Authors: Ann Rinaldi
It was there, though, between us, like a moth fluttering between two flames, igniting our souls, making each of us remember.
But somehow not as bad as what had flared in me the time I'd caught her with my tutor Phineas Miller in the schoolroom.
I'd forgotten my notebook that day and had gone back for it to find the classroom empty but for Mr. Miller and Mama. She was in front of his desk, leaning over it. He was showing her some papers, and then, just as I came to the doorway, of a sudden he stood up, took her by the shoulders, and kissed her.
There was my beautiful mama, the mother of five children, and twenty-five-year-old Phineas Miller, who hadn't the sense to mind his own beeswax, kissing her! I wanted to storm into the room and beat him over the head or something! But I just stood there. Then, because the kiss went on beyond decency, I cleared my throat and said, "Excuse me, I left my notebook."
Well, Mama got all out of shape and stood up straight and scolded me into next week about not knocking proper-like, and intruding on grownups when they were in conference.
Conference!
I did what I was supposed to do, of course. I apologized. I said, "I'm sorry, ma'am," like I was expected to say. Then, real wicked-like, I said, "I'm sorry, sir," to Mr. Miller. "May I fetch my notebook?"
He brought it over and handed it to me. His eyes were very narrow and hateful, and I met them with my own, which I made just as narrow and hateful, because I'm good at doing that. And because Mama couldn't see the look I gave him. Of course, I knew I wouldn't suffer for it the next day in class, because if he made me suffer, I might tell Pa what had occurred here in this time and place. And then only God knew what would happen to him.
And afterward, Mama, who was so quick to slap, or pick up a switch and spank, did nothing. Because, it went without saying, I might cry to Pa about it, and Pa did not like his children punished that way, and then she would have to tell him why she slapped or spanked. So nothing was ever said or done about the terrible incident between Mama and Mr. Phineas Miller. And as far as Mama and Phineas Miller knew, it was forgotten.
Except by me. I never forgot it. At first it made me disbelieving. This was my
mama
we were talking about here! My own pa had talked with both me and Martha already about boys and men and how some were not to be trusted and what to do if they acted unseemly toward us.
And then, after I stopped being disbelieving, I knew I had to be accepting of Mama's behavior. That hurt more than anything. I don't know what comes next, after being accepting. I haven't come that far along yet, and I don't want to think about what comes next, because I'm afraid of it. I just want to stay frozen, where I am, in the accepting part.
And then, oddly, it was someone else who brought a rumor about Mama's behavior to my attention.
One day, shortly after, on my way to the schoolhouse, I heard someone whispering my name. I stopped on the path and turned.
There was a disreputable young slave woman by the name of Chancy. I knew she worked on Anthony Wayne's plantation, that she went frequently into Savannah on errands when he needed it, and that she was a carrier of secrets, used by both the whites and the Negroes.
"Miz Greene?" She was begging me. "Cornelia?"
I stopped in my tracks. "Yes? I'm late. What is it?"
She stepped out of the shadows of the orange trees. "I gots to tell you somethin'. My mistress, she kill me if'n I don't."
She considered General Wayne's estranged wife her mistress, though she lived on his plantation more than her place in Savannah, going there occasionally to work for General Wayne's wife.
She gestured now that there was an urgency about the matter at hand and that I should step into the grove of orange trees with her. So I crossed the path and did so.
"Well, what is it?" I demanded.
"There's peoples been talkin" bout your ma. My mistress say I should tell you 'bout the unfoldin' scandal. The scandal that says Gen'l Wayne an' your mama been havin' a love affair. An' your pa, he ain't home when the gen'l come 'round. An' word is all over Savannah 'bout it. An' your pa should be careful if'n he don't want it talked 'bout some more. My mistress say this."
"Does General Wayne know about this message you're giving me?"
"No. He be madder than a cooped-up bloodhound not able to chase a runaway darky if'n he know. He throw me offa the place an' I like it there better than Savannah. Mistress beat me. Gen'l Wayne, he don't."
I felt anger rush through me. I could have misgivings about my mama, but I'd allow no one else to. "You tell your mistress that whenever General Wayne is here, there are five children and servants about. And a nasty old tutor always lurking somewhere, reading a book. So how could they have a love affair?" I pushed my face toward hers.
She pulled back.
"You tell her, hear me? I don't care if she beats you!"
"I tells," she said. "I tells."
"Now go," I ordered. "And don't you let me hear such words out of your mouth again about my mother!"
She ran.
***
F
OR A WEEK
, I worried the matter like a dog worries a bone, but nothing came of it. And then Pa announced that we were to ready ourselves for our trip to Cumberland Island. Mama was well recovered, and she would be in good hands with Eulinda, and now Martha, by her side.
Martha went about pouting but dared not show any deeper resentment. In private she made only one threat to me before we left.
"You'll be sorry," she said.
And somehow I knew I would be.
We dressed accordingly, for it was a one-hundred-and-sixteen-mile trip. The servants saw to it that I brought along my sturdiest clothes and boots. My straw hats had mosquito netting that covered my face. My brothers George and seven-year-old Nat were similarly protected in their clothing, and so, on a morning that began with heavy mists, we boarded a sailing ship at the Savannah docks for the hundred-mile trip on the Saint Marys River to the port of Saint Marys.
The mist soon cleared and the sun shone, and we were no longer ghosting down the river but sailing along smoothly.
It was my job to see to little Nat, and though I seldom speak of him, I believe he was my favorite sibling. And I sometimes think that Pa, for all his fellowship with George, did not realize how smart Nat was.
For one thing, his mind was forever busy, forever figuring things out.
At seven, he knew how to work the loom that Eulinda insisted on using. And one day when it would not work, it was he who figured out what was wrong with it.
He would sneak into George's room to investigate his books, because his own cache of books was already boring him. Sometimes he would trail after George and Pa when they tramped through the fields, a bit behind them to be sure, but not so far behind that he could not hear their conversation.
Mostly they ignored his presence.
The whole business wrung drops of blood from my heart.
Nat opened his own heart and his mind to me, always, because he trusted me. As we walked the deck of the sailing ship, he asked, "Why does Mr. Miller say that Pa will never live at Dungeness?"
"Mr. Miller is jealous of Pa," I told him.
"Because he is sweet on Mama?" he asked.
The question was like a bolt of lightning that ran through me. I could not be less than honest with this sweet boy.
"Yes," I answered, "but we must never tell Pa this. It would hurt him so."
He nodded his head gravely but said nothing.
In his mind he is twenty years old,
I told myself.
And I must always protect him.
On the ship, after we ate our noon meal, Pa showed us his sketches of the house he planned. It was nothing less than beautiful. There would be polished wainscoting, a marbleized banister, four chimneys, sixteen fireplaces, and twenty rooms above the first floor. On the first floor were the two parlors, the conservatory, the library, dining room, and Pa's study.
"Can I pick out my own room?" I asked Pa.
"You all can," he promised.
I chose one in a tower, on the fourth floor.
"Wandering bands of Indians once lived on the island," Pa told us. "Now it is home to deer, pigs, cattle, and wild horses. Pay no mind to the wild horses if you see them. They roam the beach and you cannot approach them. They are very sad-eyed for some reason."
Mayhap, I thought, they are like our family, with hearts full of secrets. Like Pa, whose heart is full of cannon shots and screams of war, and fear that he will lose his wife to Phineas Miller or Anthony Wayne. Or Mama, whose heart is full of the temptation of a hazel-eyed man, or the memory of the final sighs of a baby.
Or little Nat, who is sad-eyed because his pa does not know him for what he truly is. Or myself, who knows too much and cannot tell. And still knows, despite what Pa says, that she is responsible for the death of the baby.
***
W
E STAYED
overnight on the sailing ship. Pa and George had one room, and Nat begged to room with me, so Pa said yes. We had bunks, and I let him have the top one. I think the little fellow was lonely.
Around noon the next day, we arrived at the port of Saint Marys, where we had to rent horses for the seven-mile trip to Pa's land. Since Pa insisted we take our time and explore the scenery, it took us about two hours. We went through incredible marshes and lush land brimming with wildlife. I saw colorful birds I had never seen before, hundreds of deer, dark forests of pine and oak, all hung with heavy gray Spanish moss.
We saw what Pa described as "tropical and semitropical plants."
"Sage palms," he described them, "fig trees, rubber plants, and look there. Portuguese laurel." And on and on he went.
Soon we came to Pa's land, which comprised almost the entire southern end of the island. It had large spots filled with virgin oak and pine trees.
Pa dismounted his horse and had us do the same. There was a natural pool of water nearby. He told George to water the horses and tether them to some nearby trees. He showed us just where the house would stand, then allowed us to scout around.
"Don't wander too far," he warned. "Nat, stay with Cornelia."
After a while I sat under some orange trees on some sweet grass where I could keep an eye on Nat, who had gone down to the pool. I lay my head back and closed my eyes, listening to the myriad sounds of birdsong. In a moment or two I felt someone staring at me.
Pa? Nat? I'd just pretend to be asleep. Then I felt a touch, softer than velvet, on my arm. No, a
nuzzle!
My eyes flew open and I was staring up into the face of a
horse.
One of those horses Pa had said would never let you approach them. One of those sad-eyed creatures. I let it nuzzle my arm a bit. Then, with as little movement as I could, I raised my hand without moving my elbow and patted its nose. It whinnied.
I whispered to it, like I did to my own horse at home. Its eyes were beautiful, like two cups of tea before they were polluted with milk. It made a deep sound in its throat and I listened.
"Where are the rest of you?" I asked softly. "Did only you come to visit? Do you want to be friends? Well, all right, we can do that."
It looked as if it wanted to tell me something. Then, just when we could have had a decent, straightforward conversation, came the sounds of Nat approaching. The horse raised its head, its ears alert, its eyes assuming a glaze of fright.
"Go," I said, "go quickly. And tell the others we'll be back again, and when we do come back, we'll never hurt you. We mean you no harm. And you can always come first, just to me, to make sure. I'll be waiting for you."
The horse whinnied again in farewell, understanding, then turned, soft-footed, and disappeared into the orange trees.
Nat saw it. I know he did. Nat did not miss much. "You were talking to that horse," he said.
"Yes."
"I stayed back because I didn't want to interrupt the conversation."
"You're a good brother."
"Can I stay by the pool a little longer? There are some interesting fish I'd like to study for a while."
I looked around for Pa. There he was, a short distance away, sitting on an overturned log near some clove and fig trees.
"All right, but don't fall in."
"I can swim."
"Don't fall in anyway. I'll be right over there, with Pa."
As I approached Pa, I saw that his back was toward me, that his elbows were on his knees, his head in his hands. He was crying.
I stopped in my tracks.
Pa
crying
?
The man who had served second in command to General Washington in the war? The man whose face represented to all of us courage and strength and the ability to hold us all together?
"Pa?" I asked as I ventured forward. "Pa, are you all right?"
He wiped his face with his large handkerchief. "Of course I'm all right, Cornelia. Isn't a man allowed a few private tears on occasion? Do you think women have a corner on them?"
"No, sir."
He reached out and I went to him. "I was hoping to be able to get you alone for a few minutes on this trip, to speak with you, and yes, it has something to do with the reason I'm shedding a few tears. I hear you were paid a visit by that reprobate slave girl Chancy."
Oh,
I thought, and I shivered, dreading what was coming.
But he smiled. "She had the insolence to approach me, too. Told me you threw her off the place. Good for you! But this business about your mother and General Wayne. You don't believe it, do you, Cornelia?"
"No, sir," I said quickly.
"It's being spread by Wayne's wife out of jealousy. Wayne and your mother were friends at Valley Forge, where your mother's high spirits brought happiness wherever she went. General Washington considered her a boon and said she gave the men an excellent outlook. He wanted her around. I always trusted her with the men there, including Wayne, and I trust Anthony Wayne with her today. No matter what that obnoxious Chancy says."
"Yes, sir," I said.
"Today, her spirits are cast down after losing the babe. And it is she who needs her outlook lifted. And Anthony Wayne serves to lift it. I am indebted to him for doing so. And I was crying, yes, because people are putting a degrading meaning on it. And I want to make sure you are not."