Wild, Beautiful, and Free(50)

Days passed, and Mr. Colchester did not return. Soon it was a week, then ten days. Missus Livingston didn’t seem concerned, and I tried to imitate her attitude. But my disappointment increased with every hour that slipped by without word from him. I tried to tamp it down by reminding myself that Mr. Colchester’s movements had nothing to do with me. I repeated these words to myself:

“You are a schoolteacher. He is your employer. You have, as long as you do your job well, a right to his respect and kind treatment, nothing more. Be grateful you have that and be content.”

I did this, but I also found myself considering how I might leave Lower Knoll. It was a broken notion—where could I go during this unrest, when the Fugitive Slave Act was still enforced stiffly in most areas? I didn’t know where I would be safe.

I continued to teach my students. One day Jelly was helping me put the classroom in order after lessons were over. Her wide dark eyes seemed to be examining me as she took a small stack of books from my hands.

“Miss Bébinn, are you sad?”

I smiled weakly. “Now, Jelly, why would you say such a thing?”

“I don’t know. You just been different after the fire. If you’re sad, it might be my fault.”

“Oh, Jelly, no, no. I am not sad, and nothing is your fault.” But since the child had brought up the fire, I asked, “Do you remember anything about it?”

“I was sitting reading like I always do. It grew dark, and I was gonna leave because I had no candle. Then I heard a noise.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know—sounded like somebody outside. Footsteps.” Jelly shrugged. “I didn’t want to get in trouble. That’s when I went under the stairs.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“No. Didn’t see anyone. It got smoky and I got scared.” She paused, and her lower lip quivered.

I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her on top of her head. “You’re fine now,” I told her. “Don’t think about it anymore.”

Mr. Colchester’s absence stretched past two weeks. February approached. Rumors that the Southern states would form a confederacy floated north. Finally he wrote to Missus Livingston. She read the letter during our breakfast. I drank my tea and pretended to be occupied with my own thoughts. The letter wasn’t for me.

“It is just as I thought,” Missus Livingston said.

“Oh?” I refilled my cup and helped myself to some eggs.

“He will be here in three days with all the people I’ve told you about. We shall have a full house of it.” She left the table swiftly to follow whatever directions Mr. Colchester had sent.

Without her there to encourage me to eat, I allowed the tea and eggs to grow cold. He would return. He would return and bring with him the woman he intended to marry. I had three days to prepare for the confrontation of this reality. I didn’t know how to be, whether I could even look him in the eye. My fingers trembled. I twisted a napkin in my hands to steady them.

Then, a small miracle—it was like my mind came to me. Papa used to speak of moments like this when it was like the world calmed down and reason walked in the door. I felt it—another version of me, sitting down next to me. She talked plenty of reason. It sounded like this:

They will not notice you. Remember, you belong in the village, and you will live there, at some point, in a cottage near the wood.

Who are you now? A schoolteacher. You only need care about your students.

Did you have his affection before? No. Do you have it now? No. Will you have it in the future? No. Nothing in your circumstances has changed or will change. You are the same. What is there to mourn?

This last struck me as the most sensible. I am as I was. The notion settled me. I only had to remember how I’d been when I’d first come to Fortitude. It was a map already laid out in front of me. I could allow this idea to guide me.

I rose from the table and went to gather my things for the school day. I discovered the mansion was newly alive with movement. I could hear a flutter of activity in the kitchen. Two chambermaids, Kick and Jocasta, were dragging out carpets to beat them on the back lawn. Poney was wiping down every surface: banisters, mirrors, clocks, and sideboards. I saw Founder going upstairs with a pile of fabric that looked like curtains draped over her arms. I followed her.

“We’re in for it now,” she said when I had caught up to her on the landing. “It’ll be a push to get all these rooms ready. Not had company for a long time.”

“Do you know them? The Morgans? Mr. Ingram?” I swallowed hard. “The Chamberlains?”

“Who hasn’t heard of the Chamberlains? They order Miss Belinda’s dresses from Paris. Can’t miss hearing about folks with that kind of money.”

“Founder.” I touched the sleeve of her dress. “Is it true about Mr. Colchester and Miss Belinda? Will they marry?”

She turned to face me. Her lips pursed into a sour expression, and she looked me up and down with sharp, scolding eyes.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t pay much mind to what white folks do. They have their own sorrows.”

Before I could ask what she meant by sorrows, she continued down the gallery and disappeared into one of the bedrooms.

The three days, which I thought would proceed at a snail’s pace, came and went as the hours do. On Thursday I returned to Fortitude at the end of my teaching duties to the news that Mr. Colchester and his friends were in the house. They’d eaten lightly on their arrival and were gathered in conference in the library.