After the hasty and incensed departure of Mr. John Laurens and his son, I sat alone in my father’s study. The leather of his chair had grown warm under my person, but my bones felt chilled.
I’d written to Papa immediately of course, and then busied myself with the accounts and painstaking recording of all our correspondence into the copy book that was a few days overdue.
Sitting in here, with the smell of cypress wood and waxed pages, I could almost imagine Father’s fragrant pipe ’bacca drifting gently through the room. Oh, how I missed him. He would have taken one meeting with Laurens and the whole debacle would have been avoided.
I’d neglected Polly’s studies the last few days too but didn’t feel like seeing anyone just yet, not even my vivacious chatterbox sister.
The muted rustle of skirts at the doorway drew my attention.
My mother stood on the threshold.
Bracing myself to hear her wrath about my outlandish treatment of our guests, I laid down my quill. I squeezed my hands into tight balls and pressed them in my skirts.
“I’m not sure why your father acted against his sound judgment by sending that cursed Negro,” she said, surprising me with her tack. “But you are no longer a child, Eliza, and …” She paused as if changing her mind from her original intent. “We live in turbulent times.” She closed her mouth and lifted her chin.
I snapped my brows together and swallowed heavily. Ben? Ben was her issue? Well, I no longer had to worry about whether she’d realized he was here. I waited for her to say something else as we stared at each other. Perhaps she waited for me to speak.
I had nothing inside me.
Was there no admonishment for my actions today?
My fingers, still curled into their tight balls, began to throb.
As abruptly as she’d appeared at my doorway, she turned and left. And I was left staring after her. Some days I knew my mother, and some days she fair surprised me.
Ben.
I’d managed to keep my mind busy since the altercation this afternoon. But now I ruminated on his presence here. Though my heart was glad, the joy was weighted heavily with a jangling mess of barbed hooks. His actions early this morning had confused and hurt me. And perhaps they had set the tone for my day, which had resulted in me acting as I had.
I didn’t know how to move forward. And I wanted more than anything to run back to the past. All the way back. To being a carefree child who had a best friend.
Instead I sat stuck on my father’s chair, in my father’s study, coming to terms with the person I’d birthed within myself today.
I was different.
Different from other women. The crushing paralysis that came from being stuck between a past I couldn’t return to and a future I couldn’t have was heightened by the realization there was nothing to be done about it. I couldn’t change the fact I was a woman. Or that I had to be civil to men like John Laurens. I couldn’t change the fact that I was merely caretaking my father’s enterprises until he could give them away to my brother. His eldest son. I couldn’t change the fact my father owned other humans as chattel, chattel that indirectly included Ben now and also—a sob of breath escaped my chest—included me.
I’d crossed a threshold today. A line I’d never be able to step back over. There wouldn’t be any more suitors coming my way. That was certain. The Laurens men would, of course, see to that.
One day I might marry. Maybe if someday I had a dowry that made me an attractive prospect. But no one would come calling. Not anymore.
The confirmation of all my realizations was in my mother’s lack of admonishment.
It was done.
It was too late. All she could do was offer me a warning not to make more enemies. I sensed her feeling of failure, as if her motherly efforts had fallen short, and my conscience twisted with a pang of guilt.
I thought of my sister, Polly, who would one day be looking for a husband if I didn’t ruin it utterly for her. I thought of my father at war with the Spanish and what might become of us if something happened to him. My heart constricted in imagined grief. My brother George was still too young to take over the family. Besides, he was in England. My brother Tommy, younger still, was in poor health. And I thought of the slave revolt. And the Negro Act, hastily thrown together by fearful people, prohibiting teaching the poor wretches to read or write or even gather to pray. What kind of a world were we living in? We live in turbulent times, Mother had said.
We did.
And it had never been clearer to me how utterly rash and selfish I had been by refusing to ever consider a husband. How would I protect my family on my own? It seemed I’d gotten my wish, and only now did the consequences truly weigh in.
On a whim, I pulled out a fresh sheaf of paper and addressed my brother George.
Congratulations. Papa’s last letter informs me you are to take up your commission in the army. I hope you will forgive a girl at my early time of life presuming to advise you but beware false notions of honor. One must make the proper distinctions between courage and rashness …
I looked about the room, not really seeing anything, but trying to recall my brother’s nature. My heart squeezed as I remembered the dimple upon his cheek, his boyish enthusiasm, and his indignation on small conflicts. How trying must it be on Mama to be so separated from her children, wondering if their characters would be intact upon seeing them again. I sighed and put ink upon parchment again. I would write to George and Tommy more often, I decided, and perhaps be of some guidance in that regard. And attempt to subscribe to my own advice.
… And the proper distinctions between justice and revenge. As you enter into life one must be particularly careful of one’s duty to our Creator, for nothing but an early piety and steady virtue can make one happy.
Yes, I’d do well to follow my own advice. I needed to learn piety myself.
George would be here to take over our affairs. And I would have nothing. Without a husband, I would be nothing but a burden.
Indigo.
Indigo was what I would have. I didn’t know what it would bring me, bring us, but it was the only thing I could think of that I could contribute.
It was surely a gift. I couldn’t be mistaken.
My studies in botany, a father who supported my pursuit, my childhood and friendship with Ben, my dreams, meeting Mr. Deveaux who’d encouraged my amateur experiments. Even my father’s circumstance, leaving me in charge.
God was giving me a gift. A chance. A destiny. And I recognized it as such.
While I didn’t know what that chance could do for me, I knew I couldn’t squander it.
And I needed Ben’s help.
My chest tightened at the thought of him.
Ben, who for some reason didn’t want anything to do with me.
Many restless nights and early mornings followed that I spent ruminating on whether it was better to let Ben be. But every day as the sun rose, so did my selfish need for his friendship. And I knew it was selfish. What good would it ever do him? Or me? What was it exactly I wanted beyond his expertise with indigo? We would never again have the easy laughter and companionship of childhood.
Yet, after that first morning where he’d surprised me in the woods, I’d never attempted to see Ben alone again. Even during the day, and my work with Cromwell, I studiously avoided him as best I could. But I was aware of exactly where he was at any given moment, even if my body would have to turn around for my eyes to find him.
Initially, Cromwell inspected the remaining indigo plants daily with Ben. I often followed behind. Occasionally, they would disagree on something. I’d hear the deep soft rumble of Ben’s voice and Cromwell’s terse response. I’d watch Ben carefully finger the seed pods. I came to understand that Ben was the one to whom Cromwell deferred on all indigo knowledge. In fact, Cromwell was nothing without Ben. However, knowing that made it even more imperative that I only addressed my questions to Cromwell.
“When does one harvest seed?” I’d asked Cromwell.
“We don’t. We wait for the seeds to drop. Then we must leave them on the ground to dry before picking them up.”
I couldn’t help glancing at Ben because that seemed a little ridiculous.
“Why not just gather the seed after it falls and dry it on trays in the open shed? Surely it would dry faster.”
Ben made a dismissive snorting sound and glared at me. The longest he’d actually looked at me in days.
I narrowed my eyes back at him.
“And why don’t we plant again right now?”
Ben opened his mouth, then snapped it closed and looked at Cromwell.
“We’ll plant when I say so,” Cromwell said importantly.
Ben snorted again before turning away and walking off, his shoulders proud.
Cromwell raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “Please forgive him. He’s been acting out of sorts and surly. If I didn’t depend so much on his innate knowledge of these things, I’d teach him a lesson in respect. Unfortunately, as history has shown me, that gets me even less from him.”
I cringed inwardly, turning away as if to survey the field and biting down so hard I thought I might crack a tooth.
How could that question have possibly irritated Ben so much? Was it that he thought I’d addressed him and he didn’t want me talking to him? He’d made that clear the first morning, and I’d adhered to it.
“He has these superstitions,” Cromwell went on, oblivious to my discomfiture. “As all these Negroes seem to, about the seeds needing to come to know their soil, so that they will grow to their fullest selves when they are themselves planted.”
That sounded like the Ben I knew. And I’d bet that little piece of mystical wisdom had been passed down from his grandmother. I couldn’t help a small smile.
Cromwell shook his head. “It’s ridiculous, I know, but I humor him.”
I thought it actually quite insightful, but kept quiet. And now I knew why Ben had just been annoyed with me. He probably thought I should know this.
In fact, I was suddenly convinced that if I asked him he would tell me the reason our crop had failed was we were using orphaned seeds, separated from their comfort zone, and planting them in foreign soil and expecting them to thrive. They needed to be gently coaxed. They would adapt. Eventually.
I would succeed with indigo, little by little. Every attempt would teach me something new. I only hoped it was enough and in time. It would be a long few months waiting until we could plant again.
“I’ll ask my father to send more seed as soon as possible for next year. And we’ll have the seeds that will drop from our plants here so we’ll be prepared. Perhaps sowing them together next year they will draw strength from each other.”
Mr. Deveaux had often mentioned to me how similar plant specimens could adapt together, cross-pollinating for strength.
Cromwell puffed up. “Miss Lucas, you have no idea what you are talking about. It’s endearing for a woman to have such an interest in horticulture. Charming even. At times.”
The insult rolled off me. “You are being paid to be here for a specific purpose, and I do not want another year to close out without you having a chance to show me your expertise in indigo-making. But alas, pestilence has forced me to be patient. Next season can’t come soon enough. And I’m sure a man with your considerable talent won’t let it fail again.” I was certainly counting on his pride.
The next question was, how would I keep Cromwell busy until we could sow again? “Let us go and speak to Quash about the plans to build all the production facilities so we can be prepared for our next harvest.”
“Lead on,” said Cromwell stiffly.
Over the next few months, Cromwell began to take the boat into Charles Town. As winter came, he stayed away more and more frequently. Sometimes he took Ben, and on those days sleep eluded me almost entirely. And I’d be up hours before dawn, checking our oaks and walking the property.
I knew Cromwell was probably losing his shirt in gambling dens or frequenting unmentionable houses. But what was Ben doing when he went with Cromwell? The same? My stomach clenched tightly at the slightest thought.
I had taken to joining Ben and Quash every moment I could when he was at Wappoo and finding excuses to ask as many questions of Ben as I could creatively summon. I probably drove him crazier than I had as a girl. Luckily, he and Quash worked closely together, Ben making himself useful before the next indigo season, and they seemed to have become good friends. And so, it was easier to hide my inclination to spend time near him since there were always plantation matters to discuss with Quash.
Of course, nothing fooled Mama.
Somehow, even though Ben rarely spoke to me, it was obviously clear to my mother that when I was out in the fields, I revolved around Ben like the Earth around the sun. And worse, it obviously didn’t much concern me who cared to notice.
Weeks where we went to town for business and social functions were distractedly endured by me as I counted the moments until we could return to Wappoo. Only staying at the Pinckneys’, where I experienced Mr. Pinckney’s enthusiasm for my ventures, could come close to the pure happiness I felt when I was about the land.
Mother had obviously inked an extremely concerned letter to Papa, for I received a cautionary letter from him a month later. He reminded me of my duty “as his surrogate,” and how my brother George’s legacy “rested in my hands,” and lastly, but by no means least, that any impropriety would demolish any hopes we had of a social standing in Charles Town or of finding me a husband “when the time came.”
Incensed upon receiving it, I hastily worded a strong letter back to him.