“Depends on the year,” Wesley waffled. “And how do you know that?”
“Mim’s lecture.”
“Mim Sanburne is the biggest pain in the ass this county has suffered since the seventeenth century. Before this is all over, Jefferson will be besmirched, dragged in the dirt, made out to be a scoundrel. Mim and her Mulberry Row. Leave the servant question alone! Damn, I wish I’d never written her a check.”
“But it’s part of history.” Ansley was positively enjoying this.
“Whose history?”
“America’s history, Big Daddy.”
“Oh, balls!” He glared at her, then laughed. She was the only person in his life who dared stand up to him—and he loved it.
Warren, worry turning to boredom, drank his orange juice and turned to the sports page.
“Have you any opinion?” Wesley’s bushy eyebrows knitted together.
“Huh?”
“Warren, Big Daddy wants to know what you think about this body at Monticello stuff.”
“I—uh—what can I say? Hopefully this discovery will lead us to a better understanding of life at Monticello, the rigors and pressures of the time.”
“We aren’t your constituency. I’m your father! Do you mean to tell me a corpse in the garden, or wherever the hell it was”—he grabbed at the front page to double-check—“in Cabin Four, can be anything but bad news?”
Warren, long accustomed to his father’s fluctuating opinion of his abilities and behavior, drawled, “Well, Poppa, it sure was bad news for the corpse.”
Ansley heard Warren’s Porsche 911 roar out of the garage. She knew Big Daddy was at the stable. She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Lucinda,” she said with surprise before continuing, “have you read the paper?”
“Yes. The queen of Crozet has her tit in the wringer this time,” Lucinda pungently put it.
“Really, Lulu, it’s not that bad.”
“It’s not that good.”
“I never will understand why being related to T.J. by blood, no matter how thinned out, is so important,” said Ansley, who understood only too well.
Lucinda drew deeply on her cheroot. “What else have our respective husbands got? I don’t think Warren’s half so besotted with the blood stuff, but I mean, Samson makes money from it. Look at his real estate ads in The New York Times. He wiggles in his relation to Jefferson every way he can. ‘See Jefferson country from his umpty-ump descendant.’ ” She took another drag. “I suppose he has to make a living somehow. Samson isn’t the brightest man God ever put on earth.”
“One of the best-looking though,” Ansley said. “You always did have the best taste in men, Lulu.”
“Thank you—at this point it doesn’t matter. I’m a golf widow.”
“Count your blessings, sister. I wish I could get Warren interested in something besides his so-called practice. Big Daddy keeps him busy reading real estate contracts, lawsuits, syndication proposals—I’d go blind.”
“Boom time for lawyers,” Lulu said. “The economy is in the toilet, everybody’s blaming everybody else, and the lawsuits are flying like confetti. Too bad we don’t use that energy to work together.”
“Well, right now, honey, we’ve got a tempest in a teapot. Every old biddy and crank scholar in central Virginia will pass out opinions like gas.”
“Mim wanted attention for her project.” Lulu didn’t hide her sarcasm. She’d grown tired of taking orders from Mim over the years.
“She’s got it now.” Ansley walked over to the sink and began to run the water. “What papers did you read this morning?”
“Local and Richmond.”
“Lulu, did the Richmond paper say anything about the cause of death?”
“No.”
“Or who it is? The Courier was pretty sparse on the facts.”
“Richmond too. They probably don’t know anything, but we’ll find out as soon as they do, I guess. You know, I’ve half a mind to call Mim and just bitch her out.” Lucinda stubbed out her cheroot.
“You won’t.” An edge crept into Ansley’s voice.
A long silence followed. “I know—but maybe someday I will.”
“I want to be there. I’d pay good money to see the queen get her comeuppance.”
“As she does a lot of business with both of our husbands, about all I can do is dream—you too.” Lucinda bid Ansley goodbye, hung up the phone, and reflected for a moment on her precarious position.
Mim Sanburne firmly held the reins of Crozet social life. She paid back old scores, never forgot a slight, but by the same token, she never forgot a favor. Mim could use her wealth as a crowbar, a carrot, or even as a wreath to toss over settled differences—settled in her favor. Mim never minded spending money. What she minded was not getting her way.
11
The gray of dawn yielded to rose, which surrendered to the sun. The horses fed and turned out, the stalls mucked, and the opossum fed his treat of sweet feed and molasses, Harry happily trotted inside to make herself breakfast.
Harry started each morning with a cup of coffee, moved her great-grandmother’s cast-iron iron away from the back door—her security measure—jogged to the barn, and got the morning chores out of the way. Then she usually indulged herself in hot oatmeal or fried eggs or sometimes even fluffy pancakes drenched in Lyon’s Golden Syrup from England.
The possum, Simon, a bright and curious fellow, would sometimes venture close to the house, but she could never coax him inside. She marveled at how Mrs. Murphy and Tucker accepted the gray creature. Mrs. Murphy displayed an unusual tolerance for other animals. Often it took Tucker a bit longer.
“All right, you guys. You already had breakfast, but if you’re real good to me, I might, I just might, fry an egg for you.”
“I’ll be good, I’ll be good.” Tucker wagged her rear end since she had no tail.
“If you’d learn to play hard to get, you’d have more dignity.” Mrs. Murphy jumped onto a kitchen chair.
“I don’t want dignity, I want eggs.”
Harry pulled out the number five skillet, old and heavy cast iron. She rubbed it with Crisco after every washing to help preserve its longevity. She dropped a chunk of butter into the middle of the pan, which she placed on low heat. She fetched a mixing bowl and cracked open four eggs, diced a bit of cheese, some olives, and even threw in a few capers. As the skillet reached the correct temperature, the butter beginning to sizzle, she placed the eggs in it. She folded them over once, turned it off, and quickly put the eggs on a big plate. Then she divided the booty.
Tucker ate out of her ceramic bowl, which Harry placed on the floor.
Mrs. Murphy’s bowl, “Upholstery Destroyer” emblazoned on its side, sat on the table. She ate with Harry.
“This is delicious.” The cat licked her lips.
“Yeah.” Tucker could barely speak, she was eating so fast.
The tiger cat enjoyed the olives. Seeing her pick them out and eat them first made Harry laugh every time she did it.
“You’re too much, Mrs. Murphy.”
“I like to savor my food,” the cat rejoined.
“Got any more?” Tucker sat down beside her empty bowl, her neck craned upward, should any morsel fall off the table.
“You’re as bad as Pewter.”
“Thanks.”
“You two are chatty this morning.” Harry cheerfully drank her second cup of coffee as she thought out loud to the animals. “Guess being up at Monticello has made me think. What would we be doing if this were 1803? I suppose, getting up at the same time and feeding the horses wouldn’t have changed. Mucking stalls hasn’t changed. But someone would have had to stoke a fire in an open hearth. If a person lived alone, it would have been a lot harder than today. How could anyone perform her chores, cook for herself, butcher meat—well, I guess you could have bought your meat, but only a day at a time unless you had a smokehouse or the meat was salted down. Think about it. And you two, no worm medicine or rabies shots, but then, no vaccines for me either. Clothing must have been itchy and heavy in the winter. Summer wouldn’t have been too bad because the women could have worn linen dresses. Men could take off their shirts. And I resent that. If I can’t take off my shirt, I don’t see why they can.” She carried on this conversation with her two friends as they hung on every word and every mouthful of egg that was shoveled into Harry’s mouth. “You two aren’t really listening, are you?”