Chapter 11: All Dreams End

For two happy months Andrew and Elizabeth lived and loved together in a relationship with many of the nocturnal aspects of wedlock. The young woman seemed to think what they were doing was an exciting secret while the callow man never appeared to have thought about it at all.

In public Andrew was the often-overbearing "master," just as he had always been, and Elizabeth was only one of his many more-or-less humble servants. They were proper and polite to each other, autocratic and servile, but everyone on the plantation from the kitchen hearth to the slave shanties was aware of what was going on.

Elizabeth remained oblivious of their knowledge, of both their smiles and their sneers, and her youthful lover had no concern about discovery so long as he was treated with the deference he demanded. But in her heart, despite all her efforts to deny the facts, the woman knew that what she was doing was foolish, wrong and dangerous.

Elizabeth lived from day to day, forcing herself away from intruding thoughts of the future and of the consequences or the inevitable end of the exciting but impossible relationship. She enjoyed her pale, slim lover and her escape from reality once the sun went down. For his part, Andrew simply rogered her and amused himself, sharing stories of her gullibility and odd vocabulary with his drinking friends and the tavern girls.

At supper in the kind light of bayberry candles, for meals that never included corn pone or minced turtle, Elizabeth often wore her new sacque dress with its silk petticoat over her tight-laced stays and fancy shift. She also enjoyed slipping into her light shoes with their delicate buckles and paper-thin soles. Her rich clothes and tight-laced corset made her feel like someone else, but she was not sure who, someone she knew as if from a distance, not exactly a stranger. She found it difficult to pass a mirror without looking at her clean, new image and standing up extra straight, turning her head to the side and raising her chin. Once she actually laughed at her mirrored image and had to trot away, hands to her mouth.

Occasionally she even carried the colorful fan that Andrew had given her, the lace-timmed black one with the mother-of-pearl handle. She learned to coax her unruly hair atop her head and anchor it there with ornate combs in a manner that pleased him, often leaving a single curl draped over each bare shoulder for him to dandle and admire. She dressed it that way the evening they celebrated her birthday, and Andrew served her champagne and gave her an enameled locket on a thin, gold chain. The happy woman watched his shadow move along the wall, swelling and shifting as he passed the silver candelabra to bring her his gift and bend to taste her mouth. We are naught but shadows, thought the young woman as she parted her lips.

Elizabeth's chores, as was normal in the winter, were much lighter. Each day she donned her new work dress with its three brass buttons and her knit stockings and short boots to tend the smoldering smokehouse fires, look after the icy springhouse cistern, package up the multitude of dried herbs and help in the always-busy kitchen. She had even learned to write the labels for her envelopes of herbs. Many praised the hams, bacon and sausage that came from her smokehouse and its carefully tended stacks of barely-burning hickory and crabapple.

After several false starts, she managed to sew up a suitable skirt from the plaid material the overseer had given her, but soon found her needle skills insufficient to deal with the bodice since she had no pattern or model. Andrew gave her one of his full-sleeved shirts with a frilly jabot, and she made herself a short waistcoat from the rest of the soft wool. He said that she looked fine in her creation and that it was the sort of thing stylish women wore to go riding. Now they slept, when they finally did, in his large bed on the second floor, a room with its own fireplace and iron stove.

Elizabeth had dreamed of living in such a room and sometimes visited it during the day just to sit in a soft chair and look about, legs spread before her, reviewing in her mind what they had done beneath the quilts of the canopied bed with its tall corner posts. She often tried to hurry along the winter sun, impatient for her other life, her life in the frosty dark, in the shadows. In the dim mornings, she seldom remembered her childhood prayer of thanks.

With the other servants, slave and bound, Elizabeth had gone through the garrulous line at the giving out of first-of-the-year presents and received a linsey-woolsey shift and tow cloth dress with bone buttons as did all the other women on the plantation. She made her curtsey and breathed her "thank you, sir" without noting Mr. Nevers' disapproving look. The men carried away some crude, wood-pegged shoes, coarse trousers and a short, Scotch-cloth coat, which most called a "round" jacket. The children received only a buttonless shirt and a wooden toy of some kind.

Andrew, almost drunk and harshly laughing, his face red and wig askew, insisted that she put on her gift clothes that evening and serve him dinner wearing them before he roughly disrobed her and romped her furiously in his bed, his whip in his hand and his boots still on his feet. The long evening's play-acting bothered the young woman and uncovered her well-suppressed memories of brutal violation in a musty warehouse. She did not sleep until just before dawn, fingering her bruised lips and remembering her dead husband. She finally turned on her side, drew up her knees and closed her eyes with the nearly-forgotten Matthew's name in her mouth, dimly aware that all dreams end.

But now as the windy winter deepened and the tall trees retained only the most stubborn of sere leaves, something like Andrew's pale face was often behind the visor of the knight rescuing her from the evil witches, wild dogs or fiery dragons. Her daydream hero had usually been a slender, blond man who danced as well as he dueled, wore soft clothes and tenderly loved her as well as he bravely vanquished her demons. Andrew seemed to fit the imperfect mold she had sculpted, a girlish dream come almost true, except for his sometimes-feral look.

In mid-January, their nocturnal relations gradually began to change, and some of Elizabeth's long-cached worries moved to the front of her mind bringing several repressed goblins along with them. Andrew told her it was because his mother and step-father had returned to Annapolis and might soon visit, perhaps without warning. "We must keep up appearances," he had insisted with a bold caress, a sharp pinch and a tender kiss. "Wouldn't do to scandalize the old folks."

She was relegated to her own cold room and told to hide her fancy dress and silly shoes. Andrew was seldom home for either dinner or a late supper, and when he was, he often dined alone or with Walter Cochran or two or three other stylish young men. Sometimes she could hear them laughing as she tried to sleep. Occasionally, during those nights, the west wind rattled her window in its frame and jarred her suddenly awake and senselessly afraid.

Andrew irregularly came to her bed and steadily assured her of his continuing love and honest admiration, but he was often drunk and painfully abrupt, satisfying himself and then falling asleep beside her and taking up most of the bed or creeping off to his own room with his clothes in his hands while the eager woman moaned and bit her lips, wanting his slim body in her arms. Twice he hit her when she failed to respond to his clumsy and brief love making or various attempts to force her to perform fellatio on his limp member.

Both Rufe and Miranda told the confused bond servant, as clearly as they dared, that she was being a blind fool. Elizabeth ignored them, held tight to her fading fiction, hid her bruises as best she could, and with the help of one of the experienced slaves, concentrated on preparing the tobacco seedbeds in new soil at the edge of the woodlot. She raked the heavy loam until her hands bled and her back rebelled.

One cold, moonless night Elizabeth awakened at a light tapping. The always-unlocked garret door creaked open, golden lamplight glowed on the beamed ceiling and Andrew whispered, "Sweet Liz, are you awake? I have a surprise for you," and then, before she could even turn over and bush the hair from her face, the latch clicked and the room again was dark. She heard the usual sounds of undressing, including a few familiar grunts, and then a hairy leg slid into bed beside her and a large hand captured her breast.

She turned for his expected kiss and suddenly, without the usual ministrations, he pushed up her shift, groped roughly at her soft mound and sheathed himself fully with a painful thrust that made her gasp because of his girth and depth. As usual, he smelled of brandy, tobacco and sweat. She wrapped her legs around his thrusting hips, gritted her teeth and responded as warmly as she could, holding back her anger, hoping her tender insides would cooperate.

Her arms then found a broader back than she had expected and her body felt more than her accustomed lover's weight. As she wriggled and moaned, the pace of insistent penetration increased, and the ropes long-knotted under her thin mattress popped and sang in protest.

"Andrew?" she said, pushing against his thick shoulders, suddenly sure it was not.

"Nay," slurred a soft and familiar voice at her ear, "try Walter." A stubbled face rubbed across her cheek and thick lips crushed hers.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, turning her face aside, unfolding her legs, tensing her muscles, and trying to push him off. He was buried in her and flexing or pulsing as he ejacualted.

"Well you know what I'm doin'," he grunted, arching his back, his fists beside her shoulders. She felt lubricous fibers tearing deep within her.

"No," she cried wanly, "stop, you can't." The smell of his sweat instantly recalled Vernon's drunken efforts to rape her. His crusted mouth covered hers, stopping her outcry. She forced herself to become inert since he was much too big and strong to dislodge. She tasted his drinks, then felt his probing tongue and shook her head from side to side attempting to spit it out.

"Ha, that I can, and much better than you deserve. Come on, girl, let's finish well. Up and canter now." His hands grasped at her pelvis and buttocks; his pace increased to a wild gallop, he breathed in ragged grunts. The animal sounds fired fear and wonder in her heart.

Her lungs shuddering, Elizabeth kicked her legs and beat at Walter's broad chest and muscular shoulders. He groaned, shivered and withdrew, leaving a sticky mess across her thigh. Elizabeth sobbed and held the old quilt to her face, panting, quivering, her shift bunched under her arms.

"He told me that you expected me, damn him," Walter said when he got his breath back, "said you were eager for me, admired me." He pulled up his breeches and buttoned his foreflap. "Guess he thought it would be a good joke." He found his shirt on the floor and pulled it on. "Did you?" he yelled loudly toward the narrow door that showed light along its rim.

Andrew re-entered her room, carrying a small oil lamp with a tall, glass chimney. He put it on the washstand and took the only chair, crossing his legs in his usual, relaxed manner. Elizabeth expected him to take out his snuff box as he often did in that pose. "Now don't get all excited, sweet little Liz, and I'll explain, eh, so you can understand." Andrew looked very placid, almost smug. "Sit down, Walter. You're all hot and bothered, both of you."

Andrew's friend sat on the foot of the narrow bed, and Elizabeth stared at him as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim, yellow light. She withdrew her legs, straightened out her shift and pulled her quilt up around her chilled shoulders. "This were cruel, Andrew," she said, on the point of tears, her throat raw, her breathing still unslowed, her thighs bruised. "Mean and cruel."

"Was it? I'm sorry then, but I thought you should know at once, my girl. You are Walter's look out now. His wench. I've sold him your indenture."

Walter finished buttoning his shirt and tying his neck cloth, still breathing deeply but wearing a faint smile, a triumphant look. Elizabeth gaped, her heart racing, mind in turmoil, unwilling to accept the words. Walter glanced at her and then looked away, tunelessly humming as he flicked the ruffle at his wrists and straightened his breeches at his knee.

"Well, not exactly sold," said young M'Kenna, smacking his lips and obviously enjoying himself. "We traded, yes, traded, fair and square. It will all be recorded down at the county seat, never you worry, my girl, all legal and proper, eh. I exchanged your services for Constable, Walter's roan stallion, seventeen hands, Ogle bred, from Belair he is. His sire was the great Crusader." Andrew counted the virtues off on his fingers, lifted his pointed chin and looked very pleased with himself, showing his small teeth.

"Ye traded me for a horse?" Elizabeth said, raking at her hair back with her fingers and baring a breast as she did so.

"Well, not you, no, no, not exactly, but your, what is it, four years now. Yes indeed, have a bill of sale for the horse, notarized, neatly done." Andrew patted his chest, obviously proud of his accomplishment. He took out his snuff box and tapped it. "I'm sure my step-father will have no objections, should be pleased, in fact, good management, eh."

"D'ye expect me t'lie with him, this, this great, smelly oaf?" Elizabeth said, pointing at Walter as he stood, tucked in his long shirt tail, buttoned his waistband and looked about the floor for his high boots.

"If he wishes, of course I do. You have a signed contract to 'well and faithfully serve.' And you had better live up to it, eh, on your feet, back or belly, standing on your head if he wants it that way. Walter Cochran, my whining drab, is a much harder taskmaster than I'll ever be. There's hardly a slave on his place that hasn't tasted the whip or the branding iron once or twice. And I daresay he's savored more dark meat than I'll ever find time for." He chortled and sneezed.

Walter gave Elizabeth a vulpine smile and straightened the short wig on his close-cropped head. She looked at the breadth of his chest and the heft of his thighs and wondered why she had not immediately recognized that it was not slim Andrew eagerly rutting between her legs. She shuddered again. Vernon was nearly Walter's size and had treated her body much the same, tearing her open, ignoring her cries, holding her down and violating her until he was emptied and satisfied.

"Don't have to finish this now. Just pack your things in the morning, and good old Walter will send a man to pick you up right after breakfast. He and I have some other business this evening, some cards to deal, eh?" He nudged his friend with his elbow. "Nevers has been told; you don't have to bother him. Understand, girl?"

"'Ow could you do this?" Elizabeth held back her tears, the quilt at her throat. "Do this, this cruel thing t'me? It's a right bastard y'are, tradin' me for a damned 'orse! They all tole me." Unconscious that her Cornish accent had returned in full flower, she hiccupped as Walter almost sat on her feet to yank on a boot.

"Well don' have a snit. He's a very good horse, prime. Walter didn't want to sell him at all, and I needed to breed my mares properly far more than I wanted you." He sniffed the back of his hand once more. "'Sides, he's a good hunter, a very fine hunter. You've become boring, my dear, and your table manners and attempts at polite conversation are still atrocious, really, as bad as your taste in wine. I get better service from Molly down at the tavern, and Jenny does things for me you've never thought of."

He stood, sniffed, blew his nose, adjusted his lacy cuffs and smoothed his embroidered waistcoat and stuffed his big handkerchief back into his wide-cuffed sleeve. "Didn't you enjoy old Walter, eh? Surely sounded as if he was swiving you good and proper, the bed groanin' away and all that gruntin' and snortin'. Ain't he well equipped?" Andrew laughed and slid out of the small room, with the back of his hand to his nose. He left his small lamp on the window ledge. The woman turned to face the wall and hide her tears, aware of the man's huge shadow before her.

Walter Cochran patted Elizabeth's rounded hip and stood. "I'll send the carriage in the morning, girl. Don't you worry. Ye'll get used to me. Most do."

Elizabeth, once she was sure Andrew and Walter had left the house, crept down the back stairs and found a knife, the kind she often used to pare apples. Back in her room, still trembling but feeling oddly calm, she cut the brass buttons from her work dress. Then she carefully slit her fancy Georgetown sacque into dozens of strips of fluttering brocade while their shadows flapped like crows on the plastered wall. She did the same to the silk petticoat, lace-trimmed shift and whale-bone stays, covering her floor with dozens of broad and twisted ribbons. She put on her New Year's shift and rough dress, rolled up her old, stained clothes and pulled on Benjamin's heavy coat, comforted by it bulky familiarity. She shivered and took a deep breath, almost a sigh. Then she dropped her painted fan, golden locket and tiny slippers into her wash basin and covered them with water. She touched the smooth cloth of the skirt she had made, but decided to leave it, her mind clear but for a dark corner of it wondering about the future. She swallowed down a painful lump in her throat that tasted of bile. Since she had thrown her clogs away, she pulled her new work shoes over her knit stockings. She doused the oil lamp and returned to the kitchen as quietly as she could carrying her slate, her carefully folded indenture paper and the Bible tracts Mr. Nevers had given her to read.

Elizabeth debated keeping the knife, thinking she might need it where she was going, but in the end put it back in Miranda's orderly rack after wiping it with her fingers. She visited the necessary, urinated and then turned and vomited, shuddering like one with the ague, bent over the wooden hole. After rinsing her mouth at the springhouse, she walked down the lane to wait for Walter's promised carriage. She had no idea of the time but did not want anyone to see her in the morning.

She feared their laugher; ho ho, traded for a horse, they would say. Good trade, a donkey for a stallion. That boy used her up and then got shet of her. She could hear them chuckle, see the bright eyes, the hands covering smiling mouths. Self-pity and self-hate gamed for control of Elizabeth's heart; anger, a late entrant, won. She gritted her teeth until her jaws ached.

The stars burned crisply in the clear night sky as she walked past the smoke house and took a last look at the quiet farm. She rubbed away a vagrant tear, marched out to the rolling road and sat under one of the towering spruces, huddled into Benjamin's heavy coat and calling herself a fool, a fool, a fool. She wrapped her old dress around her head like a scarf.

Now what happens, she wondered and not finding an answer, curled up and fell asleep, tasting bitterness. Several dreamless hours later when a cold false dawn starting to color the sky, Elizabeth awoke and crawled out from under the sheltering tree, recalling early mornings aboard ship when she rose to use the heads. She clapped her hands, rubbed her arms and legs and then trotted up and down the dirt road to keep warm, crunching the whispy weeds beneath her start-up boots. For the first time in several months, she said her morning prayer, trying to be thankful for the new day.

The sun with its huge circle of ice crystals stood well above the tree line by the time an old farm wagon driven by an even older black man appeared on the rutted road in front of M'Kenna's Disappointment. The ragged driver stopped his tired looking mule and pulled off his antique wool hat. He scratched his nearly-bald pate. "You d'miss I'se sposed to pick up heah? Liz'bet?" he asked, cocking his head to the side and squinting his yellow eyes at her. He spat. The mule eyed her with interest and bobbed his head, rotating his long ears.

"You Cochran's man?" Elizabeth asked, relieved that someone had finally come, the knot in her stomach easing and making an odd noise as it did, a deep gurgle.

"We is," he said, tonguing his chaw into his wrinkled cheek. "Git on up heah." He reached down a hard and bony hand and half pulled the young woman to the worn seat beside him. He unfolded the frayed and faded quilt that lay across his lap. "Here," he said, "throw dis ober yo'sef. Damn col' tidday."

"Elizabeth," the girl said, offering him her hand as he turned the wagon around on the verge of the road.

"Micah," he responded, ignoring the hand. "You want'a chaw." He held out a twist of black tobacco. Elizabeth shook her head.

"You et?" he asked after a while, and she shook her head again, feeling pain in her belly but no hunger. She sighed and then took a deep breath, steeling herself.