JoAnn Wendt (23 page)

Flavia’s heart sank. She valued Dennis as a friend. She wished she had not reacted as though his kiss had been a bee sting. But she couldn’t control such things. After Garth’s kisses, she could bear no others. “Oh, Garth,” she yearned softly. “Garth.”

Heart heavy with sadness and with the dread of facing the Byngs, she let herself in the gate. The hinges squeaked, then squeaked again as she closed the gate. The complaining gate was echoed by a faint sound. A kitten-like whimper. She spun around, staring into the dark unmoving bushes. An injured animal?

She had no time to consider it. Loud, angry-sounding boots stomped across the darkened veranda and down the wood steps. She whirled around as Mr. Byng lunged out of the darkness, boiling with wrath.

“Who is he, Jane? Who do you sin with?”

She froze. Dumbfounded, she grasped to understand him. But she couldn’t. She shrank back against the gate. Mr. Byng towered over her, shaking in rage. His eyes were wild. His white hair was in wild disarray as though he’d swiped at it in frustration.

“Who is he?” Mr. Byng demanded, shaking a fist in the direction Dennis had run. “Confess, Jane. I saw him slip away. You ran off to lie with him. Who is he? I promise you, he shall dance at the public whipping post, my girl. As will you.”

She gasped, suddenly understanding.

“Sir, please—I’ve not done anything—it was only Den—”

She bit the name back. Bit her lip so hard she tasted the sudden rising of salty blood. She couldn’t involve Dennis. Two months more and he’d be free, taking a respected position in the community as tutor to boys who would go on to Harvard Seminary. Scandal would destroy him.

She backed away, backed into the gate so hard that wooden pickets stabbed into her spine. Cornered, she looked up and defended herself. “Mr. Byng! I’ve not been with anyone. I went for a walk. I hurt my foot. My foot made me late—”

The flat of his hand cracked her cheek like a musket shot. The slap was so hard that at first she didn’t even feel it. There was only numbness. Then the slowly building fire. Fire that drew tears.

“Liar.”

Without giving her a moment to recover, he grabbed her arm, wrenching her along. Her feet flew out from under.

“You shall be punished, Jane. I know my duty when I see it.”

Terrified, she tried to pull free. Her instincts pure and animal-like. Run! Oh, God, run! She wrenched free and bolted, but he caught her by the hair as her mobcap flew to the ground. She screamed more in terror than in pain as he jerked her hair and threw her to her knees.

Half blinded by panic, she tried to get up and lunge toward the light that bobbed toward them from around the house. Her heart gave an enormous thud of hope, then died. It was Mrs. Byng, robed in a gray wool wrapper and carrying a flickering Betty lamp. Pursing her lips in approval, she urged her husband on.

“Whip her,” Mrs. Byng advised. “She’s wanted a whipping from the very first day. Indeed, sir, Jane has no respect for you. You must beat respect into the chit.”

Flavia bolted with a cry. “No! You have no right!”

But her ankle buckled and she pitched to the ground. She was roughly hauled to her feet and marched to the barn. Newly incensed by Mrs. Byng, Mr. Byng pushed her through the door, then slammed it shut as
Mrs. Byng’s Betty lamp bobbed ladylike toward the house. A lantern burned, hanging from an iron hook. Evidence that Mr. Byng had been searching for her.

 “Bare your back,” he commanded, going for the whip he kept on a ledge in the barn.

Terror—terror greater than any she had known in her life—washed over her in waves, drowning her, paralyzing her.
This isn’t happening! It isn’t! I am Flavia Rochambeau. I’m asleep in my bedchamber at Tewksbury. This is a horrible nightmare—nothing more—

But as he advanced upon her, she knew it was real. For the first time, she truly knew what Mary Wooster and the others felt as they were tied to the whipping post. The racing panic. The thundering urge to run. But the paralyzing inability to do so. Fear choking the throat like a noose. Fear destroying all self-respect, so that one begged, cried, whimpered like a chained dog.

“Spare me,” she begged. “I’ll do anything— anything—”

“Bare your back,” he commanded without mercy.

Her knees gave out. She melted to the floor, curling into a tight ball, curling against the inevitable first cut of the lash. She sobbed in hysteria as she heard the whip go up. She waited a lifetime for its descent. When the crack came, it came against the barn floor, as though deflected. There was a loud whoosh with it, and a thud as someone fell.

“Ooof—wha?”

Flavia jerked round. Mr. Byng crouched on the floor, rubbing the back of his head in stunned disbelief. Behind him, the stinking stable broom reared up in the air again.

“Neddy! Don’t!” Flavia screamed.

The broom swung down with another loud whuff, this time missing its target cleanly and swacking the ground. It went up again as she drunkenly found her feet and rushed at the boy. She lunged at the broom handle, but Neddy was too wildly angered to be stopped. He wrenched the broom free of her and swung again. This time, a part of the handle hit a stout wooden support post. The impact jarred the weapon from his hand. The broom flipped up and flew into the loft. Neddy stared at it stupidly, his mouth open. He burst into tears, suddenly a three-year-old again as Mr. Byng flung himself to his feet, brushing manure from his jacket and howling in anger.

“Fool! Attack me, will you? You shall be locked up in a lunatic house. Chained hand and foot like the animal you are. You’ll do no more mischief, I warrant. Oh, no, Neddy.”

Neddy fell to his knees, bawling in terror. He didn’t understand the words, but he sensed the fearsomeness of the threat.

Heart pounding both in relief for herself and terror for Neddy, Flavia jumped between Neddy and Mr. Byng.

“Please, sir—Neddy didn’t mean it—he won’t do it again—I’ll speak to him, sir—he won’t—”

But Mr. Byng would not be placated. Pushing her aside with an order to get to her neglected work in the kitchen, he seized the bawling boy by the collar and cuffed him, slapping him hard and yanking on his ears.

Flavia flew out the door, gasping and crying, but knowing Mr. Byng would hit him all the harder if she stayed. Wobbly-kneed, she staggered out into the chill night air and drew deep draughts of it.
Please, God . . .  please . . .

She prayed desperately, prayed that Neddy’s thrashing would end. When it finally did end, tears of relief coursed down her cheeks. She made her way through the mudyard to the house, wiped her wet cheeks, went in and quietly set about doing her chores. She glanced at Mrs. Byng. The woman smiled at her smugly, obviously pleased with her red swollen eyes, her beaten, downtrodden spirit.

* * * *

Despite their professed devotion to the quiet, meditative life, Flavia knew the Byngs were never so exhilarated as after conflict. Mr. and Mrs. Byng went to bed directly after Neddy’s whipping. After a discreet interval, Flavia could hear their loud whistling snores from where she sat at the kitchen table.

Drained, emotionally at the end of her rope, she lay her head in her arms. Over and over, the events of the evening marched roughshod through her heart. She winced, remembering Neddy’s terrified cries.

Sleep would be impossible tonight. She was not like the Byngs, thriving on conflict, even deriving sexual arousal from it. Their distant snoring went on. Listlessly she dragged herself up and put another log on the fire. Sparks whooshed as she sank back on her haunches, staring into the flames. She scarcely cared when a spark jumped out of the fire, singeing a tiny hole in her skirt before winking out.

The tall case clock in the parlor bonged twelve times. The month of October was over. This was November. Six years and three months still to go. Then she would be free. But free to what?

The question hung over her like a pall. Six years and three months. How could she endure it? She stared into the fire. Every snap and pop of the fire shouted, “Run away!” But to where . . . to what . . . few bondslaves managed to escape. Most were captured. Her thoughts flew to Mab Collins. Mab had evidently made it. The subscription for her apprehension continued to appear in gazettes. How had Mab managed it? Where had she gone? Certainly she’d gone first to Hampton to steal Sarah Bess. Mab wouldn’t leave without her daughter.

A faint scratching came at the window. Tiredly, she got up. It was Neddy’s signal, the signal she’d taught him. Lifting the door bolt, she quietly let herself out. Neddy was there, jumping up and down in excitement.

“Uh—uh—Jane—”

She placed her fingers on his lips, shushing him. She led him toward the barn, out of the Byngs’ hearing.

Neddy danced up and down.

“Uh—uh—Jane—lady—” He waved his hand excitedly toward the barn, and the fine down on the back other neck prickled. Mab? Could it be Mab?

She ran to the barn. Neddy had left the door open, and the thin watery light of the November half-moon trickled into the barn, disappearing in gloom. She picked her way through the darkness. She could hear sheep stirring restlessly in their pen and the rasp of a horse’s rump as it lazily scratched itself against the wood stall. Then came loud, violent panting, followed by a mewling sound. It was the same kitten-like whimper she’d heard earlier in the yard.

“Mab? Is it you, Mab?”

The anguished panting came again. The whimper that followed intensified into a stifled whine of pain.

“Jane?” the gasping voice whispered. “Jane? Oh, Lord, Jane, help me!”

Blindly she plunged into the darkness, stumbling over a broom, losing her balance as her foot kicked against rake or hoe. The cry came from the darkest corner, an empty stall where hay was stored. Flavia felt her way, her eyes useless, adjusting to the gloom with maddening slowness.

“Mab?” she whispered, as she felt her way into the dark stall. Gradually a figure materialized. It was a girl. She was lying on her back in the hay, and she seemed all belly. As Flavia looked, the belly contracted violently. The girl’s whimper of pain climaxed in a sharp yelp.

“Mary!”

Flavia fell to her knees, watching helplessly as Mary Wooster rode her violent contraction, then sank back into the hay, still as death.

She seized the girl’s cold hand and chafed it roughly to warm it. “Mary!” She swung her head to Neddy, who stood gawking. “Neddy, run to Dennis. To
Dennis,
Neddy. Tell him to bring the plantation midwife.
Midwife,
Neddy.”

But the boy only continued to gawk, and Mary’s eyes flew open in fear. “No,” she gasped. “No one. My master—he shall—”

She lost her words as the panting began again. Pain closed in like a vice. Flavia bit her lip in panic, lunging to catch Mary as the girl’s head and shoulders shot forward. Sweating with anxiety, she held Mary throughout the contraction. When it ended, Mary collapsed, dead weight in her arms. Flavia strained, trying to lay her down gently. Mary’s eyes rolled, then sank into her skull.

Flavia bent over her, aghast. This wasn’t natural labor. Mary’s labored sweat stank like noxious poison. Her breath was vile. Frightened, Flavia moved to go for Mr. Byng. He must be wakened. He must ride for the doctor. But the rustling hay alerted the girl. Mary reared up, then choked in pain, clutching her belly.

“No one,” she begged. “I’ve runned away— oh, Jane, it hurts—it hurts—”

She sank into the hay, crying. Helpless, thoroughly frightened, Flavia held her hand. She snapped at Neddy to bring the horse’s water bucket. When he did, she tore off her apron, dipped it into the water and gently swabbed Mary’s face. She held her through another contraction, murmuring words of comfort she could not believe herself. She sent Neddy to fetch his own bucket of drinking water, then held the dipper to Mary’s lips. The girl drank thirstily.

“He gave me tea,” she whispered faintly. “My master did... tea boiled up from them twigs of the pretty flowerin’ trees . . . He made me to drink it . . . I didn’t want to, Jane, but he said. . . said he’d whip me.”

Her words died away as she panted her way into a new contraction. Flavia held her fiercely, anger granting new strength. How dare he! How dare he do this to a child! She’d heard of it, of course. Plantation masters aborting their helpless bondwomen, covering their own trails of foul lust. Dear God, a fifteen-year-old girl! Did no one care?

During the next hour of contractions, Flavia worked feverishly. She forced Mary to drink water. Water would flush the abortive. She made the girl comfortable, wiping her face with a cool wet cloth between contractions. She gave her hands to Mary during each pain. Mary clutched them, unknowingly driving in her nails at the height of her agony.

At last the rhythm of the labor changed. Mary reared up, her eyes alive with raw fear. She shuddered.

“It’s coming,” she gasped. “Lord of my sainted mother, it’s coming—oh—oh—help—it’s coming—”

Too terrified to think, Flavia reacted with instinct. Gathering all the strength she had, she pushed down on the girl’s rock-hard belly. Mary screamed. There was the gush of waters and the infant slid out into the straw. Mary Wooster fainted, and Flavia fought her own lightheadedness.

She stared at the tiny infant. It lay wet and glistening. As unmoving as a child’s doll. She was frightened to touch it. Equally frightened
not
to. She swallowed hard for courage. Shaking, she picked up the slippery doll and held it to her ear, listening for a heartbeat. None. Terrified, she swiped fluids from the doll-like face and blew air into the little lungs. She slapped its bottom. Slapped with hard sharp cracks that woke Neddy. He ambled into the stall, curious. Then he burst into tears, fearing she was hurting a doll.

She worked on the infant for a fruitless eternity, then knelt on her haunches, dazed, exhausted. Wiping away her own tears, she put the body aside. She turned to Mary, kneading the unconscious girl’s belly, encouraging the after-issue.

Mary remained mercifully unconscious for a quarter of an hour. When she came to, she stiffened in fear, clutching her flattened stomach.

“‘Tis over?”