Windswept (35 page)

Could she have both Davis and tenure? A long distance romance, much less a greater tie, would not be easy, probably damn near impossible. She ran through several scenarios for maintaining, no, intensifying, a relationship--oh, how she despised that word of so many meanings. She dismissed most as untenable or unworkable and tried to analyze two or three remaining. She finally slumped against the chair. No matter what arrangements they made, they would always be working or traveling and have little time--or energy--left for each other.

Assuming he wanted more than the summer.

What did they have between them? More than just a physical attraction, and she was certain he would agree. They enjoyed each other’s company too much to have only a sexual bond. He wouldn’t have opened up to her about his family and Sandra if all he wanted from her was sex. No, they shared a friendship, a work ethic, possibly a sense of humor, and a growing--on his part--fascination with history, at least as far as his family was concerned. Were those elements enough to sustain them?

She leaned back and stretched, trying to loosen tightened muscles.

What a dilemma. How was she going to resolve it?

Or should she look at the situation another way? Did she have to decide immediately? She had at least another six weeks before any decisions had to be addressed, much less made. Their relationship was new. Who knew what would happen by August? For now, she would just enjoy the ride. So to speak.

A faint
bwuck, bwuck
sounded in her head.

She turned back to the boxes in disgust. Who was she kidding? With all these thoughts going through her head, she wasn’t going to get any meaningful work done this morning. Better to continue the inventory. She could concentrate on each paper in turn without having to think in a straight line or follow a thought to its conclusion.

The next installment was not in a box, but contained in a very heavy, black-metal trunk, a little bigger than the one holding the Herbarium and Edgar’s journals. A worn label on the outside said “1855” and she had given it the designation, “F.” This was the container she hadn’t opened at all, indeed, had been unable to open. Its lock looked to be rusted shut. It was also heavy as sin, having required both Gonzales and Ricardo to move it into place. What was in it?

Maybe that’s what she needed, a new mystery, to get her mind off Davis and their situation.

She hoped it wasn’t more funerary pieces. She’d been through one box filled with letters and condolences, newspaper clippings and obituaries. At the bottom had lain two embroidered “mourning” pictures pertaining to Edgar’s death in 1854. The depressing subject matter and the flowery language quickly became tedious in the extreme.

The only bright spot, if it could be called such, had been a copy of Edgar’s will and the probate documents. They clearly illustrated the difficult position of women, even a widow with minor children, in the hierarchy of the day. Eighteen-year-old Edgar Jr. had inherited the bulk of the estate. Mary Maude, who had contributed as much to Windswept’s success as her husband, had been provided for, as had the younger children, but the technical power was all in her son’s hands.

In fact, Mary Maude was lucky Edgar Jr. was deemed able to take over the plantation since the legal system did not permit women to handle business affairs. From what Davis’s grandfather had said, she had continued to run the plantation until Edgar Jr. had enough experience to take over, as she had during Edgar Sr.’s long illness. If Edgar Jr. had not been old enough, Mary Maude would probably have had to put up with a court-appointed trustee. Barrett had read enough of the plantation mistress’s opinions to know Mary Maude would have hated such a situation, no matter how qualified the man or how close their blood relation.

Barrett was tired of the mournful correspondence, however. She’d welcome even cotton-price information on this dreary day. Anything to brighten her mood.

She called Gonzales, and he and Ricardo moved the trunk into her office. Ricardo brought some tools and played with the lock for a few moments. To everyone’s surprise, it opened with a well-oiled soft click. Just as the two left, Davis came in from his office.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Another mysterious trunk,” she replied as she tugged open the lid. The first thing she saw was a tray full of black-bordered correspondence. “Oh, no . . .”

“What is it?” He picked up one of the envelopes and pulled out the letter.

“Please tell me it’s something besides another condolence over Edgar’s death,” she pleaded, plopping down on the floor.

“‘Dear Mrs. Jamison,’” he read aloud, “‘Let me express my profound sympathies over the death of your beloved husband . . .’ Sorry.” He put the page back in its envelope and handed it to her.

She looked out to the patio. It began to rain. “Perfect.”

He chuckled, leaned down to kiss the top of her head, said, “Hang in there,” and walked out toward the front of the house.

Barrett stared at the trunk for a moment. Maybe, if she was very, very lucky, and the history gods were shining on her, even if the sun was not, maybe other types of correspondence, shipping orders, something interesting,
anything
different
lurked in the bottom of the trunk. With a little prayer, she lifted off the tray and set it to the side.

And looked at gray-green oilcloth tied together with twine through metal grommets.

With slightly shaking fingers, she pulled the twine end and the slipknot unraveled. She spread back the oilcloth. Two sixteen-by-twenty-inch, green-leather-bound ledgers sat side by side.

She rose on her knees and lifted out the book on the left. Like Edgar’s journal, it was tooled in a worn gold filigree. The leather felt smooth and supple to her fingers, as if it had been much handled.

She took a deep breath, opened the cover, and read the title page.

Windswept Plantation

The Journal of

Mary Maude Davis Jamison

1830-1835

“Oh, my God,” she whispered as she traced the writing with her fingertips. “Oh, my God, oh, my God.” She hugged the book to her chest and started laughing. She was soon laughing so hard, she literally fell over, still clutching the book.

The next thing she knew, Davis was on his knees beside her holding on to her shoulders to stop her rolling from side to side. “Barrett! What’s the matter? Are you all right?”

She opened her eyes, but he was all blurry through her tears. She was too breathless to speak, so she reversed the book so he could read the first page and pushed it under his nose. He let go of her to take the journal, and when he read the title, he gave her a big smile. “This is what you’ve been hoping for, isn’t it?”

Barrett levered herself up into a sitting position and nodded. After wiping her eyes with the tail of her shirt, she said, “Yes! And look at all of them. The trunk’s full. If she’s half, even a quarter, as chatty in her journal as she is in her letters, this is a gold mine. No, this is a tenure mine.” She felt slightly drunk as she grinned at him.

He handed the journal to her and grinned back.

“And I have you to thank.” She rose to her knees and gave him a big, smacking kiss.

Davis kissed her back and got to his feet. “No, it was all Granddaddy’s doing. You indulge yourself. I’m going back to work.”

Barrett barely nodded to him. She immediately sat back down, turned the page and began to read.

My name is Mary Maude Davis Jamison and this is my journal, a present from my beloved husband, Edgar.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Journal of Mary Maude Davis Jamison

Windswept Plantation

January 23, 1852

Bitterly cold. In more ways than simply the temperature.

Edgar has broken his promises and been to the quarters again. I was up during the night with Davis, who has a cold, and from my son’s window I saw my husband returning to the house. When I retired, he said he would be working late in his study. He came to bed still smelling of his consort, whether Cleopatra or Salome, I know not and care not. It was all I could do to pretend to sleep, as far away on the bed as I could be.

This is the second time I have caught him during the past year. The first time he claimed drunkenness as a defense. I asked for no explanation last night or this morning. What good would it do? He is a liar and a cheat and I cannot trust him.

I no longer enjoy our (thank God) infrequent conjugal relations. Yet I cannot refuse him altogether as it would only give him an excuse for more frequent liaisons with those women. I am trapped.

In public or with the children, the strain between us is barely perceptible, I believe. We have both carried on as though all was tranquil. But I seek out ways to exhaust myself during the day so as to fall asleep immediately. I cannot allow myself to dwell on what Edgar does or my anger seeps through my blood like poison.

Windswept Plantation

April 8, 1852

A pleasant spring day. Warmer than usual.

I am so angry I am cold with it.

At the Winslow’s spring party, I overheard two of the most notorious gossips in the county discussing Edgar’s bastards. Oh, how mealy-mouthed they were, pitying me and the children. They pretend their own husbands’ “natural children” dropped down from heaven with no connection to them at all. I took some meager satisfaction in the fact no one asked them to dance, while my dance card was full.

But it is clear: Edgar’s transgressions are common knowledge.

Then while working in my garden, I had a glimpse of Salome and another servant who asked when her baby was due. I believe the exact words were “When you gonna give the master his next child?” and the answer was “In time for the harvest.” She did not sound very happy about the upcoming birth.

Our marriage vows mean nothing to Edgar. My honor and the honor of the children mean nothing to him. His own children mean nothing to him. I mean nothing to him. But what can I do about this?

Windswept Plantation

July 19, 1852

Hot, hot, hot. Man, beast, and plant all wilt together.

I would leave this place in a moment, if only I could take the children with me. But no court in the land would allow it.

To begin with, I am sick unto death of the cloying solicitous attention I receive from the “good women” of our church and neighboring plantations. Yesterday the hypocrites were out in force. They all know I have joined their secret sorority of wronged wives, but we maintain the polite fiction: none of us recognizes the status. Our play-acting, however, is by no means the worst part. What our husbands are putting us through is.

At least, Edgar and I do not pretend with each other any longer. We are civil and polite, but nothing more. Claiming a problem with my back that requires a very hard bed, I have moved out of our bedroom to one upstairs overlooking the back of the house. My relocation, however, has given Edgar license to come and go as he pleases--and allow others to do so as well. The heat woke me this morning an hour before dawn. It was too hot even to light a candle. As I was attempting to cool down with tepid water from the basin, I heard whispers below my window. I carefully peeked out and witnessed Edgar in his robe giving Cleopatra a pat on her backside as he sent her back to her quarters.

I will never sleep in our marriage bed again.

Windswept Plantation

September 25, 1852

Some rain at last. We all rejoice.

I have a new book of herbal medicines and have spent many happy hours discussing its contents with Heeba. She distrusts some of the recipes and claims they are the reverse of what they claim to be, in other words, noxious instead of efficacious. She was particularly suspicious of one, a mixture normally effective for stomach disorders, but combined in the book with the parts of two plants known to cause death if in high enough amounts. The recipe is very dangerous because the original mixture will totally mask the taste of the poison. I have written to the author and publisher of this tome and asked if they have made a mistake.

Windswept Plantation

October 5, 1852

Still warm.

I am at my wit’s end.

Edgar brought one of his doxies into the house again and this time Rebecca, who is only fourteen years old, found them together.

When I confronted him, he was so falsely contrite that I could have vomited.

His total disregard for the children is the last straw. I must do something.

***

Present Day

Sunday, June 24

At ten o’clock Sunday night, Davis looked over at Barrett, who was wrapped up in the afghan on the couch in his office, engrossed in Mary Maude’s journal. She had done nothing except read the books since she had discovered them on Friday.

He couldn’t blame her. He understood completely what the journal meant to her. It was more than just a ticket to tenure; it was the opportunity of being the first historian to find and investigate a new, extremely rich source. He would have the same reaction if he found a start-up company with a brand new process or product.

She’d read bits and pieces to him from time to time. His great-great-great grandmother was evidently quite a woman--bright, literate, observant, straightforward. In fact, she reminded him of Barrett herself.

Davis rose from his desk, stretched, and yawned. “Come on, honey, let’s go to bed,” he suggested as he walked around the desk.