Byrony rose from her chair to stand beneath the gilded bronze chandelier. “Brent isn’t at all poor, Laurel. We are both very proud of the Wild Star. He has financial interests in other ventures as well.”
“So that’s why you married him? For his money?”
“No, that’s not why I married him, but it is why you married Brent’s father, isn’t it?”
“I think, Byrony, that you—” She paused. What was I supposed to do? Fade away in oblivion in my parents’ rotting mansion? “You don’t know what you’re talking about, miss.”
Byrony sighed, raising her hand in silent apology. “It’s none of my business, Laurel. Nor is it any of your business why I married Brent.”
Brent paused at the open doorway. He smiled, a bit unwillingly, at Byrony’s words. She hadn’t been so calm the night before, he thought, and his smile became broader, until he remembered the words she’d cried to him when she climaxed. He’d left her before she’d awakened this morning, not wanting to, but knowing he must for his own peace of mind. He hadn’t wanted to see the lie in her eyes. If she even remembered what she’d said to him.
He walked into the sitting room. “Ready for lunch, ladies?”
Byrony couldn’t meet his eyes. Like an utter fool, she was—telling him she loved him. She’d given him unwitting power over her. Am I like my mother? Loving a man who only takes, who only hurts? At least he doesn’t raise his hand to you in anger or when he’s drunk.
“Yes, of course, Brent,” Laurel said, walking gracefully toward him. “How did your meeting go with Frank? Is the plantation bringing in enough money to please you?”
“We’ll see,” he said.
Laurel continued, “Frank Paxton is an excellent overseer. It’s a pity that you two didn’t seem to be getting along. Indeed, we could hear your argument in here.”
“There are a great many things that are a pity,” Brent said. “Byrony, are you coming?”
“Yes,” she said.
“You have a worshiper, Brent,” Drew said over a lunch of baked catfish, fresh crunchy bread, and stewed sweet potatoes. At Brent’s raised eyebrow, Drew added on a smile, “Lizzie. The girl won’t shut up, so Mammy Bath tells me.”
Brent grunted.
Laurel toyed a moment with the slab of butter on her knife. “If you’re bound and determined to keep the girl out of Frank’s bed, then why not give her to Josh now?”
“So she can give birth to another slave?” Byrony asked. “To add to the profits?”
“That’s quite enough, Byrony,” Brent said. “Drew, I’m riding into the fields after lunch with Paxton. Would you like to come?”
“My dear brother, I will come with you if you cannot manage without me. Actually, though, I’d planned to ride into Natchez. I need to buy some paints so I can begin Byrony’s portrait.”
Brent said, “I’ll try to muddle through without you.”
“May I come, Brent?”
“A lady doesn’t venture into fields,” Laurel said, appalled. “It’s unhealthy and immodest.”
“Immodest?” Byrony said.
“The males slaves wear only short trousers, some even loincloths. I can’t imagine that Brent would want you eyeing his property.”
But Brent was thinking about the unhealthy part. He remembered well the conditions in the fields. There was a chance of infection, and he had no intention of allowing Byrony to expose herself.
“No, Byrony,” he said. “You will remain here, or visit the local ladies with Laurel.”
As they were walking from the dining room after lunch, Byrony laid her hand on Brent’s sleeve. “May I speak to you before you leave?”
“Very well. Shall we go into the library?” She was silent a moment, and he added in a deeply drawling voice, “Would you prefer the bedroom? Perhaps you would have another surprise for me?”
“The library.”
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “What is your pleasure, sweetheart?”
“Did you not say that I have the responsibility for the house?”
“Did I? You seem so certain, that I must have.”
He saw the frustration in her eyes. “Yes, Byrony, you are the mistress of Wakehurst. Come, you didn’t need to ask me that.”
“I need to spend money for material for clothes. The servants have only one allotment of cloth a year, Brent, and it’s wool! It must be utterly wretched for them in the summer months. And I need to hire a seamstress. I wasn’t certain if I needed your permission. Laurel said that I would.”
“Yes,” he said, “you do need my permission.”
“Do I have it?”
He flicked a bit of lint from his coat sleeve. “Your request sounds reasonable enough.” He heard her sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Brent.”
“There is one thing, Byrony. Normally, in the South, expenses are handled through the overseer. However, I wish everything to be cleared through me. I do not want you ever to speak to Frank Paxton about any money needs you might have. Do you understand?”
“It would never have occurred to me to ask Frank Paxton for anything. Why may I not accompany you this afternoon?”
“Because I said so.” he knew he sounded curt, but he didn’t want her to worry, and he knew she would if he told her his reasons. “Now, my dear, if there’s nothing else, I will bid you a fond farewell.” He opened the door, then paused. “Oh, Byrony, if you take a rest this afternoon, think of me, all right?”
Again he paused, his eyes searching her face. “You might also think about anything you wish to say to me during your pleasure, that is. I truly would like to know what you think.”
He left her standing alone in the middle of the library, trying to fathom what was in his mind. He’s a man, you silly ninny, and a man doesn’t have to make sense.
Byrony didn’t nap that afternoon, though she thought about it. Word had gotten about that the new missis was providing the slaves with clothes. Several women slaves, so tired and miserable-looking that Byrony wanted to cry, approached her. She was still taken aback at their flow of outrageous flattery to the little missis, the beautiful, kind little missis. Ophelia, ebony-black and so bent she came to Byrony’s shoulder, begged for an allotment of meat for her six children. Shy, furtive Sabilla was pregnant and her back hurt her so badly from the field work that she was afraid she would lose the child. It was her first child and she was only fifteen. Old Die wanted relief from her work because of all the canker sores on her body. The list went on and on. Byrony felt helpless to the point of tears at their plight. To each she repeated that she would speak to the master. She was in her bathtub, thinking longingly of San Francisco and her friends. What would Saint say, she wondered, if he were confronted with all the misery? She would tell him about it when they returned home. Ah yes, home as Maggie, the Saxtons, the Newtons—
Laurel walked lazily into the bedroom.
“Doesn’t one knock in the South?” Byrony asked, pushing back wet hair that had escaped the cluster tied atop her head.
“I told you what would happen,” Laurel said, disregarding Byrony’s words. “I can’t imagine Brent appreciating you mucking in his affairs.”
“Laurel, these people are wretched. It staggers me that human beings are treated worse than animals.”
“What is Brent going to do with Wakehurst?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”
“Oh, I will, you may be certain of that. Where did you grow up, anyway, to be such a pious little preacher?”
“In Boston.”
“Ah.” Laurel gave her a long look, then turned to leave. At the door she said over her shoulder, “You do realize, don’t you, that several of the slaves who spoke to you today are field slaves. Each field slave has so much to accomplish every day. If they don’t complete their work, they’re flogged.”
Byrony was out of the bathtub in but a moment, her heart pounding. Lizzie stood gaping at her as she quickly toweled herself dry and
began to jerk on her riding habit.
“Missis,” Lizzie wailed, “you suppose to call me for help.”
“I will, Lizzie, next time.” Ten minutes later, Byrony was racing out of the house.
Oliver, a bent old stablehand, saddled a mare, muttering under his breath that the massa went to the fields with Mr. Paxton.
He pointed toward the north. Byrony click-clicked her mare, whose name was Velvet, in that direction. Dear God, what had she done? She rode beneath thick-branched elm and oak trees that allowed only slivers of late-afternoon sun to knife through the green leaves. There were horse paths into the fields. She’d seen them on her ride with Drew. She veered onto the one that was nearest to being toward the north. The cotton fields were flat and seemed to stretch endlessly. There were small trails between the rows. She was beginning to wonder if old Oliver had sent her astray when she saw a group of black men clustered in a small clearing.
The sun was setting when she saw Frank Paxton, the only white man present, coiling up his whip. Ragged slaves stood in a loose circle about an oak tree. She felt her stomach turn as she reined in the mare. Sabilla, the pregnant young woman who had begged her for fewer hours in the fields, was hanging by her bound hands to a low branch, naked to the waist. Her back was crisscrossed with bloody welts. From Paxton’s whip. Byrony heard her soft, keening moans.
She slipped off the mare’s back and rushed to Paxton. “Cut her down, this minute.”
“Mrs. Hammond,” Frank Paxton said, closing his fingers over her arm, “the woman deserved the punishment. Don’t interfere in things that don’t concern you.”
“Don’t concern me?” She shook her arm free of him. “This woman is pregnant, Mr. Paxton. Cut her down this instant.”
“No, ma’am,” he said finally. “She will stay as she is until dark. Those are the rules.”
“Then animals made the rules.” She started toward Sabilla.
Frank Paxton moved swiftly to block her way. He said, his voice deadly soft, “Listen to me, Mrs. Hammond. You will get back on your horse and ride out of here, back to the house. I will not tolerate any interference from you. White people don’t argue in front of slaves, do you understand?”
Byrony heard the soft rumbling sounds from the dozen or so male slaves. She didn’t know what to do. Oh God, it was worse than a nightmare.
“What is going on here?”
Byrony could have yelled with relief at the sound of Brent’s voice. She turned to watch him gracefully dismount from the back of a huge black stallion.
“Nothing at all, Brent,” Frank Paxton said easily. “I was just telling your wife that she should return to the house.”
“Brent,” Byrony said quietly, “he’s flogged Sabilla. I must help her, for it’s my fault. She’s pregnant.”
There was a long moment of silence; then Brent said in a calm, emotionless voice, “No, Byrony. She isn’t, not any longer.”
“No.” Byrony’s eyes fell to the rivulet of blood that streaked down Sabilla’s legs. So much blood, making splotches on what remained of her coarse wool dress.
“Get on your horse and ride back to the house now.”
She raised her eyes to her husband’s face. “But, Brent—”
“Do as I tell you. I will see that the woman is taken care of. I promise you. Go, now.”
Slowly Byrony walked to her mare. She felt Brent’s hands close about her waist and lift her into the saddle. She let the mare gallop wildly back toward her waiting stall.
The lamp flickered, then filled the room with light.
“Get up and get dressed now. You will not miss dinner.”
Byrony stared at her husband, but didn’t move. “Sabilla?”
“We will speak of it later.” He turned and walked to the door and called, “Lizzie. Get in here and help your mistress.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt like a perfect fool. He couldn’t very well bathe and change with the girl in the room. When she came skittering to a halt in front of him, her eyes wide on his face, he said, “Never mind. Have water sent up here, now. That’s a good girl.”
He said over his shoulder. “You can hide in bed for a while longer, I have yet to bathe. Lord knows I need it.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Oh? Are you ill then?”
“No, not in the sense you mean. Please, Brent, what about Sabilla?”
“She’s all right. She’s weak, of course, but she will be fine, I promise.”
“It was my fault that she was flogged. She came to me to beg for fewer hours in the field. It was her first child, Brent, and she was in pain. I can’t believe that things like that happen.”
Brent very carefully folded his coat and laid it on a chair back. He said over his shoulder, “Byrony, stop blaming yourself. It isn’t your fault, what happened. You can believe me that I’ve spoken to Paxton. There won’t be any more floggings.”
She sighed deeply, and watched him strip off his clothes. The differences between them hadn’t really struck her before. They did now. His tall body was powerful, strong, and muscled. But even if he were short and flabby, she thought, veering back to the horrible incident, he would still control everything and everyone in his little kingdom. It was because he was a man that he was powerful, and because she was a woman, she was nothing more than a supplicant. She could do nothing more than beg, perhaps cry to get her way. She wanted to demand that he flog Paxton. She thought of her father. He had no kingdom, yet he was all-powerful to his wife. He could beat her, curse her, throw things at her at will.
“I will not be a party to this,” she said.
Brent turned to face her, naked, but oblivious of it. “Would you care to explain yourself?”
Two black boys carrying wooden tubs of hot water came into the bedroom. Byrony slipped deeper under the covers until they left the room.
She silently watched her husband climb into the tub.
“I’m waiting.”
“I want to leave.”
There, she’d said it.
Brent said nothing until he’d finished bathing. When he stepped from the tub, he slowly began to dry himself. “I was quite smelly,” he said. “I don’t suggest you use my water.”
“I bathed earlier.”
“Then get out of that bed and dress yourself.”
“I am also tired of taking orders from you. I am not one of your slaves. I will stay in bed if I want to.”
He laughed. Damn him, he laughed. She grabbed a small clock from the bedside table and flung it at him. It struck his arm and bounced on the carpet.
His laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He rubbed his arm, a thoughtful expression on his face. “So you want to stay in bed, do you?”
“No, Brent, I don’t want any of that. I’m angry and I feel guilty—and—no.”
“There’s one thing a man’s entitled to, and that’s obedience from his wife. Haven’t I mentioned that fact to you before?”
He joined her in bed and when he took her cries into his mouth he felt her words to his soul. “I love you.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Brent. I’d heard you were home. Welcome, son.”
Brent took James Milsom’s offered hand and shook it. For an instant he stared at the man who was one of his father’s closest friends, one of his father’s contemporaries. He looked old, his face wrinkled, his iron-gray hair thin. Had his father looked this old when he’d died? He swallowed. Nine years was a long time.
“Yes, I returned to Wakehurst just last week. I must speak to you, Mr. Milsom.”
“I’ve been waiting for you, Brent. Sit down.”
Brent eased down in a large leather chair opposite James Milsom’s mahogany desk, and looked about the dark-paneled office. “I remember your desk and those pictures so well,” he said. “Do you still race your horses, sir?”
“Yes, indeed. There’s a new picture added to the lot—” Milsom pointed to a painting of a roan quarter horse. “His na
me is Bullet. Poor old fellow died several years ago. I’m pleased I had him painted before he went down. I suppose it was for the best—a race, you know, and he broke his leg. But, enough of that.”
“Natchez has changed a bit also,” Brent said. “New buildings, more bustle on the docks, many more boats on the river.”
“True.” He shook his gray head. “The steamboat you traveled on for a while—Fortune’s Lady—blew up some five years ago. The idiot captain was racing, of course. Killed some fifteen people. I understand you’re newly married. My congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir.”
James Milsom sat back at his desk and studied the young man across from him. He was a man now, he thought, shaking off the memories of the handsome, arrogant youth he remembered. He said abruptly, with no preamble, “Your father regretted what happened, Brent. Oh, not at first, he was too enraged.” He watched Brent raise his fingers to the scar on his cheek.
“I gather he told you. All of it?”
“Yes, but only I know what happened. Forgive me if I’m probing at old wounds, Brent. But you came to talk to me about your father, did you not?”
“That and other things.” Brent sighed. “Had I been in my father’s shoes, I would have probably killed me. I was an excellent son to him, was I not?”
“It’s over and done with, Brent.”
“Yes, he’s dead, too late for me to make reparations.”
“Did you know that he devoured your letters to your brother? He followed your progress, you know. When you bought your saloon in San Francisco, he was pleased. I remember him telling me that at last you’d settled down, finally come to terms with yourself.”
Brent remembered that letter, the last one he’d written. He realized now that it had been filled with his excitement, his satisfaction, his hopes. And his father had read it.
“It’s a pity he didn’t live long enough to learn of your marriage. That would have pleased him greatly.”
“Would it? I wonder. Perhaps he saw my son sometime in the future in bed with his father’s seductive new young wife. The final irony, the final justice.”