Still she walked around the estate almost every day. It took her several hours. She was usually accompanied by Roy and Rex, two deerhounds Jay had bought. She kept a close eye on the work of the plantation, for Jay took no interest at all. She watched the processing of the tobacco and kept count of the bales; she saw the men cutting trees and making barrels; she looked at the cows and horses in the meadows and the chickens and geese in the yard. Today was Sunday, the hands’ day of rest, and it gave her a special opportunity to poke around while Sowerby and Lennox were somewhere else. Roy followed her, but Rex lazily remained on the porch.
The tobacco harvest was in. There was still a lot of work to do processing the crop: sweating, stemming, stripping and pressing the leaves before they could be packed into hogsheads for the voyage to London or Glasgow. They were sowing winter wheat in the field they called Stream Quarter, and barley, rye and clover in Lower Oak. But they had come to the end of the period of most intensive activity, the time when they worked in the fields from dawn to dusk and then labored on by candlelight in the tobacco sheds until midnight.
The hands should have some reward, she thought, for all their effort. Even slaves and convicts needed encouragement. It occurred to her that she might give them a party.
The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. Jay might be against it, but he would not be home for a couple of weeks—Williamsburg was three days away—so it could be over and done with by the time he returned.
She walked along the bank of the Rappahannock River, turning the idea over in her mind. The river was shallow and rocky here, upstream from Fredericksburg, which marked the fall line, the limit of navigation. She skirted a clump of half-submerged bushes and stopped suddenly. A man was standing waist deep in the water, washing, his broad back to her. It was McAsh.
Roy bristled, then recognized Mack.
Lizzie had seen him naked in a river once before, almost a year ago. She remembered drying his skin with her petticoat. At the time it had seemed natural but, looking back, she felt the scene had a strange quality, like a dream: the moonlight, the rushing water, the strong man looking so vulnerable, and the way she had embraced him and warmed him with her body.
She held back now, watching him, as he came out of the river. He was completely naked, as he had been that night.
She remembered another moment from the past. One afternoon in High Glen she had surprised a young deer drinking in a burn. The sight came back to her like a picture. She had emerged from the trees and found herself a few feet away from a buck two or three years old. It had lifted its head and stared at her. The far bank of the stream had been steep, so the deer had been forced to move toward her. As it came out of the stream the water glistened on its muscular flanks. Her rifle was in her hand, loaded and primed, but she could not shoot: being so close seemed to make her too intimate with the beast.
As she watched the water roll off Mack’s skin she thought that, despite all he had been through, he still had the powerful grace of a young animal. As he pulled on his breeches Roy loped up to him. Mack looked up, saw Lizzie and froze, startled. Then he said: “You might turn your back.”
“You might turn yours!” she replied.
“I was here first.”
“I own the place!” she snapped. It was astonishing how quickly he could irritate her. He obviously felt he was every bit as good as she. He was a convict farmhand and she was a fine lady, but to him that was no reason to show respect: it was the act of an arbitrary providence, and it did her no credit and brought him no shame. His audacity was annoying, but at least it was honest. McAsh was never sly. Jay, by contrast, often mystified her. She did not know what was going on in his mind, and when she questioned him he became defensive, as if he were being accused of something.
McAsh seemed amused now as he tied the string that held up his breeches. “You own me, too,” he said.
She was looking at his chest. He was getting his muscles back. “And I’ve seen you naked before.”
Suddenly the tension was gone and they were laughing, just as they had outside the church when Esther had told Mack to shut his gob.
“I’m going to give a party for the field hands,” she said.
He pulled on his shirt. “What kind of party?”
Lizzie found herself wishing he had left the shirt off a little longer, she liked looking at his body. “What kind would you like?”
He looked thoughtful. “You could have a bonfire in the backyard. What the hands would like most of all would be a good meal, with plenty of meat. They never get enough to eat.”
“What food would they like?”
“Hmmm.” He licked his lips. “The smell of fried ham coming from the kitchen is so good it hurts. Everyone loves those sweet potatoes. And wheat bread—the field hands never get anything but that coarse cornbread they call pone.”
She was glad she had thought to talk to Mack about this: it was helpful. “What do they like to drink?”
“Rum. But some of the men get in a fighting mood when they drink. If I were you I’d give them apple cider, or beer.”
“Good idea.”
“How about some music? The Negroes love to dance and sing.”
Lizzie was enjoying herself. It was fun planning a party with Mack. “All right—but who would play?”
“There’s a free black called Pepper Jones who performs in the ordinaries in Fredericksburg. You could hire him. He plays the banjo.”
Lizzie knew that “ordinary” was the local term for a tavern, but she had never heard of a banjo. “What’s that?” she said.
“I think it’s an African instrument. Not as sweet as a fiddle but more rhythmic.”
“How do you know about this man? When have you been to Fredericksburg?”
A shadow crossed his face. “I went once on a Sunday.”
“What for?”
“To look for Cora.”
“Did you find her?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Everyone has lost somebody.” He turned his face away, looking sad.
She wanted to put her arms around him and comfort him, but she restrained herself. Pregnant though she was, she could not embrace anyone other than her husband. She made her voice cheerful again. “Do you think Pepper Jones could be persuaded to come here and perform?”
“I’m sure of it I’ve seen him play in the slave quarters at the Thumson plantation.”
Lizzie was intrigued. “What were you doing there?”
“Visiting.”
“I never thought about slaves doing that kind of thing.”
“We have to have something in our lives other than work.”
“What do you do?”
“The young men love cockfights—they’ll walk ten miles to see one. The young women love the young men. The older ones just want to look at one another’s babies and talk about brothers and sisters they’ve lost. And they sing. The Africans have these sad songs that they sing in harmony. You can’t understand the words, but the tunes make your hair stand on end.”
“The coal miners used to sing.”
He was silent for a moment. “Aye, we did.”
She saw that she had made him sad. “Do you think you will ever go back to High Glen?”
“No. Do you?”
Tears came to her eyes. “No,” she said. “I don’t think you or I will ever go back.”
The baby kicked her, and she said: “Ouch!”
“What?” said Mack.
She put a hand on her bulge. “The baby is kicking. He doesn’t want me to yearn for High Glen. He’s going to be a Virginian. Ow! He just did it again.”
“Does it really hurt?”
“Yes—feel.” She took his hand and placed it on her belly. His fingers were hard and rough skinned, but his touch was gentle.
The baby was still. Mack said: “When is it due?”