch of Livie’s defiant brow went limp. Livie pulled away, but he grasped her harder and brushed his thumb over the small, darkened birthmark that punctuated her cheek. After nearly a year, our charade hung precariously exposed in the light of day. Yet Lamond’s expression remained puzzled. I prayed he was too dull of mind to make the connection between this womanly Virginia house servant and the young field slave who fled his plantation in North Carolina. After a long, tense moment, he shook her from his fingertips.
“Were you ever the property of my cousin the colonel?”
“No, sah,” Livie said, keeping her head down and away from further scrutiny.
“I cannot recollect where I have seen you before, but it will come to me. For now, you better mind your place. I might not know where you are from, but I will make certain of where you are going, and that’s straight to hell by way of the whip.”
“Yas’sah.” Livie bowed submissively, then sprang for the door like a cornered rabbit finding a way around the assault of an outwitted hound.
I breathed a sigh of relief and engaged Lamond in our studies as quickly as possible. When I finished my lesson, I searched the house and found Livie sitting on the floor in my room. She rocked back and forth, her eyes swollen from crying.
“I gots’ta leave here, Hannah. Young Massa Lamond is gonna remember me, and that’ll be the end of it all fo’ sure.”
I fluffed my dress out and sat next to her, offering the comfort of my arm around hers. As shaken as I was, I knew Livie needed strength and guidance. “Do not panic, Liv. Running now will only put them on to you. Besides, Lamond did not recognize you, even though you struck a familiar chord in him. How much time did you spend in his presence back in Carolina?”
“He is the son bore of Massa’s first wife. He is much older than me and was away from the big house fo’ long spells. Every now and again, he would come back to the plantation and ride out to the fields to look us over, usually tellin’ the overseer to drive us harder. I am taller and meatier now, but if he gets a hard look at me, he is likely to figure out his own runaway is right under his nose.”
“Well, then, we must keep the two of you apart while I figure a way to end his stay with us.”
“I know it’s wrong,” Livie said with sullen clarity. “But if I had the wherewithal at the time, I would have plunged a pitchfork through him fo’ what he said about my mama.”
Although Livie’s hatred of Lamond was well-founded, it frightened me. I had long been accustomed to the disdain of white toward black. It was a natural part of the landscape and as predictable as the river bend and the creep of laurel over the mountain. But I had never seen or heard hatred flow openly in the opposite direction. News occasionally trickled in about an isolated uprising or slave attack against whites. However, the perpetrators in these stories were painted as ungrateful renegades possessed by beastly demons, or worse, used as puppets by sympathizers and abolitionists attempting to infiltrate the Southern infrastructure.
Livie was none of these things. She was simply a girl incensed by the mistreatment of someone she loved. Was it not basic human nature to be so? Rightful feelings, and surely not deserving of death by a noose, as was the recourse if such behavior was displayed by a slave. How many of these so-called uprisings were born of the same? Suddenly, the tension churning beyond the peaks of Echo Ridge became real and within reach, and its ugliness jolted me.
How I wished Colt was home. Having contained the fever of a few, he had returned to his duties with Dr. Waverly in Lows Hollow. Colt promised he would join us for the wedding festivities at week’s end, but I feared his homecoming would be too late should Lamond pursue his recognition of Livie. I instructed her to stay down in Mud Run, where Lamond would not have opportunity to study her a second time. His presence was now menacing to me. I could no longer concentrate or find enjoyment in our lessons. His loathsome account of abuse left me ruminating a time or two about pitchforks and blind justice. Livie’s wedding was less than a week away, yet our giddy anticipation was sucked away by worries of keeping her safe and unexposed. It seemed an impossible task, although I did not admit my worries to Livie. My fears were stoked to full blaze when Aunt Augusta joined us for tea one afternoon.