Yellow Wife(50)

“Marse said for me to—”

“Hush now, boy,” I said, gently pushing his head back down on the pallet. “Get a little rest. Be back to check on you after a while. Stay on your stomach so your back can heal.”



* * *



I found it impossible to concentrate on my work after doctoring Tommy. The Jailer could easily afford more hay. I knew that the beating was more an example of his power than anything. He liked to keep his foot on our necks, squeezing until it felt like we could not breathe without his permission.

There were no girls today, so I set about the task of mending things needed—blankets, socks, old shirts—and I stitched together clothes for the field hands out of burlap. I preferred to have some pieces on hand for those who came to the jail with nothing. Especially in the colder months. When I finished, I crossed the courtyard to prepare for dinner. Basil jogged up to me.

“Miss Pheby, Tommy got a fever.”

I went back for my bag and headed over to the kitchen house. When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Tommy shivering on the pallet. I lifted the brown jar to his mouth.

“Bring some onion to put by his bed,” I called down to Elsie.

I smeared another layer of salve on his back, knowing that I had better hurry or the Jailer would be irritated with me for holding up his dinner.

“I will be back soon as I can. Do not forget about the onion,” I said to Elsie. She bent her shoulders over a pot of stew and grunted.

When I reached the house, he was already there.

“I just need a minute to check on Hester. Do you mind?” I asked nicely. More kindly than I felt, but I knew the way forward to keep the peace.

“Yes, bring her to dinner so I can see her.”

I headed to the nursery. Monroe had his arms up right away, demanding that I hold him. I gave him a quick peck on the forehead and reached for Hester. Monroe started to cry. July grabbed him up and started kissing his neck and belly, but he refused to be pacified. He wanted me.

“Baby, I will be right back. Stay with July.”

“No, Mama. Mama!” His arms flared in the air.

I knew the Jailer did not like to wait, and after today, his patience would wane. I hugged Monroe to my chest, kissed his face, and then handed him to July. When Hester and I walked down the hall, I could hear my son screaming for me. “No, Mama, come, Mama.”

I walked into the dining room, handed Hester to her father, and then took my place at the right of his arm.

“My lovely ladies.” He smiled. “Let us eat.”

And we did then, as I listened for Monroe.





CHAPTER 23




Barefoot

When Isabel was born on April 20, 1855, her skin looked as fair as Hester’s, but her mannerisms and the way she held her head reminded me of Mama. Joan arrived eleven months later. She had a hint of my mama’s color and proved to be a fussy baby. I could barely work without her tied to my back. She refused to let any of the fancy girls in the shed hold her, and she never quite took to July or Abbie. Soon as Joan could hold her head up, my belly swelled again.

If I had to guess, I would say that Hester was the Jailer’s favorite. He spent most of his free time in conversation with her. By the time she was four, her mind absorbed everything, it seemed. The Jailer allowed me to read to the children, and Hester had already begun to pick up on three-letter words. She was clumsy on the piano, but I made her try her scales for at least fifteen minutes each day. She hated it, and we quarreled during every lesson. She shared her father’s likeness in that way. Stubborn as a nail. The only person she did not hassle too much was Monroe.

Those two were like two sides of the same coin, inseparable. They ran and played behind the house in the small garden, made up games, and shared toys. When I taught Hester, I sent Monroe off so that the Jailer would not suspect that I educated him too. Monroe’s learning took place in private, during the hours that I knew we would be alone. I reminded him constantly that no one could know of his lessons. Each time we studied together, I told him about the slaves who had their eyes burned out with lye when their master found out that they could read.

“Am I a slave, Mama?” he asked after our last session in the back of the stables.

I scratched my head at the difficulty of the question. “In some way, all the people who live at the jail are servants of Rubin Lapier, because he owns it.”

“Even you?”

I swallowed. “Even me.”

“But he is kind to you.” He broke a piece of straw in two. “He hates me.”

“That is not true.”

“It is. He always tickles and plays with Hester, but not me.”

I pulled Monroe to my chest. “Tickle her like this?” I started under his arms and moved down to his ribs until he fell out in a fit of giggles. I hoped his laughter would help him to forget.

The windows at the back of the house were open, and the breeze kept the children cool while they relaxed. We used the drawing room for a play area because the nursery had gotten quite crowded. Isabel slept across my lap. Joan had just begun holding her head up without support, and put everything within reach into her mouth. July had gone to the kitchen to fetch the children a midmorning snack of apples and peanuts.

Hester and Monroe were playing their favorite game of hide the puppet. Monroe had hidden the puppet and called out “warmer” or “colder” as Hester dashed about the room to find it. She was usually good at finding the puppet, but that morning she seemed frustrated and could not uncover it. Then she started to cry.