Rapture in His Arms (6 page)

For the remainder of the day, Jillian snapped at everyone, but especially Lizzie, and disliked herself for doing so.

~ ~ ~

Jillian easily returned to the routine of running her household. During her absence, a slave had delivered a fine, healthy son and an indentured servant had died. Otherwise, things progressed smoothly. As the days turned into weeks, Jillian sensed a strange contentment in Edwin. No longer did he seem upset by Jacob’s death; he smiled and laughed more, even willingly accompanied her to visit Dorcas and her son. “Children are wonderful, and Benjamin is utterly delightful,” Edwin exclaimed, after their visit to Dorcas’s home, a visit in which Edwin had held four-year-old Benjamin on his lap and fed him a sweetmeat.

“Aye, he is a splendid child,” Jillian agreed, suspicious of Edwin’s ebullient attitude as they sat down to supper in the oak-paneled dining room.

“’Tis a pity that the child’s father is Tyler Addison. I’ve never had much use for the man,” voiced Edwin.

Jillian knew that Edwin didn’t care very much for Tyler, perhaps because Tyler had courted her before her marriage to Edwin. However, Jillian had never considered Tyler seriously as a husband, for her friend Dorcas was in love with him. “Perhaps you judge Mister Addison too harshly. He does seem to care for Dorcas and his son very much,” she remarked and poured a cup of tea for Edwin.

“Aye, perhaps.” Edwin grew strangely silent then he gazed at her in what Jillian could only describe as a penetrating fashion. “What would you do if I died? Have you considered remarrying?”

His question caught her unawares and she spilled some of the tea onto the tablecloth. Never before had he asked her such a blunt question. “Nay, Edwin, I have not. Please—stop this talk of—death. ‘tis unnerving.”

“I won’t live forever, I don’t want to live forever. My time here is shortly coming to an end, Jillian. I want you to be prepared.”

“Stop! I don’t want to hear about it.” Jillian made a move to get up, but Edwin grabbed her hand.

“I’m going to make certain that before I die, you get your wish, I aim to see you happy.”

“Wish? What are you talking about?” she asked blankly, not understanding him at all. “I wish only that you cease this constant talk about your dying. That would make me happy.”

“All right, my dear. I defer to you.” He chuckled and sipped his tea, as if they hadn’t been speaking of his death at all. Jillian thought Edwin had given up the conversation much too easily. She didn’t understand how a man who felt his time was coming to an end could be so utterly cheerful—almost as if he had a great secret that only he was privy to. A knock sounded on the dining room door shortly after that. “Come in,” Edwin called. The door opened and in walked Donovan Shay. Apparently Edwin had expected him, because he rose from his chair and extended his hand to the man, behaving as though the man was his equal.

Jillian tensed in her seat and slowly brought her gaze to Donovan. She hadn’t seen him since they arrived home, her time being taken up with household chores the last few weeks. In fact, Jillian had put the man from her thoughts. But now here he was, and she had to blink twice because she barely recognized him. Gone were the raggedy clothes and the ill-kempt hair. Instead, Donovan wore a white linen shirt and a pair of brown trousers with dark brown boots. His golden-red hair was trimmed to just above his collar and tied back with a piece of leather. He looks almost like a gentleman, Jillian thought and swallowed hard because a part of herself found him to be incredibly handsome. She stood up and wiped her suddenly perspiring hands on her apron, eager to be away from Donovan and the odd feelings he always aroused in her.

“I—I shall leave you alone,” she told Edwin, but Edwin protested that she stay and pour a cup of tea for Donovan.

A cup of tea for a slave? Jillian was incredulous at Edwin’s kindheartedness, but she poured the tea into the cup, her hand shaking as she gave the cup to Donovan. His fingers brushed hers, and she pulled back as if he’d scratched her. The man barely looked at her but thanked her in a deep, baritone voice. Jillian realized that she never had heard Donovan speak more than a few words. She decided that he must be simple or at least not very bright.

Edwin motioned for Donovan to be seated, and Jillian clamped her mouth shut, though she wished to voice her objection to Edwin. A slave didn’t sit in his master’s house like an invited guest. What must Edwin be thinking?

With his hands behind his back like a doting father, Edwin stood looking down at Donovan. Finally he took his seat. “Would you care for some apple pie?” Edwin asked Donovan. “My wife is a wonderful cook.”

Pie? This was too much for Jillian who was totally and completely baffled by her husband. Why was he accommodating this slave?

“Nay, I’m not hungry, sir.”

“Ah, then you’re eating well?” At Donovan’s nod, Edwin smiled. “Good, good. ’Tis important that my people be well fed and comfortable.” After a few moments of strained silence, Edwin cleared his throat. “I trust you’re happy here at Cameron’s Hundred.”

“As happy as I can be, sir.”

“You’re very truthful. I like honesty in a man. And I think you’re an honest, decent fellow. Do you have any idea why I invited you up to the house?”

“Nay, I don’t.” Donovan clenched the small cup in his large hand, and Jillian thought he might crack it in half. He had the look of a man who expects the worse and has always received it.

Edwin apparently noticed Donovan’s wary expression. He quickly dispelled it when he said, “I’ve decided to train you as overseer on Cameron’s Hundred. Thompson is getting on in years and needs help. With your experience on Horatio Mortimer’s plantation, I believe you’ll prove quite an asset to me. Report to Mr. Thompson in the morning—and move your belongings to the small cabin in the clearing. The cabin is yours now.”

“Thank you, sir,” was Donovan’s succinct reply, his face expressionless. “May I be leavin’ now?”

“Of course. You must get your rest, for tomorrow is the beginning of a new life for you, my boy.” Edwin patted Donovan on the back as Donovan rose from the chair. “You’ll do well, lad. ’Tis nothing to fear.”

“I ain’t afeared of anythin’ or anyone, sir,” Donovan stiffly responded and rose to his full height of over six feet, almost as if he resented Edwin for thinking he might be frightened of this new undertaking.

“Forgive me, son. I know you’re a hearty and fearless fellow.” Edwin watched as Donovan turned and started for the door, only to stop for a second and curtly nod his head in Jillian’s direction as if she were an afterthought, before he left the room. A small smile broke out upon Edwin’s face, but there was an anxiousness about him. “He’s a fine, strapping man, don’t you think?”

“I think he’s insufferable, and I think you’ve lost your wits,” Jillian declared in a breathy voice, unnerved by Donovan’s presence in her home. “What can you possibly be thinking, to train him as overseer? ’Tisn’t my wish to interfere in running the plantation, but this man is a poor choice. You know quite well that Horatio Mortimer had trouble with him as a slave. Edwin, I fear you’ll soon regret your decision to make him overseer.” Jillian’s honesty didn’t seem to trouble Edwin. He continued to smile at her, and a humorous, secretive light warmed his eyes.

“Donovan will be an asset to me in many ways,” he mysteriously predicted.

“I fail to see how.” Jillian began clearing the table, believing the conversation was at an end, when she noticed Edwin was standing quite near to her. She sensed he hesitated. “Have we something further to discuss?”

“Well, I need to ask your help, my dear, but I fear you might refuse me. I pray you do not.”

“I’ve never refused you anything. What is it?” she suspiciously asked, wondering why Edwin was so nervous all of a sudden.

He uncertainly scratched the back of his head. The lines around his eyes appeared quite visible and deep. “I’ve discovered that Donovan can’t read or cipher. Horatio never wanted him to learn, so the lad was never taught his letters and numbers.”

“So? He’s a slave. Slaves aren’t taught to read.” Where was Edwin going with this conversation?

“Aye, ’tis true, but an overseer needs to know how to write and figure. And I want Donovan as overseer, so he must be taught how to read, write, and cipher. I haven’t the patience or the time for such a task, Jillian, dear, so I had hoped you might consider—teaching him. ’Twould make me very happy if you agreed to tutor him.”

“Edwin!” The pewter dishes tottered in her hands, and Jillian was forced to place them back on the table or risk dropping them. She shook her head in dismay and distress. How could Edwin ask such a favor of her? Donovan Shay was a man whom she barely tolerated, a man from whom she wished to keep a distance. And Edwin wished for her to teach this savage, ill-bred lout how to read? Her husband must be losing his senses. “I cannot—”

“I know he’s rough and crude, Jillian; aye, I’m aware of Donovan’s failings,” Edwin hastened to interrupt. “But he’s not a stupid fellow. Nay, I think he’s very bright, and you can help him.”

“But—but—”

“Now, don’t deny me this favor. You’re a good Christian woman, aren’t you?”

“Aye, Edwin, but—”

“’Tis your Christian duty to help those less fortunate and in need. I trust you shan’t let me down—or Donovan for that matter.” Edwin kissed her forehead, the decision already made, at least as far as Edwin was concerned. “Start teaching him his letters as soon as possible, my dear. You may use my library; aye, the library is the perfect place for Donovan’s schooling. I’ll send him to you on the morrow, after he settles into his cabin. Ah, ’tis grand of you to offer help, Jillian. The good Lord will bless us twofold, just wait and see.” Edwin hurried away with a strange smile on his lips, leaving Jillian standing by the table in mute shock.

What had gotten into Edwin? His actions were so untypical of him. Usually, Edwin was the soul of caution, constantly considering every aspect of a situation before acting upon it. But now—now he had won a slave in a card game, was making the slave into an overseer, and expected her to tutor the uncouth man. She seriously considered that Edwin might have lost his senses, that he might also be more ill than she’d imagined. Yet, Edwin didn’t seem to be a lunatic, and his cheeks weren’t pale lately but slightly pink. Clearly, he was excited about something, but about what, Jillian couldn’t fathom.

Something very odd was going on, very odd, indeed.

~ ~ ~

The next afternoon Jillian waited in the library for her pupil. Full sunlight streamed through the open windows and carried a warm but not unpleasant breeze. She fiddled with the writing materials atop Edwin’s desk and repositioned the parchment paper for the third time, but each time she did so, she scowled her displeasure. Why was she so nervous? she irritably wondered. Donovan was only a slave, and she was the mistress here. There was no earthly reason why the man should disturb her. He should be the one who was nervous, for after all, he’d come into her room and bed of his own accord. She hadn’t invited him to kiss her—but he hadn’t invited her response either.

Jillian gritted her teeth and flushed anew at the memory, her cheeks matching the peach color of her gown. She’d never forget how she’d awakened to discover herself clutching at him, aching for his kiss. Over the past weeks, she’d buried the incident in her mind, and now she was forced to deal with it again—all because Edwin had lost his good senses and required her to tutor a slave!

She was so deep in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the scraping sound of Donovan’s boots upon the floorboards outside the room or see him as he peered uncertainly around the door. “I’ve come for my lesson, ma’am,” His deep voice cut through her imaginings. She jumped as if she’d been caught at a theft, and her hand knocked a piece of parchment paper to the rope rug at her feet.

“Gracious! You frightened me,” she chided him, and bent down to retrieve the paper but Donovan got to it first. He picked it up and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed against each other. Jillian stiffened and quickly she straightened, barely nodding her thanks. She saw that he wore a clean shirt with a small ruffle of lace at the cuffs—a shirt which had belonged to Edwin’s late son, but Jillian realized Donovan’s broad-shouldered frame filled out the material better—and a pair of brown breeches which clung to his torso like a second skin. The breeches definitely looked better on him than they ever had on Jacob. She purposely turned her attention to his face. “You’re late. You were to be here at two o’clock. ’Tis now half past the hour.”

“Somethin’ happened in the fields, a small fire. Master Edwin thinks Injuns might be responsible.”

“Indians?” A pulse beat hard in Jillian’s throat, and fear washed over her like a cresting wave. Her grandmother had been killed in the Indian attack of 1622 at Martin’s Hundred, and Jillian’s mother had recounted the horrifying incident, declaring herself lucky to have escaped with her life and not been taken prisoner. Ever since, Jillian had had an abiding fear of being tortured and scalped. Over the past year, the savages had terrorized their neighbors with small attacks and fires.

Governor Berkeley, a personal friend of Edwin’s and Jillian’s, had assured the colonists that he’d put an end to the attacks. He had ordered forts to be built, but taxed the colonists for the defenses. A distant relative of Berkeley’s a young man named Nathaniel Bacon who was newly arrived in Virginia, insisted that the governor wasn’t doing enough to insure the colony’s protection from attack. Edwin considered Bacon to be a rabble-rouser though he had never personally met him. He’d heard enough unflattering information about Bacon through Governor Berkeley. He believed the man was more interested in stirring up trouble among the Indians and gaining personal glory. But Jillian wondered now, in the face of this violence on Cameron’s Hundred, if perhaps Bacon was correct—maybe Governor Berkeley wasn’t doing enough to protect any of them. “Edwin is certain Indians burned our field?” she asked and didn’t hide her terror.

“Nay—nay ma’am,” Donovan hastily assured her, seeing how upset she became at the mention of Indians. He was sorry he’d told her about the incident, but he’d been secretly excited about the possibility of savages lurking around the plantation. Over the years he’d built up quite a store of violent energy, and he was eager to get rid of it in hand-to-hand combat with a worthy opponent. “Mister Cameron guessed it might have been Injuns, but ’tis possible that the hot weather started the fire.” Donovan flashed her a nervous smile. “I’m ready to learn my letters now.”