be chained to his place in a galley.
“You are my most treasured servant.”
“Yes, but I am a slave. Please answer, madame.”
Roger had given Hyacinthe to her in Paris six years ago. It had been, was still, the height of all that was fashionable to have a small black page to carry one’s train or fan, to bring one’s wine, except that this boy was far more than a page, just as Thérèse was more than a lady’s maid. Hyacinthe would ask until she answered. He was a child such as she had been, willful, curious, not easily put off or fooled.
“Yes, you are a slave. My slave. But much, much more. Now hush.”
Seven years to make a tobacco man, Bolling had said. In seven years, she would be eight-and-twenty, quite old. There was commotion on the road cutting through her meadow. Someone else was coming. Many people were coming. Her dogs began to bark.
A two-wheeled cart, hitched to a horse, pulled in under her pines. Men and a young woman dismounted from horses. Dogs, which had come with them, barked. Her own dogs ran out to challenge.
A woman, quite large, as round as one of the great barrels of tobacco called hogsheads, was helped down from the cart by two of the men.
“Hush those dogs up,” she told them and gave her hand to an older man, much older. His face was seamed, his silver-white hair worn long and loose, like a woman’s, like that of the Cavaliers and courtiers of Charles I’s day, odd and out of fashion these days. Like Tony’s, thought Barbara.
The dogs, snarling at hers, nevertheless obeyed the whistle of one of the young men and jumped into the cart one after another. Her own dogs went wild, thinking themselves the reason. The lone young woman laughed, bent down to the pugs, held out her hands.
“Call them,” said Barbara; Hyacinthe clapped his hands, and the pugs ran to the orchard.
“There is Rosie, madame.”
There, tied to the back of the cart, was her grandmother’s cow, the storm’s victim, rescued, it seemed, by these people. Barbara walked out from under the peach trees, stopping under one of the pines. There must be at least seven people in her yard, not to mention half a dozen dogs.
“I am Lady Devane,” she said, her husky voice, her mother’s voice, a stark contrast to her angelic face under the big hat.
“I am Margaret Cox, your neighbor,” said the round woman, her eyes—bright, dark buttons—lost in her plump face. “These are my grandsons, Bowler, James, and Brazure. This is Colonel Edward Perry, another neighbor of yours and mine, and this is his daughter, Beth. Colonel Perry found this cow, Lady Devane, and thought it might belong to you. Now, we have brought you some supper, and a little something extra to settle you in and welcome you. James, Brazure, take it out of the cart before the dogs eat it.”
“I am delighted— we are delighted—to make your acquaintance, Lady Devane,” said Edward Perry, his voice calm, peaceful, like the sound of reeds in a river. The bow he made was quaint and old-fashioned, and the eyes in his seamed face were lively and kind. Barbara liked him at once. He was dressed all in black, plainly, like the Quakers of London.
Barbara watched as the young men shyly brought forward three hams, two unplucked geese, sacks of something, and a basket of candles.
“Cornmeal in those sacks. One of my sons-in-law owns a grist mill,” said Mrs. Cox. “Those candles have been made with bay myrtle. They smell sweet when you burn them.”
“All for me?” Barbara smiled, her grandfather’s smile, charming, dazzling. That smile’s a gift, said her grandmother, none of your doing at all, numbing those who see it, so mind how you use it, Bab. I am minding, Grandmama.
“Come into the house. I can’t take supper alone. I won’t take supper alone. You must all join me.”
She remembered this, country kindness, neighbor looking after neighbor. It was a good thing, a far better end than Colonel Bolling would have made to her first full
“You are my most treasured servant.”
“Yes, but I am a slave. Please answer, madame.”
Roger had given Hyacinthe to her in Paris six years ago. It had been, was still, the height of all that was fashionable to have a small black page to carry one’s train or fan, to bring one’s wine, except that this boy was far more than a page, just as Thérèse was more than a lady’s maid. Hyacinthe would ask until she answered. He was a child such as she had been, willful, curious, not easily put off or fooled.
“Yes, you are a slave. My slave. But much, much more. Now hush.”
Seven years to make a tobacco man, Bolling had said. In seven years, she would be eight-and-twenty, quite old. There was commotion on the road cutting through her meadow. Someone else was coming. Many people were coming. Her dogs began to bark.
A two-wheeled cart, hitched to a horse, pulled in under her pines. Men and a young woman dismounted from horses. Dogs, which had come with them, barked. Her own dogs ran out to challenge.
A woman, quite large, as round as one of the great barrels of tobacco called hogsheads, was helped down from the cart by two of the men.
“Hush those dogs up,” she told them and gave her hand to an older man, much older. His face was seamed, his silver-white hair worn long and loose, like a woman’s, like that of the Cavaliers and courtiers of Charles I’s day, odd and out of fashion these days. Like Tony’s, thought Barbara.
The dogs, snarling at hers, nevertheless obeyed the whistle of one of the young men and jumped into the cart one after another. Her own dogs went wild, thinking themselves the reason. The lone young woman laughed, bent down to the pugs, held out her hands.
“Call them,” said Barbara; Hyacinthe clapped his hands, and the pugs ran to the orchard.
“There is Rosie, madame.”
There, tied to the back of the cart, was her grandmother’s cow, the storm’s victim, rescued, it seemed, by these people. Barbara walked out from under the peach trees, stopping under one of the pines. There must be at least seven people in her yard, not to mention half a dozen dogs.
“I am Lady Devane,” she said, her husky voice, her mother’s voice, a stark contrast to her angelic face under the big hat.
“I am Margaret Cox, your neighbor,” said the round woman, her eyes—bright, dark buttons—lost in her plump face. “These are my grandsons, Bowler, James, and Brazure. This is Colonel Edward Perry, another neighbor of yours and mine, and this is his daughter, Beth. Colonel Perry found this cow, Lady Devane, and thought it might belong to you. Now, we have brought you some supper, and a little something extra to settle you in and welcome you. James, Brazure, take it out of the cart before the dogs eat it.”
“I am delighted— we are delighted—to make your acquaintance, Lady Devane,” said Edward Perry, his voice calm, peaceful, like the sound of reeds in a river. The bow he made was quaint and old-fashioned, and the eyes in his seamed face were lively and kind. Barbara liked him at once. He was dressed all in black, plainly, like the Quakers of London.
Barbara watched as the young men shyly brought forward three hams, two unplucked geese, sacks of something, and a basket of candles.
“Cornmeal in those sacks. One of my sons-in-law owns a grist mill,” said Mrs. Cox. “Those candles have been made with bay myrtle. They smell sweet when you burn them.”
“All for me?” Barbara smiled, her grandfather’s smile, charming, dazzling. That smile’s a gift, said her grandmother, none of your doing at all, numbing those who see it, so mind how you use it, Bab. I am minding, Grandmama.
“Come into the house. I can’t take supper alone. I won’t take supper alone. You must all join me.”
She remembered this, country kindness, neighbor looking after neighbor. It was a good thing, a far better end than Colonel Bolling would have made to her first full
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