Yellow Wife(7)

“I ain’t letting you leave here without me.”

“There has to be another way.”

“You mine, Pheby. If I gotta run to be with you, then so be it.”

“Dangerous talk and you know it.”

He looked me deep in the eyes and fondled my cheek. “She did this?”

I nodded.

“Woman ain’t no good.” His mood soured.

“And I better get back up to the house before she starts wearing out my name.” I stood, smoothing down my skirts.

“When will I see you again?”

“Soon as I can get to you. Please do not do anything foolish before then.”

“We are going to be together, Pheby. That’s a promise.” He walked me to the door and kissed me long and hard; I bid him good night.





CHAPTER 3




Mistress of the House

Every morning Missus Delphina rose before first light. Up even before the overseer, Snitch, blew “de risin’ horn.” She liked to take what she called her constitutional—a stroll down to the garden, over to the dairy house, and then out to the fields. By the time Master woke up, she had already gotten a report on the crops from Snitch and written it all down in Master’s ledger. Those who worked up at the house had to be up before she was, of course. Rachel, now dead, would stand at the ready with her work dress, while Lovie clutched a tray of morning tea. Aunt Hope toiled away in the kitchen, with smoke blowing high from the chimney carrying the promise of the day’s meal. Essex groomed the horses, and even Mama and I sat at the loom spinning diligently in case Missus popped in on her way to the garden. Now that I slept in the big house, I tossed uncomfortably all night. Without Mama to wake me, I overslept my first morning.

“Come on, gal, make haste.” Lovie nudged me in the middle of blackness. When I opened my eyes, it took me a moment to gather my wits. Sometime in the middle of the night I had turned my mattress sideways and slept with my feet in the hallway.

“She be up soon. You needin’ to be ready to dress her.”

“Why me?” I yawned.

“Was Rachel’s job, girl. Now it’s yours.”

I wiped the sleep from my eyes, shoved my pallet back in the closet, and changed from my nightgown to my house dress in the dark. My tongue smacked with thirst. I was wishing I had a sip of some water when Missus started shouting my name.

I rushed to her door. “Yes, Missus.”

“Do not stand there idle. Take down my walking dress. The day is wasting.”

I hurried to her wardrobe and pulled out a mauve dress.

“That one is for dinner, you ninny. The plaid one.” Missus stood tapping her foot with her arms crossed at the bosom. She looked ghostly by the candlelight in her bloomers and chemise.

“Where is my corset?”

“I have it right here.” I held it up. She turned her back to me and held out her arms so that I could fit the corset over her belly bump. Not sure why she bothered with the corset to walk the plantation. ’Less she was trying to impress old Snitch.

None of us cared if her belly was in or out.

“Do not have all morning, girl.”

I tried not to touch her skin as I stretched one long lace through the corset, then fastened each end so the string pulled through the eyelet. Through the mirror, I watched her face to see where the corset fit comfortably.

“Missus Delphina, can you take a long breath in?”

When she did I settled the corset a pinch lower, fitting it under her waist flab.

“Rachel would have been finished by now.”

I fastened the front elastic and pulled sharply at the strings to make it even tighter. Missus gulped.

“Tight enough?”

She did not respond so I kept pulling until the corset was anchored and she looked strained in the face. The price of beauty for a white woman. Even when with child.

“Fine.”

I held out her basic petticoat and then helped her into her walking dress.

“When you finish in here, Lovie will get you started on the laundry.”

She left me in the bedroom. I went through all the chores I had performed the morning before: wiped down the four-poster bed frame, footboard, and headboard with a mixture of olive oil and vinegar until they gleamed. Tied back the curtains, made the bed, sorted her dresses, swept the ashes from the fireplace, scoured the hearth with soap and sand, then stacked in fresh wood that I would light before dinner. Afterward, Lovie led me down a short flight of steps and down a hall to the scullery, tucked away at the back end of the house. In this room, we prepped the big meals, washed dishes, and laundered the clothes. Lovie had soaked a batch of whites overnight in rainwater and ash lye.

“Know how to use the dolly stick?”

I nodded, a half-truth. I had seen it done before. I lifted the dolly, which resembled a milking stool attached to the bottom of a broomstick, and heaved it into the metal pot. Plunging it into the water, I twisted and turned the bedsheet, Master’s white shirts, undergarments, and towels. Within a few minutes my forearms blazed and my shoulders ached from the repetitive movement.

“All ’ight in here?” Aunt Hope stood at the back door.

“Yes,” I said despite my fatigue. Did not want Aunt Hope to think that I could not handle my share of the load.

“Bet you hungry. I snuck an egg and piece a bread.” She took the dolly from me and twisted it into the pot. Aunt Hope was stronger than me even though she was an older woman. I tore through the food while she kneaded the clothing.