Property(22)

I sent off two letters, one to my aunt and one to my husband, informing them of Mother’s sudden death. My aunt was staying at her summer house near the lake, so I thought to hear from her before the morning. I ate only a little soup and bread, then called Sarah to sit in the court with me and help sew together two sheets for a shroud. Peek was burning a bit of horseskin and a hoof, which is said to ward off the infectious vapors of one who has succumbed. It filled the air with an odor bad enough to punish the living for having survived. Peek, who is usually talkative, was quiet, tending her fire with a stick, occasionally wiping a tear from her eyes. She’s afraid to ask what will become of her, I thought, and I couldn’t tell her if she did ask, as I don’t know what is in Mother’s will.

We finished our work as the daylight faded. I had Sarah light the lamps in the parlor and went inside. I was certain I would not sleep, as I had forgotten my tincture in the rush to depart. I couldn’t bear the thought of lying awake in my room. But what was I to do? I was tired of sewing, my thoughts too agitated even to read a journal, it did not seem proper to play the old piano, which was probably out of tune. I went to Mother’s desk with some notion of organizing her papers, though she was the most orderly person I have ever known and I doubted I would find anything amiss. I heard Sarah’s baby screaming from the kitchen. “Bring me a glass of port,” I told Sarah, “and then get that child and come sit in here. I’m expecting a letter from my aunt and I want you to answer the bell.”

She filled a glass at the sideboard and brought it to me. I opened a drawer and took out Mother’s account book. Sarah stood next to me, watching my hands as I turned the pages. “What is it?” I said, but she made no reply and went out. I ran my finger down the column of numbers in the margin.

After Father died, Mother sold the farm and most of the slaves, used part of the profit to buy her house, and invested the rest to create a small income. She kept track of every penny. I saw at once that she had been living well inside that income and had, in fact, been steadily increasing the capital over the years. If my husband gets his hands on this money, I thought, it will be gone in a month. I recalled Sally Pemberly, who had managed to rescue her dowry from her husband’s extravagance, and resolved to learn the name of her lawyer.

In a side drawer I found three packets of letters neatly tied with black ribbon. Two were from my mother’s brother, the third was from my grandmother. At the back was what appeared at first to be another, older account book. The edges were frayed, the brown leather cover much faded. As I opened it, Sarah came in with her baby and sat on the settee near the door. The child was whining softly, but as soon as her mother had opened her dress she grew quiet, occasionally making lip-smacking sounds, like a man savoring his meat. With a thrill, I recognized my father’s handwriting, page after page of it, closely written, the entries dated. It was a diary, started just two years before he died. What a treasure, I thought, but I had no moment to read even one sentence before the bell rang and Sarah leaped up, detaching the baby from her breast and buttoning her bodice as she went to the door. I closed the diary, thinking to examine it at some quieter time. Sarah came back in, followed by a boy I recognized as one of ours. “He means to stay the night here,” she said. “It’s too late for him to go back.”

“Has he a pass?” I asked.

The boy produced a strip of pasteboard from his pocket and held it out to me. “Master say I should stay,” he said boldly. “He say Mistress send a letter by me in the morning.”

“I’ve already written to him,” I said. “Our letters have crossed.”

The boy hung his head, casting a stealthy look about the room at the same time.

“Very well,” I said, breaking the seal of the letter. “You may stay.”

“Yes, missus,” he said.

I rang for Peek, who came in covered with flour. “This boy is to stay here tonight,” I said.

“Where he to sleep?” Peek said, eyeing the child. “The kitchen table?”

“Just make a place for him,” I said, extracting the single sheet from the envelope. As the boy followed Peek back to her domain, I moved close to the lamp to read my husband’s cramped handwriting. If only I’d had an example of his epistolary style before I agreed to marry him. But he had been careful to send the briefest messages, apprising me only of his expected arrivals and departures in town. Stupidly I took his terseness as proof that he was a man of affairs, but now I know it is because he is so dull he can think of but few words to say. This missive, though brief, was unusually expansive and informative.