Valleyfield

Published by Kay Anne Sigourney at Smashwords

Copyright © 2011 Kay Anne Sigourney

All rights reserved

Printed in USA

This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, fair use in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpts), without written permission from the publisher.

VALLEYFIELD

by

Kay Anne Sigourney

Chapter 1

The cicadas were buzzing as Sarah rode past the rows of corn. It was one of those hot, humid mornings when the air seemed to stand still. Even Lancer, her horse, hung his head as he plodded along. She’d ridden just hard enough to get her blood moving, but she could feel beads of sweat running down the side of her face. Not very ladylike, she thought.

But then, neither was her choice of clothing. She was wearing men’s riding breeches, which she had insisted her father buy for her so that she could ride comfortably, at least when no one was watching. Of course, in public, she rode sidesaddle and wore all of her skirts with their twelve-thousand petticoats, but when she was alone, she did what she wanted to do.

She hadn’t even put her hair up. Instead, she had it in a ponytail with a piece of ribbon. When the wind blew, the long blond ends strayed in front of her face, and she had to hold them back. It was more comfortable than wearing a bonnet, though, and much cooler.

Now that she was back home at Valleyfield, she vowed she that would take every opportunity to do what she wanted to do. Her father had given her a few years of freedom, but that time had run out on her twentieth birthday. Seventeen-ninety is your year, my girl, he would say to her each May as she returned home for the summer. That’s when you’ll have to get on with your life. He had let her stay at school until the end of May, 1790, but no longer. She had been engaged to Ned for years, and it was high time she got home and got on with it.

She walked her horse down the gravel path that led between the cornfields. Up ahead the path turned to the right, past the barn and the overseer’s cabin, and led to the kitchen outbuildings and the house. It was about another half mile to the barn, which would give her horse some time to cool down.

A few feet ahead there was a narrow trail between the rows of corn that ran perpendicular to the gravel path. It separated the large cornfield into two smaller ones and led to more fields on the other side. As she passed it, she saw something white lying on the ground. She couldn’t tell what it was, so she dismounted and walked over to pick it up.

It was a small book made of rag paper tied together at the corner with a piece of rawhide, only about six inches square. It looked like it had been folded a few times into an even smaller size, probably to be hidden away in a pocket or a shoe. It was hand written.

She had heard about such books but had never actually seen one. Her own books were printed and bound and displayed on bookshelves in her bedroom, bought from booksellers in London or Baltimore. The books she used at school were the same. In fact, her father had donated some books to her school when she began attending years ago. It was a small school in Virginia, owned by a Miss Pritchard, and Sarah was part of the first graduating class. There she learned French, embroidery, comportment, and other things that were designed to make her a good wife. She felt lucky to have been able to study in America. Her Catholic friends were sent to school in England. She loved Valleyfield too much to be away from it for long.

As she stood looking down at the book, a black man suddenly stepped out from between the rows of corn. She looked up at him, and when their eyes met, she could tell the book was his. She started to open her mouth to speak to him, but before she could get any words out, he was gone. Well, she would just have to give it back to him some other time. She walked back to her horse and led him up the path as she paged through the book.

Some of the writing was smudged, and there were dried splotches of water on some of the pages, as if someone had been reading it in the rain. The title was written in large letters at the top of the first page: Bible Stories. The text began just below that and continued without any breaks or punctuation until the end of the last page. It looked a lot like the books she had seen the slave children reading when she was a child. She used to sit in the woods with them during the summer and teach them to read. Looking back on it, it was probably that experience that made her want to teach at Miss Pritchard’s school.

She had reached the edge of the cornfields. She could just see the cupola of Valleyfield above the trees. A group of their people was working in the tomato fields off her left. A white man in a straw hat was standing off to the side, watching. He must be the new overseer, she thought.

She remembered her father telling her over the Christmas holidays that he had hired someone new. It was high time, she thought. Things had not been going well at Valleyfield. The old overseer, an awful man they called Mr. Goat, had begun to beat their people so badly they could barely work; as a result, production was down, and her father had begun to develop a reputation as an unforgiving master. He could stand the loss of revenue, but not the loss of reputation, so he had made a change. Sarah went back to school in Virginia soon after Christmas and had not met the new overseer. She could not even remember his name.

She turned her horse to the left and walked over to where the man standing. He looked over at her and removed his hat. He had shoulder-length light-brown hair and a light moustache and beard. He wore a white shirt to combat the sun, and tan pants and heavy work boots. Even so, he was already sweating heavily in the humid morning air.

She left her horse and walked toward him, holding the book. I found this a few minutes ago in the cornfield. I think it belongs to one of our people.

She held the book out to him. He took it without looking at it and put it in his shirt pocket. He looked at her oddly, which she thought was strange until she remembered what she was wearing. She’d forgotten to introduce herself, and of course he had no idea who she was.

I’m sorry, she said. I’m Sarah Whitford. Charles Whitford is my father. She smiled and held out her hand.

After hesitating a moment, he took her hand and shook it. He obviously had never seen a woman wearing pants before. John Smith, he said, his voice cautious, his face betraying nothing.

You’re our new overseer.

Yes, he said, as he put his hat back on.

It’s nice to meet you, she said. Could you return that book to the young man who lost it? He seems to be looking for it.

He stared at her for a moment before replying. He wasn’t sure what to say. He had met the sons and daughters of his employers before, and many of them were spoiled and obnoxious and seemed to exist only to make his life miserable. This one seemed bent on telling him what to do. He supposed he could humor her and say that he would gladly return the book, but if her father found out he’d said that there might be trouble. He decided it would be better to be honest with her and face the consequences rather than put his job in jeopardy.

Slaves aren’t allowed to read, he said finally.

I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind, she said. He believes that everyone should be given a chance to read.

Your father will be the laughingstock of the county if word gets out that he lets his people read books.

She knew that wasn’t true. My father has no objection to his people reading. She was starting to get irritated. He just wouldn’t listen.

You don’t understand, he went on. Slaves get flogged for reading books, and overseers have to flog them. He took his hat off again and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. It would be best if you didn’t say anything to your father about this.

I don’t see why I— she began, but he interrupted her.

I’ll take care of this. That’s what your father pays me for. He turned his hard blue eyes on her. Yes, she was going to be a problem. Better get out of this one quickly. Thank you, he said, and turned away.

But she wasn’t through with him. How dare you tell me what I can and cannot say to my father, she said, a little louder than she intended. Some of the people stopped working and began watching them. She had never been addressed in such a manner by any of her father’s employees.

He turned to look at her but said nothing.

I’ve asked you to return the book, and I expect you to do so, she said with finality.

His anger was beginning to show now. Ma’am, I’ve already explained why I can’t do that, he said, as if she were three years old.

Yes, you have, she said, coldly, and my father—

If your father hears about this—

Whether my father hears about it or not is not my problem, she continued. I’ll tell my father what I feel like telling him.

Of course, ma’am, he said, turning away from her. It wasn’t worth arguing about any more. He’d already gotten himself into hot water. She was just like all the rest of them. He should’ve known better than to try to talk to her.

She turned and left, quickly mounting her horse and spurring him up the path to the barn. What a horrible man! How could her father hire such a person? Just wait until he heard about this. She imagined that Mr. Smith would be gone by dinner time.

Chapter 2

She didn’t see her father when she got back to the house. According to Tilly, the family cook, he was in Howard performing his magisterial duties. He usually heard cases once a month, sometimes more often in the warmer months, when people were out and about and committing crimes.

Having nothing else to do, Sarah paced around her room rehearsing what she would tell him later about her encounter with Mr. Smith. Then it got too hot upstairs, so she picked up a book and went out onto the front porch with a book and a glass of iced tea.

It was no use. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t concentrate. The heat only made things worse. She wished she could talk to her friend Jane, but she didn’t feel like riding to Howard in the heat.

Howard was the largest town in Baltimore County and the county seat. Jane’s father, James Johnson, was an attorney who lived and worked there. Sarah and Jane met when they were two years old, when Sarah’s father first hired Mr. Johnson to do some legal work for him. On many occasions, Mr. Johnson traveled to Valleyfield to meet with Sarah’s father, and because their daughters were the same age, he would bring Jane, and the girls would play together on the Persian rug in the hall. She and Sarah quickly became friends, and since Sarah had no brothers or sisters, she was grateful for Jane’s company. As they grew older, they realized that they were very different, but their friendship continued simply because neither one could conceive of deserting her first close friend.

Jane was very practical and would surely see the new overseer for what he was: a nasty man who should be gotten rid of as soon as possible. Sarah was emotional—people were always describing her as flighty—which was probably why she had spent most of the afternoon pacing around her room talking to herself.

She sat rocking on the porch, looking out over the circular drive which led off into the woods at the end of the lawn. The drive connected to Howard Road, which led south to Howard and on to Baltimore harbor as well as northeastward toward the Susquehanna River. Her father took Howard Road south through town and on through the city of Baltimore when he traveled to Annapolis for legislative sessions.

On hot days like these, she was glad her mother had insisted on building a porch on each side of the house. The front porch where she was sitting faced east, so it was more comfortable on summer afternoons when the sun blazed down on the back of the house. She enjoyed the back porch only in the early mornings and occasionally on winter afternoons when she just couldn’t stand to be in the house any longer.

Her mother had insisted on many things when Valleyfield was built, not the least of which was that it be a Georgian house, balanced and even, in accordance with the latest style. Her mother compared notes with other planter’s wives in Baltimore County and made a list of ideas for her house. Sarah remembered that her mother had wanted to hire Mr. Buckland to build the house, but her father would not hear of it. ‘The expense!’ he had moaned, at least according to her mother. Instead, her father hired a master builder who was flexible enough to take suggestions and criticism from her mother, which, as Sarah well remembered, was not an easy thing to do.

Like all Georgian houses, Valleyfield had a large main hall in the center flanked by four rooms on each side. To spare some expense, her mother had decided to forgo adding wings and instead opted for a large kitchen at the back of the house. Her mother had insisted that the kitchen be hidden, out of view of visitors arriving up the drive and, most importantly, not visible from either her bedroom window or the back porch. She had spent her entire childhood cooking for her siblings after her own mother had died, so she had no intention of being reminded that kitchens even existed. Having to see the kitchen from the back porch of the house would’ve been disastrous to her state of mind. After many discussions with the builder, some more heated than others, the kitchen had finally been built underneath and to the side of the main house, although still attached to it. A covered walkway led down to it from the back porch. From the front of the house, the walkway was completely obscured by trees.

She missed her mother at times like these. Her mother would not have put up with an estate employee mistreating her daughter. She would have marched right out there and taught old Mr. Smith a lesson or two.

She must have spoken out loud, because Tilly, who had suddenly appeared behind her with a glass of iced tea, asked, What was that, Miss Sarah?

Nothing, Tilly.

You don’t look too happy this afternoon.

I’m not. She had so many things to say that she couldn’t decide which to say first. That new overseer is a horrible man.

Tilly looked surprised. You mean Mr. Smith?

Yes. I can’t believe my father ever hired him.

Well, I don’t know why you say that. Tilly sat down next to her with the glass of iced tea and sipped it as she rocked. He came here after you left for school, after your father got rid of old Mr. Goat.

And this Mr. Smith is better?

He sure is. He’s real nice. What you got against him?

She wasn’t sure if she should tell Tilly about it without speaking to her father first. Tilly was like a mother to her, and she told Tilly virtually everything, but this involved their people, of which Tilly was one. Finally, she said, He spoke to me in an inappropriate manner today.

Tilly snorted. What’s that mean? He curse at you?

No—

He ask you if you want to do nasty things behind the bushes?

No! No! Nothing like that! Let me finish. Sarah paused and took a deep breath. I brought something to his attention and he threatened me. He ordered me not to tell my father about it.

What did he threaten to do to you?

Sarah sighed. Well, nothing really. He just told me not to tell my father. Somehow it didn’t sound quite so awful in the retelling.

And this thing you’re not supposed to tell your father, that his business or yours?

Tilly knew Sarah was perpetually getting involved in things that didn’t concern her. It was his job, Tilly—

So you interferin’ in his business?

Gee, Tilly, I thought you of all people would be a little sympathetic.

Well, Miss Sarah, I guess I just can’t imagine anybody bein’ mad at Mr. Smith. You sometimes get too excited for your own good, just like your mother used to. Tilly rocked and sipped her iced tea while Sarah sat and fumed.

So why is he so wonderful, Tilly?

Tilly stopped rocking and looked at her. Miss Sarah, it was so awful here before he came. Old Mr. Goat, he beat everybody so bad. He walk through the fields, and if you look at him, he beat you. If you don’t look at him, he beat you. This went on for years. Your father didn’t know and nobody would tell him. Then people started dyin’. Your father finally put two and two together and got rid of him. Not to mention what he used to do to the women. Tilly rolled her eyes and shuddered. You didn’t want to be walkin’ near his cabin anytime, day or night, ‘cause he’d drag you in. He ain’t never tried it with me, luckily.

Yes, I’ve heard about all that.

Well, it’s all done now. Mr. Smith is real nice. He don’t beat nobody. I heard him tell your father he don’t believe in it.

What did you do, Tilly, listen from the other side of the door?

Sure I did. You would too if you were afraid of gettin’ another old Mr. Goat.

Sarah took another sip of iced tea. So why is Mr. Smith so great? Other than the fact that he doesn’t beat you?

Tilly thought for a moment. He’s real nice to everybody. If people tired, he let ‘em rest. If women expecting, he don’t make ‘em work, or he give ‘em something easy to do. She paused a minute and rocked. He comes to the kitchen everyday for his lunch. He always says ‘thank you.’ He’s real quiet, too. He never says nothin’ bad about nobody.

Sarah sighed. Well, that’s not the way he appeared to me.

I told you, Miss Sarah, you’re just like your mother. You’re too excitable. Mr. Smith is a good man. Don’t you be tellin’ your father nothin’ that’ll get him in trouble.

Sarah looked out across the lawn. Maybe she was overreacting.

Does my father like him?

Seems so. I hear ‘em laughin’ and talkin’ in his study. Things are goin’ real well, and your father’s health is good. Don’t be gettin’ all excited and ruin it.

Okay, Tilly, Sarah sighed. Just let me know when my father gets home, okay?

I’ll do that, Miss Sarah.

Now she was beginning to wonder. She had always trusted Tilly’s opinion. Many times after her mother died she had cried on Tilly’s shoulder over various problems, real or imagined. Tilly always told her the way it was, no matter how it might hurt. She wondered if Tilly were right this time, too.

At noon, he gave the signal to stop working and let the people head off to lunch. He’d give them an extra-long break today so they wouldn’t have to come right back out into the hot sun.

As he headed back toward the kitchen, he thought about Miss Whitford. He’d been trying to put their encounter out of his mind, but he just couldn’t do it. He knew it would have repercussions. The more he thought about it, the more he turned it over in his mind, the better he’d be able to deal with what those might be. He’d known women like her before, when he’d first come to this country, and he’d learned to stay away from them. He wished he’d done a better job of that today.

Her father finally returned from Howard just after four o’clock. Sarah was on her second glass of iced tea, still sitting on the porch, as his carriage pulled up in front of the house.

He climbed the front steps slowly, carrying his considerable bulk like a badge of honor. Hello, my dear, he said, kissing the top of her head.

Hello, Papa. She loved her father more than anything in the world. She’d always been the apple of his eye, sometimes to the point of making her mother jealous. Her mother had wanted so badly to have a son so that her husband would idolize him and she and her daughter could go back to being best friends, but it never happened. In fact, that was what killed her.

Sarah’s father had been absolutely wonderful to her after her mother’s death, doing his best to try to take her place in Sarah’s life. She reveled in his attention, and they became even closer as the years went by. He had always encouraged Sarah in anything she wanted to do, including things that women didn’t normally do, like teaching at Miss Pritchard’s instead of getting married.

Tilly says you have something to tell me, he said, taking a seat on a rocking chair.

Yes, I suppose I do, although I’m beginning to wonder how important it is.

Why is that, my dear?

Sarah paused to consider her words. I met Mr. Smith today.

Ah, yes. Our new overseer. I’m sorry that I didn’t get a chance to introduce you to him earlier this week. I’ve been so busy with this new legislation.

I know, Papa, you really must not work too hard, especially in this heat. We don’t want you to have another attack.

Don’t worry about me, my dear, he said, smiling. I feel wonderful.

Sarah frowned anyway. He looked well, but she just couldn’t stop worrying about him. Last summer, during the troubles with old Mr. Goat, he had suffered a heart attack. It was a mild one, and he recovered quickly, but Dr. MacRae said that another one could happen at any time, and might be much worse, especially if he were under too much strain.

So what do you think of John? her father asked.

John. She wasn’t sure she was prepared to think of him as John. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, she said. She looked at her father warily. How long have you signed him up for?

A year. But I’m sure I’ll keep him on beyond that. He’s really turned things around here.

Well, I bet you’ll get rid of him before the year is up, she said, pausing dramatically. He threatened me this morning.

Threatened you? John did? That’s hard to imagine.

Well, he did. I was out riding, she began, and I saw something lying in the dirt next to the cornfield, so I got off Lancer and went to pick it up, and I saw that it was a book. Not a real book, more like a pamphlet. It looked like something that had been passed around among many people. Well, as I stood there looking at it, a young man, one of our people, stepped out from between the rows of corn and then ran away. I could just tell that the book was his. He probably dropped it on his way through the fields and was coming back to pick it up.

Her father was now looking at her intently, no longer smiling.

So I took the book to Mr. Smith. Well, I just happened to see him actually, as I walked Lancer up to the house. He looked like an overseer, so I assumed he was, and I showed the book to him—

And what did he say? her father interrupted.

He said that slaves aren’t allowed to read and that I shouldn’t tell anyone, including you—especially you—about the book.

Her father sighed. He’s right, he said grimly. Slaves aren’t supposed to read.

She was surprised to hear her father say that. She thought he was very liberal in his views.

But Papa, she protested. You’ve never had a problem with it before.

These are different times, Sarah. Things are changing. He looked out across the lawn. This new legislation I’m working on is rather radical. We’re going to have a hard time finding enough support for it. The last thing we need now is to be accused of being even more radical than we are. If we can keep our opponents from knowing that we encourage our slaves to read, we’ll at least be ahead of the game.

Sarah sat there trying to digest what her father had just said.

He went on. I’m sorry, my dear, I interrupted you. What happened next?

She took a deep breath. Well, I told Mr. Smith that I didn’t think you would have a problem with it, and then he got really nasty.

Her father grunted. What did he say? You said he threatened you.

Well, he said that I shouldn’t tell anyone, but it was the nasty way he said it. That he would presume to tell me how to conduct myself, she said in a huff. I mean, he is our employee.

Her father sighed. Yes, and he’s a very valuable, hard-working employee. I have a high regard for him after the way he turned this place around. Just because a man works for you doesn’t mean you have the right to expect unquestioning obedience from him.

Well, I should think I deserve civility, at the very least.

And was he uncivil?

Of course, Papa, I just told you that.

Sarah, Sarah. Look at it from John’s point of view. Slaves aren’t supposed to be reading. John may have been surprised by your naiveté in this matter and may have overreacted slightly, but I’ve never known him to be uncivil in his dealings with anyone. He paused. Furthermore, an overseer can lose his position if his people are caught reading. I’m sure that’s what he was thinking of.

She couldn’t believe her ears. That was the same thing Mr. Smith had said. Her father wouldn’t even take her side in this!

Sarah, do me the courtesy of allowing me to introduce you to John at dinner. I’ll call him up after we’ve finished eating.

Papa! she said, but when she saw the look on his face she relented. All right, she said, even though that was the last thing she wanted. The way her father and Tilly talked, she was the one in