Рита Браун - Tall Tail

Servers glided back and forth from the summer kitchen, which, as was the custom in the hot South, was located a distance from the house. This meant the servers had to dash to the kitchen and carry the tureen or cold meats back to the main house. The second their feet touched the doorjamb, door open to the outside, they composed themselves for “the glide” so favored by Francisco and Maureen, his wife.

Details of Caribbean-born Francisco’s early life were sketchy, but pointed to a man who, when young, was on the make. Highly intelligent and ruthless, he had made his way up. Some thought he started as a blackbirder, a slave trader. Others said no, Francisco worked for a series of island bankers, from whom he had gathered much knowledge, as well as his wife, Maureen. She was the daughter of a successful banker in Martinique. She brought with her not only heaving bosoms but a large dowry. Francisco, like most men, was enchanted with both gifts. Maureen, for her part, had learned how to use her breasts to get exactly what she wanted from men, hence the nickname “Nightingale,” a euphemism for prostitutes, all of whom knew how to use their bosoms. This was uttered behind her back by other women, including her own slaves, who could imitate her to a T. Never failed to cause eruptions of laughter.

Now forty-seven, Maureen was still lovely of visage, even as she had thickened a bit with age. Like many good-looking women, she hated growing older, working too hard to capture her fleeting youth.

Ewing Garth, ever sensitive to investment, cash as well as credit, trod softly around his neighbor Francisco. The two had made a few profitable investments together over the years. Ewing never invested more than he could afford to lose, and this was a lesson he drove home to Catherine. Ewing considered his dealings with Francisco as keeping harmony. Keeping tolerable relations with other businessmen was a key to Ewing’s success. As for Francisco’s wife, Maureen, Ewing loathed her. She would flirt, play the coquette, and try to get a rise out of him, literally. A Virginia gentleman knew all the steps of the social minuet, especially those in which a man pretends the lady before him is enchanting, be she seventy, forty, or a ripe twenty. Such flatteries were considered a lady’s due. Only a fool would act upon them, but every man had a duty to make a woman feel desirable, delightful, and admired. The reverse of this was every woman was to demure; she had to convey that the gentleman before her was a hero in disguise; and handsome to boot. This was the grease to the social wheels.

Poor Ewing and his wife, Isabelle, practically had to hogtie their daughter Catherine when young to get her to behave in ladylike fashion. Rachel had been easy. Over time, Catherine perceived the value of such behavior. That didn’t mean she liked it.

“Ah, Mrs. Selisse, you have outdone yourself.” Ewing smiled benevolently. “Your table is as beautiful as the food is superb.”

She smiled back, with a flourish of her hand. “A secret from the islands.”

Francisco swooped his spoon away from him, bringing the cold potato soup to his mouth. He liked his wife. Maureen helped his business, and he was not insensitive to her dowry, nor the connections she had brought into his life. Keeping a good table never hurt any man in the wider world. Francisco kept to his domain, Maureen kept to hers, and they succeeded.

—

At the stables, the carriage horses had been taken from their harnesses, sponged down, and put in a stall out of the lowering sun.

Entrusted with their horses by Catherine, Jeddie Rice performed this service. He allowed Moses Durkin to help him. Moses, twenty-five, ran Francisco’s stables under the tutelage of DoRe Durkin, his father, who was slowing down. No one quite knew why, but the father suffered pains deep inside and they moved. No bleeding, no fevers, just strange moving pains that would abate, then return, bringing with them more fatigue. A few of the other servants complained of similar pains, but not much came of it.

Jeddie rode as postillion while Barker O.—no last name, just O.—handled the graceful, immensely expensive open coach-in-four. Driving a coach-in-four was a skill not acquired superficially, and Barker was the best in central Virginia. He had been plied with offers to leave Ewing, offers of money to himself as well as a large sum to Ewing, but Barker loved the Garths’ horses. He also believed “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” He knew his master’s ways. He wasn’t eager to learn those of a new master. In the back of his mind he heard his mother’s whisper: “Never trust a white man. Some you can honor. Some you can even love, but son, never trust one.”

—

Charles West drove his not-quite-so-expensive but elegant phaeton. Sitting next to her husband, the air brushing her cheeks, hearing the wonderfully musical beat of the two horses, Rachel beamed. Charles could drive just fine. Once at the Selisses, Charles tipped Francisco’s people to assist Jeddie, who took charge of the horses.

Visits such as this early evening dinner fueled friendships, business, and, of course, gossip. The ladies might bring a lady-in-waiting, a slave, to help them, and once the white folks gathered for drinks, dinner, and sitting a spell, the slaves could gossip with relish. The men talked about shipping, cargo costs, harvests. The slave gossip was ever so much more exciting. After all, the house ladies changed sheets. They knew just how those sheets were used, including those not of the marriage bed. Who ate what. Who was allergic to what. Who was a hothouse flower. Who was barking mad. Who was fair-minded. Who was kind. Predictions for the future usually accompanied such gossip.

Wiping down one of Ewing’s beautiful bays, Barker said to Moses, “Yancy Grant going to run his big horse, Jack Night, down on the levels come fall. Put money on Jack. Longest stride I ever saw, once he gets going.”

“He’s talking it up.” Moses had heard from some other people about Yancy’s fine runner. “He’d better run that horse and win ’cause I heard his tobacco crop ain’t worth squat.”

Focused only on horses, Jeddie flicked a cloth over King David’s well-muscled rump, asked, “Why grow ’bacca?”

Barker patted Solomon’s neck. “People all over this big world want Virginia ’bacca.”

“Yes, I know that, but you get a drought, you get hard rains, there goes the ’bacca,” said Moses. He looked at Jeddie, a slight fellow a few years younger than himself.

“Mr. Garth grows it on his North Carolina land,” Jeddie remarked. “Risk must be worth it.”

“Mr. Garth is plenty smart. Easy to ship out of Carolina. I don’t reckon Ewing could ever spend all his money.” Moses admired the fancy coach, which two young boys were wiping down, hoping to be rewarded with a bit of change. “That coach could buy a farm, a farm with a couple hundred acres.”

“Yes, it could.” Barker smiled broadly. After all, he drove that coach and he was a respected man in these parts, slave or no. Everyone knew about Barker O.

The men straightened up as Aileen—Ailee, to most people—flitted by the stable. “Master’s had two drinks. He’s in a good mood. Missus has snuck three.”

Face darkening, Moses pleaded, “Say you’ve taken the vapors. Don’t you stay in the house if they pour more down their throats.”

She kissed him on the cheek, her cat eyes sparkling. “Honey, I can’t do that, but I’ll do my best to disappear into the kitchen and work my fingers to the bone.” She laughed, then skipped back to the house.

Moses glanced down at the ground, then up.

Jeddie, not too familiar with the Selisses, asked, “Ugly?”

Moses nodded. “My God, that Selisse woman’s hateful mean, but hateful as she is, she doesn’t force herself on Ailee.”