But there was someone inside it.
The windows were shuttered against the cold, but light shone through the cracks.
Lizzie paused, hoping that her heart would slow down, but it was fear, not exertion, that made it beat so fast. She was scared of what she would see inside. The idea of Jay taking Suzy Delahaye in his arms the way he had embraced Lizzie, and kissing her with the lips Lizzie had kissed, made her sick with rage. She even thought about turning back. But not knowing would be the worst of all.
She tried the door. It was not locked. She opened it and went inside.
The house had two rooms. The kitchen, at the front, was empty, but she could hear a low voice coming from the bedroom at the back. Were they in bed already? She tiptoed to the door, grasped the handle, took a deep breath, and flung it open.
Suzy Delahaye was not in the room.
Jay was. He lay on the bed in his shirt and breeches, barefoot and coatless.
At the end of the bed stood a slave.
Lizzie did not know the girl’s name: she was one of the four Jay had bought in Williamsburg. She was about Lizzie’s age, slim and very beautiful, with soft brown eyes. She was completely naked, and Lizzie could see her proud brown-tipped breasts and the tightly curled black hair at her groin.
As Lizzie stared, the girl threw her a look that Lizzie would never forget: a haughty, contemptuous, triumphant look. You may be the mistress of the house, the look said, but he comes to my bed every night, not yours.
Jay’s voice came to her as if from a great distance: “Lizzie, oh my God!”
She turned her face to him and saw him flinch at her look. But his fear gave her no satisfaction: she had known for a long time that he was weak.
She found her voice. “Go to hell, Jay,” she said quietly, and she turned and left the room.
She went to her room, got her keys from the drawer, then went down to the gun room.
Her Griffin rifles were in the rack with Jay’s guns, but she left them and picked up a pair of pocket pistols in a leather case. Checking the contents of the case she found a full powder horn, plenty of linen wadding, and some spare flints, but no balls. She searched the room but there was no shot, just a small stack of lead ingots. She took one of the ingots and a bullet mold—a small tool like a pair of pincers—then she left the room, relocking the door.
In the kitchen, Sarah and Mildred stared at her with big frightened eyes as she walked in carrying the pistol case under her arm. Without speaking she went to the cupboard and took out a stout knife and a small, heavy iron saucepan with a spout. Then she went to her bedroom and locked the door.
She built up the fire until it blazed so hot she could not stay near it for more than a few seconds. Then she put the lead ingot in the pan and the pan on the fire.
She remembered Jay coming home from Williamsburg with four young girl slaves. She had asked why he had not bought men, and he said girls were cheaper and more obedient. At the time she had thought no more about it: she had been more concerned about the extravagance of his new carriage. Now, bitterly, she understood.
There was a knock at the door and Jay’s voice said: “Lizzie?” The handle was turned and the door tried. Finding it locked he said: “Lizzie—will you let me in?”
She ignored him. At the moment he was cowed and guilty. Later he would find a way to convince himself he had done nothing wrong, and then he would become angry, but for the moment he was harmless.
He knocked and called for a minute or so then gave up and went away.
When the lead was melted she took the pan off the fire. Moving quickly, she poured a little lead into the mold through a nozzle. Inside the head of the tool was a spherical cavity that now filled with molten lead. She plunged the mold into the bowl of water on her wash-stand, to cool and harden the lead. When she squeezed together the arms of the tool, the head came open and a neat round bullet fell out. She picked it up. It was perfect except for a little tail formed by the lead that had remained in the nozzle. She trimmed the tail with the kitchen knife.
She carried on making shot until all the lead was used up. Then she loaded both pistols and placed them beside her bed. She checked the lock on the door.
Then she went to bed.
33
MACK HATED LIZZIE FOR THAT SLAP. EVERY TIME HE thought of it he felt enraged. She gave him false signals then punished him when he responded. She was a bitch, he told himself; a heartless upper-class flirt who toyed with his feelings.
But he knew it was not true, and after a while he changed his view. Reflection led him to realize that she was at the mercy of conflicting emotions. She was attracted to him, but she was married to someone else. She had a well-developed sense of duty, and she felt scared because it was being undermined. In desperation she tried to put an end to the dilemma by quarreling with him.
He had longed to tell her that her loyalty to Jay was misplaced. All the slaves had known for months that Jay was spending his nights in a cottage with Felia, a beautiful and willing girl from Senegal. But he had felt sure Lizzie would find out for herself sooner or later, and sure enough she had, two nights ago. Her reaction had been characteristically extreme: she had locked her bedroom door and armed herself with pistols.
How long would she keep that up? How would it all end? “Run away to the frontier with some ne’er-do-well,” he had said, thinking of himself. But she had not responded to the suggestion. Of course it would never occur to her to spend her life with Mack. No doubt she liked him; he had been more than a servant to her; he had delivered her baby; and she enjoyed it when he em braced her. But all that was a long way from leaving her husband and running off with him.
He was lying restlessly in his bed before daybreak, turning these things over in his mind, when he heard a horse whinny softly outside.
Who could it be at this time of night? Frowning, he slipped off his bunk and went to the cabin door in his breeches and shirt.
The air outside was cold and he shivered when he opened the door. It was a misty morning with a fine rain, but dawn was breaking and he could see, in the silver light, two women entering the compound, one leading a pony.
A moment later he recognized the taller woman as Cora. Why had she ridden through the night to come here? Bad news seemed likely.
Then he recognized the other one.
“Peg!” he cried delightedly.
She saw him and came running to him. She had grown up, he thought: she was inches taller and a different shape. But her face was the same and she threw herself into his arms. “Mack!” she said. “Oh, Mack, I’ve been so frightened!”
“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said. “What happened?”
Cora answered his question. “She’s in trouble. She was bought by a hill farmer called Burgo Marler. He tried to rape her and she stabbed him with a kitchen knife.”
“Poor Peg,” said Mack, and he hugged her. “Is the man dead?”
Peg nodded.
Cora said: “The story has been in the Virginia Gazette and now every sheriff in the colony is looking for Peg.”
Mack was aghast. If Peg were caught she would certainly be hanged.
The other slaves were woken by their conversation. Some of the convicts came out and recognized Peg and Cora, and there were happy reunions.
Mack said to Peg: “How did you get to Fredericksburg?”
“Walked,” she said with a laconic touch of her old defiant personality. “I knew I had to go east and find the Rappahannock River. I traveled in the dark and got directions from people who are out at night—slaves, runaways, army deserters, Indians.”