Chapter Three
“Now where should we place Lady Barbara for luncheon?” Eunice Wyndham asked as her daughter sailed into the loggia amid a flurry of activity going on around a table set for twelve. “Such a quandary. If her back is to the garden, the sunlight will show her thin hair to its worst advantage. If she faces it, the light will expose every wrinkle. The woman is so vain about her looks.”
Jessica was not listening. Her mother was mulling aloud and did not expect her to answer. She knew her daughter had no interest in such things, even now after two years away at boarding school to correct her dispassion. The luncheon table had been arranged in the loggia to free the dining room for the huge banquet the next evening. Jessica would have preferred her birthday and homecoming celebrated with a family picnic. The person for whom she searched among the Negro maids was not there. She’d not found her in the dining room, either, where similar activities were taking place.
“Mama, where is Tippy?”
“Perhaps I can set her at the head of the table and Lord Henry at the other end. Everyone will interpret the seating as a sign of respect. Your father and I can sit across from each other in the middle.”
“Mama, where is Tippy? I’ve looked everywhere for her and can’t find her. What have you done with her?”
Eunice tucked a flowingly inscribed nameplate into a glass rosebud card holder and stepped back to examine the effect. “Should I set out the fly catchers?” she asked. “I bought a lovely pair in crystal when your father and I were in Washington. They do have the most dreadful flies there—worse than here. Is it too early in the season for them, you think?”
“Mama, where is Tippy?”
Eunice gave her daughter her attention. “Goodness, child. Why are you still in your robe?”
Jessica spun toward the doorway.
“Where are you going?”
“To the kitchen. I’m sure that’s where you’ve exiled her.”
“Jessie, stop right there. Do you hear me?” Eunice’s voice rose in alarm. She picked up the fan she’d brought into the room and waved it rapidly before her face. Jessica halted and turned around. The three maids, dressed in gray dresses overlaid with white aprons, had gone still, the room silent. “I am so glad your father took Lady Barbara and Lord Henry riding this morning,” Eunice said, fanning. “I will be spared the embarrassment of my daughter running to the kitchen to fetch a maid when a tug on the bellpull would do.”
“I want to see Tippy, Mama.”
“She’s busy designing your birthday cake.”
“Then I’ll go help her.”
Eunice cast a horrified look behind her at the stock-still maids, their eyes bulging and the whites stark with shock and curiosity. “That will be all,” she snapped. “Go make yourself useful to Willie May.”
The maids rushed by Jessica in a blur of gray and white. Eunice moved quickly to pull her daughter into the room, then closed the french doors behind them. Once shuttered in, she said, “Do not take that tone with me, young lady, especially in the presence of the servants. You’re in enough trouble after that scene on the dock yesterday.”
“I simply gave the man a slap on the shoulder with my fan.”
“You were defending a Negro against a white man!”
“The man was abusing an overburdened porter. I would have slapped him if the porter had been white as the driven snow.”
Eunice’s tight, angry face crumpled like a soggy teacake. “I declare, child, what are we to do with you? We’ve all been so excited about your coming home. You can’t imagine how eager your brother was to see you. He insisted on going with me to pick you up from the ship, but you embarrassed Michael terribly yesterday, perhaps beyond reclaim.”
“Michael should have been the one to give the man a wallop.”
Eunice fanned faster. “I knew we shouldn’t have sent you to school in Boston—into that hotbed of abolitionists.”
“No, Mother, a breeding ground for freedom lovers.”
“Oh, Jessie!” Depleted as always from these arguments with a daughter for whom she’d rip out her heart, Eunice fell with her fan into one of the loggia chairs and sighed hopelessly. “What did they do to you in that school?”
“They confirmed what I’ve always believed. All human beings are created equal, and no one has the right to enslave another.”
“Sssh!” Eunice whispered fiercely, darting a look through the glassed french doors for listening ears. “Listen to me, my willful daughter. You have no idea what’s been going on around here in your absence. If you did, you’d realize what’s wrong with such feelings, how dangerous such talk could be for Tippy.”
“What’s…been going on around here?”
“Not on our plantation, but others. Slave rebellions, all unsuccessful, but too close to home for your father’s comfort. Planters are on edge and quick to punish any slave—unmercifully, I might add—or”—she drilled Jessica with a look—“anyone who gives the faintest impression they do not agree with the Southern cause.”
“Cause? Abolition is a cause. Slavery is a dogma.”
Eunice discontinued fanning. It did little to induce air into lungs that felt about to burst. “See, that’s the kind of thing I’m talking about. I’m warning you, Jessie, that while your father indulges your every wish, he will not tolerate such views in this house or your flagrant friendship with a Negro servant.” She shook her head in self-recrimination. “I should never have permitted you and Tippy to become close when you were children, but you had no one else to play with. She was the only choice of a companion for you. I should never have listened to my sister’s pleas to send you to boarding school to be near her in Boston, and, most assuredly, I should never have allowed Tippy to go with you.
“However”—Eunice arched a reproachful eyebrow at Jessica—“I was under the delusion you would have the good sense to break your ties with her once you were home.” Wearily, Eunice pressed a hand to her forehead. “I’d hoped you’d understand you must let her go, accept that Tippy has her place, and you have yours.”
“Mama…” Jessica knelt at her mother’s knees, the fullness of her robe billowing about her, bringing to Eunice’s mind the red-haired, brown-eyed doll comprised of only a comely torso and bouffant skirt Jessica had preferred as a child. But there the likeness of her daughter to the doll ended. Eunice did not understand it. Her daughter’s features were regular, her teeth straight, her flaming hair and large, expressive eyes a dark, lovely brown, but they did not save her fair, freckled face from being—not homely, but plain. Her husband would have liked her to be beautiful but ordinary in her interests like the daughters of their friends, concerned only with clothes and parties and flirtations, delighted to be the spoiled only daughter of one of the richest men in the South. But from birth, Jessica had eschewed the role to which she’d been born. Was it because she sensed that her father’s indulgence was compensation for his disappointment in her? Jessica thought too much, questioned, challenged, rebelled. Carson would have found her spirit attractive in a beautiful daughter, but it was merely annoying in one so plain. Sometimes Eunice thought Jessica should have been born a male.
“I do understand,” Jessica said, “but I cannot accept. I would never put Tippy in a jeopardous position, but I can’t—I won’t—treat her as inferior to me. She’s brilliant and creative in ways that I could never be. She’s kinder and wiser and possesses every quality I admire and need in a friend. I do not wish to cause you and Papa embarrassment, but I will give my friend the respect she deserves. I will not treat her as a slave.”
Eunice pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my God…If your father were to hear you…”
“He would be very disappointed in me, I’m sure.”
“He would feel more than disappointment. There’s a side to your father you’ve never seen. I will not be able to prevent the consequences if you continue to flaunt your affection for Tippy. You must think of her, for goodness’ sake.”
Gently, Jessica pried away her mother’s hands from her cheeks and held them. “Don’t worry, Mama. I promise not to stir up family distress by sharing my views on slavery in this house. The South is what it is, and one voice will not change it, but please allow Tippy to be my maid. You know she has the use of only one lung, which suffers from pleurisy, and she can’t breathe in the heat of the kitchen.”
“I will so long as you abide by your promise, child. If you don’t, your father will send her to the fields, and she’ll be berthed in the slave quarters. He loves you dearly, but you must believe me that he will.” Eunice removed her hands and pushed her daughter’s fiery hair back from her face. “We missed you so when you were away,” she said gently. “That’s why we had you come home before the semester was through, but I declare, my blood has not run easy since you’ve been back. At luncheon and the party, there will be talk of the abolitionist movement. Promise me you’ll hold your tongue if your opinion is asked?”
Jessica stuck out her tongue and held it with two fingers. “Ah pomice to uld ma ung.”
“Silly girl,” Eunice said, a grin sliding across her face that did not quite relieve the anxiety in her eyes. “Now let me up. I have work to do.”
“You’ll send Tippy to my room? No one in the world can dress my hair like Tippy, and imagine how I’d look if she didn’t manage my wardrobe.”
“If you’ll remember that your father likes to surprise you unannounced. Make sure your hair and clothes are all you and Tippy are discussing should he appear. If he gets involved, it will be cotton bolls Tippy will be tending rather than ribbons and laces.”
“I’ll remember.” Jessica stood and spun around in her satin dressing gown, skirt twirling from a delicate, narrow waist. “Eighteen tomorrow. When did I get to be so old?”
“It’s a birthday that should set you to thinking of marriage,” Eunice said.
“Maybe thinking, but not doing. What man would wish to marry a firebrand like me?”
Who indeed? thought Eunice with a sigh.