The Kitchen House (50 page)

After dessert, the talk turned to my future. Will rose and offered to give me privacy with Mr. Madden. I asked him to stay, saying that I would welcome his input. I admitted that I was afraid to learn what my future held.

What did I want to do? Mr. Madden asked. Would I consider returning with him to Williamsburg, bringing Elly with me, of
course? He assured me that his family would welcome the two of us. As a matter of fact, he said with a laugh, Meg—who was still unmarried—had elicited a promise that he would not return without me.

I thanked him with true sincerity for all he had done, and I said that he must not leave without a letter from me. I wished to express my gratitude to Meg and to Aunt Sarah for their kind offer. “But,” I said, “I want to remain here. I will do whatever needs to be done to have that happen.”

Mr. Madden was not surprised at my resolve to stay. Earlier, on his arrival, I had requested that he review my situation and act on my behalf. Now he told me of the results. He had been able to salvage one hundred acres, including what was left of Tall Oaks and its outbuildings. Will Stevens had agreed to buy the few remaining Negroes from the quarters. As I had requested, the emancipation papers for Papa, Eddy and Fanny, and Beattie and her three boys had been drawn up; I planned to ask them to stay on for the food and shelter I could provide. In time I would give them wages. Mr. Madden suggested that with ingenuity and hard work, we could make a success of a small farm. Then he made an offer that overwhelmed me. He would give me a loan, he said, to finance a new house. I was to repay this sum by sending a letter once a month to his family, telling them of my progress so they could all be partners in my achievements.

Mr. Madden received my tears of relief and gratitude with some embarrassment, while Will excused himself to check on his wife.

On Will’s return, he extended his wife’s offer for my use of their guest room. When I thanked my host and said that I was happy to retire to Belle’s home, I did not need to explain myself further.

Later, when Will walked me back to the cabin, my relief was such that I could scarcely contain myself. Stimulated by the elixir of hope, I breathed deeply the crisp air of freedom. Elly and I could remain at Tall Oaks with our family, and we had the resources to begin again.

It was October. The orange moon was so large that Will and I
both remarked at its beauty. When we reached the cabin, he took my ungloved hand in his. A shock of desire ran through me, and with it I knew how surely I still loved this man. Before I could throw myself into his arms, I quickly withdrew my hand, then offered my help if his wife should need it. I dared not linger and hastily said good night.

Back in Belle’s cabin, I shared my news, and together we rejoiced. After Elly slept, I asked Belle of Jamie. He was, she told me, safe in Philadelphia. I told Belle that I would have Jamie’s papers drawn up and sent to him. Belle thanked me, then told me of the day Jamie had brought her own papers.

“Do you want to join Jamie in Philadelphia?” I asked. “I could see to it.”

Belle declined. Will had already extended the offer and given her permission to leave at any time, she said. Belle was silent as she studied her hands. When she looked up again, her eyes were moist. Could she ask for something else?

“Anything,” I said.

Could she come back with me to live at Tall Oaks?

I went on my knees and gathered her hands in mine. “Of course you can come home,” I said.

Early the following morning Ben arrived on horseback, trailing a horse for me. I had not seen him since I was taken to jail. This day he and I alone set out to what was left of Tall Oaks. As my horse led the way along the very path that Elly and I had so recently taken, I searched for words. Finally, I plunged in. “How can I ever thank you, Ben, for helping me the way you did?”

“You my family, Abinia,” he replied.

My throat was so tight I could scarcely respond. “As you are mine,” I said.

Papa George waited at the barn. Where once his hair was gray, it was now white. I hesitated until I saw his smile. Then I leaped off my horse and ran, free to embrace him after all of these years.

When I gave Papa his papers, he took them and turned away. “Papa.” I touched his shoulder. “You are free to go, but more than
anything, I want you to stay. This wouldn’t be home without you. I can’t pay you yet, but …”

Papa turned back to me. “Where I gonna go, Abinia? This place my home. I don’t belong no place ’cept here.”

In my relief, I wanted only to cry, but I could no longer indulge myself. Instead, I began to speak of our future. I told Papa of Mr. Madden’s offer to finance a new house. We studied the property together, and I knew when Papa George suggested that we walk up to the old home site how very much the thought disturbed him.

“No, Papa,” I said, “we won’t build there. That hill is sacred. We must find another place.”

We both stared silently up the hill and at the oak that still stood, but we were saved when Moses, Beattie’s oldest son, joined us. Following behind, Beattie and her two other sons hurried to greet me. Our embrace was as true as our childhood friendship.

Together we discussed the possibilities of a new home site. Papa led us toward a spot through the orchard and across the way from the kitchen house. We all thought his choice ideal. Mr. Madden and Will came later that afternoon and gave the location their approval. Within the week, construction began.

The barns were in good condition, and fortunately, a few good horses were left. It was agreed that we could build from them, and in the following years, we prospered after we established our name as providers of reliable horse stock.

Belle did come to live at Tall Oaks, and together we faced our future. When she died many years later, she was laid to rest in the big-house cemetery alongside her father. Her headstone was engraved:

B
ELLE
P
YKE
D
AUGHTER OF
J
AMES
P
YKE

A
FEW YEARS AGO, MY
husband and I restored an old plantation tavern in Virginia. While researching its past, I found an old map on which, near our home, was a notation: Negro Hill. Unable to determine the story of its origin, local historians suggested that it most likely suggested a tragedy.

For months it played on my mind. Each morning I walked across our land to go down to the stream where I would meditate. On my return trip, I faced the direction of Negro Hill and, to myself, wondered aloud what had happened there.

Finally, one morning when I returned from that walk, I sat down to do my daily journaling. What happened next left me baffled. In my mind’s eye, I saw a scene play out as clear as a movie. I began to write, and the words flew onto the paper. I followed in the footsteps of a terrified little white girl, running up the hill behind her frantic mother. When they reached the top, through their eyes, I saw a black woman hanging from the limb of a large oak tree. I set my pencil down, appalled at the story line. I had written the prologue to
The Kitchen House
. Although fascinated by antebellum history, I abhorred the thought of slavery and had always shied away from the subject. Quickly, I slipped the writing in my desk drawer, determined to forget about it.

Some weeks later, during a conversation with my father, I learned that an acquaintance of his had traced his ancestry back to Ireland. Around the turn of the nineteenth century, this man’s Irish ancestors had come over on a ship, and on that journey, both of the parents had died. Two brothers had survived, along with their little sister. The family was able to track what had happened to the boys but couldn’t find any trace of the little girl. As my father related the story, a deep chill ran through me. In my deepest core, I knew immediately what had happened to her. She had been brought home
to the captain’s plantation as an indentured servant in Virginia, and put to work in the kitchen house with the kitchen slaves. She awaited me in my desk drawer.

I began to do the research. I visited the many plantations in this area, particularly Prestwould. I studied slave narratives from the time period and interviewed African-American people whose ancestors had been slaves. I spent hours in local libraries, the Black History Museum, the Virginia Historical Society, and Poplar Forest. I visited Colonial Williamsburg many times over. Finally, I began to write. Each day more of the story unfolded, and when I finished, often emotionally spent, I was left to wonder what the following day would bring. The only time the work came to a standstill was when the characters took me to an event or to a place where I had not yet done my research.

I tried on a number of occasions to change some of the events (those that I found profoundly disturbing), but the story would stop when I did that, so I forged ahead to write what was revealed.

I am forever grateful to the souls who gifted me with their sharing. I can only hope I have served them well.

I
HAVE MANY TO THANK,
but foremost, Mrs. Bessie Lowe, who so generously shared her family history with me, and Quincy Billingsley, who patiently schooled me to look through brown eyes as well as through blue.

Invaluable resources for me while writing this book include: the Prestwould Plantation, the Black History Museum in Richmond, the Legacy Museum in Lynchburg, the Virginia Historical Society, Poplar Forest, Colonial Williamsburg, the public libraries of Appomattox, Charlotte Court House, Farmville, and the libraries at Longwood University and the University of Virginia.

I am grateful to the Farmville Writers’ Group: Reggie, Melvin, and Linda, who started me off, and to the Piedmont Literary Society, who guided me on.

How do you thank your dearest friends? From the beginning, Diane Eckert believed in my ability to write. Carlene Baime lifted me when I faltered. I could not have written this book without the leadership and support of Eleanor Dolan, nor completed it without the insight and tireless help of Suzanne Guglielmi.

Thank you to my agent and my champion, Rebecca Gradinger, and to Trish Todd, my gentle editor. I extend gratitude to my brave copyeditor, Beth Thomas.

I am deeply grateful for the support of my daughters, Erin Plewes and Hilary Cummings, and my son-in-law, Kyle Cummings, who created the music for my book trailer.

My husband carried the camera, took notes in the libraries, and was at my side for countless weekend visits to plantations, museums, and historical sites too numerous to mention. Thank you, Charles, for your unfailing belief in me and in this work.

TOUCHSTONE READING GROUP GUIDE

The Kitchen House

F
OR
D
ISCUSSION

1. Why do you think the author chose to tell the story through two narrators? How are Lavinia’s observations and judgments different from Belle’s? Does this story belong to one more than the other? If you could choose another character to narrate the novel, who would it be?

2. One of the novel’s themes is history repeating itself. Another theme is isolation. Select scenes from
The Kitchen House
that depict each theme and discuss. Are there scenes in which the two themes intersect?

3. “Mae knows that her eldest daughter consorts with my husband. … Almost from the beginning, I suspected their secrets” (page 107). Why does the captain keep Belle’s true identity a secret from his wife and children? Do you think the truth would have been a relief to his family or torn them further apart? At what point does keeping this secret turn tragic?

4. Discuss the significance of birds and bird nests in the novel. What or who do they symbolize? What other symbols support the novel?