Cromwell sought me out one morning in Papa’s study a week or so before we left for the King’s Birthday Ball in Charles Town. “May I have a word?”
I was penning a short missive to my father, updating him on plantation affairs and letting him know we soon planned to harvest our next crop of indigo.
The seed pods from the plants that had survived the pest last year had been gathered and dried. We had planted them with new seed sent from my father. So we had high hopes for this crop.
I laid down my instrument and gave Cromwell my full attention. “Of course. How can I help you?”
He shifted uncomfortably. His skin was sallow and brushed with powder that did nothing to hide the old pox scars on his cheek. His mustache was worked into two sharp points on each side. “We don’t have enough hands to harvest when the time comes,” he said. “We’ll do our best but unless all the leaves are harvested and put into the vats within a day, the dye will be inferior.”
Irritation surged.
“I’m sure you understand,” he went on, “how woefully underprepared you are here to succeed in this indigo scheme.”
“I’m sure you understand that we have already covered this issue, and I will give it no more credence. You have a job to do.”
“Which is impossible in these conditions,” Cromwell blustered.
I frowned, confused by this resistance again from him and not understanding his lack of will to succeed. “Everything is prepared as you asked. In time. For you to suddenly tell me now that you believe we haven’t enough help borders on irresponsible neglect for the job you are being paid to do.”
“I do apologize. Ben and I had spoken about it, and I was led to believe he, and perhaps Quash, had spoken with you. You are with him alone in the fields fairly regularly. It was only made clear to me today that the subject of additional help had not been broached.” He took a seat in a club chair without being invited. “We’ll do the best we can, of course, but I fear that’s all I can promise.”
My head throbbed, and I realized I had been gritting my back teeth together as he spoke.
“Certainly. It must have slipped Ben’s and Quash’s minds.” My voice was stiff. “But I can’t get cross, can I? As it is your job, not theirs, to tell me what is required for this to be a success. I’m sure it was a simple misunderstanding.”
“So you are prepared for the expected outcome to be somewhat disappointing? Next year, I’ll—”
“Of course I’m not all right with it. I will have to move some help here from one of the other plantations.” I sighed heavily. “Please excuse me while I compose my request.”
I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped my quill. I couldn’t write to Murry. His operation was performing so perfectly, I didn’t want to upset his balance. My hand trembled with barely controlled emotion. A year of waiting and then this. Starrat, then. “You may be excused,” I said, not looking up.
I heard a sound of what could have been indignation gurgle from Cromwell’s throat. Then he rose and left the room.
So this had been his final attempt to prove to me I couldn’t do this. It was beyond comprehension that he would so perjure his own integrity to make a point. What purpose could it serve to cause me to fail? I imagined he’d thought he’d timed it perfectly. That I’d be unable to procure more help.
Cromwell proved himself quite correct. Despite my plea to Starrat to send Negroes down from Waccamaw, Starrat’s response was that he was unable to help due to the fall rice harvest. A valid excuse. But somehow I knew he could have managed.
Quash informed me he had never heard from either Ben or Cromwell of the need for more help.
Each day that passed brought us closer to the day it would suddenly be deemed harvest day, and I didn’t want to miss that moment when it came. But with the end of October and the King’s Birthday Ball bearing down upon us, it seemed I might.
There was no way I could be absent from the largest social event Charles Town had ever seen. It would put the final nail in my coffin of spinsterhood and probably seal Polly’s fate as well. Besides, Mama wouldn’t allow me to back out, I was sure of it. I wanted to see Mr. and Mrs. Pinckney. She had, after all, been so generous in having her seamstress, Bettina, make our dresses, we could hardly not attend. We needed to be there for fittings a few days prior to the event.
I hadn’t been alone in the fields with Ben since the day I’d grabbed his hand, but I couldn’t avoid being near him forever. Now I found myself seeking him out.
Ben was facing away from me, inspecting the rows with Togo, talking softly, pointing out certain plants. From the looks of the buds, the indigo would soon burst into bloom. I had a feeling this was what we were waiting for. For the indigo to be at its most potent and its most creatively fertile; moments before it burst forth into flower.
I waited on the edge of the field. Togo saw me and nodded his head. When I didn’t summon him, he kept moving. Ben did not look up. On a whim, I looked around at my feet and spied a small pinecone. I picked it up and taking careful aim, I let loose and hurled it at Ben’s back.
He stopped.
My heart pounded with nerves.
Ben resumed his walking without turning around.
If Togo noticed what I’d done, he didn’t give it away.
I felt stupid for replaying our silly childhood game. I didn’t know what had come over me. It was a childish gesture and now I simply felt ridiculous.
After a few more minutes, Togo left and Ben turned to me.
“I don’t like being kept waiting,” I said when he finally approached, his gaze guarded.
“I not like things thrown at me,” he responded.
“You didn’t used to mind so much,” I half spoke, half whispered, my voice feeling oddly choked up.
He breathed in through his nose. “I was a child then.”
I looked away. The energy between us, unable to become anything resembling what we’d once had, was almost physically painful in its impotence.
Swallowing, I cleared my throat. “Did you tell Cromwell we needed more hands for the harvest, or did Cromwell tell you?” I already knew the answer. It was Cromwell I didn’t trust.
Ben cocked his head to the side. “You do not have more workers coming?”
“You didn’t answer me. But no. No, we don’t. Because no one told me.”
Ben shrugged. “We will manage.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, not giving him the satisfaction of a nod. “When will it begin?”
He turned to the stalks nearest us, fingering the small buds. “Sunrise in three days. Maybe before.”
Exactly what I was afraid of. I’d have left for the ball. I swallowed in disappointment. At a loss as to what else to say, I began walking away, blinking rapidly.
I felt like I was holding on too tight to everything. My ambitions, my emotions … I feared they would soon slip through my fingers and unravel at lightning speed.
A thump hit my lower back. I gasped and turned around. Ben stood, a small smirk playing around his mouth. Two more pinecones in his hands.
I swiped at my eyes, betraying myself.
He stilled when he saw my tears and was quiet a few moments. “It be alrigh’,” he said finally. “I’ll make it alrigh’.”
I let out a long breath that wobbled and hitched as it left me. “Thank you.”
He nodded and brought two fingers up, laying them gently to the pouch at his breast.
I didn’t know what it meant. It was familiar, though. I felt a chill move through me that I would have dreamt something so foretelling. It must be a memory.
A gasp from my right drew my attention, and I saw Sarah, hand on her swollen belly, swinging her gaze between us.
And somehow, with dread, I knew Ben had made a terrible mistake.