Yellow Wife(32)
“It is goin’ be okay.” July rubbed my hair off my forehead. “There, there.”
But I knew it would never be all right. With Master Jacob gone, I would be stuck in this place for the rest of my natural life.
I pulled myself together long enough to walk over to the big house and shut myself off in my room, hoping to retire early so that the awful day would end, but when evening fell the Jailer called me to the parlor. I told Abbie to tell him that I felt ill, but she refused to disappoint him. I lifted myself from the bed and let Abbie wipe my face with a damp cloth and July brush my hair.
“Cake?” he offered, once I sat down in my usual chair.
I shook my head, concentrating on keeping my emotions from clouding my eyes. The room felt stuffy. I moistened my lips and asked. “May I play something for you?”
The moment my fingers glided across the ivories I fell into a trance and played every fast, erratic-sounding song I knew. I played until the sweat poured down my bosom and I had exhausted myself with my own fury. I pounded out my angriest tunes, surrendering my whole body to the rhythm of the music until my fingers cramped and my back throbbed.
“Simply lovely.” He clapped once I had depleted myself. “Think I might take to hiring you out.”
I hoisted myself up from the bench, smashing my palms down on the piano. “I want to go home.”
“This is your home.” He crossed the room. Then, before I could move, his fingers ran the length of my sweaty spine and then started massaging my collarbone. I stiffened as his hands traveled downward and cupped my buttocks.
“Oh, Pheby.” The longing in his sigh scared me.
“May I go?”
Every spot he touched on me flamed hot. Then he reached for my head and brought my face so close we breathed the same air.
“Do not be afraid of me, Pheby. I want to open up the world for you.” He forced me to look at him. His eyes were emerald green.
“I… must lie down in my condition.” I faked a cough.
He put his nose to my neck and inhaled my skin. “Good night, Pheby Delores Brown.”
When he released me, I shuffled to my room and stood with my back against the door, tearing off my dress and rubbing away his touch from my skin. When I got in the bed, I tried to sleep but could not stop thinking of Elsie’s warning.
They call this place the Devil’s Half Acre. Who you thinkin’ the devil be?
CHAPTER 15
Fancy
Six months after I arrived, I watched as the snow melted into slushy puddles, knowing that it was not the last fall for the season. I waddled now instead of walking, and worried that the weather conditions would cause me to slip and hurt the baby. Most days I felt fatigued. During the night, I could not find a comfortable position because of the heaviness of my belly. The nausea never subsided and I would hang my head over a pail, trying to decide if the rumbling I felt was hunger or sickness. When I moved, my feet ached as if I had stumbled on thorns and spikes. The baby’s kicks felt as though I was being beaten from the inside. Most days tiredness followed me from sunup to sundown, but I knew my survival depended upon me proving useful.
I was in the middle of sewing a nightshirt for the baby from leftover scraps when the Jailer appeared in the doorway with a girl. She looked younger than me by a few years, and so fair that if she had not harbored ropes around her wrists, I would have believed him if he introduced her as kin.
“Fit her in the best dress you have. Make sure she is clean and fed. Need her at the tavern in one hour’s time.”
I nodded and he left the girl to me. Her cobalt eyes scanned the shed like those of a cornered sheep and I knew she was trying to make sense of her new situation. I remembered the feeling well, and as soon as the Jailer closed the door to the tavern, I untied her. The ropes were just obnoxious. She would never get out of the jail anyway, unless escorted or with a pass.
“What is your name?”
“Charlott.”
“Where are you from?”
“?’lizabeth City.” Her eyes were red rimmed, signaling little sleep, and her dress bore a gaping hole in the waistline like someone had tried to rip it off. I thumbed through my small collection of dresses and found a blue one that appeared to be the right size. Charlott stared at the ceiling, and while I tightened it to fit her figure, her gloom was obvious. I tried shaking it off by make-believing that I was preparing the sweet child for a party. I hummed and sang, but no matter how hard I pretended, the image of Matilda on the auction block, naked for all to see, clouded my head. The deafening silence got to be so painful that I could not stand it, so I peppered her with questions until she told me her story.
“When I’s three, I’s given as a gift to Master’s first wife, Miss Sarah. Life was happy till she fell from her horse and died. Massa took a second wife. Where ’n my troubles began.”
She went on to tell me that from the moment her new mistress laid eyes on her, she seemed set on punishment. Charlott could not please her no matter how hard she tried. Her master was adamant about not wanting his slaves scarred by the whip, so after a few paddles and kicks, her mistress turned to the punishment of the pump.
While I had experience with a missus who did not like me no matter how hard I tried to please, I had no familiarity with a pump made to inflict pain, so while I fixed Charlott’s hair, she explained that her mistress would have her stripped naked and then lowered by cable cord down into the well. The spout of the pump was elevated and angled on top of her. At the mistress’s command, water would be released in full force.