Of all the servants that had come from around and about—including the two from Windsor Hall, Frederick from Unity, the housekeeper of Tam Dewar from just down the path—it was Clara that July could not take her eyes from.
‘Is me dress you like or me pretty fair face that make you stare so?’ Clara asked July.
July shrugged nonchalant at Clara’s words, yet persisted to gawp upon her like Clara were a blue flower blossoming upon a bush with only yellow blooms. For the tip of Clara’s nose pointed upwards like a white woman’s—no matter that she were peering down that slender feature to sneer upon July, the black pips of her nostrils could still be seen. Her lips were so thin they looked to have been embroidered upon her face in padded satin stitch. And when she lowered herself upon a chair, it was with the gentility of a missus perching side-saddle upon a delicate horse. July was wearing her best—a new blue kerchief upon her head, her pale-blue cotton blouse stitched with lace and two pearl buttons, recently fallen from her missus’s garment—yet within the shade of Clara’s distinction, she felt as ragged as a half-plucked turkey.
It was a thought escaping when July exclaimed, ‘Me missus give me cloth to make a new dress,’ into Clara’s proud face.
‘Cast-off ?’ replied Clara wearily. ‘I cannot abide to be dressed in cast-off. ’
The cloth July had been allowed was indeed her missus’s discards; a worn-out cotton dress drained away from bottle-green to an exhausted grey. And, because it had once wrapped all of her missus, unpicked and pulled out, the ugly fabric stretched for yards!
‘No,’ July snapped, ‘it be the finest white muslin from a ship that just come in from England.’
The sound of Clara sucking upon her teeth was as delicate as the chirp from a tiny bird. ‘You no tell me true,’ she said, ‘Your massa have no money for white muslin for you.’
‘Me massa have plenty money,’ July replied.
‘Me hear that not be so,’ Clara said.
‘Is so true,’ July said. ‘Him make plenty hogshead. And they do come from town and buy them. And him does take all the money in a big chest. Him can hardly lift it. Him must call Mr Godfrey to help. But not even them two can carry this chest, it be so full up with coin.’ July stopped to look upon Clara’s face and saw two scoffing green eyes staring back at her.
‘You no be telling me true, for what your missus be wearing is bad. No worthy white missus be wearing cotton printed with stripes,’ Clara said, flicking her hand to shake July from her.
‘But your missus does have an ugly face,’ July retorted.
‘How dare you impudence me missus,’ Clara said. Her umbrage rose her from out of her chair, so July quickly sat down upon it. Folding her arms, July then planted her feet down firm as a tap root so she could not be moved. Clara, even more piqued, shouted rough as a washerwoman, ‘Well, your missus has a big-big batty.’ And oh, how July desired those gold buttons upon Clara’s waistcoat as they shimmered in the skirmish. She may have made grab for one or bit it off with her teeth, if it were not for Byron running to her to say, ‘Them finish with first course. Mr Godfrey say come.’
Despite all the candles that lit up the group of servants as they entered the room, none of the guests at that table, not even Caroline Mortimer, paid any heed to that parade of gentle scavengers as they began lifting the plates from around them. Godfrey, standing by the table, ordered with a silent sweep of his hand what was to be lifted and taken where. Leaving only fruit in the centre of the table and laying down two platters of cheese, he bowed and left the room, walking backwards. (He may have somersaulted or jumped high, clicking upon his heels, reader, but there would be none to report it, for no one did see him.)
The feast of food was then carried from that high table within the dining room and laid out upon a low table that rested upon four large stones in the yard by the kitchen, until the makeshift table—wilting with the weight of food—had to be propped with a fifth stone before it snapped in the middle. And Molly again did slop the soup over the floor—the turtle soup this time—while looking for somewhere to place the tureen.
Godfrey, looking to finally fill his glass with a big slop of forget-all brew, sucked his teeth as Giles, James and two of the musicians—numb with rum and slurring words about them soon to be free men—passed his now empty bottles between them. Godfrey called July to him, ‘You can take Byron and get us some rum?’ July, her cheeks swollen with pigeon pie, nodded and ran off as Godfrey called after her, ‘Or anything that you can get. No come back with nothing. You hear me, nah?’
July usually performed her pilfering within the dining room when, with only the brass candelabra upon the table, the two candlesticks upon the sideboard, and her massa and missus chewing their food in silence, the room was quite gloomy. With the massa’s stock of drink unlocked for this big-big dinner, July thought to slide herself invisible as a duppy towards the cabinet that held it. But all those candles saw her dark corners chased away. She had to step cautious—pressed flat as the pattern upon the wall. At one step she stood still when she thought her missus did spy her and the tip of her kerchief was singed within the flicker of a candle flame. But her missus’s head was merely resting upon one hand, her eyelids drooping with the effort of staying attentive to the talk from that wearisome old man from Unity. Her massa, although nodding to this man’s chatter, idly banged a spoon against an empty decanter in front of him. While the other guests, paying this man no heed at all, continued to nibble and drink at what they could. Except for one, for if July’s eye was seeing true, the massa from Windsor Hall was sound asleep.
The fiddlers, now playing in the yard for the servants’ gathering, began to strike up a song. No more clatter or unrecognisable tune—the sound of a sweet melody came whispering through the open window. For, like most slave fiddlers, it only amused them to play bad for white ears.
July had been promised by Patience that, when the fiddlers struck up a good quadrille, then she would teach July all the steps to the Lancers. And it was a quadrille July could hear. It was just the confusing question of which was her left hand and which was her right, that stopped July from skipping this dance very well. Once she had that matter learned, then she would dance it better than Molly—for with only one eye Molly did lose her partner on every spin; it did mess up the set for everyone. July yearned to return to the kitchen before the dance was done for Cupid, the old fiddler, had promised her that she might get a bang of his tambourine, and she was hungry for more pie.
Byron hissed at the window, ‘Miss July, you there?’ so loud that July feared Tam Dewar had heard. For suddenly the overseer declared, ‘Not so. We won’t have trouble with negroes here. There are good negroes and there are bad . . .’ Although Byron was hidden deep as a shadow upon black velvet, still July held in her breath, then waved her hand out of the window as signal for him to hush up and wait.
Hordes of night creatures lured to the candles’ open flames dropped upon the wooden top beside her—scorched and smoking, they whiffed of baking food. As the talk-plenty old man from Unity said, ‘Well, I hope you’re right, Mr Dewar . . .’ July whipped a bottle from the cupboard top and passed it quickly out of the window. Another bottle she picked up was already empty. She shook it, then placed it back. But two more that were full, soon sailed over the window’s ledge into Byron’s tiny grasp.