Chapter 3: Whitlands

Father and I arose early to bathe by moonlight in the cool waters of the pond behind The Manor. Fancy held an oil lamp and exerted considerable effort to avoid looking at us. I thought it strange she was reticent to see our male equipment when Ebony was anxious to both see and take a man inside herself.

Dawn found us dressed and ready to meet with Overseer Witherspoon, a sour, fat white-man, before our later breakfast meeting with Mary Elizabeth Whitfield. We instructed Patience, Ebony, and Fancy to ready our baggage and all their possessions for the return trip to Ironwood, for we planned to leave immediately upon the latter meeting's completion.

Plantations, successful ones at least, do not begin their day with the rising of the sun. By sunrise, they buzz like a beehive, with all slaves fed and at their work - the field slaves in the field, the seamstresses at their sewing, the cooks in their kitchen cleaning up from the first meal of the day and preparing for the others, and the servants polishing and readying the house for the Master and Mistress. At Ironwood, the blacksmiths sweated in the bright heat of the forge during the dead of night to avoid the added heat of the day. Yet, at Whitlands, all was quiet and calm before dawn, our first sign the plantation was improperly operated.

Witherspoon was waiting for us in front of The Manor, hat in hand and his demeanor shouting his discomfort. Within a few minutes, Father and I had ascertained his management was shoddy and his organization misfitted to the many tasks to be performed. Within an hour, we had a solid idea of necessary changes. We instructed him to have the buckboard loaded and waiting, and Liberty ready for the trip. We then returned to The Manor's front porch to sit and discuss what we had learned.

Father had begun my tutelage in farm management as early as I could remember. At an age when most children played with a nanny, I accompanied him to meetings or to evaluate fields or buy horses or cattle. I was instructed to save my questions until he and I were alone, and I complied, but once alone he never failed to take the time necessary to fully answer all I asked.

My schooling included monographs on farming as well as the classics. More importantly, I did all the farm chores, sometimes working under Father's or Jonah's practiced eye until I dropped where I stood, too exhausted to move. I can remember Father carrying me in his arms when I was younger, to lay me down on my bed as I was dressed and cover me over to sleep. The other sub-overseers, who were also slaves, took an interest in my education as well, proudly sharing their particular skills with me.

I relished it all-the knowledge, the experiences, the challenges, and, most importantly, Father's attention and approval. He did not hesitate to tell me when I erred and when I succeeded, delivering all comments in a positive manner intended to speed my own development. For my part, I was an active and eager student, absorbing instruction like a sponge.

While I had much to learn, I felt confident, as we sat on Whitland's porch that day, in discussing any farm issue with him. We agreed Whitlands was sorely in need of new hands on its reins.

I heard the soft click of leather heels on the porch's oaken timbers and turned to see Jane Marie, who was dressed in white, her black hair bound high on her head.

"Good morning, beautiful lady," I said to her as I stood.

"Good morning, Bobby. Good morning, Mr. MacKenzie," she replied. She took my hands, raised her lips to mine, and gave me a quick kiss. "Breakfast is ready, gentlemen," she said.

We accompanied her inside to the dining room to find Mrs. Whitfield and Mr. Burlingame waiting for us. Each bade us good morning before Mrs. Whitfield graciously asked Father to take the head of the table and I the foot. She placed herself on Father's right and Jane Marie at mine, with Mr. Burlingame on Father's left.

Jane Marie's dress was a simple frock - thin straps over her shoulders, a wide pink ribbon under her breasts that continued around and tied in back, and a free flowing skirt below the ribbon. She was a beautiful vision. Mrs. Whitfield was dressed more formally, heavily corseted to narrow her waist and lift her ample bosom, no doubt to attract the male eye.

As the servants served us a typical plantation breakfast of eggs, bacon, biscuits with butter and jam, and strong tea, we passed small talk. My beloved was sparkling, with bright happy eyes. Mr. Burlingame was reserved and professional. Father was his normal vigorous self.

Surprisingly, Mrs. Whitfield demonstrated a warmth of heart and lightness of spirit I had never observed in her, as if a heavy weight was gone from her soul. I contemplated Father's comments and my observations of her, especially at Mr. Whitfield's funeral where she shed no tears and appeared to be relieved when his coffin was in the grave.

Watching her interplay with Father, I realized they were flirting, and, while she took the lead, he matched her measure for measure, joyfully participating in their play. It dawned on me that he had long lived his life as a widower, seeking sexual fulfillment in the slave-mistresses he chose to warm his bed, and had neither sought nor found a woman of his class to share his life. I had always thought him complete, but maybe he had a void needing to be filled. He certainly had opportunities to find a new wife. His friends often appeared at Ironwood, one or more couples for parties or simply an evening or two, but always with an extra woman in tow to be introduced to him as a possible wife.

When breakfast was over and the sweet cakes served, Father changed the conversation by saying, "We have a wedding to plan. Have you two talked about it?"

"Yes, Father," I replied. "We would like to be married as soon as possible."

"Why?" Mrs. Whitfield asked.

I was not presumptuous enough to say what was in my mind, for that would be, "Because your daughter and I are quite anxious to frolic in bed." Rather I said, "We are ready to begin our life together, Mrs. Whitfield."

She looked at her daughter and raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, we are, Mother. We were thinking of the middle of April," Jane Marie said.

"Oh, my, that is much too early," Mrs. Whitfield exclaimed. "We have cakes to make and The Manor to ready. And dresses? How is Cleopatra doing on your dress?"

"Further along than you realize. If she could devote full time to it, it would be ready in a week," Jane Marie answered.

"She doesn't have that kind of time," Mrs. Whitfield demurred.

"Ironwood and I would happily provide additional seamstresses to speed the conclusion of the dresses, and our house staff could be made available to assist in The Manor's readying," Father said.

"Thank you, Mr. MacKenzie. We accept," Jane Marie interjected before her mother could answer.

"So mid- to late-April is acceptable as a date?" I asked.

"I don't think so," Mrs. Whitfield replied. "You two are rushing things."

"As would I," Father said with a gentle smile. "Relent, Mary Elizabeth, and let them have their April wedding. Surely you remember the terrible impetuosity of youth?"

"Only too well, Bruce." She exhaled and studied the plate on the table before her before gazing at us once again. "All right. April it is, but you three have manipulated me into this and I expect full and complete support in the preparations."

After we all pledged our cooperation, the wedding date was set for the last Saturday in April, a scant six weeks away. When Mr. Burlingame suggested the rapidity of the wedding might encourage some to think the bride was in a family way, Jane Marie bristled and stated time would prove such gossip to be both incorrect and malicious.

Another piece of advice Father had given me on our long ride from Ironwood was to let the women take the lead in planning the wedding and object only if some factor was onerous to me. With agreement reached as to the actual date of the service itself, our discussion proceeded that way, with mother and daughter discussing and Father and I agreeing. The wedding planning was complete as to this part that needed our male input. Much was still to be done, but the ladies and their staffs would deal with the details.

Father started to change the conversation, but Jane Marie interrupted.

"Excuse me, Mr. MacKenzie, but I have one more matter - a very important matter - concerning my wedding, which I feel we must address now. I want Patience, Ebony, and Fancy to be invited."

"No," her mother said stonily.

"Yes, mother," Jane Marie said firmly. "I would rather have them present and no other guests than them not attend."

I knew Jane Marie was a strong-willed and high-spirited woman and felt assured we would clash from time to time as we traveled the road of life together, but at that moment I was proud of her for addressing an issue important to her and doubly proud for her confrontation of her mother. Her tight squeezing of my hand beneath the table told me it was not easy for her. But her lovely jaw was set and the fire in her eyes equaled the storm in her mother's.

Mrs. Whitfield girded her loins and began to speak, her right index finger poised to thrust like a rapier.

"Mary Elizabeth," Father said quietly but with a commanding firmness. "Why don't we defer this particular question until later?"

We three observers waited with baited breath as the combatants faced each other in silent conflict. When I saw her look down and her shoulders sag an inch, I knew Father had won this battle but the war had just begun.

"Certainly, Bruce. It was not I who raised the issue," Mrs. Whitfield said.

All eyes were on Jane Marie. I silently mouthed, "Later" to her, and she said a begrudging, "All right. We can defer it to later."

Father directed the conversation to Whitlands' operations. He made it clear, and Mr. Burlingame confirmed without reservation, that management of Whitlands was his and no one else's for the period of five years as his contract with Mr. Whitfield provided. I had no problems with this arrangement. Father not only shared Ironwood's books of accounts with me, he had taught me how to prepare and understand them. Ironwood was indeed profitable. I had full confidence in Father's ability to manage Whitlands and my ability to do so under his direction.

When questioned as to his plans for the conduct of Whitlands' business, he demurred, saying his plans were incomplete, and the others didn't press the matter.

Father once again redirected us. "Have you told Jane Marie about Edward's will?" he asked.

"I've told her enough," Mrs. Whitfield replied.

"You haven't mentioned it to me, Mother," Jane Marie said.

"Now isn't a good time to discuss it," her mother said.

Father wrapped his large, rough hand over Mrs. Whitfield's small, soft one and said, "I think we should do it now because Stanley is here to guide our understanding."

The battle was shorter this time. She capitulated to Father and instructed Mr. Burlingame to explain the ramifications of Mr. Whitfield's will.

In essence, Whitlands and all its assets, including The Manor, were bequeathed to Jane Marie in trust, with only a stipend from Whitlands' profits and her personal possessions being left to Mrs. Whitfield. Mr. Burlingame was trustee of Jane Marie's estate until she married, at which time the trust terminated and the assets became the direct property of Jane Marie and her husband, which, under South Carolina law, the husband managed. Mr. Burlingame summarized the situation by saying that while Jane Marie owned Whitlands, and she and Mrs. Whitfield shared Whitlands' profits, Father's contract of management gave him sole authority over operations until his contract terminated.

Essentially, Mrs. Whitfield was to be homeless and without sufficient funds to maintain her quality of life, unless her daughter - and the daughter's husband after marriage - provided for her well-being, or unless she remarried and moved to the home of her new husband.

The impact of the new economic relationship between mother and daughter left both dumb as they considered its implications.

I watched Father studying the Widow Whitfield with a singular intensity. I wondered if he played a part in Mr. Whitfield's leaving his wife in this unenviable position, and, if so, were his machinations to bring Whitlands to our family or Mrs. Whitfield to his side? If not, was Father only availing himself of an opportunity?

Father certainly was capable of such shrewdness, although I did not think him capable of a callous disregard for Mrs. Whitfield and her well-being. Mrs. Whitfield was an attractive and socially adept woman with only her vituperous nature against her. Father's comments about her were not unlike my own about Jane Marie, raising the question if he, too, was enamored with a woman and frustrated with her behavior.

For her part, I wondered if Mrs. Whitfield's desire to postpone the wedding was to postpone her day of reckoning, for surely she anticipated maneuvering Jane Marie for her own benefit as long as Jane Marie was single.

"Mother and I should discuss this later," Jane Marie said.

Mrs. Whitfield shivered from the coolness in her daughter's tone. She turned to Father who smiled reassuringly and squeezed her hand.

"It is time for us to depart," he said. "I'll return Friday to begin my management of the operations here. In the meantime, Witherspoon will continue as he has been."

"We'll have the guest house ready for you," Mrs. Whitfield replied. "Will Robert be joining you?"

"Yes, he will."

"And your slaves?" The question appeared innocent, but was not.

"I'd like to see Ebony and Fancy," Jane Marie interjected.

"Then they will come," I said and Mrs. Whitfield's eyes scolded me.

"Robert, shall we take our leave?" Father asked me as he stood.

Witherspoon was in front of The Manor holding Liberty's reins. Father spoke with him before mounting. A slave held the reins of the buckboard with our three acquisitions, their few possessions, and our own baggage aboard. To Mrs. Whitfield's chagrin, Jane Marie rushed to Ebony and Fancy and whispered something to them. When she finished, I kissed my intended good-bye, climbed into the driver's seat, and took the reins.

Father doffed his hat and bowed to Mrs. Whitfield, received a sincere smile tinged with concern and a nod of her head in return, and spurred Liberty down the road. I popped the reins, called to my team, and followed.

We maintained a hard and steady pace for several hours before Father signaled a halt and dismounted beside the road near a small pond. He instructed the slaves to water the horses. As they lugged the water bucket to and from the pond, Father and I walked a bit to both ease our backsides and distance ourselves from their ears.

"Have you divined my intentions?" he asked.

"It may be presumptuous of me to give my thoughts," I replied.

"Presume," he commanded.

"You are going to marry Mrs. Whitfield, move her to Ironwood with you, and leave Jane Marie and me at Whitlands."

"My God, was I that transparent?" he chuckled. "I think not. I think you are that shrewd," he complimented. "What else?"

"You know I need a good and strong hand to assist me, so you will provide a new overseer you trust for Whitlands."

"Who?"

"Jonah."

"Who will oversee Ironwood?"

"James," I replied, referring to the assistant overseer.

"Well done. You are correct on all counts," he said. "Now let me tell you why I want to wed a shrew like Mary Elizabeth Whitfield."

His desire to wed her did not surprise me, although his voicing the desire did bring me to a halt for a moment. He turned to face me and his face was intense.

"Edward and Mary Elizabeth had a marriage made in Hell, as I am sure you are aware. Their mutual dislike began early and grew until it was a venomous hatred. I, more than anyone else, knew the depth of their feelings for they both chose to take me into their confidence. Because our fathers were friends, Edward and I knew each other since childhood and we shared the common bond of farm ownership. Mary Elizabeth had no other ear to bend and I was a good listener."

Father stared at me with such intensity and for such a length of time as to bring me severe discomfort. "I think I can trust you with these confidences, Robert, which I share only to explain my position and clarify circumstances impacting you."

"You know me better than to question my silence," I said. I was wounded he thought me unworthy of his confidence.

"I'm sorry," he replied sincerely. "Yes, I know I can trust you." He looked away to gather his thoughts. "Do you understand the implications of adultery?"

"Other than 'Thou shall not commit adultery, ' I do not," I answered.

"The ancient Israelites were given that dictum, passed it on to us, and the State of South Carolina, indeed most of the states, have carried it into law and provided severe penalties for those who violate it. Juries have further modified the law until today men are never prosecuted for adultery unless issues of class and race impact the situation. For women, the law provides severe retribution and the juries have gone farther. No man has ever been punished for any action taken against his wife for her adultery and only a few times has the husband been punished for actions taken against his wife's lover."

"He can do anything with her?" I asked.

"Yes, from divorce to whipping to killing her. Legally, it is a one-sided issue, but the emotional penalties are as severe as the legal ones and as varied as the participants. Adultery can quickly drain the heart, leaving it dry and brittle or worse, make it a continually bleeding and festering sore."

Father hesitated, as he is prone to do in these revelations, and I patiently waited.

"Edward believed Mary Elizabeth was an adulteress and he believed it for years."

"Was she?" I asked.

"She was not. I'm sure of that."

"Then why did he think it?"

"He told me she possessed a large carnal appetite and a ribald enjoyment of pleasures of the flesh. He believed no woman of her position could be that sexual and remain loyal to her husband, which is, unfortunately, a commonly held misconception. It is a foolish untruth because neither race nor class dictates enjoyment of one's sexuality, and the notion presupposes the woman has no honor or strength of will, but Edward believed it and that was enough for him."

"Why didn't he divorce her or turn her over to the authorities?"

"He did not divorce to avoid the embarrassment of appearing to be a cuckold and he did not call in the authorities for he had no proof. Instead, he punished her in his own cruel and insidious way."

"Look at our three slaves," he continued. We both turned to watch those women. "Fancy is a sexless and frightened little mouse. Ebony is a wanton. If she were white, she would be a courtesan or a prostitute, depending on her status and circumstances. Patience is a beautiful lady with a well-developed sensuality she understands and, more importantly, enjoys. If she were white, men would make a week's ride to court her and lay fortunes at her feet as an incentive to wed, but she is black and a slave. She understands her slavery, accepts it graciously, and is fulfilled being the mistress of a white man she trusts to protect and provide for her.

"While Patience's body is slave, her feminine heart is free. Edward made Mary Elizabeth a slave, binding her feminine heart with society's mores and the web he wove around her to restrain her more tightly than steel or ropes. Surely, her unhappy prison makes her poorer than the slave-woman he threw in her face, for Mary Elizabeth must face the world appearing to be free yet shackled beneath the scold's mask she wears. Despite the years of her husband's treatment, I believe Mary Elizabeth's heart is not empty, but contains an untapped store of love and desire only waiting for the right man to insert the key and partake of her bounty. I want to be that man."

Father studied me as he spoke and, while I tried to affect a blandness of expression, I had not yet mastered my face's reflections of my thoughts.

"Go ahead, Son, say it," Father said.

"How do you know she didn't commit adultery?"

"Two years after your mother's death, I offered myself to her. I even proposed that I approach Edward about a divorce, buying her freedom if need be. She rejected the idea, saying she would not seek divorce no matter how difficult her circumstances and she would never stoop to adultery. I believed her. And I admired her for upholding her high standards in so onerous a situation. Now she is a widow and free to marry whomever she chooses. I will see she chooses me."

I pondered his comments as I watched the three slaves idly chatting beside the buckboard. It seemed Father was correct, for they appeared freer and happier than Mrs. Whitfield. Certainly, Ebony enjoyed our couplings with an uninhibited lust, and I suspected Patience did likewise with Father. This morning at breakfast as Mrs. Whitfield flirted with Father was the only time I could remember seeing joy on her face.