"Please don't be angry. That isn't all."
"What do you mean, it isn't all? I don't understand you."
He gulped. "Well — Miss Madeline, she'll be leaving soon to join Mr. Orry. Meek isn't a mean overseer, but he's a hard one. The people need another steadying hand, another friend like Miss Madeline."
"And you think I could replace her?"
"You ain't — aren't a white woman, but you're free. It's the next best thing."
Why the rush of disappointment, then? She didn't know. "I'm sorry I misunderstood, and I thank you for your faith in me, but —" She uttered a little cry as he snatched her hand.
"I don't want you to go, because I like you."
He spoke so fast, it sounded like one long word. The instant he finished, he shut his mouth and looked ready to die of shame. She could barely hear him when he added, "I apologize."
"No, don't. What you said is —" how tongue-tied she felt — "sweet." Inclining her head, she brushed his cheek with her lips. She had never been so bold. She was as embarrassed as Andy; churning. She pushed against the dock. "It's chilly. We ought to go."
"May I walk along?"
"I'd like it if you did."
The three-quarters of a mile to the cabins was traversed in silence, a silence so strained it hurt. They reached the slave street, the far end washed by lemon lamplight from the overseer's house Meek had repainted inside and out. Andy said, "G'night, Miss Jane," in a strangled voice. He veered away toward his own cabin without breaking stride. A last sentence floated behind. "Hope I didn't make you too mad."
No, but he had unsettled her. Mightily. She had developed a strong romantic interest in Andy; it had crept over her with stealth. Tonight, while drops of light fell from the jumping fish, she had come square up against it. It was a powerful pull against the magnet of the North.
Lord. After crying at the burial, she had been certain of her next step. Now she was all topsy-turvy and unsure —
"Boss nigger's the only one good enough for you, huh?"
"What's that?"
Alarmed by the voice from the dark, she searched and saw a form break from an unlit porch to the left. Cuffey ambled to her, took that admire-me stance of his, and said, "Guess you know who." With his tongue pressed against the back of his upper teeth, he made a scary little hissing sound. "I was head driver once. That make me good enough to walk you in the moonlight? I know all the ways to pleasure a gal. Been learnin' since I was nine or ten."
She started around him. He grabbed her forearm with a hand that hurt. "I asked you somethin', nigger. Am I good enough for you to go walkin' with or not?"
Jane struggled to hide her fright. "Nothing on earth would make you good enough. You let go of me or I'll go after your eyes with my fingernails, and while I'm at it, I'll yell for Mr. Meek."
"Meek's gonna die." Cuffey pushed his face near hers, his mouth spewing a fetid odor. "Him an' all the white folks who kicked and beat and bossed us all our lives. Their nigger pets gonna die, too. So, bitch, you better figure out which side —"
"Let go, you ignorant, foul-mouthed savage. A man like you doesn't deserve freedom. You're worthless for anything but spitting on."
She had listeners on various dark porches. A woman hee-heed, a man laughed outright. Cuffey spun left, then right, the whites of his eyes catching moonlight through the trees. His search for his unseen mockers left Jane free to tear loose and run. She dashed into her cabin and stood with her back against the door, panting.
She pulled her pallet against the door and on top of it laid the one Aunt Belle had used. She decided to leave the lamp burning as a further defense. The cabin was uncomfortable; oiled paper in the window frames didn't bar the cold. She pulled two thin blankets over herself and pressed her back against the door. She would feel it move if an intruder tried to open it.
She watched the lamp wick burning, saw the faces of two men in the flame. She would go as soon as she could.
Tomorrow.
During the night she dreamed of country roads choked with thousands of black people, wandering aimlessly. She dreamed of great malformed doors opening to reveal a room she had seen before. The room radiated blinding light; from its white heart, calling voices summoned her —
She woke to the crow of roosters and memories of Cuffey flooding her mind. She pushed these aside and seized on the swiftly fading dream images. Aunt Belle had always put stock in the importance of dreams, though she always said a person had to work hard to figure out the meanings. Jane did this and in an hour reached a decision.
It would be harder to stay than to leave. Despite Cuffey, there would be compensations. One was the help she could give her own people to prepare them a little for the jubilo she believed to be certain.
Another compensation might be Andy. But even without him, there was the call of conscience. She wasn't a Harriet Tubman or a Sojourner Truth; not a great woman; but if she did what she could, she could live with herself. She dressed, fixed her hair, and hurried to the great house to find Madeline.
Orry's wife was at breakfast. "Sit down, Jane. Will you have a biscuit and jam? Some tea?"
She was stunned by the invitation to share the table with the white mistress. She thanked Madeline, sitting opposite her but taking no food. She caught the scandalized look of a house girl returning to the kitchen.
"I came to discuss my leaving, Miss Madeline."
"Yes, I assumed that. Will it be soon? Whenever you go, I'll miss you. So will many others."
"That is what I wanted to speak to you about. I've changed my mind. I'd like to stay at Mont Royal a while longer."
"Oh, Jane — that would make me so happy. You're a bright young woman. I hope to start for Richmond before the end of the month. After I go, you could be of great assistance to Mr. Meek."
"The people I want to help are my own. They must be ready when jubilo comes."
Madeline's smile vanished. "You believe the South will lose?"
"Yes."
Madeline glanced toward the door to the kitchen; there were only the two of them in the dining room. "I confess I have the same dire feeling, though I don't dare admit it because it would destroy Meek's authority. And God knows how my husband would operate this place without —"
She broke off, dark eyes seeking Jane's. "I've said too much. I must trust you not to repeat any of it." "I won't."
"What could you do to help the people get ready, as you call it?"
It was too soon to speak of teaching; a first concession must be won. "I'm not sure, but I know a place to look for the answer. Your library. I'd like your permission to take books and read them."
Madeline ticked a tiny spoon against the gold rim of her teacup. "You realize that's against the law?" "I do."
"What do you hope to find in books?" "Ideas — ways to help the people on this plantation." "Jane, if I gave you permission, and if your reading or your actions caused any harm to this property and, more important, to anyone who lives here, white or black, I wouldn't deal with you through Mr. Meek. I'd do it with my own two hands. I'll have no unrest or violence stirred up."
"I wouldn't do that." Jane held back the last of the thought. But someone else might.
Madeline looked at her steadily. "I take that as another promise."
"You can. And the first one still stands. I won't encourage any of the people to run away, either. But I will try to find ideas to help them when they're free to go or stay, as they choose."
"You' re a forthright young woman," Madeline said; it was far from a condemnation. She stood. "Come along."
Jane followed her to the foyer patterned with sunshine through the fanlight. Madeline reached for the handles of the library doors. "I could be flogged and run out of the state for this." But she seemed to take pride in opening the doors in a theatrical way and standing aside.