Candle in the Darkness (6 page)

“I’ll go ask Daddy right now.”

The aroma of cigar smoke filled the library when I entered. Daddy and Jonathan were deep in conversation, discussing all the troubles out west in Kansas. “Are you sure?” Daddy asked when I told him I wanted to go with him. “It’s a very long carriage ride out to the plantation, especially in this heat.”

“It’s hot here in Richmond, too.” I didn’t mention Tessie.

Surprisingly, Daddy turned to Jonathan. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s a fine idea, sir,” my cousin said. He winked at me as if we were conspirators.

When Daddy finally agreed, I could hardly contain my excitement. I ran outside to the kitchen to tell Tessie, then stopped short when I saw a strange Negro man filling our kitchen doorway. He stood as tall as Eli, and he had his arms all wrapped around Esther. She was sobbing and wailing as they rocked back and forth.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her in alarm.

Esther unwrapped herself, and I saw a broad grin stretched across her face. “Nothing wrong, child. I happy to see my boy, that’s all. This here’s my son, Josiah.”

He was not at all what I expected. Josiah was a grown man in his late twenties. He looked for all the world like a younger version of Eli—the same massive shoulders and broad chest, the same height and weight. But Josiah’s handsome face had none of the gentleness and warmth of his father’s. It was as if he’d been carved from cold black stone instead of rich brown clay.

“Pleased to meet you,” I mumbled, then hurried inside to tell Tessie to start packing our things.

That night I was so excited about my trip to Hilltop I had trouble falling asleep. It was the first time I’d ever been excited about trying something new. I lay awake in bed a long time.

Later, not long after the downstairs clock struck ten, I heard a sharp
click
as if something hard had struck my bedroom window. I lay in the darkness, listening. Then I heard it again, the sound a hailstone makes when it strikes the glass. Tessie rose from her pallet, opened the shutters a crack, and peered out. Before I could ask what she’d seen, she grabbed her shawl and hurried out of the room, wearing only her nightclothes. When she didn’t come back right away, I climbed out of bed and went to the window to see for myself.

Tessie stood in the shadows beside the carriage house, her white chemise bright in the half-moon’s light. Josiah had her wrapped in his brawny arms, just as he’d clasped his mother a few hours earlier. Then he bent and began kissing Tessie’s neck, and her soft laughter floated up to me in the quiet night. I quickly turned away, closing the shutters once again.

I left for Hilltop with my cousin Jonathan early the next morning, traveling northeast from the city on the Mechanicsville Turnpike. Tessie rode on the driver’s seat beside Josiah, but neither of them spoke a single word. In fact, they acted as if they were perfect strangers, never so much as glancing at each other. It made me wonder if I had dreamt the scene by the carriage house last night.

“Why doesn’t your family ever come out to Hilltop?” Jonathan asked as we rode along beneath a scorching July sun.

“I don’t know. Too far away, I guess.”

Jonathan grunted derisively. “It’s not
that
far—only three hours or so from Richmond by carriage. My father makes the trip into Richmond about once a month.”

I wanted to ask why Jonathan’s father never visited us, but I didn’t dare. “Daddy talks about Hilltop sometimes,” I said. “He told me it’s the plantation where he grew up. That’s all I know, though.”

“Want me to tell you about it?”

“Yes, please.”

He laughed, and when I asked him what was so funny, he shook his head. “You won’t need your fancy city manners at Hilltop. . . . Anyway, my father is William P. Fletcher II, the older brother. He and Grandfather manage the plantation together. I mean, they did until . . .”He leaned his head back against the seat, struggling for control.

“You’re very fond of your grandfather, aren’t you?”

“He’s your grandfather, too, you know,” Jonathan said hoarsely.

I nodded, waiting until he could continue.

“Your father is the younger brother,” he finally said. “He runs the business side of things in Richmond—operating the warehouses, selling the wheat or tobacco or whatever else we grow. Our fathers are supposed to be partners, but you’d never know it. They barely speak to each other. I don’t know what that’s all about exactly, but I have an idea.”

“Tell me.”

“Your father started buying and selling for other plantations besides Hilltop. He started importing coffee from South America and stuff from Europe and began making a lot of money. But I heard Grandfather say that his money is
tainted
. He won’t touch any of it.”

My stomach lurched at the thought of my daddy doing something wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t be discussing such things with Jonathan.

“Anyway,” he continued with a shrug, “none of that matters now. Grandfather is ill, so the family will all come together. Our fathers also have two sisters. Aunt Abigail is married and lives in Hanover County. Have you ever met her?”

I shook my head.

“You will. My brother was sent to fetch her. The youngest sister is Aunt Catherine, who married a planter from Savannah and lives down in Georgia. I sent her a telegram yesterday from Richmond, before I came to your house.”

It felt strange to learn about all of these relatives for the first time. I repeated their names to myself so I wouldn’t forget them— Uncle William, Aunt Abigail, Aunt Catherine.

“You have two more cousins at Hilltop besides me. My brother Will is the oldest; he’s seventeen.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen. We had a sister who died when she was just a baby, and another sister, Ruth, who died when she was eight. She would have been twelve by now if she’d lived. Then there’s Thomas, the baby. He’s six.”

Jonathan began explaining to me how they used to grow tobacco at Hilltop but had switched to wheat because tobacco “used up” the soil. I was only half listening. Instead, I gazed at Josiah’s broad back as we rode, remembering how I’d seen him kissing Tessie in the moonlight. Could Josiah be Grady’s father? Eli said Josiah was born in Richmond, in our house, but I had no memory of him at all.

“When did Josiah come to live at Hilltop?” I asked when Jonathan paused for a moment. I hoped that the squeak and rattle of the carriage, the plod of horse hooves, would prevent Josiah and Tessie from hearing my question.

“There’s a story behind his coming,” Jonathan said. “Want to hear it?”

“Yes, please.”

“When I was five I took a bad fall off my horse. Broke my collarbone, my arm, and my leg. The doctor fixed me up with splints and said I couldn’t walk on my leg for at least a month. I got pretty bored lying around my room all day. When my father came to Richmond on business, Uncle George offered to send Josiah back home to carry me around. He said he was about to sell him at the slave auction so we may as well have him at Hilltop. Father wouldn’t accept a gift from Uncle George, so he bought Josiah for me. Jo was plenty strong enough. Smart, too. He not only hauled me all around, he played dominoes and card games with me to keep me occupied until my leg healed.”

“How old was he?”

“I don’t know . . . late teens, I guess. Nobody keeps track of his Negroes’ ages—and slaves don’t know how to count. Anyway, I haven’t needed to be carried around for ten years now, but Josiah and I are best friends. Couple of years ago, he started working as an apprentice to Hilltop’s blacksmith, but I still send for Jo whenever I need someone to go hunting or fishing with, or just to ride around the countryside. I’ll be going away to college in a few years and I want Jo to come with me as my manservant—although my father keeps threatening to make a field hand out of him because he’s so big and strong. Says it’s a waste of good manpower to use Josiah as a manservant, much less have him gallivanting around the countryside with me all day.” He laughed, as if Josiah’s future was of very little importance.

“May I ask him a question?” I asked.

“Sure, go ahead. Hey, Jo,” he said, leaning forward, “Miss Caroline has a question for you.” Josiah glanced briefly over his shoulder, then nodded curtly.

I hesitated, unsure how to begin. When I finally found my voice, my sentences all came out like questions. “Um . . . when you left Richmond? And moved to Hilltop? Did you, um . . . did you miss Esther and Eli a lot?”

Josiah continued to stare silently ahead. I couldn’t tell if he’d even heard me. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and mumbled, “Don’t recall. Long time ago.”

We crossed the sluggish Chickahominy River, and after a hot, dusty, three-hour ride over some of the bumpiest roads I’d ever traveled, Jonathan pointed to a weathered line of split-rail fences. “Those mark the edge of our plantation,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

I saw slaves working in several of the fields we passed, their black bodies glistening with sweat in the heat as they bent to toil among the green plants. Pine trees lined the narrow road on both sides as we approached the house, forming a fragrant tunnel around us.

I fell in love with Hilltop at first sight. The white, two-story house sat atop a small rise, shaded by oak and chestnut trees and surrounded by fenced fields. The front facade had a peaceful ele- gance to it, with neat black shutters and four simple pillars supporting the portico. Josiah drove the carriage around to the rear of the house—to a smaller, plainer entry—and a yard that was alive with activity. A flock of chickens, geese, and other fowl scattered at our approach, along with a flock of small Negro children whose job it was to tend them. Nearby, their mothers scrubbed laundry in wooden tubs, draping the clean tablecloths and bed linens over bushes and fence rails to dry. Older children bustled back and forth hauling water and firewood.

As we drew to a halt, Jonathan’s mother emerged from the house to scold him for driving the carriage into the yard and kicking up a cloud of dust. But she stopped mid-sentence when she saw me.

“Mama, this is Uncle George’s daughter, Caroline,” Jonathan said as he helped me from the carriage. “She’s decided to pay us a visit along with her daddy—he’s coming a little later.”

“Welcome, Caroline. It’s so nice to finally meet you.” My aunt Anne’s greeting was as warm as the summer day, but beneath the smile she looked very tired and careworn. She wore an apron and a plain, blue-checked work dress without hoops. Her graying, flyaway hair was gathered into an untidy bun on the back of her head. “You’ve caught me at a very busy time,” she began, but Jonathan interrupted her apology.

“Don’t you worry, Mama. You just go on back to whatever you were doing. I’ll be glad to show Caroline around and keep her occupied till dinnertime. Her mammy can see to all of Caroline’s things.”

Inside, the plantation house was smaller and plainer than our enormous brick house in town. Jonathan explained that the original house, built by our great-grandfather, had only two rooms downstairs and two upstairs. Our grandfather had enlarged the house with a two-story addition on the west side. My Richmond house had five spacious bedrooms—my mother’s two-room suite, my father’s adjoining bedroom, my room, and the empty nursery. Hilltop had only three modest-sized bedrooms upstairs, one for my aunt and uncle, one for the boys, and one that had belonged to the girls before they died. This latter room was where I was to sleep. After I’d freshened up a bit from the trip, I left Tessie to unpack my things while I went exploring with my cousin.

Downstairs, the double front and rear doors were left open all day to allow the breezes to blow through. The house had no library or drawing room like ours did, only the parlor to the left of the stair hall and the dining room to the right, where three slaves were busy setting the table for dinner. The parlor furniture was sheathed in cotton summer covers, like our furniture back home, but beneath the slipcovers I could see that their furniture was older and shabbier than ours. The door to my grandparents’ room was closed, so Jonathan said I would have to wait until later to meet them.

Instead, he took me on a tour of the outbuildings, such as the kitchen, the dairy, and the smokehouse, all bustling with activity. More dark faces appraised me when we ducked inside a small work shed that housed a spinning wheel, a loom, and Hilltop’s two seamstresses. The kitchen, a short distance from the house, was similar to ours, with a loft upstairs where the house servants lived. It looked much too small to accommodate the dozen or so servants I’d already seen working in the house and yard.

“They don’t all live here,” Jonathan said. “Most of them live down on Slave Row.”

“Where’s that?”

“You can’t see it from the house. I’ll show you when we go down by the barn.”

“Which of these servants are Tessie’s parents?” I asked.

Jonathan gave me an odd look, as if I’d asked a very strange question. “I don’t know. Who cares which Negroes are related to each other?”

I wanted to say that
I
did—that Tessie and Eli and Esther were like family to me—but I didn’t. I could tell that Jonathan already thought I was very strange. And I wanted very much for him to like me.