Knowing Ben, my Ben, was here fairly caused my spirit to vibrate. It was impossible to keep myself together, and so I channeled it into the most efficient organizing and doling out of instructions I had ever undertaken as our newly arrived guests took tea with Mama in the drawing room.
Chickens were slaughtered and defeathered for dinner, courtesy of Sawney. Mary Ann made quick work of readying our two guest rooms, and I joined her to help tighten the ropes on the bed frames. Then she returned to the kitchens to work on supper.
Essie was the only one I could ask to help me take special care of getting the extra dwelling ready without causing fuss and whispers.
When we stood in the doorway, I turned to her and said, “It’s Ben, Essie. My Ben.”
She set her deep brown eyes upon mine, the corners crinkled with years of smiles and wisdom. Then she pressed her thumb to a spot between my eyebrows and muttered something before shaking her head.
I didn’t ask her what she was thinking. I never did. And she’d never tell me. But she insisted on putting some kind of mark on Ben’s door to ward off haints and spirits. She and Quash were so funny about their chicken blood, bones, and feathers.
The overseer’s cottage was swept of mice droppings and spiders and polished with lemon oil. Rosemary was to be hung from the rafters, and I dispatched Mary Ann’s two daughters to fetch some. I had them get extra for Ben’s dwelling too.
I had a field hand come and make sure the chimney was clear by climbing up on the roof and sticking a large straight branch inside and swirling it around. By some miracle only one old nest that had been abandoned a long time ago fell down to the cooking hearth.
New wood was laid, and I fetched one of our medium-sized cast-iron pots from the kitchen, smiling apologetically at Mary Ann, as well as a pitcher of rainwater and a basin. I made a mental note we needed more pots, pitchers, and basins the next time I was in town. Perhaps I’d send Quash to the market next week. Ben would need provisions too.
I returned to the house, passing my mother on the stairs as I finally went to my room to get cleaned up. If Mama knew something was afoot, she made no mention.
I’d not seen Ben again and guessed he’d been helping where needed with horses and trunks and being shown about by Quash. Quash would also show him to his cabin. I didn’t know what he’d been used to in Montserrat, but I hoped he was comfortable here. Certainly it was roomier than the cabins I knew of in Antigua.
All through what felt like the most boring long-winded dinner I’d ever endured, as John Laurens and Nicholas Cromwell tried to outdo each other with overblown trading stories from various parts of the world, all I could think about was whether Ben was comfortable in his room. Did he need anything? Did he wonder why I hadn’t sought him out to greet him despite his initial warning? Was he as surprised to see me as I was to see him?
Even more, I couldn’t help thinking how different Ben looked. He was always self-assured, and that had emanated strongly as long as I’d known him. But he’d gone from boy to man in the few years since I’d seen him. I’d no doubt gone from girl to woman, but to be fair, I saw no change in my appearance. Womanhood had bloomed and peaked early on me. I certainly wasn’t growing out or up anymore.
Ben, on the other hand, had.
Mama was clearly having one of her “good days” and hung on every word of our guests as they put on their show.
“You seem distracted this evening,” Henry murmured at my right-hand side. “I know my father’s bluster is boring, despite half of it being made up, but is something troubling you?”
“The things on my mind are also rather boring, I’m afraid.” I smiled politely at him. “I do apologize for my lack of manners. Did you have a good journey here today? I trust it was incident-free?”
“Valiant effort, Eliza.” He grinned and took another small bite of sage-roasted chicken. I did the same, smirking. It was quite nice to have someone my own age with whom I could commiserate about the tedious generation above us.
“So half of it is made up, is it?” I asked, teasing.
“Probably three quarters.”
“Truly?” I asked, surprised.
“No, not really. I think the majority of the basic facts are true, but handsomely embellished. For example, I do know he was once held captive by an Indian chief while trading for deerskin.”
I couldn’t help my small gasp of surprise.
“But the man did not threaten to scalp him,” Henry continued. “Nor hang him over a cauldron with the threat of being boiled alive. He simply made my father stay for dinner and partake in a smoking ceremony before he let him be on his way in the morning with his procured skins.”
We laughed softly at his father’s attempt at aggrandizing the ordeal.
Henry continued. “The Indians are quite resourceful with nature. Corn comes from them, you know? One day, when I have land, I shall have Indians work upon it.”
I took a small sip of wine. “Indeed? You think you will be so successful you’ll be able to have paid workers? I admire your ambition. And I’m sure we have much to learn from the people who’ve worked this land centuries before us.”
What a thing to aspire to. I should also like it if Lucas land were profitable without the need for enslaved labor. Imagine being able to reward Quash or Togo or Essie … My mind drifted toward the radical thoughts in the way one might indulge an unrealistic dream of basking in the success of indigo. A dream that seemed so very far off after seeing another failed crop today.
“Thank you. I admire yours also.”
“My what?”
“Your ambitions.”
Heat burst into my cheeks, and I glanced at Mama to see if she’d overheard.
“It is a compliment, Eliza.”
“It is not seen that way by most.”
“Are not the mothers of the young girls paraded about at tedious balls ambitious in their own way? Anyway, I plan to have enslaved Indians. Though I’m rather waiting for them to continue warring amongst themselves and make their numbers more manageable.”
I swallowed a hard nut of disgust at his words and quite forgot my previous train of thought. To wish hardship and war upon a people to be able to enslave them? Oh, how very different we were. Being of a similar age and sharing a laugh or two at the expense of our parents did not a lifetime companion make.
“Are you all right?” Henry asked, concerned.
“Yes.” I gave him an insipid smile, thinking of an excuse. “Yes. Only I fear the turmoil of this day has rather gotten to me.”
“And so,” John Laurens announced from his position to my mother’s left. “It is my recommendation that Cromwell act as overseer while he is here to relieve the burden on Eliza and then Colonel Lucas will appoint another.”
Cromwell sat up straighter upon Mr. Laurens’ pronouncement.
“Excuse me?” I piped up. “I missed part of that. Are—”
“It was merely a suggestion, Eliza,” my mother interrupted, putting me in my place as her daughter. “One I happen to agree with. Certainly by the looks of you today, you could use the help.”
I stood. My emotions were too frayed and thin to face the world about me a minute longer. “Actually, regarding today. I fear I am quite fatigued. I hope you will all forgive me as I bid you good night. Breakfast is usually served between six and ten. Simply ring the bell on the sideboard. I shall see you all tomorrow.”
My mother dabbed her mouth. “Very well. I have told Mr. Laurens you will give him a tour of our holding here in the morning. You may be excused.”
In my bedroom, I stripped down to my chemise. For a moment I stood at the window staring out to Wappoo Creek reflecting silver from the darkening sky. I wished I could see the dwellings from here. Was Ben settled? Perhaps he was already asleep, exhausted from his long journey. I hoped the slaves had been accommodating and shared their supper. Things such as this had never occurred to me before.
I said a quick prayer, thanking God for the miracle of this day, and for Ben’s presence, although he was part of the aforementioned miracle, and asking for patience in the face of condescension. Oh, and patience with my mother. Oh, and wits to handle both Henry and his father and avoid a marriage to either of them. Oh, and one more thing, apologies if I was asking too much.
I couldn’t get Ben out of my head. He’d grown taller. Stronger. His head was shaved close. His dark skin was burnished and smooth, though I imagined he shaved whiskers upon his jaw now that he was a man and not a boy. Not that I’d ever touched his face. The thought of it now sent ribbons of curiosity looping through my insides. My fingers tingled as if I could feel the rough texture of skin.
Sucking in a breath, I was shocked at myself.
I was marveling, that was all. Marveling at the miracle of seeing a person I’d thought never to see again. It almost felt as if he was a mirage.
I would have to set or find new boundaries for us. Or perhaps he’d set them for us already by the subtle shake of his head. It was as if he’d known what I’d been feeling in that moment. That I wanted to throw myself upon his person. To prove his reality.
Impossible.
I could never let anyone know how I felt, but I would remain his true friend even if no one ever knew. Even if he never knew.
I reached for my prayer book and grabbed the quill I set by my bed for working on my task list. By the last light of my lamp, I added to a prayer I had written while asking God for patience with Sarah, this time promising to try and love all of mankind.
Having washed earlier, before dinner, all that was left was for me to lift my knees from the hard wooden floor, crawl blissfully onto my stuffed bedding, and pull the rough cotton sheet over me. It was hard to calm my racing heart so that sleep would overtake me. My life felt on the very cusp of some great change. Some movement toward destiny.
The mockingbirds that had seen fit to build a nest near my bedroom window stirred early the next morning. I struggled to hang on to my dream as I peeled my eyes awake into the soft blue darkness. I had dreamed of the blue water again. Indigo. This time Ben was in my dream. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was there, and it left a swirling hive of warmth in my belly.
I sat straight up, my heart pounding with newly rediscovered joy.
Ben was here at Wappoo.
The memories of yesterday fell over themselves. Did my father know that the man he sent from Montserrat was the brother of the man to whom he’d sold Ben? It was either mercy on the part of my father, or divine mercy on the part of God.
Of course, this morning I would have to give Mr. Laurens a tour of the property he thought might end up being his dowry. Also it was Tuesday, the day we visited Mary and her mother. I’d have no time to see Ben.
Remembering the indigo that Sarah and Togo worked on yesterday, I hurriedly got up and dressed, not bothering to ring for Essie. I could do my rounds of the fields and check on the indigo before breakfast was served and still manage to avoid having to share another meal with our guests. They were bound to be abed until it was true daylight.
Of course, no sooner was I around the fields that I found myself gravitating toward the far end of the slave dwellings.
I paused and turned away, forcing myself toward the sheds where the vat of soaking indigo had been left.
It was covered with a piece of sackcloth held down by broken bricks and large stones. I removed a few and looked inside. The water was dark and full of stems being held submerged by yet more heavy stones. The sour stench of the fermenting process I could remember so well from my childhood had yet to happen.
Carefully replacing the cover as I’d found it, I stood.
There was not yet a soul about. The dwellings were still, though they wouldn’t be for much longer. Stars were blinking out one by one as the sky on the horizon turned silver to match the water.
I couldn’t visit Ben, but I could walk the long way back to check the fields one last time. I found myself stopping yet again near the woods and looking at the newly built cabin.
Straining for the sound of movement inside, or the flicker of movement in the dark window, I stood in the still silence. It was then I noticed how very quiet it was. Not a bird, nor rustle of a small animal, nor even a breeze could be heard through the leaves.
“Whach you waitin’ fo?”
I leapt, a stifled scream strangling in my tight throat, and whipped around. Luckily the fright had quite robbed my breath, and the scream had died on its way out or the whole plantation would now be awake. My pulse beat hard in my neck.
Ben was sitting on a tree stump to my right on the edge of the woods. His bare dark chest had blended in with the surrounding shadows. He held a small knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. He’d obviously been whittling, though must have stopped as I approached or I would have heard him.
My hand was at my throat, and I slowly removed it, my heart still furious. I let out a nervous laugh, light-headed with relief. “Well … you.”
“And here I be.”
Finally, I could say hello.
I smiled, starting toward him.
He raised the hand holding the knife, four fingers opening to put his palm out and halt me. When I complied, he let out a long breath and looked away.
I began to fiddle nervously with my dress strings, but when his eyes returned to me and followed the movement, I let them fall and wiped my palms on my dress.
My mind was ridiculously blank. I could muster nothing to say, so I let my gaze feast on the happy miracle of my friend sitting in front of me.
“I missed you,” I said finally, whispering the words so they would never be overheard. “Are you comfortable in your cabin? Is there anything you need? I’m so happy to—”
Ben’s eyes narrowed on me. Then he stood, his lithe and hard-worked body unfolding.
Curving his hands around the hilt of his knife, he turned abruptly and punched the blade down into the stump. It slammed home with such vehemence, it was a wonder the small blade didn’t snap.
I gasped in surprise and stepped back.
Then he stalked to the cabin and entered without a backward glance, leaving me staring after him in stunned silence, my heart ballooning painfully against my ribs.