An old woman stepped into the sunlight, wearing faded dungarees and a men’s shirt with the shirtsleeves rolled up to her elbows. The sunshine glinted off her short silvery hair as she drew near, keeping her shotgun trained on Conn as she approached.
“What are you doing on my property?” she called out while still a distance away.
Conn lay on the ground, gaping helplessly as the woman drew near. “I’m sorry,” she squeaked. “I didn’t know I was on your property.”
The old woman’s sharp black eyes took in the bloody cut on Conn’s leg. “You’re Elizabeth’s daughter,” she said, a little more gently.
“And you’re Miss Molly Peregorn,” Conn returned, her voice a little stronger as her racing heart began to slow.
Molly broke the shotgun open and set it on the ground as she squatted next to Conn. “Let me see that leg,” she said, laying her gnarled hands on Conn’s shin and gently prizing the edges of the wound apart to see how deep it went. “Can’t tell until it’s clean, but this looks like it goes all the way into the muscle. Let’s get you into the house,” she said. “Can you walk?”
“I think so,” Conn said, getting to her feet and taking a tentative step. If she moved slowly, she could hobble, though it hurt like crazy. Molly picked up her shotgun and carried it hung over the crook of one elbow as she took Conn’s rucksack in her other hand.
As they stepped into the dark shade of the hemlock grove, Conn could feel the sudden coolness. The house she had barely been able to see from where she had fallen was a cottage, ornately decorated with lots of gingerbread adorning the eaves and the portico. Conn suppressed a nervous giggle as she thought of the witch’s house in Hansel and Gretel.
Painfully, Conn climbed the porch stairs and gasped in wonder as she entered. Nearly every square inch of wall space and most of the furniture was covered with sketches and paintings – some framed, most not. Several chairs had stretched canvases stacked six or seven deep.
An old black and white Border collie struggled to his feet with a half-hearted bark at their entrance. He was missing most of one ear which gave him a grizzled appearance, but his tail wagged as he came to greet them.
“Hush, Vincent,” said Molly.
He followed them stiffly into the kitchen where the woman pulled out a chair for Conn. She repositioned another chair and said, “Prop your leg up here.”
Vincent sat next to Conn, laying his head in her lap as Molly gathered bowls and clean cloths.
“Who was that with you?” Molly asked as she poured some water into one of the bowls and spooned a yellow powder into it.
“Jed Pancake,” Conn replied, watching Miss Molly as she stirred the powder in, turning the liquid brown.
“Sam Pancake’s boy?” Molly asked sharply. “Not very brave is he? Leaving you on the ground while he skedaddled.”
“Well,” Conn said, rubbing Vincent’s soft head, “getting shot at would have made me run, too, if I could have.”
Molly stared at her for a few seconds and then she burst into laughter. “Yes, well… sorry about that. I’ve had some troublemakers around here, so I’ve learned to shoot first, ask questions later. Keeps most folks away,” she added pointedly with a slight lift of one eyebrow.
Conn looked at her skeptically. “Isn’t that a little dangerous? What if you’d hit us?”
Molly pulled up another chair and sat. “If I’d wanted to hit you, I’d have hit you.” She dipped one of her cloths in the brown liquid and swabbed the gash on Conn’s leg.
Conn caught her breath as the liquid burned and stung, but she didn’t complain or pull away.
“Good girl. Not many can take the sting without yelling.”
“What is it?” Conn asked, blinking to stop her eyes watering. Vincent licked her hand as if trying to comfort her. “It smells like turpentine.”
Molly chuckled. “Just a little something I mix up to disinfect. And it does have pine tar in it.”
As the burning subsided a little, Conn said, “Jed is working with Mr. Greene on the Peregorn barn. That’s not yours, is it?”
Molly shook her head. “My brother has the family place.” She jerked her head. “Over yonder.” She continued dabbing at Conn’s leg. “I prefer the witch’s house,” she smiled.
Molly sat back and looked at her. “What were you and Jed doing in that shed?” she asked. “How did you get in there?”
Conn wondered how honest to be. Looking into Miss Molly’s dark eyes, she had the feeling that the older woman already knew the answer. “We came through the tunnel.”
Molly nodded. “I thought so.” She looked at Conn appraisingly. “I didn’t know anyone knew about the tunnel.”
“I discovered it by accident,” Conn said. She wondered if Miss Molly knew about all the tunnels.
Molly pulled a small crock near and lifted the lid to reveal a thick black paste. She dipped her fingers into it and spread a dollop of the gooey stuff over the cut. To Conn’s surprise, the pain immediately diminished.
“Better?”
“Yes, Miss Molly,” said Conn gratefully.
Molly picked up a rolled up cloth and began to bandage Conn’s leg. “Doc Jenkins would have wanted to put stitches in that, but I think you’ll heal up just fine,” she said as she wrapped the cloth neatly up Conn’s skinny leg. “There,” she said, surveying her handiwork as she applied a long piece of duct tape to keep the bandage in place. “I think that’ll do.”
Conn fingered the duct tape. “I didn’t think anyone outside the military knew about this stuff. My dad always had some.”
“Oh, you can find it if you know where to look,” Molly said. She stood up. “How about a glass of cold milk?”
“Yes, please,” Conn said. She glanced back out to the other rooms. “Did you do all those?”
Molly nodded as she handed Conn a glass.
“May I look at them?”
“If you like,” Molly said with a shrug.
Conn got to her feet and limped out to the dining room, Vincent hobbling along behind her.
“You two are a matched pair,” Molly chuckled. “He’s paying you quite a compliment. He doesn’t like many people.”
Conn grinned down at him, her hand dropping to his head, feeling the remaining nub of his right ear. She looked back up at Molly, smiling bigger. “I get it. Vincent.”
Molly laughed. “Not much gets by you, does it?”
Conn grinned again, but said nothing as she leaned to get a closer look at some of the canvases. Most of the scenes were of woods and wildlife. There were amazingly detailed studies of chipmunks and birds, the paint gleaming as if feathers and fur were reflecting summer sunlight. Conn paused before a painting of a stream.
“It looks so real, I expect to see a fish jump out of it,” she said.
Just then, they heard a car come up the drive and brake to a stop. A moment later, there was a rapid knock on the door. Molly opened it to find Elizabeth standing there with Will peering out from behind her.
“Hello, Miss Molly,” Elizabeth said breathlessly. “Jed Pancake said my daughter is here and that she was hurt.”
“Hi, Mom,” Conn said brightly as she hobbled into the entryway.
“What happened?” Elizabeth demanded as she spied the bandage on Conn’s leg.
“Uh…” Conn stammered, looking uncertainly up at Molly.
“Connemara and Jed wandered onto my property by accident,” Molly said, and it occurred to Conn that she had not told Molly her name, “and she cut her leg on one of those old pieces of equipment I have lying around.”
Conn looked at her gratefully as Molly added, “It was a deep cut, but I disinfected it and washed it. It’s got one of my salves on it and should heal up fine.” She went back to the kitchen and returned a moment later with the small crock. “Here’s some to take home. Good for all kinds of cuts and scrapes. Reapply some a couple of times a day.”
“Thank you, Miss Molly,” Elizabeth said in relief. “I’m sorry she bothered you.”
“She was no bother, Elizabeth,” Molly said. “No more than you used to be.”
Elizabeth blushed and smiled sheepishly. “Well, we’ll get out of your way.”
“Just a minute,” Conn said, limping back to retrieve her rucksack and give Vincent a last pat on the head. When she got back to the entryway, Will was already sitting in the car. “Thank you, Miss Molly.”
Molly looked down at her for a moment. “You are welcome. And you can come back anytime, Connemara Ní Faolain.”
***
As Conn climbed into the car, she was bursting with questions about Molly Peregorn, but guessed that she would get more forthright answers from her mother if she waited.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, had questions of her own which did not need to wait. “What were you and Jed doing on Miss Molly’s property?” she demanded as she drove.
Conn, watching carefully which route they took home since she had lost all sense of direction in the tunnels, replied, “We didn’t mean to trespass. We got lost and came out of the woods on her land.”
Elizabeth glanced over at her. “Jed Pancake got lost in the woods around here?” she scoffed. “More likely he talked you into teasing Miss Molly by sneaking around her house. It’s always been a favorite thing for kids around here to do.”
“I would never do that,” Conn protested, stung to think her mother would suspect her of such a thing.
“Jed said that old lady shot at you,” Will piped up most unhelpfully, standing up in the back and hanging over the front seat.
“Shut up,” Conn said crossly.
“Watch your language, young lady,” Elizabeth scolded.
“She fired her shotgun to scare us off,” Conn explained, but hastened to add, “But she fired way over our heads. She wasn’t trying to hit us.” She was beginning to recognize the road they were on.
“You leave the house before dawn; you’re gone for hours; you don’t leave any indication of where you are,” Elizabeth began, and Conn could tell she was just getting warmed up.
“Well, if we’re going exploring, we don’t bloody well know where we’re going or how long we’re likely to be, do we?” she retorted sarcastically.
Elizabeth braked hard, stopping the car in the middle of the road. Will quickly sat back in the back seat, trying to get out of the line of fire.
“What has gotten into you?” Elizabeth asked angrily.
Conn set her jaw mulishly and didn’t respond.
Elizabeth continued driving home, her mouth tight. She didn’t speak again until they were pulling into their drive. “I think you need to spend the rest of the day in your room and think about a few things. Go.”
Conn limped into the house and up to her room, feeling confused. She wasn’t sure what had come over her in the car. She never spoke to her mother like that. She threw herself down on her bed. The day had warmed up and she could hear the drowsy buzz of bees outside her window. She would apologize to her mother later….
§§§
There was a renewed flurry of activity as Lord Playfair made preparations to return to England. The three months he had been at Fair View had been almost pleasant, Caitríona had to grudgingly admit, owing mostly to the fact that while the masters were there, Batterston had been kept in his place. And without the wives, there was not nearly as much extra work for the servants.
Orla had been right. Lord Playfair did seem to suspect some dishonesty on Batterston’s part. He insisted on riding out most days, accompanied by Hugh and Batterston, to inspect nearly every acre of the plantation and do a detailed study of their current crop rotation. When they returned to the house each day, Orla was called in to transcribe Lord Playfair’s notes into the plantation’s ledgers.
“Things look very different now to how they looked before,” she whispered to her sister. “I think it’s going to be obvious if Batterston tries cheating the books again.”
One day not long after his arrival, Orla had come rushing to find Caitríona. “He wants to see you!” she said.
“Who?” Caitríona asked, looking up from the dishes she was washing.
“Lord Playfair! Who else?” Orla exclaimed in exasperation. “Come quickly.”
Caitríona dried her hands on her apron as she removed it and followed her sister back to the study. There, she found Lord Playfair seated at the massive walnut desk that occupied one end of the room while Hugh sat in a chair near the fireplace, reading. She stood there for three or four minutes before he looked up and acknowledged her.
“I require an inventory of the slaves,” he said, sliding a small ledger across the desk. “You will record their names and ages if they know them. If they have bred and produced off-spring, you will record those names and ages as well. See that this is returned to me within two weeks.”
Orla could see the color rising in Caitríona’s cheeks and rushed forward to take the ledger. Thrusting it into her sister’s hands, Orla ushered her from the room.
“Did you hear him?” Caitríona finally burst out when they got back to the kitchen. “They’re no more to him than cattle!”
“We already know that. That’s how he thinks of us, too,” Orla reminded her. “Perhaps Hannah will help you.”
Caitríona turned away quickly to hide the flush Orla’s suggestion brought to her cheeks. Fumbling with her apron strings, she said, “That’s a good idea. I’ll ask her.”
She hardly noticed as Orla returned to the study. She’d hardly seen Hannah since the night at the gazebo, but for some reason, the tingling she had felt in her middle as she gazed at Hannah that night had returned every time she thought of her. She hadn’t told Orla about it. Instinctively, she knew she shouldn’t talk about this.
That evening, after supper, she went to Ruth and Henry’s cabin, and found Hannah there. Ruth was peeling bark from some branches she had collected for one of her medicines. Caitríona sat down at the table and began helping. She explained the task she had been set, and asked Hannah if she would help.
Hannah glanced worriedly at Ruth. “What about the laundry I’ve got to wash?”
“I’ll help you with that first thing,” said Caitríona, “and then while it’s drying, we’ll go start the… I can’t call it inventory. It’s just too degrading. English bastard.”
Henry smiled. “Miss Caitríona, I love it when your Irish comes out,” he chuckled as he sat sharpening some of his planes and chisels.
Over the next several days, Caitríona and Hannah visited the slave cabins and the fields. The cabins, mostly built to accommodate four or five people, held instead seven or eight, with sleeping mats stacked up in a pile to be spread out upon the dirt floors at night. She hadn’t realized how much work Henry had done to improve their cabin in comparison to these.
Having become accustomed to being friendly with Hannah, Ruth and Henry, Caitríona was dismayed at the surliness with which she and Hannah were greeted as they talked to the other slaves, numbering over a hundred in all. The slaves answered their questions, but in as few words as possible.
“I can understand why they wouldn’t trust me,” she said, “but why do they resent you so?”
Hannah glanced over at her. “Because I work with the white folks up at the house, and because I’m mixed,” she explained as if this should be obvious.
“What do you mean ‘mixed’?” Caitríona asked, frowning.
Hannah laughed. “Do you see any others with light eyes? I’m not all African. They say my father was probably my mother’s master.”
Caitríona stopped dead in her tracks, looking rather stupid as this fact hit her for the first time. It suddenly seemed obvious, and she felt childish for not realizing sooner that things like that happened. She glanced down at her ledger.
“I’m confused. That last woman we talked to, Bertha, said she has three children, but said she has no husband. So who was the father?”
“Her husband was sold a year ago,” Hannah said.
“What?” Caitríona exclaimed, trying to remember. “But the masters weren’t here a year ago. I don’t recall anyone being sold.”
“A lot happens that no one knows about,” said Hannah darkly. “Batterston sells slaves every now and again. Last year, he sold Bertha’s husband and three other men to a slave trader who came through here.”
“Do you remember their names?” Caitríona asked as she made notes.
***
“He did what?” Lord Playfair asked sharply, his eyes narrowing angrily as Caitríona presented him with the ledger, including a list of slaves Batterston had sold over the last few years. “Send Mr. Batterston to me at once,” he said, looking the ledger over.
The tension in the house was thick enough to cut with a knife as Lord Playfair’s fury burst through the closed doors.
“You have no more leave to sell my slaves than you do to sell my land!” he bellowed.
Batterston’s oily voice could also be heard, attempting to placate his irate employer. “But, my Lord, the slaves I sold were trouble makers or laggards. I was told by young Master Playfair to deal with them as I saw fit.”
“By disciplining them or sending them to work on another part of the plantation,” roared Lord Playfair, “not by selling them!”
“And,” he added, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet level so that Caitríona had to strain to hear outside the study door, “I see nowhere in the plantation’s ledgers an entry for the sale of those slaves.”
As Batterston was dismissed some minutes later, Caitríona barely had enough warning to move away from the door and begin scrubbing another part of the floor. Batterston stopped, looming over her with his fists tightly clenched. She stared back up at him defiantly as he said through clenched teeth, “You will pay for this.”
“Why didn’t you have him arrested? Or at least discharge him?” Hugh Playfair was asking back inside the study.
“This is something you will learn,” Lord Playfair said. “No one is honest. If I replaced him, I’d be dealing with the same problem, just a different man. But Batterston now knows I could have him hanged,” he said in a satisfied voice. “He won’t cheat us again.”
Lord Playfair’s dissatisfaction with the overall state of the plantation extended to his son. His anger with Hugh had not been lost on the servants.
“I sent you here to protect our investment,” he could be overheard as he and his son were out on the veranda one evening not long before his departure. “Instead, you’ve been drinking and gambling in Richmond.”
“But, Father, the plantation runs itself. My presence here is not necessary. And there is no society in this god-forsaken wilderness,” Hugh complained.
Lord Playfair fixed his cold stare on his son. “The estates in England and Ireland will go to your brother. You have an opportunity to gather yourself a greater fortune than he will have, and you whine about having no society!” He paced past the window, churning clouds of smoke from his cigar. “You will stay here and supervise the running of the plantation. I will return in three years, and if you have not increased our production, there will be a change in my will.”
“Three years!” Hugh protested.
“Yes, three years,” insisted Lord Playfair. “It’s not too great a sacrifice for a lifetime’s security. I shall return in the summer of 1863.”
§§§
Conn awakened to find her mother sitting on her bed, shaking her gently. Startled, she sat up, looking around her room.
“You were really asleep,” Elizabeth was saying. “I’ve been trying to wake you.”
Conn rubbed her eyes and lay back on her pillow. “Strange dream.”
She looked up at her mother, remembering why she was in her room. Her mother had never sent her to her room before. “I’m sorry I worried you,” she said sincerely.
Elizabeth smiled, running a hand tenderly through her daughter’s hair. “I want you to enjoy being here as much as I did when I was your age,” she said. “I ran around like a wild Indian, but,” she grasped Conn’s hand, “I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you.”
Conn sat up again, throwing her arms around her mother.