The clatter of our horse and buggy was loud but surely not heard from miles away. Yet, as usual, as we trundled along the straight road that led to Mr. Deveaux’s modest home he was already waiting, tall and stalklike. His keen eyes tracked our arrival.
Today I’d brought Polly along in place of her usual studies. If I’d told her she was to have a lesson in botany she would have pitched a fit. Instead, she chattered away above the rhythmic noise of our journey, asking questions for which she never awaited answers before her attention was caught again by some new wisp of thought.
“My, if he stood on one leg he would resemble one of our marsh birds.” Polly giggled as she caught sight of our host in the distance.
Mr. Deveaux was a lean, bewhiskered gentleman who walked with a pale yellow ivory cane he once told me was a gift from a tribal chief in Africa, back when he was briefly an agent for the East India Company. He stood with it now, leaning a portion to the right, his clothes hanging from his birdlike body, framed by the lime-washed cottage behind him.
I shook my head with a small smile as we pulled close.
His eyes twinkled in return.
“You make me feel far above my station, sir,” I called out. “No matter how often I ask you to await in the shade of the house, you are always out in the noonday sun.”
“And let these old geriatric eyes miss a moment of enjoying the light and energy that is Miss Eliza Lucas?” His raspy chuckle warmed my heart.
“You are good for my vanity, Mr. Deveaux.” I laughed delightedly and took his bony, outstretched hand as I carefully climbed down, then turned to help Polly. “And you are hardly geriatric. You remember my sister?”
“Ahh, Polly. The youngest Miss Lucas.”
She sank into a small curtsy, then tugged on my skirt. “Can I go with Quash and the horses, ’Liza?”
“No, pet. I’d like you to come with me today.”
“Please?” she begged.
Mr. Deveaux looked down his nose at her. “Miss Polly, have you ever encountered a macaron?”
Polly glanced up at me. I raised an eyebrow at her and gave a slight shrug, unable to answer myself.
“No, sir.” She shook her head, then asked suspiciously, “Is it a bird or a plant?”
Mr. Deveaux guffawed. “None of those, dear one. But let me ask you this: If you were ever to eat a cloud stuffed with a rainbow, what do you think it should taste like?”
Polly’s eyes widened, as did mine. “Is it a confection?” She gasped in delight.
“Well, let us go inside and find out.”
I instructed Quash to return for me in two hours, and then I followed Mr. Deveaux and the Polly-shaped barnacle newly attached to his arm.
“To what do I owe the honor of a visit from you, Miss Eliza?” our gracious host asked as we found perches in the faded brocade-furnished front room of his home, furniture passed down from his Huguenot ancestors. The room smelled of the eucalyptus and rosemary bundles his house servant hung from the rafters to ward off the insects. Esmé usually confined ours to the kitchen because Mama complained of them so. “Did those seeds not sprout yet?” he asked after we had caught up on pleasantries and the news of the area.
“Oh, they have. I followed your instructions to the letter. They are on my sunny window ledge, lots of water every morning, and they have already unfurled little green shoots. I’m thrilled.” I laughed. “I shall transfer them outside at your instruction. Today, I’ve come to talk to you about growing indigo for dye.”
He raised a bushy white eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, I’ve grown woad, of course, but I’m afraid extracting enough dye to be profitable is not worth the effort.”
My heart gave a leap. “So you know how to extract the dye?”
“I confess I find the extraction process something of a mystery, or should I say drudgery.”
“When are we going to eat the macky cloudy things?” Polly interrupted. She looked at me accusingly, as if she’d been hoodwinked.
“All in good time, my dear,” said Mr. Deveaux. With perfect timing his house servant, a short, plump woman with dark skin and wearing a sackcloth dress and white muslin about her head, came in with a tray and laid it out upon a low table. “Ah, Letty makes these from my grandmother’s recipe she brought from Paris. In fact, I believe Letty has even improved upon them.”
The woman, whom I presumed was Letty, hid a smile and scurried from the room.
“Let me,” I insisted as I saw Mr. Deveaux shifting forward as if to pour. “Polly, why don’t you offer the famous macarons?” I suggested and indicated the plate piled with circular items akin to meringues in looks, yet slightly grainier and ranging from pale pink to green to the off-white color of pounded rice flour. Polly clapped delightedly.
“I don’t believe the indigo from the Indias is extracted from woad.” I returned to our conversation. “The leaves weren’t singularly broad. The branches grow as leaves would, and each then have almost a score of leaflets upon them marching up either side.”
Mr. Deveaux rubbed his fingers over his chin. “I believe they are using Indigofera. The true indigo. I tried some myself several years ago. Bought the seeds from a fellow in town.”
I nodded. “Exactly. It grows messily, like a weed or a thicket would. You would never believe anything blue about it. There’s lots of it growing in Antigua where we grew up.”
“Indeed, I have heard people talk of white indigo. That the substance is colorless before it becomes blue. There’s a complicated process to extracting it.”
“I’ve seen it,” I said excitedly, a memory from childhood bursting into color. “When they remove cloth from the barrel you can see it turn blue before your very eyes.”
“That sounds like magic,” said Polly who had just swallowed her third confection and had crumbs about her mouth, but her eyes were wide and listening intently. Ha! Perhaps plants had finally become interesting to the little ragamuffin. I smiled at her.
“Indeed, Polly. It really is some great alchemy. The hand of God or the breath of angels.”
“Can we grow magic plants, ’Liza?” Polly asked.
“We’re going to try, love.”
Polly furrowed her brow. “But how do you get the magic out?”
“I daresay you may need a consultant or some such.” Mr. Deveaux nodded thoughtfully. “If it can be grown. It’s been tried, you know? Not just by myself. Without much success. And of course it will need to be made into dye cakes to sell.”
“I know,” I responded and tried not to let my disappointment grow. Again, I wished I’d asked Papa to consider a consultant, any consultant, should it become necessary, and not pushed so hard for Ben. But with the cost of my father’s military endeavors it could well be a luxury we wouldn’t be able to afford. “That we shall have to figure out. But first things first …” I looked to Mr. Deveaux.
“I’m afraid I will only be able to give you seeds for woad plants. I don’t have any West Indian indigo. The seeds I bought were useless. Only a few came up. Besides, they don’t keep beyond a year or so, anyway. They’d be of no use to you.”
“But you said woad had some blue in it too,” said Polly, and I felt a rush of affection for my little sister who for a moment was clearly as caught up in the idea of magic plants as I was.
“Not as much, I’m afraid. It’s probably not even worth the effort to extract. One has to plant and harvest so much of it.”
Polly looked disappointed, but I was undaunted. “Perhaps we could use the woad to practice the indigo extraction process while I wait for Papa to send us some seeds from Antigua.” In truth, I had already asked him as much in the first letter I penned to him.
“Do you know when one should plant?” I directed the question back to our host, and I began a mental list of which slaves I could ask to impart some of their indigo knowledge. I’d have to visit Waccamaw and speak with Starrat about the Negroes I’d seen there with the blue sackcloth skirts. The thought of having to meet with the nasty, bigoted overseer triggered a small shudder.
“Well, I’m certain that, as with most plants, as long as you avoid the frost times of year, you should be all right. You could plant as soon as possible, I suppose. If there is a particularly special time to plant, it is unknown to me.”
“And me,” I said, wondering if I could remember the times of year it was planted. Twice a year even, if I remembered correctly. And rain, lots of rain. That would not be easy to predict.
Polly had caught sight of Quash outside, and her attention on our conversation was lost; she sat on her hands, her feet fidgety in their leather travel slippers. “Polly, if you’d like to go and see what Quash is doing, you may. But do not dirty your frock and stay within calling distance. Mr. Deveaux and I will finish tea and then go pick out some seeds from his shed.”
“Thank you,” she squealed and made to run out of the room then came to a halt. “Sorry. Thank you for the macky things, Mr. Deveaux,” she intoned solemnly. “Tea with you was a delightful diversion.” She bobbed and then spun out the door.
“You have your hands full with that one.” Mr. Deveaux chuckled.
I smiled and took a sip of tea.
Later, on the bumpy carriage ride home, the low sun bathing us through the trees in flickering warm yellow, Polly fell fast asleep, her small body pressed against me. I fondly ran my fingers over her soft hair, brushing it from her temples. I had meant to get to her lessons today; we were to work on her reading, and had brought a few simple books for that purpose, but I was loathe to wake her.
The two of us were jammed up in the front bench with Quash. Now that Papa had left I decided it was less irksome on my stomach for travel. He and Mama would probably think it unseemly.
Quash was quiet as usual. He took direction, reported facts in his unique brand of English, but as per his position as slave, never spoke unless spoken to.
In the year we had been in South Carolina, Quash had become almost indispensable. The thought that he might run away or join some rebellion popped into my head again. Where would I be without his help? I’d have to employ some awful overseer like Starrat to help at Wappoo. There was certainly no other slave who could drive and conduct business and communicate with the other slaves like Quash could.
“Quashy?”
He jerked, surprised.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said with a soft laugh.
“Yes’m,” he responded, his eyes never leaving the track in front of our brown horse.
“I was thinking I’d like to improve the dwellings at Wappoo. Are there any that are in need of improvements?”
His face twitched to the side as if he wanted to glance at me. Like it was some trick. Then he nodded.
“Do you think you would be able to take on that extra work? I’d like it done. Just let me know if you need help and how much timber, and I’ll get it from Garden Hill or Waccamaw.”
“Thank you, Miz Lucas. Mebbe Sawney and Togo. Peter too.” I approved of his use of our three largest and most capable field hands. Since there was nothing to harvest at the moment, it would be perfect timing.
“I should like for everyone to be warm and secure for the winter. Mind they don’t neglect the weeding while helping you,” I added.
He nodded. Then he seemed to hesitate. “You send fer the timber, ya hear? There be no need fer ya to go up on Waccamaw without your father.”
I glanced at him. Quash would be with me, of course. Quash always stayed out of trouble. But he might not be able to if I went to Waccamaw. If he had to protect me for some reason.
I swallowed hard.
The reality of taking over my father’s business hit home with a thud deep in my stomach. “Of course, Quash. I’ll send for it.”
And I would have to find a different way to ask the women about their skirts.
We rumbled along and I wished the lowered sun meant the air would get cooler, but it only made it feel denser. Or perhaps that was the weight of the mosquitoes. I had dabbed rosemary and lemon oil about mine and Polly’s exposed skin at Essie’s insistence before we’d left Wappoo. I hoped it was still working.
“Quash, do you know what time of year is the best to grow indigo?”
“No, Miz Lucas.”
“Well, perhaps the women at Waccamaw know. Will you ask if you go?”
He nodded.
“Thank you, Quash. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
I said it without thinking and was immediately embarrassed. How could I thank someone for helping me when he had no choice? It was ludicrous. I thanked the servants all the time. I thanked Essie every day. I had never thought twice about it. But suddenly it was all so odd. Thanking a person who had no other choice than to help you. The comment lay out there like a gasping fish. I opened my mouth to say something, I didn’t know what.
“It’s good your family done come to the plantation, Miz Lucas.” Quash’s voice was quiet and rumbly like the wheels of the cart.
I closed my mouth.
Then I nodded and blinked rapidly, but luckily he was looking at the road ahead.