Wild, Beautiful, and Free(41)

I wasn’t used to being looked at anyway, but Mr. Colchester’s eyes made it harder. I’d noticed a range of colors in them—not straight black or brown or even blue. It was like so many hues, greens and browns, washed through his eyes, and they had a light that made it feel like they could take in everything around him and not just the object in front of him. So him looking at me like that? It seemed like a world raining down, and I didn’t know what to make of it.

“How do you like Fortitude? Will you be sad to leave it when your cottage is ready?”

“I like it well enough, sir. But I’ve known many places. I can make do wherever I need to lay my head.”

“Can you? I envy you. Home can be an elusive thing.”

“Oh, I know my home, sir. I just don’t go wishing for it in places where it can’t be.” I thought of the litany of the land, the prayer I still whispered before I slept each night.

He started as though he wanted to say something fast, but he remained silent. Instead he took his seat again and said my name so I would have to look at him. “Miss Bébinn.”

“Yes, sir?”

“In New Orleans in November, right before a good fall rain, there’s a grayness to the sky. Gray and white, really, like a cotton boll. But it’s not cold yet, and the air is thick with water waiting to be squeezed out. Makes me think I can walk on that air. I like walking on days like that. Do you know New Orleans?”

“No, sir. But I know that gray you’re talking about. And I know that air. Like walking on the floor of the barns after the cotton gins been running.”

He nodded. “We have something in common, Miss Bébinn. Let’s leave it at that for tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” I rose and said good night to Missus Livingston. I was eager to go back to my room and out of his sight. But he had something more to add.

“Miss Bébinn, sometimes, not often but sometimes, we have air like that here in Ohio. We’ll keep a look out for it, you and I. When it comes, we’ll take a walk and compare it to the air in Louisiana.”

I didn’t know what to say. I stared at him a moment, then gave him a bit of a curtsy. It was all I could think of, and it seemed the right thing to do. I left the room.





Chapter 8


Missus Livingston checked on me before I went to bed. She worried I might be bruised from my fall. I took the opportunity to inquire more about my employer.

“Mr. Colchester is a strange young man, isn’t he, Missus Livingston?”

“Well, I suppose so, but not much different from any brash young man too full of himself.”

“More than that, I think. He is very abrupt. On the verge of rudeness.”

“True, but he has been drinking tonight. He is not like that all the time, so allowances can be made for him. He is not vicious; that’s what matters. I wouldn’t put up with him if he were. But then I am used to him. And he deserves some compassion.”

“Why?”

“He is responsible for so many. This whole community, really. Many of the inhabitants of Lower Knoll were once slaves of the Colchester family. But a good number are runaways. We have to be on the lookout for bounty hunters. They could kidnap one of our people and send them back south.”

I flinched at this. Missus Livingston seemed to forget that I would be under the same threat. Perhaps my fair appearance made her set me apart.

“Why doesn’t he stay and ensure the community is protected? Why does he leave it to others?”

“Well, he’s young.” She shrugged and looked toward the door as though she wanted to leave our conversation. “He has no friends here, no proper company.”

“What about his family?”

“None.”

I nodded. What she said fascinated me. Where was Mr. Colchester’s property in the South? Louisiana? I burned to know, but I didn’t think it wise to question further. And I could tell, by the way Missus Livingston increasingly avoided my direct gaze, that she didn’t want to say more. We parted with a fond but brief good night.

When I came down for breakfast the next morning, Mr. Colchester was sitting there at the table, just sitting there straight and proper like he was waiting. Leah brought out a plate of hot eggs and grits for me.

Mr. Colchester leaned forward. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir.”

He asked me questions in a careful way, like he didn’t want to scare me. He asked about my plan of teaching, how my students were. He wanted to know when I would start teaching the adults. I found it strange—he didn’t sound like a patron or even my boss when he asked. It sounded like he knew the names, knew the people. I ventured to ask a question of my own.

“How long have you been away, Mr. Colchester?”

“I suppose I left right before the spring went away, before the hot weather started sneaking in. But I’m not fond of this winter weather. Of being covered up.”

That would explain his bare feet, I thought. It’s not like one sees men’s naked feet that often. You’d think some men sleep in their boots. But he had been drunk before.

Much as I loved Leah’s soft-scrambled eggs, I couldn’t eat while Mr. Colchester was sitting there. Not that I wasn’t hungry. But when he was sitting there, it was like all my being, all my mind, needed to be focused on him and the blood all went to my head instead of my belly. I put down my fork. He didn’t seem to notice or care.