Lucia worked contentedly, folding gowns and petticoats, packing them away in a wooden trunk. For almost a month now she had been in good spirits, patient and full of hope. The ship had sailed away to Boston with no one aboard from this house except Abraham, and now in a few days’ time Henry would be taking Charity and Lucia and Cajoe to his plantation near the Indian country. They would travel the same course Lucia had traveled when brought to Charles Town, in a boat that would weave its way through the marshy waterways among the coastal islands. She had asked very carefully about this. The vessel would be larger than the canoe she had come in. It had sails that were sometimes run up when the wind was favorable. But it was not a ship, and they would not go out on the open sea. It would take them along the coast to the Combahee River and then up that river to Henry’s plantation. It was the same river, Bella had told her, that marked the boundary of the English settlement. On the far side of it was the country of the Yamasees, Bella’s own people. And beyond the Yamasees were the Creek trading towns. There was nothing but time now, time to know the country, time to plan the escape. She would not attempt it until she was certain of success, for if ever they were to put the scars of a whipping on her back, she could never go freely among the Indian towns. There would always be someone, Bella kept telling her, who would see her for a runaway and turn her in to the traders for a reward.
She finished folding Charity’s gown of green silk and laid it in the trunk, pressing it down to make it fit. “It’s full,” she said to Charity, who was standing by the bed, sorting through a pile of linen garments. Henry Hawkins was stretched out on the bed, leaning back lazily against the headboard as he watched the progress.
Charity came over to inspect the trunk, pushing down on the clothes to see if more room could be found in it. “Tight as can be,” Charity said. She looked around at the clothing that still lay in piles on the bed and on the floor. Only one empty trunk remained. “I’m down to my last chest,” she said to Henry. “I fear I’ve too much to go into it. I’ll need another.”
Henry shrugged. “Send out for one. It’s a small enough expense.”
“I could leave some things behind.”
“Bring it every last bit. I want you to feel you lack for nothing at Fairmeadow. Especially at first, while the house is still rough. You must be prepared for that, you know. You’ll find it a rude place. A bit small. But it was never meant to be the main house forever. When you see the foundation I’ve laid for the new one, you’ll be heartened.”
Charity smiled. “So long as it’s more than a cabin you’re taking me to.”
“I’d not call it a cabin. It’s made of lumber, not logs. And the rooms are spacious. Two up and two down. That’s no cabin by any measure.”
“I’m sure it will please me,” said Charity. “You’ve given me fair warning. I’m ready to find beauty in it at first sight.”
Henry smiled. “If I show you the slave cabins first, the house will seem a palace.”
Lucia glanced up at him. She still could not understand everything that was being said, but she knew they were talking about Fairmeadow, something about the house there, and something about slaves. Henry had more than thirty slaves at Fairmeadow, Bella had told her. Most were from Africa and could speak English no better than Lucia could, and perhaps not as well, for they worked outside, not in the house, and they had not had someone like Bella to teach them. She turned back to her work, smoothing and folding, packing things into the last trunk. She did not hear Venus come into the chamber, and she looked up in surprise at her voice.
“Master Henry,” said Venus. The black woman stood meekly just inside the doorway, her head slightly bowed, her voice full of supplication.
“What is it?” Henry asked irritably.
“Master Henry, my heart be breaking all apart. You taking my Cajoe away.”
Henry and Charity exchanged glances. Lucia kept on with her work. She understood all that was said, for Venus was speaking slowly and simply.
“He’ll still be in the family, Venus,” Charity said. “Whenever we come back here to visit, Cajoe can come along.”
“But he my baby boy,” said Venus, her hands twisting nervously at her petticoat. “He be all I have in this world. My little baby boy.” Her voice trembled.
“Don’t you cry,” ordered Henry.
“He’s no baby,” said Charity. “He’s twelve years old, more than old enough to be put out. I don’t know what more you could want. If we bring him with us when we come back to visit, you’ll see him as often as Henry sees his own father.”
“But I want to see him every day,” said Venus. “Take me to Fairmeadow. That’s what I come to ask you. Buy me from Master John and take me to Fairmeadow with my boy.”
Charity looked at Henry as if they might consider it, but Henry shook his head. “We don’t need her. Don’t need her, don’t want her.”
Charity gave a little sigh. “We can’t use you at Fairmeadow, Venus. We have Lucia, you know.”
There was silence then, and Lucia glanced up and saw Venus glaring at her, hatred in her eyes.
“You better watch that Lucia,” Venus said in a low voice.
“What do you mean?” said Henry.
“Go on out, Venus,” said Charity, waving her hand impatiently to dismiss her. “Don’t try to make trouble.”
Lucia sat back on her heels, her hands gripping the edge of the open trunk. She looked directly at Venus, but Venus would not meet her eyes.
“She means to run away,” said Venus. “It’s all she been thinking since the day she come, wanting to get down to Fairmeadow and run away. She just biding her time.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Henry, sitting up a little. “Has she spoken to you about it?”
“Not to me. But I heard her saying it to Bella. She got a husband in the Indian towns.”
Charity turned and looked at Lucia, surprised that she might have a husband somewhere, another life beyond this one.
“Are you lying to me?” asked Henry.
“No, sir,” said Venus. “You call Bella in and ask her. That Lucia couldn’t talk about nothing but staying off that ship to Boston. She wanted to go to Fairmeadow where she could run away.”
Henry looked over at Lucia. “Is that true, Lucia?” he asked coldly.
She met his eyes. “No, sir,” she said, making her voice strong. “She lies.” Then she went back to her work, smoothing a petticoat that was already packed, already smooth.
“Do you have a husband in the trading towns?”
“No, Sir.”
“She be the one lying,” said Venus. “You want me to tell Bella to come up?”
“No,” said Henry. “I believe you, Venus. You can go now. But send Jack up to me. And ask Master John to come.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Venus, and she bowed to him and left the room.
Lucia’s hands were trembling now as she went on with her work.
“Build us a fire, Lucia,” Henry ordered.
Lucia looked up at him in surprise.
“A fire?” said Charity. “It’s the middle of summer, Henry. You’ll run us out with the heat.”
“Go ahead,” Henry said to Lucia. “Build us a fire. A small one.”
Lucia still hesitated.
“Go on!” Henry ordered again, roughly this time. Lucia got up and went to the fireplace. There was kindling in the box, and she took it and began to arrange it on the hearth, moving slowly, uneasily.
“Has it to do with what Venus said?” asked Charity. “We don’t know whether to believe her or not.”
“I believe her,” said Henry. “I’ve known Venus long enough to know when she’s lying and when she’s telling the truth.”
Lucia took the tinderbox from the mantle and stood for a moment trying to collect herself. But the trembling in her hands would not stop. She did not know what would happen next, what to prepare for. Kneeling down, she worked awkwardly with the steel and flint to light the fire. She could hear Jack coming down the hall, shuffling in his clumsy shoes. The spark caught the tinder, and she laid splinters on it, nursing it up, and then pushed the burning tinder beneath the kindling. Jack was in the room now.
“Bring me the small mahogany box,” Henry said to him. “You packed it yesterday in one of the trunks.”
“Yes, sir, I know where it is,” said Jack, and he went out again.
“What are you going to do, Henry?” asked Charity.
Henry made no reply.
Lucia remained kneeling by the fire, watching the flames move up into the kindling. She reached out and shifted the pieces of wood, and the flame intensified. It was hot in the room and her face began to perspire from the heat of the fire, but she stayed there with it, dreading to turn back into the room. Jack returned, and in another moment John Hawkins came in.
Lucia moved back a bit from the fire and glanced over at Henry, who stood by the bed, leaning over a little wooden chest, searching through the contents. Then he found what he was looking for and brought it out, a small iron instrument, long, something like a fork, but not a fork at all. Lucia could not tell what it was.
“What do you mean to do with that?” asked John Hawkins.
“What is it?” asked Charity. “Let me see.”
Henry handed it to her, an iron rod with a wooden handle on one end and on the other, attached at a right angle to the rod, the form of the letter H.
“Oh, Henry,” Charity said in dismay, handing it quickly back to him as if she did not want it in her hand. “You don’t mean to use that on her?”
“It will take the running away right out of her,” said Henry. He looked at his father. “Venus tells us our Indian wench intends to give us the slip.”
“Then that’s what she needs, all right,” said John Hawkins, nodding soberly at the iron brand. “She’ll never get a mile beyond Fairmeadow without someone fetching her back to you.”
“It’s too harsh,” said Charity. “I don’t want you to do it, Henry.”
Lucia still knelt on the floor, watching them, uncertain, yet gaining a growing notion of what they were saying, her breath quickening, dread like a weight in her: the fire, the iron tool—they meant to mark her, scar her so she could never get away. She glanced away from them toward the door. Then suddenly she was up and running, out into the hallway, flying toward the stairwell, people shouting. And then a violent jerk, her skirt snapping back against her legs, Henry’s voice close, loud and commanding. She threw herself forward, trying to tear away, but he had her now, his arms encircling her as she fought against him.
“Jack!” His voice was in her ear. “God damn your black ass! Come help me or I’ll whip you to shreds!”
“I’m here, Master Henry,” said Jack, taking hold of one of Lucia’s arms and pulling it down to her side.
“Where were you before?” muttered Henry.
Jack made no answer, and they pulled her back into the bed chamber as she struggled to get free. John Hawkins came forward and took Henry’s place, helping Jack hold her.
Charity was in tears. “Henry,” she pleaded, grabbing his arm.
He turned angrily to her, pulling his arm free. “Get out!” he commanded, pointing toward the door. “If you can’t watch it, get out.”
“Henry!”
“Get out, God damn it!” he shouted and gave Charity a shove. She stumbled out of the room, weeping, her face in her hands.
Lucia stared a moment at the empty door, then looked around at Henry. He had the brand in his hands and was taking it to the fire. She pulled against the men who held her. They gripped her tightly, no hope of escape, but still she struggled, watching the brand in the fire, Henry squatting on his heels before it, patiently waiting for it to get hot.
Then after a while, he picked up the brand and rose to his feet and came toward her. She whimpered, pulling back from him. Jack held both her arms now, pulling them hard behind her. John Hawkins took her head in his hands and turned one side of her face toward Henry.
“Be still,” Jack said softly to her. “Be still now.”
Then pain. Her body jerked against it, but she did not cry out. She closed her eyes and knew nothing but the fire searing into her cheek. She did not feel her head being turned. Jack was talking to her, words of comfort. Then pain again, the other cheek afire. She no longer struggled. Her head fell back against Jack’s shoulder and he held her, rocking her in his arms.