Wilde, Jennifer (11 page)

At
least an hour passed. It was growing darker. Derek Hawke had not said a single
word to me since we had climbed in the wagon. He might have been alone. I
glanced up at that handsome profile, wondering what made him so cold and aloof.
He couldn't be more than thirty, yet he had the demeanor of a much older man.

"You
don't talk much, do you?" I remarked.

"Only
when I have something to say."

"I'm
not a criminal, Mr. Hawke. I was working as governess for an English lord.
He—he wanted me to perform other services as well, and when I refused he
planted an emerald necklace in my room—"

Even
as I spoke I realized it sounded like the wildest fabrication. I could tell
that he didn't believe me. There was no earthly reason why he should. Hawke
made no comment, and a long time passed before I summoned enough courage to
speak again.

"Are—are
there Indians in these woods?"

"Might
be a few," he replied. "They shouldn't bother us."

"How
far are we going?"

"Quite
a ways. We should reach Shadow Oaks tomorrow afternoon."

"You
mean—we're going to spend the night in the woods?"

Hawke
nodded. I shivered, trying to control my apprehension.

"You've
nothing to fear, wench. I didn't buy you to warm my bed."

"No?"

"I
was looking for a housekeeper, a stout, sturdy woman capable of splitting logs,
scrubbing floors, helping the blacks out in the fields. You're hardly what I
had in mind, but I suppose you'll have to do."

"If
that's what you wanted, then why
did
you buy me?"

"To
keep Rawlins from having you," he replied.

"You
and he are... rivals of some sort?"

"Hardly.
I simply didn't fancy seeing you end up in some whorehouse in New Orleans.
Rawlins comes to all the auctions and buys cheap, resells the women in New
Orleans at a steep profit. It's a filthy business, one I don't approve
of."

"You've
bid against him before?"

"As
a matter of fact, I haven't. I don't rightly know why I started bidding against
him this time. Damned foolish of me—" Hawke frowned, clicking the reins.

"I—I
suppose I should be grateful to you."

"You're
going to work, wench. You're going to work damned hard. I paid too much for
you, far more than I could afford, and I intend to get good value for my
investment."

"I
see."

"I
treat my slaves well, I take good care of 'em, but I don't tolerate laziness. I
won't tolerate it from you, either. You'll find me a stern master, stern but
fair."

I
did not reply. Hawke turned his head, looking at me for the first time since we
had left the settlement.

"One
other thing—and we'd better get this straight from the beginning. My slaves
know their place. They stay there. I don't like gabby servants. I don't like
familiarity. Do you understand?"

"Thoroughly,
Mr. Hawke."

Neither
of us said anything else. We rode in silence for what seemed hours, and finally
Hawke turned the wagon off the road and stopped in a small clearing. Trees were
close all around, long shadows spreading across the grass as darkness fell. I
could hear water running nearby. Hawke unharnessed the horses and led them down
to the river, tethering them to a tree when he returned. He handed me a
canteen, then took a long rifle from the back of the wagon and disappeared into
the woods again. A short while later I heard a shot, then another, and Hawke
returned carrying two dead rabbits. Squatting on the ground, he took out a
hunting knife, cut off the heads and began to skin the animals. Appalled, I
watched, and, sensing my revulsion, Hawke looked up with a grim expression.

"Don't
just stand there," he said sharply. "Gather firewood!"

I
obeyed. The sun had gone down now. A deep purple haze settled over the woods as
shadows thickened. Hawke built a primitive spit with two Y-shaped branches,
driving them into the ground on either side of the stack of firewood, skewering
the rabbits on another branch and placing it across the standing branches. He
took flint from his pocket and soon had the fire going. By the time the flames
danced like greedy orange tongues, the woods were entirely shrouded in
darkness, and the flickering light was reassuring. Grease dripped from the
rabbits, popping and crackling loudly. It was a pleasant sound. I was reminded
of a gypsy encampment back in England. With his untidy raven hair and stern,
handsome face, Derek Hawke might well have been some savage gypsy king.

As
I leaned against the wagon, waiting for the rabbits to cook, I realized that I
was famished. Behind me, leaves rustled noisily. Branches creaked. I thought I
could hear stealthy footsteps in the woods, and I fancied I could feel hostile
eyes watching us. Hawke seemed utterly unperturbed, although I noticed that he
kept his rifle within easy reach. Removing the rabbits from the lire, he let
them cool and then pulled one off the stick and handed it to me. He returned to
the other side of the fire, sat down, and began to eat, tearing hunks of meat
off with his hands. After a moment I did the same, much too hungry to be
concerned with niceties.

The
fire had died down by the time we finished eating. It had grown much colder. I
shivered in my thin blouse, folding my arms around my waist. Noticing this,
Hawke strolled over to the wagon and pulled out two rather moth-eaten blankets
and tossed them to me.

"You
sleep under the wagon. It'll be warmer there. Drier, too, in case it
rains."

"You
don't intend to tie me up?" I asked. There was sarcasm in my voice.

"I
don't imagine it'll be necessary. You won't try to run away. If you did, you
wouldn't get far. If you're harboring any such foolish notions, wench, forget
'em. You wouldn't care for the consequences, I can assure you."

Crawling
under the wagon, I spread one of the blankets out on the ground, lay down on it
and pulled the other blanket over me. Hawke scooped sand over the glowing coals
and then went to see about the horses. I could hear him speaking to them in a
soft, gentle voice. I wondered how long it would be before he joined me under
the wagon.

I
waited. Time passed. The darkness was blue-black, pale silvery moonlight
streaming across the clearing. Insects buzzed. Leaves crackled. The wind
through the trees made a steady, monotonous noise Like hoarse whispers. It had
grown much colder. I wrapped the top blanket closer about me, shifting my body,
trying to find a comfortable position on the hard, stony ground. I could hear
him moving around, and I felt something akin to anticipation. I wouldn't
welcome his advances, but I would welcome his nearness, because I was afraid of
Indians, and I would welcome his warmth, because I was shivering cold. I
waited... and eventually I slept.

I
woke up with a start, terrified. There had been a noise, some dreadful cry...
It came again, and I realized that it was merely an owl hooting. Several hours
must have passed, for the first layers of darkness were beginning to evaporate,
black gradually melting into deep gray. In the thin, misty moonlight I could
see Derek Hawke stretched out on the ground several yards away, on his back,
one arm curled under his head, the other at his side. He was fast asleep, the
rifle beside him. He had no blanket, and I realized that he had given both to
me, a curious bit of gallantry that seemed out of character.

I
wondered why he hadn't come to me. I was his property, his slave. He moaned in
his sleep, changing positions and I gazed at him, studying the long, lean body,
the incredibly handsome face. He didn't seem nearly so severe now. In fact, in
his sleep he seemed curiously vulnerable. Derek Hawke was an enigma, a man of many
depths. Any other man would have pleasured himself, yet he had refrained from
taking what was rightfully his. I tried to tell myself that I wasn't
disappointed.

I
was
already in the kitchen preparing the master's breakfast when Cassie appeared,
much later than usual. Seventeen years old, she was a superbly beautiful girl
with luminous brown eyes and high, broad cheekbones. Her stiff black hair was
clipped short, fitting her skull like a cap, and her skin was a creamy brown.
Tall and slender, she wore a pink calico dress that clung to her generous
curves. She looked exhausted this morning, and I detected a faint grayish
pallor about her cheeks.

"Sorry
I'm late, Miz Marietta," she said quietly. "I'm feelin' bone-weary,
an' my stomach's actin' up somethin' awful. I—I thinks I'm breedin'. I ain't
bled for th' longest time."

"Sit
down, Cassie. Here, let me pour you a cup of coffee. Did you have breakfast
with the others?"

Cassie
shook her head. "Mattie's already done fed th' others an' they're already
goin' about their work. I... I just couldn't seem to pull my bones outta bed
this mornin'. Adam scolded me somethin' awful, told me to git myself over to
th' big house 'fore th' master come and whup me."

"He
wouldn't do that," I remarked, reaching for a fork to turn the ham
sizzling in the skillet.

"He
would so, Miz Marietta. Th' master treats us fair, treats us much better'n most
of th' planters treat their slaves, but he don't tol'rate no slackness. He
don't whup any of us very often, but when he takes a notion to do it, he whups
so's you ain't likely to forgit."

"He...
he hasn't beat any of the slaves since I've been here."

"No
'um, there ain't been no need. None of th' niggers uv given him a reason to
whup 'em. He ain't never used that ridin' crop on me, ain't never used it on
any of us wimmin that I know of, but me, I ain't lookin' to be th' first."

Derek
Hawke had only thirty slaves, far fewer than most of the other planters in the
area, and the majority of them were field hands. Since Mattie had been banished
to the cabins, Cassie was the only 'house nigger,' assigned to help me with my
chores. They all lived in the row of cabins behind the barn, Cassie sharing a
room with her husband, Adam, Hawke's chief hand, a powerful black who acted as
overseer to the other slaves. Adam's father had been a king in Africa, Cassie
informed me, and there was an undeniable majesty about Adam himself. Captured
by slavers when he was ten years old, Adam was magnificently built, his skin
like polished ebony. Other planters had offered Hawke a small fortune for the
buck, but Hawke adamantly refused to sell.

"I...
I'd better help you," Cassie said. "It's gettin' late. Th' master'll
be expectin' his tray."

"You
sit still, Cassie. Finish your coffee. I'll prepare his tray."

The
girl looked relieved, slumping lethargically in the wooden chair. I took the
skillet off the stove and placed the fried ham on a plate, then opened the oven
door to check on the biscuits. During the two months I had been at Shadow Oaks
I had become a pretty fair cook, an accomplishment of which I was exceedingly
proud. Mattie had taught me everything she knew. Weighing well over two hundred
pounds, slow-moving, amiable, Mattie had served as Hawke's cook-housekeeper
ever since he had purchased Shadow Oaks twelve years ago. She was well over
sixty now and delighted to be relieved of her heavy responsibilities. When she
wasn't supervising the slaves' meals out in the cookhouse, she spent most of
her time rocking on the porch of her cabin and dipping the snuff Hawke so
generously supplied.

"There,"
I said, "the tray's ready. Don't stir yourself, Cassie. I'll take it to
him."

"You...
you ain't never done it before. He might not like it, might think I'm
shirkin'—"

"Nonsense."

"I
cain't just sit here, Miz Marietta. I has to be doin' somethin'."

"You
can start peeling those peaches in the bucket over there. I'm planning to bake
a peach pie for his supper this evening."

"You's
always doin' somethin' special like that," Cassie remarked. "You
caters to him like he wuz a spoilt little boy, havin' everything just so for
'im. His things ain't never been kept so fine, the house ain't never been kept
so clean an' proper. He ain't never been fed so well, either. Mattie never
baked him no peach pies."

"It's
my job to see that he's pleased, Cassie."

"An'
he treats you just like one of us niggers. When he brung you to Shadow Oaks and
gave you his wife's old room, we all reckoned you was goin' to be his woman as
well as takin' over Mattie's chores. He ain't never even tried you."

"That's
none of your concern, Cassie," I retorted, my voice much sharper than I
had intended. "It's not your place to gossip about the master's—the
master's business."

"I'm
sorry, Miz Marietta. I wuzn't meanin' to be uppity, but... well, it's just that
you's a white lady and beautiful as sin and it don't seem natural-like, him
havin' you in th' house an' not wantin' you. 'Ticularly when you're hankerin'
for it."

"That's
enough, Cassie! Get started on those peaches!"

Taking
up the tray, I left the kitchen abruptly, my cheeks burning. The girl had meant
no harm, I knew, but her remarks had been much too close to the bone. Derek
Hawke had not touched me, not once during the two months I had been here, nor
had he shown the least inclination. His manner had been cool and stern and
remote. Although I knew he was pleased with my work, he never commented on it,
and he rarely spoke unless it was to issue an order. I told myself that I was
fortunate that he didn't expect me to perform those more intimate services, but
deep down I had to admit that I would have performed them almost willingly.