Ruth Langan - Dulcie's Gift

“If you were a burden, Miss Trenton,” Barc said with a laugh, “you would at least be a most charming one.”

Grateful for his glib tongue, she offered him a smile. “What are you planting, Barc?”

“At one time, all of these fields used to be filled with white gold—” Dulcie was familiar with this term for cotton “—but now, with no market for it, and no way to get food-stuffs from the North, we must grow everything we need. In this field we’re planting sweet potatoes.”

“What other crops do you plant?” Dulcie asked, eager to keep the conversation on less personal subjects.

“Okra, sorghum, corn, beans, grain.” Barc pressed a hand to his back. “And anything else Cal can think of that’ll keep us stooped over a furrow all day. Isn’t that right, Dar?”

Dar only nodded and helped himself to more corn bread.

Cal finished his meal quickly and got to his feet. As he brushed past Dulcie, he muttered, “You may be able to earn your keep, Miss Trenton. But you’ll never earn our trust.”

He strode back to the waiting horse. Leaning into the harness, man and beast resumed the tedious, backbreaking job that seemed, given the vastness of the fields around them, never-ending.

Stung by Cal’s abrupt dismissal, Dulcie gathered up the remains of their meal. Barc touched a hand to her arm. “Don’t take offense, Miss Trenton. Cal…has not been himself since the war.”

“The war affected all of us,” she replied. As she turned to leave, she could feel Cal’s dark, piercing stare burn into her, even from the distance that separated them. Lifting her chin, she returned his look before tossing her head and beginning the long walk back to the house.

It didn’t matter, she told herself. She didn’t care what Cal Jermain said to her or thought of her, just as long as she and the others were allowed to remain here.

She would work. She would endure. But she would never go back.

“No, little missy, not like that.” With a sigh of impatience, Robert took the feather duster from five-year-old Emily’s hand and circled it lightly around the various objects that cluttered a tabletop in the formal parlor. “Like this.”

The child watched for a moment, more interested in the array of glittering crystal animals than in his deft touch. “It’s a bunny!” she cried in delight, lifting one of the pieces.

“You must not touch,” Robert admonished sternly. He took the crystal rabbit from her and replaced it exactly as it had been. “Those things belong to Miss Bessie. They are not to be handled by anyone else.”

She lowered her head. “Yes, sir.”

“I am not a sir. I am just…” Frustrated, he searched for a word. “I am just Robert.”

“Yes, sir.”

With a shake of his head he handed her the duster and crossed the room to where Nathaniel knelt on the hearth scrubbing soot from the blackened fireplace. Though the fieldstone gleamed, the boy was black from head to foot. Even his blond hair was streaked with soot.

“How does it look?” Nathaniel asked with pride.

Robert took his time, examining the work carefully. The quality of the boy’s work was a pleasant surprise.

He pointed to a far corner of the fireplace. “You forgot a spot.”

For a moment Nathaniel seemed discouraged. Then he bent to his work once more, saying, “I’ll get it so clean you’ll be able to see your reflection.”

“Eek!”

At Belle’s cry of alarm from across the room, Robert raced to where the six-year-old was huddled, her eyes wide with terror. Her job had been a simple one: shake the dust and cobwebs from the heavy draperies and open all the windows to air out the parlor.

The servant drew aside the draperies to see what had caused such an uproar. “Why, it’s just a dead mouse, little missy. He cannot hurt anyone.”

His words, meant to reassure, only caused her to squeeze her eyes tightly shut and begin to weep and wail.

Nathaniel abandoned his post and hurried over. Seeing the mouse, he wrapped his soot-covered arms around the little girl, as he’d seen Dulcie do a hundred times, and pressed her face against his filthy shirt. Over her head he explained to a startled Robert, “When the soldiers came, Belle and her mother hid in their cellar for weeks. They had nothing to eat, so her mother was finally forced to cook whatever they could catch. Mice mostly. And then her mother died, and Belle was alone…” With all the wisdom of an eight-year-old, he patted Belle’s head clumsily and whispered, “Don’t cry, Belle. You’re not alone now. Like Dulcie said, you’ll always have us.”

Watching the scene, Robert swallowed, then seemed to take an inordinately long time clearing his throat. At last he commanded imperiously, “You may go back to your chore, Nathaniel. Little missy, you come with me.”

The little girl trailed behind his stiff figure, out of the parlor, along the hallway and into the kitchen, at the rear of the big house. While she stood trembling in the doorway, Robert crossed the room and lifted the heavy black kettle from the fireplace.

A wave of terror twisted Belle’s dainty features. In her mind’s eye she could already see this fearsome man cooking the dead mouse and forcing her to eat it as punishment for failing to complete her chores.

“Come here, little missy,” he called sternly.

With slow, jerky movements she made her way to the table, where he stood waiting.

“Sit,” he ordered.

Trembling violently, she did as she was told and watched as he placed a steaming cup in front of her.

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Tea,” he said. “When Miss Bessie finds the day… upsetting, I always fix her tea.”

The little girl stared at him, then at the cup. While she watched, he produced a plate on which rested two precious cookies still warm from the oven.

“When you finish your tea and cookies,” he said, “you will find me in the parlor.” And with that he strode from the room.

Throughout the long afternoon, Dulcie drove herself, beating rugs, scrubbing floors until they shone, rubbing Fiona’s bloodied sheets on a scrubbing board until her knuckles were raw. And all the while she kept hearing Cal Jermain’s taunting words. You may earn your keep, Miss Trenton. But you will never earn our trust.

What did it matter to her what that cruel, ignorant clod thought? As the sun made its arc across the sky, she snapped the sheets off the line and struggled to fold them in the stiff breeze. With each snap of the laundry she told herself that she cared not even that much about Cal Jermain’s opinion.

When the last sheet was folded, she grabbed up the huge wicker basket and turned, only to find the object of her venom standing shirtless by the well, washing himself in a bucket of cold water.

For the space of a heartbeat she could do nothing more than stare at the ripple of muscles across his back as he plunged his arms deep into the water and splashed it over his face. Then, forcing herself to move, she started past him. At that moment he turned toward her.

“Miss Trenton. Earning your keep, I see.”

She lifted her chin and held her silence. But as she took a step, his hand suddenly shot out, stopping her in midstride.

Shock waves vibrated through her at the strength of his touch. Perhaps it was the heat of the afternoon. Or exhaustion. But whatever, she lashed out at him in a tone usually reserved for Yankee soldiers and villains.

“Unhand me, Mr. Jermain.”

Cal had intended to do just that. In fact, he had just broken his self-imposed rule against touching. But now that she was as mad as a spitting wildcat, he changed his mind. He enjoyed seeing her lose that infuriatingly cool composure. A hint of a smile curled his lips. “And if I don’t?”