River

Hester

It still feels like a nightmare. After all the hubbub with the wedding, we all thought that it would be time to relax, even though some of us knew we would be moving to Margaret’s new home at Homochitto.

But then this morning Master started ringing the whipping bell, and the entire scenario unfolded like the worst hallucination of a terrible fever. He was pulling Dalila to the whipping post, and I had to catch Ayola and hold her throughout, and then finally had to go back up and collect the little body of Dalila’s baby. As if that wasn’t enough, the Missus collapsed and could not be roused, and was still lying insensible in her bed when we left.

It still seems like it could not possibly have happened, even now as the day wears on towards evening, and we are in the caravan of wagons approaching Natchez. Dalila has been unconscious during most of the journey, thankfully. And Ayola has been so good, quietly cuddled up against her, seeming to know that it brings comfort to her mother.

It was a blessing that Mr. Slavson arrived when he did and stopped Master before he could administer all forty lashes. I do not think Dalila could have survived.

But I think she will recover. She seems somewhat improved already, as strange as that is. Normally lash wounds take days to close, but perhaps she is stronger than most people. She must be stronger than she looks, to have survived the dread journey on one of the boats from Africa. I don’t think she is even bleeding very much, and it has only been a few hours.

We arrive in the town of Natchez, and the wagons stop at a house, apparently the house belonging to Mr. Slavson. He and the overseer lift Dalila down from the wagon, and I carry Ayola along behind them as they help her inside and then up the stairs. They place her into a bedroom.

“Here, Hester, let me take Ayola,” Mr. Slavson tells me. I see that the lash mark he received across his face has stopped bleeding, even though he had waved away my earlier attempt to treat him with salve. I don’t know how, but he has healed even faster than Dalila seems to be. “Can you please help my wife get Dalila settled?” he asks me. I would normally find it odd for a man to want to hold a baby, but this particular man and baby have already spent a lot of time together. They seem to adore each other. She passes into his arms willingly, and he takes her back down the stairs.

I hear activity outside, and assume that the men are moving the belongings that had been placed inside of Mr. Slavson’s carriage, to put them into the wagon where Dalila had been lying. We still have to go the rest of the way to Homochitto. I understand it isn’t terribly far.

Mrs. Slavson says, “Hester, I have something for her to wear, that I think would be light and comfortable enough not to hurt her. Wait here, please, I will go get it.”

“Missus,” I ask, and she stops to see what I want. “We will also need some rags, for between her legs. She’ll be bleeding there for a while too.”

Grief crosses her face, and her hand involuntarily moves to her own belly, where I can see that she is expecting a little one of her own. I think that she and Dalila were probably about as far along as each other. I hope for a better outcome for Mrs. Slavson. “Yes,” she says, “I will fetch that too.”

I move over to stand next to Dalila, whose eyes are closed again. In a moment Mrs. Slavson has returned, holding the rags, and also a loose, light cotton shift. I agree, this should be fine.

We lift Dalila up enough to remove the tatters of the dress that she had been wearing, now covered with drying blood. I inspect the wounds on her back before we dress her in the cotton shift, and am surprised at how much healing has already occurred. I gasp a little, and Mrs. Slavson asks, “Is it very bad?”

“No, Ma’am,” I tell her, “it is much better than I would have expected. She is healing far faster than I have ever seen before.”

She gets a thoughtful little frown on her face, then says, “Well, I’m glad of that. Let’s get this on her.”

There is a basin along with a jug of water in the room, and we use it with a washcloth to clean her up as best we can. We soon have the shift on and Dalila lying on her side in the bed, as comfortable as she can be for now. She barely roused during our ministrations, and is sleeping again. Good, sleep is the best thing to restore her. She has more than a whipping to recover from.

When Mrs. Slavson and I get back down the stairs, Mr. Slavson and Ayola are sitting cuddled together on a sofa in the parlor. He rises, and says, “Thank you, Hester, for everything. We will see you in a few days.”

I lean in to give the baby a little kiss on her forehead, and she soberly says, with her unusual understanding despite her extreme youth, “Bye bye Esser,” which is the name she has given me.

“Bye bye, little one. I will see you soon.”

“Soon,” she repeats.

Mr. Slavson asks his wife to take the baby, and he goes out the front door to talk to the overseer. I go out as well, and take my place on the waiting wagon, to depart for my new home.

Thomas

The day has become quieter, but not less strange. After Gregor and the caravan of wagons departs, the strange crowd milling around on the property, aimless and confused, seems to remember what they should be doing, and people begin to disburse.

Richard goes outside towards the river, followed by his man Samson. The servants gradually depart to their own duties, and I am left standing by myself in the foyer, no family member there to converse with, quite alone. I am not sure what I should do, but I don’t have to wait in perplexity for long.

Mr. Ellis soon comes out of his study and goes upstairs without making eye contact with me. I don’t know if he even realizes that I am still here. Shortly afterwards Nancy comes back down. Her eyes seek me out, and I can see in her expression how relieved she is that I am still here, even after the others all departed.

She comes to me at once. Her eyes are full of weighty emotions that I have never seen there before. The tempestuous girl, the spritely nymph that has so attracted me for the past year, in the course of one traumatic day begins to give way to a person of depth and consequence, and it takes my breath away. There is a look of steely determination in her eyes, overlaying the deeper pain of today’s events, the childlike mischief I have seen so often quite dissolved. It is as though the chrysalis is opening to reveal a creature of unimagined beauty and magic and strength, and suddenly my prior interest in her seems juvenile and base. The day’s troubles are acting upon her like a forge upon ore, transforming her into something infinitely stronger and more beautiful. Here before me is the true Nancy, beginning to emerge, and in her I see my own future. My resolve to make her my wife explodes a thousandfold, as I see not only the darling girl for me to adore, but the priceless and steadfast partner of my lifetime.

As she begins to speak, my feelings for her surpass mere admiration, surpass even love. It is respect that I feel, for the dignity of this young woman, suddenly shedding her childhood and becoming an adult.

“She hasn’t woken,” she tells me. “Papa is sitting with her. He sent me away. I think that he realizes…” she pauses, trying to find a way to make herself speak the words. It only takes a moment. “I think he knows that she is dying.” She nods, agreeing with the words she just heard herself speak. Her voice is steady, her eyes are dry. She has already accepted this new reality.

I don’t try to dispute it with her. All I can do is offer my services. “When Gregor left he told me that he is going to send Dr. Samuel Duncan to come and see if there is anything that can be done.”

She nods soberly. “That’s good. Papa will need help.”

Even with this news, she does not cling childishly to false hope. She makes no mention of the doctor being able to cure her mother. The depth of her understanding is impressive.

She looks into my eyes, as we stand together near the front entryway. “Let’s sit down,” she suggests. “There won’t be anything to do for a while. I know it will take Dr. Duncan time to arrive.” Somehow, she finds a way to see a bit of humor. “The other Dr. Duncan,” she adds.

I let her lead me back into the parlor. A slave is in there, trying to clean off the sofa. There had been a blanket draped there when Dalila was placed upon it, but it was insufficient to prevent her wounds from staining the furniture’s fabric. Nancy observes this for a moment, then turns to me and says, “Let’s sit on the veranda.” I can only nod and follow her.

When we cross to the glass veranda doors and move outside, I can see Richard climbing the tree where he keeps a sort of treehouse. I believe that he had fallen from that tree last year when he broke his leg. It’s the whole reason why we met the Ellis family, when Stephen was summoned to come and treat his injury. So much has stemmed from that one incident. It looks like the treehouse has been mightily fortified, with guardrails and ladders, no doubt an effort to make it safer and prevent further injury. His manservant is carefully watching the boy as he climbs.

Nancy directs me to the patio table. I see her look over, catch the eye of a slave and beckon, apparently ordering refreshments.

“I’m sure you are hungry,” she says. “I think we skipped right over breakfast. And probably lunch by now too.”

“Thank you,” I reply, feeling a steady amazement at the sense of maturity and control that she is exuding. It suits her.

She looks intently at me while we are waiting for refreshments to arrive. “Why are you still here?” she asks. “I had thought when I heard the wagons leave that you would be going with them. I know that’s why you came, to help with Margaret’s things.”

I give a little laugh. “Nancy, my dear, I couldn’t leave you. Not with everything that has happened this morning.”

She takes in a sharp breath, and continues watching me. It is too late, my feelings have progressed too far, for me to do anything other than simply level with her.

I lean in, earnestly, and look into her eyes. “I hadn’t planned to talk to you openly, Nancy, not until you were older. But after today, I feel I must. I know you aren’t yet fifteen, but I think you are ready. I have to tell you that it is my hope that we will be united someday. Not yet. But I am sure that I am not the only one who has been feeling this way. Today, I feel it more strongly than ever. I think you feel it too.”

She doesn’t blush, or giggle, or scoff, or deny. She merely nods, and says, “Yes.” And with that one word, our future is cemented. I see in her eyes the understanding that I feel.