Windswept (16 page)

“Yes, it was,” Barrett agreed.

A bright lightning flash illuminated the room and a huge crack of thunder caused the big glass windows to vibrate. Davis spun around toward the patio and Barrett thought she must have jumped about a foot.

Davis turned back to her. “Looks like somebody agrees with us,” he joked with a shrug of his shoulder. “I’m going to get cleaned up. What are your plans today?”

She waved at the papers. “More of the same.”

“I have to catch up on my reading. I’ll see you later.” He gave her a small smile and walked out.

Barrett stared at the papers without seeing them as she reviewed the events of the past few minutes. The ex-wife. Another topic Davis didn’t want to discuss. First his siblings, or at least, his brother, the one who wanted money. Now Sandra Reed. When he had come through the door behind Sandra, he had been the Davis she first met, the rock-hard, give-nothing-away, uncrackable monolith. The expression in his eyes and on his face now proclaimed he was not carrying a torch for her--if anything, quite the contrary.

She sighed and slumped in her chair as a huge feeling of relief washed through her body.

Then she straightened. Why did she feel so relieved? It must be from knowing she wouldn’t have to put up with another hostile person. Horace was difficult enough. The last disturbance she needed was for an unpleasant ex to wander in and out throwing caustic and catty statements at her or destroying documents.

Lightning flashed and more thunder rolled, this time farther away. She glanced out the windows again. A gloomy and melancholy day. Perfect for reading documents of the nature of the bills of sale, she thought as she turned to the computer. Sighing again, she pulled up the template for the inventory and started typing.

Chapter Eleven

The Journal of Mary Maude Davis Jamison

Windswept Plantation

December 4, 1832

A blustery winter day, not too cold.

My prayers have been answered. It is certain! I am with child! Edgar is beside himself with joy and cossets me dearly--when he is not railing about the political situation between President Andrew Jackson and South Carolina Senator John C. Calhoun.

But I care not for politics--not now. After almost three years of hoping and praying, we are going to have a baby. We are going to be a family. Edgar lost his parents when he was only 15, and I have sensed in him the longing for the love and stability only a family can provide. Rogue that he is, he has been teasing me about how much fun all the “practice” has been leading to this blessed event.

We are at this moment both sitting in his study, I in a chair by the fire and he at his desk, diligently writing in our journals. He claims to be recording plantation business, but I think he is putting down his thoughts about the arguments over the right of states to nullify laws of the federal government.

I wasn’t certain I would continue my journal when Edgar encouraged me to begin one, but now I cannot imagine being without the daily practice of ordering my thoughts and working out my plans and problems in writing. As no other white women live close by with whom I can easily share thoughts, my journal has become a friend and confidante.

Windswept Plantation

June 23, 1833

A beautiful summer day.

Elizabeth Caroline Jamison was born on June 20, 1833, a beautiful, 6-pound girl with blue eyes. I was surprised how easy the birth was. Oh, there was pain, of course, and I am tired, but the results are so wonderful. Edgar is a little worried because she has not a hair on her head, but Heeba assures him it will grow. Men seem to like women with long hair. Edgar certainly loves my long black hair and delights in running his fingers through it, draping it over his body and tickling me with it.

Heeba helped me with the birth. Edgar had wanted Dr. John Miller to attend me, but Elizabeth would not wait for him to arrive, and the absence of a physician did not bother me in the least. I know and trust Heeba, servant or not. As we have planted and tended the gardens, we have enjoyed many hours together. I was taught by my mother that one should always keep servants at a distance, but I simply can’t do it with Heeba. From her I have learned so much about plants and herbal medicines, about teas and poultices, about beneficial and unwholesome combinations.

I honestly do not know if Edgar was disappointed his first-born child is not a boy. I do not think he was. When he came into the room to see us and his glance fell on his new daughter, a look of such wonder and awe came over him. But later, his roguish glint returned to his eye and he whispered, “Think how much fun we’ll have making another!”

***

Present Day

Saturday, June 2

Rain fell steadily into the evening. At dinner, it seemed to Barrett they both tried to avoid any subject of consequence. Certainly Davis added no information about Sandra to the conversation. Barrett wouldn’t ask, of course. After dinner, she returned to cataloguing her bills of sale and Davis tackled the mountain of business magazines and newspapers he had accumulated.

About nine o’clock, Barrett picked out the last of the envelopes from 1845-D. “Thank goodness,” she muttered. She opened the envelope, spread out its contents and arranged the pages in chronological order. After stacking the contents and laying the stack on the desk with the others waiting to be typed into the inventory, she took time to stretch out the kinks. She reached high, tilted to one side, then the other, and finally bent over and touched her toes. The last maneuver brought her head down close to the box, and she glanced inside.

“Huh,” she said, “I didn’t notice that.” The bottom of the box appeared to have a wrinkle in it. She knelt down and reached inside. The surface slid under her hands. It wasn’t metal she was feeling, but an oilcloth of some sort, almost the same color as the box interior. She worked her fingers around the edges. Whatever was in there was only slightly smaller than the box itself.

Now, if she could just squeeze her fingers under one edge on the long side, she might be able to get a purchase on it . . . There, one hand was ready, and then the other. She braced her knees against the base of the box and pulled up and toward her. The object was heavy and tried to bend in the middle, but she kept steady pressure until it was vertical. The bottom side was laced together with stout twine through metal grommets.

She rose and tried to lift out the oilcloth-wrapped package, but it was heavy and she couldn’t get a comfortable grip. She glanced toward the inner office. No sense in breaking her back when help was right there. “Davis,” she called, “could you come here a minute?”

“Sure,” he answered and as he walked in, asked, “What do you have there?”

“I don’t know, but it’s too awkward for me to lift. It wants to bend in the middle.”

“Here, I’ll take this end and you take the other,” he said. “Let’s put it over there.” He nodded at the table next to the windows and moved the chairs to give them room to maneuver.

Together they lifted the object out and placed it on the table, laced side up between them. He pulled one end of the twine and the simple slipknot opened. They each laid back their side of the covering.

Inside were two more similarly wrapped packages.

Barrett looked up and her gaze met Davis’s. She could see the curiosity in his eyes and knew hers mirrored his.

“This is like a treasure hunt, isn’t it?” he grinned and pointed to the package on his left, then his right. “You take that one and I’ll take this.”

They opened the packages simultaneously and spread wide the oilcloth to reveal two sixteen-by-twenty-inch, leather-bound ledgers in each bundle. The three-inch-thick books were tooled in gold filigree around the edges but displayed no titles or ownership.

“You open yours first,” Barrett said, as she scooted around to his left so she could see what he found.

With a flourish of his hands, as if he were a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat, Davis opened the cover to reveal words written in a flowing hand,

Windswept Plantation

The Journal of

Edgar John Jamison

1830-1838

“Hot damn,” Barrett whispered. “I knew it was here somewhere. What’s the one underneath?”

Davis was grinning as widely as she was while he slid the first ledger to the side and opened the second. “It’s for 1838 to 1847. What’s in your stack?”

Barrett opened the top ledger. “More journal, this one for 1847 to . . . There’s no end date. He died in 1854, so this must be the last one.” She put the book on top of the other journals and opened the one below it.

“Oh, my God,” she said, the words coming out in an excited whisper. “Look.”

Around the edges of the first page hand-painted flowers and plants grew, some in orderly rows and some in abandon. In the center were the words:

The Herbarium

And

Pharmacopoeia

Of

Mary Maude Davis Jamison

Windswept Plantation

Barrett turned the page and read aloud what Mary Maude had written.

In this journal I will attempt to record all the plants cultivated at Windswept Plantation for both culinary and medicinal purposes. Rather than keep dried specimens of each plant here, I will draw and paint them to the best of my abilities. Dried specimens will be kept in loose-leaf portfolios.

In addition to descriptions, I shall record here all the uses to which the various plants may be put, including recipes for medicinal and pharmacological concoctions. I will also note any special cultivation required.

Begun this day, February 24, 1832.

Barrett opened the journal to several places at random. A sketch, at times rough, at times filled out with still vibrant greens, yellows, and reds, portrayed an individual plant and a detailed description, often with a recipe for its combination with others or a comment on its contribution to health or a tasty dish.

A page titled “Marjoram” caught her eye. “Look at this drawing. Not only does she have the purplish-red flowers, but the detail even shows a hairy stem. And she writes, ‘
For disorders of the stomach and to relieve bloating.
’ I didn’t know that. And she includes a recipe for a potion. Oh, Davis! These are wonderful.” Without thinking, she wrapped her right arm around his back and gave him a side-to-side hug.

He reciprocated with his left arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer. “I had no idea looking through musty old papers could be so exciting,” he said.

Barrett looked up and found herself caught in his gaze. In the bright light of the office, she could see the gold and green glints in his eyes. He was smiling, his lips quirking up under the black bar of his mustache.

For a few seconds, she stood transfixed in the warmth both from his eyes and from his body. Then he looked at her lips and his head moved closer to hers, almost as if he were going to . . .

As she realized what she had done and how close they were, she hurriedly let him go and turned back to the journals. She had to take a breath before she could speak. “I knew Edgar’s journals were here, your grandfather had showed them to me, but I never saw the Herbarium before.” She sounded breathless to her own ears and hoped she wasn’t making a fool of herself.

He squeezed her shoulder, and let her go, but she was still standing so close their arms brushed. She had to stifle the gasp that wanted to erupt as it seemed a spark flew between them. She busied herself with the oilcloth wrappings and used the excuse of folding the heavy cloth to move to the side.

Davis did the same with the wrappings from the journals he had opened and with the larger piece that had covered the four-book package. “Don’t put these back in the box, okay? I’d like to take a look at Edgar’s journal.”

“I hadn’t intended to stick them away. I want to look at them also, especially the Herbarium.” She looked back at the metal container. “You know, finding these journals really makes me wonder what else is at the bottom of these boxes. When I was arranging them chronologically, I didn’t take the time to delve into any. I didn’t even look inside some if they were labeled. This makes you wonder what else we’ll discover, doesn’t it?”

She looked at her watch, then at the stack of slave bills of sale, and sighed. “But first things first. I’m going to finish these documents tonight, no matter what.”

“And I’ll start on Edgar. He has to be more interesting than what I’ve been reading.” Davis gave her a wink, picked up the first journal and walked into his office.

Barrett let out a long breath as he exited. Stupid, stupid. Attracted to him or not, she had to be professional, and she’d practically thrown herself at the man. True, the Herbarium gave her reason to be exuberant, but she didn’t have to hug him to show it. At least she hadn’t used her other arm in a full hug. To have her body plastered to his would be too much for her equilibrium.

And he, poor man to be subjected to her adolescent urges, had put up with her and had been kind enough to pat her shoulder in response. And then . . . ? Her imagination must really be working overtime if she thought he’d been about to kiss her.

Oh, God, she hoped he didn’t think she was coming on to him like some love-starved historian who’d spent too much time in the library. She definitely did not want to engender any awkwardness between them. “Be professional,” she muttered and forced her mind back on the tasks in front of her.

Barrett worked steadily for the next two hours and finished the bills of sale. She rubbed her weary fingers before filing the envelopes back in their box. There, done. She glanced over at the Herbarium as she stretched. Much as she would like to examine it tonight, she had to acknowledge it was too late, going on eleven o’clock, to start now. Better in the morning when she was fresh.