Tracie Peterson & Judith Miller - [Lights of Lowell 01] (3 page)

However, I can assure you that the Associates would be pleased to count you among their suppliers. It would appear to even a casual observer that your home and grounds are evidence of how well you’ve managed your plantation—especially in light of the depression you suffered only twelve years ago.’’

‘‘We haven’t always lived so well, but this house was Madelaine’s dream. Wasn’t it, my dear?’’ Malcolm’s gaze settled upon his wife.

‘‘I will admit that after visiting several other plantations, I was somewhat obsessed with having a Greek Revival home in which to rear our children,’’ she replied.

‘‘And it reflects the charm of the two ladies who grace its interior,’’ Bradley added.

‘‘Why, thank you,’’ Madelaine replied, a tinge of pink coloring her cheeks. ‘‘I was determined to find the exact pieces of rococo furniture to accentuate the beauty of our home. I had given up all hope of finding a reviving-game sofa that met my expectations when I discovered one of our slaves is an extremely talented woodcarver. He carved and fashioned the woodwork and frame, leaving only the upholstering to be completed.’’

‘‘I find all of your furnishings exceptional,’’ Bradley said, his gaze scanning the immediate area.

Madelaine appeared to bask in Bradley’s flattering remarks. ‘‘I don’t think my husband shares your enthusiasm for household furnishings, although he has been very generous in permitting me my fancy,’’ she modestly replied.

‘‘Ah, but your husband realizes that a finely furnished home increases his social standing. It’s a visible sign of his wealth and status,’’ Bradley said.

‘‘I thought the South’s most desirable social status was that of slaveholder, not of home or property owner,’’ Nolan interjected.

‘‘That’s true,’’ Malcolm responded with a modicum of pride.

‘‘And here at The Willows, I have nearly a hundred slaves. Why, some of my prime hands are worth fifteen hundred dollars, and I could easily get two thousand for that woodcarver Madelaine mentioned—not that I plan to sell him.’’

‘‘Of course not,’’ Nolan replied quietly.

Jasmine heard the reproach in Mr. Houston’s tone. She eyed him curiously. What was it he meant to interject? She suddenly felt uncomfortable, but she had no idea why. This was her own home, her family table where conversations of productivity and the land often took place, but Mr. Nolan Houston did not seem impressed or approving.

Bradley cleared his throat and appeared to frown at his brother.

‘‘How much land do you own?’’ he inquired, shifting his attention back to Malcolm.

‘‘Two thousand acres—some planted with corn, but the vast majority is cotton. It’s as much as we can handle unless I purchase additional slaves, and we’re making a nice profit at this juncture.

No need to be greedy.’’

Before Bradley could reply, Jasmine pushed aside her discomfort and flashed a charming smile in his direction. ‘‘I wonder if we might discuss something other than cotton and slaves.’’ She looked to her father as if asking permission for such a transition. She saw her mother nod in agreement.

‘‘Our women are of such a delicate nature,’’ Jasmine’s father began. ‘‘They are strong, don’t get me wrong. But such matters are well beyond them, and I have come to realize that it wearies them if we remain upon such topics overlong.’’

Bradley wiped his mouth with one of the monogrammed linen napkins and gave Jasmine his full attention. ‘‘I’m sorry. I have monopolized the conversation, haven’t I? What topic would be of interest to you?’’

She straightened in her chair and met his gaze. ‘‘I’d like to return to my original question regarding my grandmother.’’

‘‘Ah yes. I never did respond, did I? Well, I’m sorry to say I have not met your grandmother. However, it is because of your grandmother that I’ve come here.’’

‘‘How so?’’ Jasmine asked.

‘‘I’m told your grandmother visits frequently with the wife of Matthew Cheever. Mr. Cheever holds a position of importance with the mills in Lowell. During their conversations, your grandmother mentioned the fact that her family was involved in raising cotton. Since our mills are always in need of cotton, I decided a visit to The Willows might prove beneficial to all of us.’’

‘‘I see.’’ She twisted in her chair to face Nolan. ‘‘And
you,
Mr.

Houston? What brings you to The Willows?’’

‘‘I’m a poet and writer, Miss Wainwright. I’ve accompanied my brother in the hope of capturing the tangible essence of the South in some of my writings. I find it difficult to adequately describe places or people in my writings without actual observation. Since I want my readers to authentically experience the words I write, I thought this visit would prove fruitful.’’

Bradley raised one brow and gave a sardonic grin. ‘‘Nolan is quite the romantic, much like all of his writer friends.’’

Jasmine’s attention remained focused upon Nolan. ‘‘I keep a journal and find writing to be a liberating experience. Of course, my writings are merely musings over my daily routine, whereas your writing influences and impacts upon the lives of others.’’

‘‘At least that’s my hope. Of course, one must have a somewhat extensive following in order to effectuate the type of change you speak of,’’ Nolan remarked.

‘‘My brother tends to conceal the success he’s accomplished with his writing. Many who attend his readings proclaim his writing excels that of his contemporaries.’’ Bradley took a sip of his coffee before settling back in his chair, meeting Mr. Wainwright’s stern expression. ‘‘Nolan makes an excellent traveling companion.

Our observations are completely opposite. Obviously our interests differ greatly, but we are both hoping you will favor us with a tour of your plantation.’’

‘‘And perhaps your brothers’ and neighbors’ plantations as well,’’ Nolan added, looking overhead. ‘‘A genuine representation of Southern living is what I’m seeking.’’

Jasmine thought his words sincere enough in his interest, but there was something almost mocking in his tone. She followed his gaze up to the small wiry-haired boy swinging above the table.

The child had fallen asleep, still clutching the feathered plume in his hand. For a moment, she actually wondered if this tiny event in their evening might well appear on the pages of some Nolan Houston work. She smiled to herself and lowered her gaze, only to realize Nolan was grinning at her.

C
HAPTER
•
2

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Bradley and Nolan walked out the vast front door of the white frame mansion, passing through the Doric colonnade that stood sentry over the upper and lower galleries of the home. Mr. Wainwright and Samuel led the way, with Jasmine close on their heels.

‘‘Please say I may go with you,’’ she begged. ‘‘I promise I won’t say a word.’’

‘‘Absolutely not,’’ Malcolm Wainwright replied. ‘‘Go back inside. Your mother needs assistance with her household duties.’’

Bradley watched the young woman’s expression. There was a desire to defy but also a respect that kept her from making too much of a scene. He saw her lower her gaze, as if rethinking her plan, as her father continued to speak.

‘‘We’ll be stopping in the fields before we go on to visit your uncle Franklin’s plantation,’’ Wainwright said. ‘‘That’s no place for proper young ladies to be seen.’’

Jasmine looped arms with her father, lifted her face, and batted her eyelashes. ‘‘Would it be so difficult to go directly to Uncle Franklin’s? I haven’t seen Lydia since the dance two weeks ago.’’

‘‘I can make arrangements for you to go visiting next week.

I’ve already determined our route for today. Besides, we’ll be discussing business. You’ll be bored.’’

‘‘I would be pleased to escort you to your uncle’s home tomorrow, if your father agrees,’’ Bradley offered.

Jasmine brightened at the offer just as he’d hoped she might.

‘‘Perhaps all three of us can go. You could recite poetry for us, Mr. Houston,’’ she said, turning her attention to Nolan.

Nolan exchanged a glance with his brother. ‘‘We’ll see what occurs. I may be so overwhelmed with my memories of today’s observations that I’ll want to spend tomorrow committing my thoughts to paper.’’

‘‘It would hardly be proper for you to gallivant across the land unescorted,’’ Jasmine’s father reminded the trio. ‘‘However, perhaps I can spare Samuel to accompany you. If not, then Mammy will surely enjoy the time away.’’

‘‘Oh, Father, you are very generous,’’ Jasmine declared, looking quite pleased.

Bradley’s suggestion appeared to appease Jasmine more quickly than her father’s vague proposal—a concept which gave him pause for momentary reflection. Apparently Southern women were no more difficult to handle than those he’d encountered in the North.

Females were females, and controlling them was merely a matter of utilizing proper management skill, he determined. Pleased with his incisive observation, he settled into the carriage opposite Malcolm and Samuel Wainwright. The carriage pulled away from the mansion and down the circular driveway before turning onto the dusty road. They traveled a short distance with Wainwright giving a brief commentary on the flora and fauna along the way.

He carefully pointed out the Spanish moss that draped itself like a gray veil from the trees that dotted the landscape. ‘‘Northerners are always intrigued by our Spanish moss,’’ he commented.

‘‘Jasmine calls it Southern lace, although I don’t think most would share her romantic notion.’’

The older man became more energized as they neared the first sighting of his planted acreage. ‘‘I thought I’d begin by having you view the fields,’’ Wainwright said, pointing toward the sprouting cotton crop. The fields were lined with slaves who were chopping at the young shoots.

Bradley leaned forward and peered from the carriage. ‘‘It appears they’re hacking up your new crop.’’

‘‘They know better than to ruin my crop,’’ his host said before giving a hearty laugh. ‘‘The crop would be strangled if the sprouts were to remain this thick. The slaves use their hoes to thin out the plants and create a stand.’’

‘‘Might we stop so that I may examine the plants more closely?’’ Bradley inquired.

Wainwright beamed at the request, obviously pleased by Bradley’s interest. ‘‘Pull over,’’ Malcolm ordered the driver, who immediately pulled the horses to a halt alongside the dusty road.

The foursome exited the carriage, and Wainwright led them out into the fields with a determined step. He stopped and waved his arm in an encompassing gesture. ‘‘All this land you see belongs to my family. We’ve been cultivating cotton on it for many years.

There’ve been many a good year, and many a bad one to follow.’’

‘‘I want to learn everything I can about the difficulties you endure to produce your crop,’’ Bradley said. ‘‘Although we Northerners are well acquainted with what it takes to get cotton from bale to bolt, we have no idea about the seed-to-bale process. I realize that without cotton, our mills are useless. And, quite frankly, it’s you cotton growers who are the true heroes in the industrialization process.’’

Wainwright’s chest puffed in obvious delight. ‘‘It’s good to hear someone finally acknowledge the South is needed in order to make the industrialization process a success in this country. I will be most happy to show you the trials and tribulations we are forced to endure yearly in raising our cotton. We are, of course, dependent upon the weather, which is an issue of great importance to growers—while of little consequence to mill owners who operate their business indoors.’’

Bradley pulled his hat down to block the sun, his gaze resting upon the dark-skinned men, women, and children in the fields.

They moved up and down the rows like an army of ants, their backs bent forward from the waist as they swung their hoes and chopped at the growing crop in hypnotic rhythm. He wondered at the efficiency ratio in light of other factors such as sickness and expenses.

Nolan pointed toward the slaves. ‘‘And
these
people? Are they also heroes?’’

The other men turned and looked at Nolan as though he were speaking a foreign language. Samuel seemed confused, while Mr.

Wainwright appeared to at least try to understand why Nolan would suggest such a thing. He once again pointed toward the fields. ‘‘Heroes? No, sir, those slaves are my overhead, an enormous expense that is ignored by anyone not involved in operating a plantation. As I told you at supper last night, there are few slaves on this plantation that didn’t cost me nearly a thousand dollars.’’

‘‘Of course you breed them, and there’s no expense as the years go by,’’ Nolan remarked.

Wainwright tugged on his vest and stepped closer. ‘‘No expense? Who do you think feeds, clothes, and houses them? Who cares for them when they’re sick? These slaves are a constant financial drain on our income, yet we can’t operate without them. And I do take issue with your remark about breeding. I permit my slaves to marry and bear children. I don’t breed them, and I don’t separate them from their families by selling them off, though there are many slave owners who think me lenient, even disruptive to our way of life for my kindness. Until you’ve operated a plantation of this enormity, you can’t begin to fathom the financial obligation of caring for over a hundred slaves.’’

‘‘One of life’s necessary evils?’’ Nolan asked. ‘‘At least when one engages in this peculiar little institution, eh?’’

Their host actually sputtered ‘‘P-peculiar? Evil? There’s nothing peculiar or evil about raising cotton.’’

Bradley grasped his brother’s arm. ‘‘My brother didn’t mean to offend you, Mr. Wainwright. We admire the abilities and strength of our Southern brothers, and we’re thankful you’ve agreed to educate us on plantation life. Don’t you agree, Nolan?’’

Nolan looked up from his notebook, his brow creased. ‘‘Actually, as a writer and poet, my interest in the South is quite different from yours, Bradley. I’d prefer to move freely on the land rather than hear the facts and figures of cotton production. No offense, Mr. Wainwright.’’

Wainwright nodded in a stern but gracious manner. ‘‘I’ll have my overseer bring you a horse if you like.’’