Storm Clouds Rolling In (3 page)

Carrie could have shouted with joy.
Somehow she maintained her composure. The only evidence of her excitement was the slight excited wiggle of her body in the velvet chair.

Her father turned to look at her sternly.
“You and I will talk later about where you are allowed to go. If you do anything foolish, it will be the only time. With freedom goes responsibility. You can’t have one without the other.”

Carrie pulled herself back to the present.
That had been seven years ago. Since then she had covered every square inch of the plantation. She knew it better than her father himself. Would her intimate knowledge of the land come in handy someday? Carrie pulled up, surprised by the thought that had just crossed her mind. Where had that come from? She shook her head. Sometimes her vivid imagination made her laugh even at herself.

She took a few minutes to look around her now.
To her, Cromwell Plantation was the most beautiful place on earth. The gentle rolling fields, the embracing woods, the undulating pastures that were home to their horses. She had stopped her mad dash in the middle of one of Father’s tobacco fields. The tiny sprigs of plants had just begun to force their way through the rich soil. Their brilliant green reached for the sunlight that sank into the dark earth, beckoning them to life. The even rows spread out before her spoke of the abundant harvest that would be theirs in several months. They had Edmund Ruffin to thank for that. Carrie could remember the worried look on her father’s face as he had watched the yield from his tobacco harvest become less and less. Master Ruffin, from nearby Evelynton Plantation, had been her father’s salvation. His many experiments in agriculture had revealed the secret of marl. The fertilizer, applied to their fields, had worked a miracle, restoring the calcium that years of tobacco growing had leached from the soil. Declining crops had been reversed. Prosperity was once more a commonality of life. Tobacco was still the primary crop, but many fields were now sprouting the new growth of corn and wheat as well.

Carrie’s father had made sure she knew about the workings of the plantation.
Most fathers would have hidden their struggles, but he wanted to make sure she understood what they were up against and what it took to make it all happen. Carrie knew her father saw her as the son he never had. Her mother had almost died during her birth and had never conceived again. As hard as her mother tried to conform her into the perfect southern lady, her father fought even harder to give her freedom and let her learn in the direction her interests lay. While she could have cared less about her sewing skills, she was deeply dedicated to understanding crops and fertilizer. The mystery of growth—the magic of death necessary to cause renewal in spring—was one she never grew tired of. She loved to ride over the cold, barren fields during the winter months. It always amazed her that underneath the hard, unyielding ground lay everything needed to produce abundant growth. She would sit for long minutes contemplating how the harshness of winter was necessary to bring about the beauty of spring.

“Miss Carrie!
What you doin’ here?”

Startled, Carrie looked around.
Only then did she realize she had stopped less than one hundred yards from a group of slaves at work in the fields. “Sadie! You shouldn’t be asking me that question, I should. What are
you
doing here? I told you not to start back to work until day after tomorrow.”

Sadie ducked her head and spoke softly.
“I’m fine, Miss Carrie. I just came over to say howdy. You look mighty fine up on dat horse.” She looked back over her shoulder and her next words came out in a rush. “I got’s to be goin’ Miss Carrie. Have a nice day.” She hurried back over to the group and bent to her work of weeding the fledgling plants.

Carrie returned the wave the rest of the slaves sent her way.
Her eyes, however, were fixed on the horizon. What made Sadie leave so fast? The dust in the distance told her two more horses were on the way. As the pair drew closer, Carrie recognized their overseer, Mr. Adams, and his bay mare, Ginger. She stayed long enough to give him a casual wave, but she didn’t want to get pulled into conversation. She had already wasted valuable time. She urged Granite back into a canter and then let her thoughts return to Sadie.

She would have to go down to the quarters to check on her tonight.
Sadie really shouldn’t be working today. Just two days ago she had spiked a high fever which took hours of cold compresses to bring down. The one area Carrie showed an interest in that sparked her mother’s approval was her nursing in the quarters. Medicine fascinated her. She had started young, going with her mother on her rounds as she took care of the slaves. Owners were expected to take care of their own people. Carrie had watched, enthralled, as her mother doctored cuts and sprains, and ministered remedies to colds and other ailments. Mistress Cromwell helped deliver babies and she had even sewn up some nasty cuts. Carrie was determined to duplicate all her mother did. By the time she had turned seventeen, she had taken her mother’s place at all but the most critical illnesses. The slaves had always loved her, but now they seemed to view her with adoration. Not only did she take care of them, she treated them with respect and caring. Still, she couldn’t help but feel the restless resentment simmering in the air at times.

She would talk to Mr. Adams about Sadie later.
Or maybe she would have her father do it. Mr. Adams always did what she told him to, but his mocking politeness unnerved her at times. It was hard to tell what he was really thinking behind his calculating gray eyes. All she knew was that at times he made her feel uncomfortable.

In retaliation against such serious thoughts, Carrie gave a very unladylike war whoop and leaned forward in the saddle.
Responding to her light mood, Granite launched forward into a dead gallop. His strides devoured the last mile to the river. Carrie could feel her bun loosen and fall as the gushing wind tore at Rose’s careful work. She smiled as the braid cascaded down her back. No matter. She would look proper again before dinner. For now she was free and she meant to make the most of it.

Granite’s mad dash slowed as he entered the trail into the woods.
He knew where they were headed. Carrie allowed him to choose his own way as they wove through the thick trees. There was a trail, but you could see it only if you were on foot and moving slowly. Carrie had discovered it the same year her father set her free. She suspected the only other inhabitants were deer meandering their way to the river for a drink. It was perfect. No one could ever find Carrie here. She should know. There were times her father spent hours searching for her in a fruitless game of hide and seek. He was always frustrated in his attempts, but he understood her need for secret places. He actually seemed to take great pleasure in the fact that his spirited daughter knew his own land better than himself. Carrie was sure that even if he had suspected her hiding place he never would have tried to find it because he knew how special it was to her. Carrie loved both her parents dearly but her father understood her almost better than she did herself. Her brow creased as she thought of her father. He had changed lately. All he talked of was politics, and the look of worry on his face seemed to have become a permanent fixture.

Granite gave a soft nicker as he broke out into the clearing that was their destination.
Carrie gave a soft gasp of delight.

“Oh, Granite.
I knew it was time for them. I was right!”

T
railing vines of wisteria had turned the tiny clearing into a royal lavender palace. The fragrant blooms hung down in cascades that filled the air with a heady perfume. Fragments of sunlight seemed to dance diamonds through the flowers. Dogwood trees, lush with luminous white blossoms, mingled with red bud trees sporting their own purple blooms. The hum of bees busy in the wisteria mingled with birdsong, provided a background symphony as butterflies swirled and fluttered through trees. Carrie sat quietly for a few moments and then dismounted. Looping Granite’s reins around a nearby branch, she circled the clearing slowly, breathing in deeply to fill every part of herself with the beauty.

Not a week went by
—unless weather made it impossible—that she didn’t come here. It was here she had pondered the deep process of growing up. Here she had retreated after misunderstandings with her mother. Here she had struggled with the complexities of understanding herself. Of course it was here she would come on a day like today.

She breathed deeply and moved to where the clearing perched on the side of the James River.
Brushing off her favorite boulder, she settled down, smoothing the folds of her forest-green dress around her. Her eyes gazed into the distance. The river had always had the power to cast a spell over her. Its ever-changing personality seemed somehow to always match hers. Today was no exception. The surface seemed to be a contradiction. As the sun cast bright laughter into some spots, while fluffy clouds cast shadows on the water all around them. Was the river laughing or scowling? Indeed, it seemed to be doing both at the same time. Carrie understood. Tucking her feet underneath her, she rested her chin on her fist and allowed the play of light to pull her in. Maybe it would give her answers today. Maybe the river would help her understand the contradicting swirl of her own emotions.

Carrie loved Cromwell Plantation.
She loved every inch of it—the fields, the woods, the river, the tiny meandering streams. She loved the horses and all the other animals. She especially loved the slaves. They were her friends. Her mother thought it proper to keep more distance, but Carrie had fostered relationships that were deep and bonding. She would just as soon spend a day in the slave quarters as she would with her friends on the neighboring plantations. More so if she were completely honest. Her friends were all proper young plantation mistresses. They were content with sewing and knowing the proper ways to run activities and functions. Carrie was bored with what she considered their silly talk. Which brought her to her dilemma. If she loved the plantation so much, why did she want to leave?

The question had been burning in her mind for months now.
She could no longer ignore it. The future stretched before her, empty and boring. She loved many things about her life, but she was no longer satisfied. She wanted something more. Long days of running a plantation, of duplicating her mother’s life, caused her to feel as if she would be sick sometimes. Carrie knew her days of avoiding it would soon be over. She had turned eighteen just the week before. Even her father was going to expect her to give up her wild, carefree days in return for responsibility and duty.

Carrie could no more help the trapped feeling welling up inside of her then she could stop the flow of the mighty James River.
She had tried but to no avail. All she knew was that she wanted more.
She wanted more!
She wanted her life to stand for something, but what? That’s where she kept drawing a blank. She didn’t know what she really wanted. But she was sure of what she didn’t want. She didn’t want to follow in her mother’s footsteps. She didn’t want to fill her days with plantation details. She didn’t want to give orders about the condition of the house and the preparation of meals. She didn’t want to select fabrics, make clothes, and order draperies.

Carrie laid her head down on her knee and groaned.
Why couldn’t she be like her other friends? They were excited about the prospect of someday running the plantations that had been in their families for more than a century. They simply took their position in life for granted. Why couldn’t she do the same? Her life would be so much easier. Neighbors wouldn’t look at her askance when she did something—like galloping down the main road—that didn’t fit their mold of social acceptability. Why did she have to be so different? Maybe if she tried harder she could make herself be what everyone expected her to be.

For long minutes she allowed her despairing thoughts to sweep over her.
This battle had raged in her heart for two months now. She had to come to some kind of resolution. The turmoil was eating at her heart and mind. She was tired of the flaming thoughts of discontent that kept her awake at night. Finally she raised her head, her eyes once more searching the depths of the river. The tossing waves seemed darker and higher. Her eyes moved to the east toward Richmond, where she saw a mass of boiling clouds coming closer. Another spring storm was on its way. In the short time she had sat there, the advancing cumulus had blotted out most of the sun. Only one bright spot tossed on the river. Carrie fastened her eyes on the defiant spot. It seemed to be enjoying its moment of rebelliousness. The clouds danced across the sky in a vain attempt to block it out. Just as it seemed they would succeed, the little spot swirled away to light on another tossing wave. Carrie watched carefully. If the little spot could have spoken she was sure it would have laughed and told her of the fun of defying the surrounding sameness. It brought her hope. She may be the only one of her kind, but she didn’t want to change. The rest of the world could be clouds but she wanted to be a bright spot that defied the surrounding sameness. Of that she was sure.

Having made that decision
, she leaned back against the tree that grew behind her boulder. She wasn’t like everyone else. She would accept that. But what would it mean for her? Where would it take her? What price would she have to pay? What was she going to do? A low rumble of thunder drew her eyes back to the approaching storm and back toward Richmond. Did her future lie in the bustling city she loved so much? Would she find the answers to the questions she couldn’t voice yet? The questions that created a churning and stirring she could not deny?