The Color of Freedom (2 page)

Despite their contentment, father and daughter lived as serfs of a bygone era, bound to the estate of the Englishman from whom they leased their fields. Rent claimed half their slim harvest of wheat, cabbage and potatoes, and only a few bony dairy cows supplemented their diet. They lived under thatch and cooked over peat, but the scorn of race and poverty failed to scar Meadow, sheltered as she was in her quiet corner of the empire.

Ownership of the vast estate had transferred hands just prior to Meadow's birth. The new landlord managed his acquisition from his residence in Birmingham, and the little village enjoyed nine years of peace. But the placid stretch could not last.

One day, the master whirled back like a cyclone to govern his Irish estate with a firm, greedy hand. Finding the village detrimental to his plans, he routed the whole of it, turning his tenants off land they had farmed for generations. Meadow and Amos suddenly found themselves without food, shelter or the means to acquire either.

Forced to book passage under terms of indenture, Meadow arrived in Boston Harbor with nothing but a passionate hatred for the British. The debt of her burly father was recovered immediately by a local businessman in exchange for seven years' labor, but a nine-year-old girl generated much less demand. She lingered in the stinking hold of the ship for three weeks with the sick whom no one wanted. Eventually purchased by Lord Dennison, she became destined for far off
Wellshire
, bound until the age of twenty-one.

∗ ∗ ∗

Meadow shivered in the dim interior of the woodshed, and the minutes evaporated like her anger. Determined not to show weakness in front of her master, she shored up her shoulders and marched back across the frozen yard, backtracking momentarily to grab a handful of firewood.

Reentering the kitchen, she dropped her load in the box beside the massive hearth. Then she took up a platter of roast pheasant garnished with frilly greens. The aroma wetted her mouth, but her own scant supper must wait till the distended bellies of the rich could hold no more.

As she receded to the swinging door to deliver the entree, she felt the clinging, bony grasp of Widow Pym on her shoulder. The head mistress was, at best, unpleasant, but she took particular delight in persecuting the young girl unlucky enough to be in her charge and born Irish.

"Not so hasty, girl," she said, peering down the length of a long, pinched nose. "Master Dennison still mutters about his porcelain. You'd best not enter his presence again this evening."

Relief poured through Meadow like wine into a goblet, but she kept her pleasure well-masked.

Sneering slightly, the austere woman pointed to the trestle table. "You will work there."

Meadow followed the finger with a sinking heart. Her original tray of dirty dishes had multiplied tenfold and covered the entire surface of the table, and the meal was not yet half over!

The woman snatched the pheasant from Meadow and whirled away to the dining room, her skirts swishing out their triumph. Meadow made a face at the swinging door.

"Did you find your puppy dog, dear?"

Meadow turned to find Sarah gazing at her with the innocence of a small child. "Yes, I found him."

"Aye, that be good. I was sure I saw it chasing the chickens, but I won't tell the master," the old woman confided, tittering behind a gnarled hand.

Meadow resigned herself to her task, methodically scrubbing the soiled dishes and handing them to Sarah to dry. All around her, the kitchen was a riot of sharp orders, hasty movement and loud noise, but Meadow remained planted at the low table, quietly enduring the stream of nonsense issuing from her companion.

At last, the frantic activity began to subside, and the flow of tableware dwindled to a trickle. The lavish meal had reached a close, and many of the couples would soon leave for want of a mistress to entertain the ladies. But Meadow knew the unescorted men would linger in the drawing room with her master.

Wooden buckets and tin washtubs began to appear as the staff left off serving and aided with clean up. Widow Pym left her imperious post in the kitchen to preside in the drawing room.

Weary of answering Sarah's absurdities, Meadow took advantage of the moment. She filled her apron with leftovers as stealthily as a weasel in a hen house. Then, snatching a wooden trencher off a shelf, she slipped softly from the room.

The stable door groaned in protest as Meadow pushed against it with the flat of one hand. In her other she balanced the loaded trencher. Her hair curled from under her cap, spilling neatly over her shoulders. "Daniel, are you in here?"

The scrape of a wooden chair sliding against stone sounded from the groom's living quarters. A young man barely old enough to support the scraggily growth of whiskers on his chin appeared, still holding a leather harness he was oiling. His youthful face split in a delighted grin. "Meadow! I thought old Half-brain required your services tonight."

She smiled. "He does, but he and his pompous, overfed guests just moved off for rounds of brandy and a puff on those infernal pipes. About now the stink of politics is fouling the air as thickly as their smoke. I will not be missed."

Daniel's mouth tightened into a line. "Yes, politics. I assume the room swims with talk of traitorous colonials and praise for the benevolence of our dear King George." His words held an edge as cold and sharp as a bayonet. "I'd love to hear just what they say."

Hoping to avoid a recital of the groom's strong opinions, she slipped past him and set the trencher in the center of a rough plank table. "I've brought our supper. I even sneaked you an orange when Widow Pym wasn't looking."

She pulled up a small wooden barrel and balanced lightly on top.

"Have you now? And delivered to my door! You keep spoiling me like this and I'll be demanding your hand in marriage!"

Meadow couldn't prevent the blush of pleasure that crept over her face, but she knew his heart. She was a child in his eyes, six years his junior - a little sister to entertain and play with.

Daniel sank onto another barrel, and they shared the meal in silence, leaving only the bones and the orange. With a smile of pure contentment, Daniel wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "Delicious. Give my regards to Widow Pym and Master Half-brain."

Leaving the dirty trencher on the table, Meadow slipped into the stall of her favorite hunter, a big black Thoroughbred with an impressive pedigree. The hunter had come back lame after its last run. She lifted its hoof with practiced ease, feeling carefully around the fetlock and pastern.

"
Lofty's
leg is healing nicely," she murmured. "The swelling has gone down, and he hardly flinches when I touch it."

Daniel stood behind her, looking on with something like fatherly pride. "Only a mild sprain, as you guessed. Nothing a bit of snow and rest cannot cure."

Meadow prepared one final compress, gathering a handful of snow and wrapping it about the joint with a clean rag. Stepping back, she surveyed her work with satisfaction.

"You've done well," Daniel praised her. "I'd best watch out or Half-brain will set you up as groom and I'll find myself out on my ear!"

Frightened and lonely, Meadow had first come to the stables seeking companionship among the impartial beasts. She found the cheerful young groom instead. Since that first visit, she had spent all her free hours watching him care for the horses and soaking up his knowledge. His approval swelled her with pride.

Daniel retrieved the trencher, retaining the orange, and handed it to her pointedly. "You'd best get back before our beloved master misses you."

Before leaving, Meadow tipped her head to one side. "I'm forced to remain here, but you aren't. Why do you stay to work for him?"

"I won't stay forever. Perhaps it's the horses that hold me," he speculated. Then his eyes twinkled. "Or perhaps it's the delightful company of a certain young lady with hair like the blazing sun."

She snatched the trencher from his hands. "Daniel Parker, you are incorrigible!"

His laughter followed her across the darkened yard, but her heart warmed at his teasing. How would she have survived the last five years had she not made that first desperate visit to the stables?

∗ ∗ ∗

Meadow entered the deserted kitchen to find Widow Pym clutching her hand and dripping blood onto the clean flagstones. Her face matched the color of old parchment. "You, girl, grab a rag! And hurry!"

Meadow brought a cloth that had been left to dry beside the hearth. The woman snatched it away and wrapped it tightly around a gash that stretched across three fingers.

"What happened, ma'am?" Meadow asked in alarm.

The woman's face darkened in rage. "Your place is not to question me! Where is Olive? Nathan?"

"I'm sure I don't know, ma'am."

"Bugger it! What I would not sacrifice for some decent help around here! The master needs an attendant in the drawing room immediately. Regretfully, I have no choice at the moment besides you."

"Certainly, ma'am," Meadow curtsied.

"Get those in there! And don't botch it!"

Meadow noticed a silver tray bearing rich pastries. She wiped her sweating palms on her apron and carefully picked it up.

A vapor of tobacco smoke hovered over the drawing room like fog, clinging to the fabric of her dress and clogging her throat. A dozen gentlemen lounged about the room. Meadow could see at a glance that most of them had already consumed too much brandy, Lord Dennison not the least among them. The alcohol seemed to have dimmed his memory, for he made no sign of recognition at her entrance.

The conversation continued uninterrupted as Meadow passed out pastries and refilled glasses.

"If the leaders hang, the whole rebellion will fall apart," Grimes stated.

"You misjudge them," Dobbs spoke quietly. "Discontent is far more widespread than you realize."

"Hang it all, Dobbs! Why do you insist on taking their side?"
Hathbane
complained. "If I didn't know your father, I'd take you for a rebel."

"Not at all. I'm simply saying if you remove the leaders, more will fill the vacancies."

"We have tried to take them," Lord Percival confided, "but they move constantly. There's a whole network calling themselves the Sons of Liberty."

"Nonsense," Grimes scoffed. "We speak of a ragged band of troublemakers - delinquents."

"Call them whatever you wish, but the fact remains - they elude capture. Instead, we must go after more substantial assets." Percival dropped his voice. "Rumors arise of magazines located in Salem and Concord and elsewhere. If we seize them, we can cut off the hand that works the mischief."

"General Gage will not be hasty," Dobbs declared. "The outcry after the powder raid on Winter Hill last autumn has taught him caution. The colonists have organized militias and guard their supplies with greater care."

Percival laughed. "Like mice defying a lion. We don't fear their militias. Gage can be persuaded to act."

The men muttered their approval.

As she served, Meadow caught sight of a broken glass setting on the bar. One of its jagged points sported a drop of blood. She smiled smugly to think how it must gall Widow Pym to find herself as clumsy as the despised Irish girl she had so recently berated.

"Here, girl!" Hampton called in a slurred voice, raising his empty wine glass. His bulldog face was purple and puffy. "Fill this!"

Grimes spoke up. "Nice-looking lass you have there,
Hathbane
."

Meadow felt her cheeks grow warm as Lord Dennison grunted in surprise. "A child, Grimes," he countered. "A filthy Irish whelp."

"Aye, filthy Irish perhaps," the man acknowledged, as though Meadow was not standing right beside him, "but a sweet face, and not so long a child."

Meadow flicked her gaze from Grimes to her master, who narrowed his eyes appraisingly. Her hands jerked of their own accord, splashing wine on the lacy front of the man before her who jumped in drunken surprise.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she gulped. Plunking down the decanter, she snatched a clean cloth from the tray and dabbed at the soiled cravat without effect. Behind her, she heard an alarming growl issue from Lord Dennison.

Dobbs laughed heartily, deflecting much of the tension in the room. "Hampton, I've not seen you move so fast since your wife caught you with your pistol and the carcass of her favorite cat! And I must say, my good man, if you insist on adding any more silk to your shirtfront, I fear your head may be in danger of disappearing altogether."

With tears burning her eyes, Meadow slunk out of the den unnoticed.

∗ ∗ ∗

Dusk descended like a dirty brown curtain before the last carriage departed. A few guests, those who had a considerable journey before them, retired for the night in one of Lord Dennison's many guest rooms to await daylight.

When the den was empty, Meadow sneaked in to remove the soiled dishes. Retreating with stealthy footsteps, she set the last of them on the trestle table that still retained a few tools from the extravagant meal. Too tired to heat water for washing, she simply passed through the kitchen to her own cramped quarters at the rear of the manor. A scuffing sound echoed off the flagstones behind her. She whirled to find
Hathbane
leaning heavily against the doorjamb with a goblet in his hand. Perspiration dotted his fleshy face and his wig lay askew. He struggled to imitate a smile, but it came off quite badly.