Wild, Beautiful, and Free(46)

He stared at me a little longer as we walked into the mansion. Before we parted, he said, “I hope my story will help you think compassionately if I ever seem—strange.”

He entered the library and left me standing alone in the hall. Whether he realized it or not, this was a time when he seemed strange.

I did consider his story, many times. I thought about it in bed as I waited for sleep. I considered it as I walked to the school each day. And soon I had more to consider, because he seemed to enjoy speaking with me in the evenings and presenting me with some philosophical question or his view of the world. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted me to affirm his thoughts, and I didn’t feel equipped to do it. But I liked that he found me worthy of his confidence. He seemed more relaxed with me than when I’d first met him. I even allowed myself to wonder, in the most secret part of my heart, whether I was capable of affecting his humor and his character. Did I tame him?

Sometimes he asked me to speak of Louisiana, and though I still carefully kept from him the precise location of my upbringing there, I enjoyed remembering the sugarcane fields, the fronds of Spanish moss that hung low into the swamps, and the air thick with water in the storm season. He seemed to appreciate it all, and this drew me to him. He felt like family to me, a sensation I had not felt for any soul in so many years.

And my life took on a new color, new vivacity. I no longer dwelled on what I had lost, and the stone from Catalpa Valley, which I still kept safe in a bureau drawer in my room, held less of my thoughts. I could begin to think of Lower Knoll, and even Fortitude Mansion, as my home. Work on my cottage proceeded slowly in the spring of ’60, owing to the men being focused so much on the factory and a war that seemed more certain every day. I considered myself quite settled in my room on the second floor, but that summer Poney began what he had offered to do months earlier: finish the cottage himself. He worked slowly, yet he made steady progress.

Gradually, ever so gradually, Mr. Colchester grew in my heart. I felt gratitude for his accomplishments and for his care of the Lower Knoll village. I was proud of him, unaccountably so, when I perceived he had attained some new level of maturity. He drank less, and even Missus Livingston acknowledged his apparent stability. He was not perfect, of course. What human could be? He could still be sarcastic and impatient, especially when he perceived he might not get his way. But I put it down to general moodiness. Again, excusable. Missus Livingston had known him to be different. Now, in my presence, he had improved. Could I be the reason?

These were my thoughts on a late afternoon in January 1861. There had been no school that day owing to my preparations to move into the cottage. For Poney had finished it just before Christmas, and after abiding by Missus Livingston’s request that I stay in the mansion for the holiday, I packed my belongings. Poney would come with a cart in the morning to take my few things to Lower Knoll. But that afternoon, seeking solitude, I wrapped a heavy cloak about me and walked to the schoolhouse. There I swept the floor, wiped chalk dust from the children’s slates, and put in order the books that had been hastily discarded before the holiday. The room grew dark while I worked as dusk fell on the brief winter day. When I finally left, I encountered the last of the sunset glowing near the edge of the wood.

The sight made my fingers suddenly grow cold as they tried to tie my cloak. That wasn’t west—the light was not in the western sky.

Fire!

My cottage was on fire.

My steps flew. Why would I hurry to an empty house in flames? Because I knew, in fact might be the only person to know, that there was a chance it wasn’t empty.

The structure wasn’t entirely engulfed, but there was a great deal of smoke.

“Jelly!”

I untied my cloak and pulled it over my head before I opened the door. A thick curtain of smoke poured out. I threw myself onto the ground and crossed the threshold, crawling on my stomach.

“Jelly!”

I heard something—a whimpering in one moment, a groan the next. I crawled in the direction of the sound, for all was dark and I feared the flames and smoke. I kept the cloak close over my head. I found the steps first. My hands followed the shape of the cupboard over to the right, and I ran my fingers over the wood until I found the leather string to pull the door open. Jelly was crouched in a tight ball. I reached in and covered her with my cloak and tugged. We rolled backward.

Flames licked the ceiling above me, and I tried to take in breath so I could cover us again and get out. My lungs stung and my eyes watered. A plume of smoke seemed to reach out, and I thought it would consume us. But the smoke had firm hands and a pair of arms. Suddenly Jelly and I were upheld and moved swiftly out of the cottage. What happened next is unclear. I remember lying on the ground and coughing. We were surrounded by people and tended to. I remember shouts and the thunder of running feet. Then I was floating, like I was covering miles and miles with no effort at all. I enjoyed the sensation. It was like I was a baby again, riding with Papa through his fields. I thought I might see him again, and I took hold of this thought and allowed it to guide me into unconsciousness.

When I woke, I felt a heaviness on me on my right side. I thought I had been injured or lost feeling in that part of my body, so I shifted to assess my condition. I heard a child’s excited whisper below my ear.

“Miss Bébinn!”

It was Jelly, lying next to me, holding on to me.

“You’re all right!”