A Light to My Path (23 page)

“I suppose you want her to hate Missus Fuller the way you hate all white people?”

“They’re our enemies, Delia, but she don’t see that. She thinks Missy’s her friend.”

“Jesus says we’re supposed to love our enemies, turn the other cheek.”

“Kitty ain’t doing it for Jesus,” he said pushing his plate away. “She don’t respect herself at all. She’s always fawning all over that white woman, taking her abuse.”

“Let me tell you something,” Delia began. Grady held up his hands.

“I don’t want to hear no Jesus talk.”

“I know. I ain’t gonna talk about the Lord. But, Grady, do you remember what it’s like to be loved? How your mama and them other folks loved you before you was sold? Well, ain’t nobody ever told Kitty they love her. Think about that.”

Grady met her gaze for a moment, then looked away.

“The only scraps of affection she ever got was from Missy Claire,” Delia continued, “and you know that white woman ain’t loving any slave. Nobody in the whole world loves that poor gal. No telling what you and me would be like if nobody ever loved us.”

The angry lines on Grady’s face softened, and Delia knew she had reached him. “Thanks for dinner,” he said. He stood and kissed Delia’s cheek, then headed outside to the stable.

Chapter Twelve

Beaufort, South Carolina February 1861

Cold rain soaked right through Kitty’s dress as she ran outside from the town house to the kitchen. Inside, the kitchen’s steamy warmth smelled of coffee and wood smoke. Faye, the cook, looked so comfortable sitting near the fire with Delia and Grady that Kitty hated to disturb her.

“Missy Claire and her mama would like some tea,” she said, out of breath. At home Kitty would have fixed the tray herself, but she didn’t know her way around Faye’s kitchen yet.

“They wanting something to eat, too?” Faye asked as she rose to her feet.

“I-I don’t know,” Kitty stammered. “I’ll go back and ask.”

Delia stopped her before she could open the door. “Wait a minute, honey. Don’t go running out in the cold again. We’ll fix a little something and if they don’t want it, they don’t have to eat it.” She got up to help Faye with the tea tray.

Kitty had only known Delia for a few months, but she had already grown very fond of the little woman. She didn’t always understand everything Delia said, especially when she started talking about Jesus. But Delia always watched out for Kitty, making sure she had enough to eat and a chance to sit down for a moment’s rest. When Kitty had first seen Grady hugging her, she had thought Delia was his mother. Then she remembered his story about being sold from his home and forced to live with a slave trader.

“Seems like Missus Fuller’s mama is just as mean as Missy is,” Grady mumbled. “Why is she ordering everybody around all the time? What’s she doing here, anyway? When’s she going on back to Charleston?”

Kitty glanced nervously out the window, worried that Missus Goodman might have followed her outside and overheard him. She often did that back home—listening in on the servants’ conversations to see what they were up to. “Poor Missy was feeling a little lonely and homesick,” Kitty said, “so her mama come for a visit. Missy don’t know anybody here in Beaufort, and Massa Fuller’s gone so much.”

“Poor Missy …” Grady repeated, mimicking her.

“Where’d Massa Fuller run off to this time?” Faye asked as she filled the teapot with water.

“He took the train down to Alabama,” Grady said. “They’re starting a new government down there with all them other states that seceded.”

“Can they do that?” Delia asked.

Grady shrugged. “I guess so, because that’s what they’re doing. Massa told me we was starting the new year in a brand-new country. And you know why, don’t you? Just so they can keep us all slaves.”

Kitty didn’t understand it all, but she’d overheard enough conversations in the Big House to know that all the white folks were afraid that a war was about to start. She thanked Faye and Delia for the tray when it was ready, then hurried back into the house.

Missy and her mother sat by the fireplace in the front parlor. Martin had built a fire for them earlier to help take the chill off the winter afternoon. Kitty set the tray on the table between them, idly listening to their conversation as she arranged the cups and poured the tea.

“You’ll need to start looking for a wet nurse,” she heard Missus Goodman tell Missy. “It may not be long before you start your own family, and every woman needs a black mammy to nurse her babies for her. Believe me, that’s not something a proper lady ever wants to do.”

“Could you send Mammy Bertha to me?” Claire asked.

“Heavens, Claire, she’s much too old. She suckled you and your sisters when you were small. Doesn’t Roger have any house slaves who might be in a family way?”

“Not that I know of. His house slaves all seem a lot older than ours. The head woman, Delia, is older than Mammy Bertha. I think Minnie and Faye are, too.”

Kitty stood to one side as the ladies sipped their tea, waiting to be excused. Should she just slip away or would that make Missy angry? Kitty decided to stay.

“You don’t really want to bring a field slave up to the house,” Missus Goodman said. “They’re much too coarse and rough.”

“And they’re too dark,” Missy added. “The ones with jetblack skin frighten me.”

“What about your girl, Kitty?”

She heard her name but didn’t dare react unless it was a command. She stood perfectly still with her eyes downcast, pretending she couldn’t hear.

“Kitty isn’t even married,” Missy said with a little laugh.

“Slaves don’t marry, Claire. We don’t hold weddings for cows and horses, do we? Well, there’s no such thing as marriages for slaves, either.”

Kitty thought of Bessie and Albert back in Charleston. They seemed like husband and wife. They even called each other that. So did Minnie and Jim here in Beaufort.

“Slaves don’t have the same feelings we do,” Missus Goodman continued. “They’re simple creatures. And they live with anybody and everybody down on Slave Row without ever bothering to get married. Part of an owner’s job is to direct their breeding in order to produce the best possible stock. I’m sure Roger does it all the time. That’s how owners produce the next generation of slaves. It saves a lot of money, too. Negroes can be expensive if you have to buy them off the auction block, but if you breed them yourself you can replenish your stock and sell all the extra ones at a profit.”

“I’m glad that’s Roger’s job and not mine,” Missy said with a 173 shiver.

“Well, it will be your job if you want a wet nurse for your baby. If you want milk, you have to send your cow to a bull to be freshened. We get a wet nurse the same way.”

“Mother, please.”

“Well, it’s the same thing. Slaves aren’t like us, Claire. You’re always forgetting that. Kitty is your property, and if you want her to be your child’s nurse then she’ll need to be bred so she’ll have a baby before you do.”

Kitty had only a vague idea what they were talking about. Their words sounded frightening—and embarrassing—to her.

“Is that what you did with Mammy Bertha?” Claire asked.

“Of course. Bertha always bred quickly, too. She made a fine nurse.”

“Where did all her babies go? I don’t recall any black babies running around the house when Katie and Mary were little.”

“Of course not. You don’t think I’d allow them in my house, do you? Slave babies are raised down on Slave Row. Kitty, come here,” she ordered suddenly.

Kitty jumped to attention, hurrying over to stand by the tea table. “Yes, ma’am? You want me to pour more tea?”

“Not now. Look, you’re comfortable with her, aren’t you, Claire?” Missus Goodman asked, pointing to Kitty.

“Of course. Kitty’s been my slave for years—you know that.”

“Then she’s obviously the best choice. But you’d better arrange to have her bred soon.”

Claire’s cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. “How do I go about that? Choosing the … you know, her partner?”

“It’s simply a matter of seeing who’s available and then making the best selection. Roger’s butler seems suitable. What’s his name?”

“You mean Martin? I’d feel funny asking him.”

“You don’t ask, Claire, you command. You’re the lady of the house. You simply give orders and your slaves are expected to obey them. And you must punish them severely if they don’t. You have a right to breed any of your slaves that way, any time you want to.”

“This is very … distasteful.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake! Stop reading emotions into this that aren’t there. Negroes aren’t like us. Look at her! And unless you want some slave up in your nursery who’s as black as soot and just as filthy, you’d better take care of this matter soon.”

“All right,” Claire said with a sigh. “When I meet with Delia and Martin tomorrow morning to plan the meals and so on, I’ll talk to him.”

Missus Goodman turned to Kitty again, her face stern. “Listen to me, girl. It’s an honor to be chosen as Claire’s wet nurse. That job is even more important than being her chambermaid. You’ll be entrusted with your mistress’s children. But in order to get that job, you’ll have to do whatever Claire says. If she tells you to sleep with Martin, you’ll do it. Do you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am. I-I like babies.”

Kitty didn’t know Martin very well, and he scared her. She couldn’t imagine sleeping in a bed with him—or doing whatever it was that people did there. But she was even more frightened of Missus Goodman. If having a baby was important to her and Missy, then Kitty would have to do whatever she was told.

Kitty thought about the conversation she’d overheard for the rest of the day. Gradually, the idea of taking care of Missy’s little babies—and of having a baby of her own—began to excite her. She had helped Mammy Bertha take care of Missy Kate and Missy Mary when they were babies, and she always enjoyed snuggling them in her arms, making them giggle, even rocking them to sleep sometimes. Kitty convinced herself to think about all those good things—and to push aside the shame she felt at the thought of sleeping with Martin.

When she saw Delia alone in the warming kitchen that night, Kitty decided to tell her about the new job. She had learned to trust Delia these past few months, and knew she could confide in her. Delia would understand Kitty’s fear and embarrassment—and ignorance—of making a baby.

“I’m getting a new job, Delia,” she said shyly. “Missy’s going to let me be a wet nurse.”

“A wet nurse!” Delia’s eyes widened. She leaned close to lay her hand on Kitty’s stomach. “You got a baby growing in there, honey?”

“No, not yet. Missy says I have to sleep with Martin first.”

“What?”
Grady shouted.

Kitty whirled around and was horrified to see him standing in the doorway.

“I-it’s a very important job,” she hurried to explain. “If I have a baby, then I can take care of Missy’s baby when she and Massa Fuller have one.”

Her words seemed to infuriate Grady even more. He strode into the room, his face rigid with anger. “It ain’t right! She can’t make you do that!”

“Yes, she can,” Delia said grimly. “Old Missus Fuller done it to me, only she didn’t pick another slave. The white overseer was already taking advantage of me. Wasn’t nothing I could do about it, either. I had his baby just a few months before Massa Roger was born. That’s how come I could be his mammy.”

“But it’s wrong!” Grady shouted. “We have to put a stop to this!”

“No, wait. It’s okay,” Kitty said. She had to pretend that everything was fine, that she wanted to be a wet nurse. She didn’t want to get into trouble with her mistress. “Missy’s mama says they’re always doing it this way.”

“Do you know anything at all about how babies are made?” Delia asked her.

Kitty’s face felt warm with shame. “I know Missy Claire married Massa. Now they sleep together and … and they want a new baby.”

“That’s right,” Delia said. “Missy and Massa Fuller got married. You ain’t married, Kitty.”

“Missus Goodman says colored folks don’t get married. She says there ain’t no weddings for cows and horses, and there ain’t none for slaves, either.”

Grady scooped a tin cup off the table and threw it, shouting, “Missus Goodman is
wrong
!” It bounced against the wall with a crash.

Fear tingled through Kitty. She glanced at the door, worried that Missus Goodman would hear the commotion and storm into the kitchen to punish them.

“Grady, calm down,” Delia said.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” he shouted. “My mother went through the same thing! My first massa …” He couldn’t finish.

“I know, honey, but you’re scaring her.” Delia turned to Kitty again. “Slaves certainly do get married. We call it ‘jumping the broom.’ It’s the same thing as the white folks’ weddings, with a preacher and everything. But slave or not, the Bible says it’s wrong to be making a baby with a man unless you’re married to him in the sight of God.”

“I have to do what Missy says, don’t I?” Kitty was so scared she could barely hold back her tears. She never should have told Delia. Now she and Grady were both upset, and Kitty was going to get into trouble for it.

“Please don’t say anything,” she begged. “Missy will get mad at me if I don’t obey her, and she’ll send me away to work in the rice fields again.”

Delia pulled Kitty into her arms. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll talk to Massa Roger for you. He’s a good, God-fearing man. I know he won’t allow this.”

“He ain’t home,” Grady said. “And he ain’t coming home until next week.”

“Do you know how soon your Missy’s planning this?” Delia asked.

Kitty squirmed out of Delia’s arms and inched toward the door. She didn’t want to say another word. She’d said too much already. “I need to go back upstairs. Missy will be looking for me.”

“Wait,” Delia said, stopping her. “I know you want to obey your mistress, but what she’s planning on doing ain’t right. You don’t have any feelings for Martin. You don’t want to be sleeping with him, do you?”

“No, but—”

“Then it’s wrong for Missy to try and use you this way, just so she can get what she wants. Making babies is a God-given blessing when a man and woman love each other, when they’re married to each other. It’s wrong for Missy or anyone else to choose a man for you and force you to have a baby with him. Do you understand?”