Chapter 2: Mr. Whitfield's Funeral

I saw the lights of Whitlands twinkling through the trees as I drove the buckboard up the road to the plantation house. I popped the reins to encourage my two tired draft horses to speed their way. They would rest soon enough and I was anxious to arrive.

Whitlands was smaller than Ironwood-less land, fewer slaves, and without Savannah River frontage that enhanced the viability of the property by allowing direct water transport of its goods. Still, it was significant and larger than many of the plantations, such as Riverwood, in our part of South Carolina.

At Ironwood, we had three houses, all on a large circular road off the main plantation road, in addition to the slave houses, barns, stables, and other buildings. The Great House was home to my father and his family, which included my mother until her death, my sister Elizabeth, and me. The Guest House was next to the Great House and served as residence to business or social visitors who, from time to time, stayed with us at Ironwood. The Little House sat farther away to give it distance from the Great House but be close enough for its residents to travel to the Great House with ease. It was built for my father and mother upon their wedding. When my grandfather died, my grandmother lived there until her own demise. Now it sat empty.

Whitlands contained only two such homes, both smaller than those at Ironwood. Mr. Whitfield named the larger of the two The Manor and it was his residence. The smaller was his guest house.

Father brought Liberty to a halt opposite the wide front steps at The Manor, dismounted, and gave Liberty's reins to a stable boy who would tend to him. I stopped the buckboard and a short black boy jumped into the seat beside me. I handed him the reins and stepped down on Whitlands' rich soil. He waited until two other slaves removed our baggage and carried them toward The Manor before driving away.

As Father and I climbed the steps, Mrs. Whitfield came through the doors to greet us. With her was a tall, thin man I didn't know. He was bald and stooped forward from age but his eyes were sharp behind his pince-nez. Mrs. Whitfield appeared sorely troubled as she rigidly marched toward us.

"Good evening, Mary Elizabeth," Father said.

"Good evening, Bruce," she replied, extending her hand to be kissed, which he did by bowing from the waist, raising his hand so hers rested on it, and gently pressing his lips to the back of her hand, as was our custom.

"Good evening, Mrs. Whitfield," I said to her, raising my hand.

I had never kissed the back of her hand or of any other woman's hand. That honor was reserved for men who were friends or close acquaintances, not boys. She had not treated me as an adult, but I felt it was time since I was soon to be married to her daughter. It was another rite of passage, for in asking to kiss her hand, I asked her to acknowledge me as a man. She paled but stepped forward and laid her hand on mine. I kissed it perfunctorily and, I presume, properly, but her hand trembled when my lips touched it.

"Hello, Stephen. How are you tonight?" Father said to the tall man as he shook his hand.

"Fine, thank you, Bruce," the man replied.

"Stephen, let me introduce my son, Robert James MacKenzie, heir to Ironwood and the betrothed of Miss Jane Marie Whitfield of Whitlands. Robert, this is Stephen Burlingame of Burlingame & Simpson, Solicitors, of Savannah, Georgia." After Mr. Burlingame and I exchanged greetings, Father continued by saying, "Mr. Burlingame is Edward Whitfield's solicitor. I suspect he is here to explain to Mrs. Whitfield the terms of her husband's will."

"Primarily to attend the funeral, of course," Mr. Burlingame said effacingly.

As the three of them discussed arrangements for the funeral tomorrow, I studied Mrs. Whitfield. She was only an inch or two above five feet tall, considerably shorter than my six feet or Jane Marie's five feet five inches, but she gave the appearance of greater height for she stood ramrod straight and proud, holding herself with a regal bearing.

I would guess that a man who didn't know of her reputation and met her for the first time would think she was attractive. Her waist was narrow, her bosom impressive, particularly in relation to her height, and her face would have been pretty if not distorted with sourness. But knowing her would quickly lead a man to the conclusion her system was as full of poison as the rattlesnakes hiding among the undergrowth in the woods.

On our journey to Whitlands that day, Father had attempted to soften her nasty reputation by explaining her husband's folly relative to a slave girl he took as a mistress, but I wondered which came first, the sourness or the folly, like the age-old conundrum of the chicken and the egg. Mrs. Whitfield didn't appear caustic that night. Rather, she was clearly frightened and struggled to maintain her self-control. Father had told me her inheritance was a trifle, only a small ration of what she expected, and I reasoned that was the seat of her discomfiture.

"You and Robert will be staying in the Guest House, Bruce," she said. "Your slaves have readied it for you."

Father was surprised and so was I. We were being dismissed and none too politely, I might add. Mrs. Whitfield's face was crimson and set in stone as she successfully held Father's gaze.

"Might I see Jane Marie?" I asked.

"She's not presentable, Robert. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

She held my gaze for a moment but Father still glared at her and our combined strength made her relent.

"Please forgive me, Bruce," she remarked apologetically. "Stephen and I have much to discuss tonight because I must understand Edward's will. It has implications that..." She ceased speaking and spread her arms, struggling for words to say what was beyond her comprehension.

I had never seen Mrs. Whitfield when she wasn't complaining or commanding. Contrition and consternation softened her features and revealed a side she kept hidden behind a she-devil's facade. For the first time, I felt empathy for her and her position and an appreciation of her womanliness.

"Certainly, Mary Elizabeth," Father replied politely.

He and I took our leave with two of The Manor's slaves following with our baggage.

"Give me a strong rope, a good whip, and an hour with her, and I could make a decent woman out of that persimmon," Father muttered as we strode down the path.

When we stepped on the porch of the guest house, the door swung open.

"Good evening, Master Bruce," Patience said.

She dipped to the floor in a full curtsy, complete with the hem of her dress modestly extended by her right hand and ending with her knee resting on the floor and her head bowed. I wondered who invented and institutionalized this graceful civility for it showed women in a delightful light.

"Rise, Patience," Father said.

She rose as gracefully as she reclined and stepped back to allow us entrance without looking either of us in the eye. I immediately saw two young slave-girls standing near the back wall with their heads bowed. We waited until the other slaves set our baggage on the floor and Patience closed the door behind them.

"Come, girls, meet your new master," Patience ordered.

Both of them awkwardly stepped forward until they faced us.

"I am the slave of Master Bruce MacKenzie of Ironwood, but both of you belong to Master Robert, his son," Patience explained to her daughters, although Father had told me they already knew. "This is Ebony," she said, touching the taller of the two. "And this is Fancy," she continued, touching the other.

The two of them intoned "Good evening, Master Robert. Good evening, Master Bruce," as they gave each of us a half curtsy.

"Master Robert, may I speak?" Patience continued.

"Of course," I replied.

"My girls were taught what you as their master will expect of them, but if you are displeased, I beg that you allow me to instruct them in your pleasure rather than taking the whip to them," Patience pleaded.

Father laughed and Patience trembled. "Patience, look at me," he commanded. Her head jerked up to reveal her beautiful and terrified countenance. "Didn't Edward explain to you?"

"Explain what, Master?" she whispered.

"I know you were his mistress and these girls are his daughters. He wanted me to have you, Patience, to protect you from harm's way and I will, but you will serve me and serve me well as you served him, and your girls will serve Robert in the same manner. We don't use the whip at Ironwood except in rare situations and we don't expect our slaves to always defer their eyes. You will quickly learn service at Ironwood is easier and more enjoyable than elsewhere."

Patience visibly relaxed and gave him a shy half-smile.

"It's all right, Patience," Father said gently. He waited until her trepidation disappeared and her happiness surfaced before extending his arms, and saying, "Give me a kiss and a real welcome."

She leapt into his arms, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him with such heat I felt the singe. I had never seen a woman and man kiss passionately, although in the dim recesses of my mind I had a hazy recollection of my mother kissing Father with such fervor. And I had never seen a white and a Negro touch intimately. In truth, a black touching a white was often the reason for the black's death or brutal punishment. Evidently Father had no complaints, for he returned her kiss with equal zeal before gently sitting down on the chesterfield with her still attached.

I heard Ebony clear her throat. I turned to see the two of them standing still as statues with their heads bowed.

In a flash of realization, I understood their actions. Father had released his slave, but I was their master and I gave no such release. Without my command they would stand there until they swooned.

That thought and the knowledge I was in possession of not one, but two, slave girls to direct as I might wish, gave me a burst of heady emotions that rendered me numb. My wishes would include one of them relieving me of the tedious burden of my virginity and escorting me to sexual realms of which I had only dreamed. I relished in this sea change, such a vital and primal passage in my life.

In the quiet of the room, I heard Father summon Patience to lie beside him on the chesterfield. While my eyes were on Ebony and Fancy, in my peripheral vision I saw Patience crawl up to recline against him as they both watched and waited for me to act.

Using a light touch, I cupped Ebony's chin in the palm of my hand. She didn't move. I guided her head upward until she was face to face with me. Still, she deferred her eyes.

"Look at me, Ebony," I whispered.

She raised her eyes to mine. She was, as I remembered from my visits to Whitlands, a beauty with the sensual and feminine features of her mother. Her eyes were soft and hot with expectation and she struggled to restrain a smile from growing on her face as her pink tongue flicked to lick her full lower lip. She seemed as eager to begin our relationship as I was.

When I released her chin, her head dropped to bow again. Again, I lifted it and she remained that way.

"May I have your permission to be your lover, Ebony?" I asked quietly.

Clearly, she was surprised by the question. Her surprise gave way to the joy of being given an opportunity to demure. Her infectious, broad grin brought a smile to my face.

"I want to be your mistress, Master Robert," she said. I had no doubt she was being truthful.

"You will be," I replied.

I leaned to kiss her, aware I had kissed girls playfully but never kissed a woman. Ebony's mouth opened and her tongue flicked against my lips urging my own mouth open to receive it. I knew this woman would enrich my life and nothing would ever be the same. When I broke the kiss, Ebony's hot eyes told me I hadn't done too badly for the first time.

I stepped to stand opposite Fancy. When my hand touched her chin, she trembled.

"Look at me, Fancy," I said as I raised her face to mine.

Several thoughts rushed through me at once. I did not remember seeing Fancy previously and, if I had seen her, I would have remembered for she was more beautiful than either her mother or her sister. Her features were finer. Her eyes were a lighter brown, near the color of a buckskin horse with flecks in a blue-green hue, as compared to Ebony's dark chocolate eyes or the black ones of her mother. Her skin was a lighter color than her mother's and, perhaps, even a shade lighter than Ebony.

Most striking, though, was the realization her features resembled those of Jane Marie, my intended and her half-sister. If one looked closely, the family resemblance was clear, even to the freckles so obvious against Jane Marie's paleness and almost hidden under Fancy's dusky sheen.

Fancy's face openly revealed her terrors.

"It's all right, Fancy," I said, hoping to assuage her with my tenderness. I waited until she relaxed before saying, "May I have your permission to be your lover?"

Her expression said the fear of being taken by me warred within her against the horror of displeasing a man who could have her flayed to death. Conflicting emotions brought tears to her eyes. She struggled for courage and finally said, "Yes, Master Robert" in a voice giving lie to the words.

"I'm surprised you agreed. I was told you did not yet want to be with a man," I said.

Her eyes widened and her head jerked to face Patience. "Mother," she cried plaintively. I saw Father's hand tighten on Patience's wrist. She did not reply and gave her daughter a look indicating she was unable to help.

Fancy shook in fear, on the edge of collapse and unable to contain her copious tears. I put my arms around her and pulled her gently to me. She was rigid with her arms folded against her stomach and her head hard against my chest. I felt the throbbing of her heart and the erratic rise and fall of her breasts as she cried.

Father smiled at me and winked, telling me I was dealing with Fancy in a manner he approved. Patience smiled softly at me, silently thanking me for tenderness with her daughter. Ebony wore a small smile, but I felt she was miffed with her younger sister and the tumult she was causing.

I held Fancy until she cried herself out and rested limply on my chest. I pushed her back and held her with a hand on each of her small shoulders as I said, "You don't have to come to me if you don't want to, Fancy. You can be my servant without being my mistress, you know." She nodded. "But no man may touch you, not even a peck on your cheek, without my permission. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master Robert," she whispered.

"Good. Don't be afraid of me unless you have done something to cause your fear. You're a smart girl. You'll know if you've been bad."

"I understand, Master Robert. I won't be bad."

"I'm starved," Father said.

His words broke the tension and motivated the women to action. I plopped down in a chair and Ebony rushed to remove my boots as Patience did with Father's. Fancy hurried to prepare a small feast. Our three slaves stood and tended to our needs as we ate.

Once the repast was through, Patience said, "This house has two bedrooms. If it pleases our masters, may I suggest we repair for the night?"

"It pleases me no end," Father said.

"And it pleases me," I said. "Fancy." When I called her name, she popped to attention. "You can stay in here or join Ebony and me in the bedroom, whichever you wish."

She looked at her mother for guidance. "Master Robert is a loving man, baby," Patience said to her. "You can trust what he says and answer him as you want."

"May I stay in here, Master Robert?" Fancy asked fearfully.

"Of course. Goodnight," I said to her. I stood to take my leave.

"Goodnight, Master Robert," she answered as she half curtsied to me.

I said goodnight to Father and Patience, took Ebony's hand with the intention of dragging her to the bedroom, but she outpaced me, pulled me into the bedroom instead, and closed the door after us.

The bedroom was small but sufficient, with a modest fire simmering in the fireplace to ward off the damp. There were windows on two sides and a narrow door opening to a stone path of twenty or so paces leading to the necessary outer-house. I availed myself of those facilities and when I returned, Ebony was perched on the edge of the wing chair near the bed.

She offered to disrobe me, but I said to wait. Her bright and eager eyes drank me in as I undressed to the bottom of my long johns. I wiggled a finger at her. She giggled as she jumped up to stand before me.

"Are you wearing your sponge?" I asked.

"Yes, Master Robert," she said.

"You must always wear it with me." She nodded her head. "And now that I own you, there will be no other men for you, Ebony. Do you understand?"

"Of course, Master Robert. That's the way it should be," she said sweetly.

The sponge was something else Father had explained on the long ride from Ironwood. It was designed to inhibit pregnancy and had been used since the ancient days of Israel, he said. The woman inserted the sponge into her vagina, snug against her cervix to absorb the life-creating sperm I would leave there. He also suggested I use a catching safe, a sheep's intestine membrane snug around my manhood to double our mechanical resolves, for neither of them was foolproof. I, however, wished my manhood to feel her womanhood unencumbered this first time, at least.

I followed one last piece of Father's advice, given when I asked about the mechanics of the act itself.

"Ebony, when we are together alone like this, we are not master and slave. We are man and woman. I want you to free your woman's fire to please me and yourself."

"Am I your first, Master Robert?" she asked as her finger trailed up from my stomach to my breast, sending shivers through me. It was the first time she touched me of her own volition. I nodded, somewhat embarrassed to be the novice between us. Her fingers stroked my manhood "Oh, Master Robert, you're going to love what we do."

Ebony was not a deferring slave in bed, but a wanton of Biblical proportions and a marvelous teacher intent and eager to share her knowledge and herself without hesitation or reserve. She allowed me to explore her as I chose until my exploration ignited fires in her that she demanded, in crude expletives, be tended without delay. I quenched those fires with my special and thick white waters. Yet, they smoldered in both of us and required a return by me into her to extinguish the heat.

I was surprised by the jutting nature of her derriere, which she explained was common to black women, and pleased by the large, soft bounty of her breasts, of which she was understandably proud. The thick thatch between her legs felt like no hair, human or animal, I had encountered. The folds of her sex were a pink flower that opened at my gentlest touch and emitted its pungent perfume.