“No, and I must admit, he is often negligent on that count. When Mr. Colchester does take up residence, it’s often on a whim. Founder likes to say, ‘You look for Christian when you see him!’” She chuckled.
“Christian?”
“Yes. His name is Christian Robichaud Colchester. Founder and I call him Christian, but of course he’s Mr. Colchester to most everyone else.”
“Is he very informal?”
“Not particularly so, but he was born and raised a gentleman. He’s twenty-eight years old. He was very young when he inherited his father’s estate. I find, sometimes, he needs to be reminded of his manners. He can be, well, rough sometimes.”
“But you like him?”
“Oh yes; it’s obvious he has a kind heart. You can see that from Lower Knoll. But he’s restless and sometimes, I think, unhappy. No more than other young men, though.”
“What is his personality?”
“He is clever and well read but comes off as rather peculiar. He has traveled a great deal—I believe he is in Europe now. I never know for certain.”
“Peculiar?”
“I don’t know—how can I describe it? When he speaks to you, it can be hard to tell whether he is serious or making a joke, whether he is pleased or not pleased. I admit, I often just don’t understand him. I’ll leave it at that.”
October, November, and December passed away. If it seemed I was settled and satisfied in my life at Fortitude, it was an untrue image. Missus Livingston spoke of the restlessness of young men. She didn’t know that young women could have the same energized spirit. I was such a woman. I’m sorry to say I was perturbed, maybe even more than when I’d lived in the slave quarters at the Holloway Plantation. Because then I’d had a sense of something I had to do, of vital work coming up next. My whole body had been bent on leaving that place and then on making sure I didn’t get sent back. What reason was there to have such a focus at Fortitude? And yet I had this feeling of something to come. I didn’t know if I had to do anything to help it along. It felt strange. Ungrateful. Here I had good work I could do, I had good food to eat, and I lived unharmed.
Perhaps my restlessness was stoked by my connections. Missus Livingston was kind, and I enjoyed our evening hours together, but our conversation was neither challenging nor inspiring. I didn’t develop any particular friendships in the village, though I hoped that would change once I was living in the cottage. On the odd occasion that Founder allowed me to sit with her, she seemed more interested in speaking generally about human nature and “the way people are.” She saw me as hugely naive and needing guidance in this area. She intrigued me, but she was not a close friend, nor did it seem she would become one. So I was dissatisfied with my society but unsure of what connection I did want. Were all women supposed to be as placid as Miss Temple and Missus Livingston? Aunt Nancy Lynne had something of a fire about her, and that determination had lit me up on days when I’d thought I would never leave Holloway’s. Would I ever have such a friend again?
There were times when I would walk down the hill from Fortitude and I had a sensation like the valley, the world, was laid out before me on a table like a feast. It was like that faraway dream I’d once had. But in the real-life picture, I thought I could hear a voice that was either my papa or something bigger talking to me.
Anything you want, ma chérie. Anything you want, Jeannette.
The thought scared me. Thrilled me. What could I want beyond a full belly and a place to rest in relative safety?
With Mama’s blood running through me, the things I might want would have, as I was a mulatto, a natural limit. I wasn’t one to dream outside my head, yearning for fantasies. Where I was, at Fortitude, was a small miracle in itself. Who was I, Jeannette Bébinn, with my papa dead, to think I could have anything more?
But something messed with my peace of mind. It felt like seeds in a cotton boll. In my quiet time I picked at the seeds and tried to clear my thinking. I didn’t think too kindly of the world, that’s for sure. I was prone to believe I had value because I’d seen it in Papa’s eyes. And I was God’s child, too, which meant everything. That was what I believed, and because I believed it, it was hard for me to accept what little was offered to me, a girl the world only saw, as Madame had pointed out, as a little nigger girl. It didn’t seem right, not when Papa had meant for me to be more. Surely the lives of the children I taught meant more. And yet the land ran with crazy white men willing to fight a war because they didn’t see it that way.
One day I went to visit the cottage. It was built out of wood and had two rooms, one meant to be a kitchen. At the back was a plain set of stairs that went up to a sleeping area—not a full room, really, and not an attic since it didn’t go the length of the building. A man couldn’t stand up straight in the space, but I could, and that was all that mattered, all I needed. That was all the cottage was: a roof, walls, window holes with no glass, and those stairs. I felt drawn to the little house, though. I would climb the stairs and look out the opening where a round window would eventually be. I could see the road leading to the riverbank and the oak trees bare of leaves and acorns.
I had just finished looking out the window hole and was going down the steps, which I always did carefully because there was no rail, when I heard a rustling noise that seemed to be coming from under my feet. I stopped and listened and thought maybe I was hearing the sound of my own petticoats against the stairs. But then, standing there, I heard a bump and another rustle. I knew the space under the stairs was meant to be a closet or cupboard, but right then it didn’t have a proper door, only a thin slab of wood leaned against it. I thought a squirrel or raccoon had gotten in there and needed to be let out.
When I got downstairs, I went around to shift the piece of wood, and when I did, I saw a pair of dark eyes look up at me, and I just about jumped out of my skin. I recognized the child right off. She sat with her legs crossed underneath her and held in front of her the book she’d been reading.
“Jelly! How did you get in here? You scared me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Bébinn, I didn’t mean to.”
She crawled out of the closet. Her dress was dusty from sitting on the unswept wood, and the tips of her fingers were pale with cold. “It’s quiet here. I can’t rightly hear the words in my head when I’m around everyone else. Reading is easier when I’m in there.”
I nodded. “Yes. I find I can think in this cottage better than anywhere else. Maybe because it’s not finished.”
I walked her home and thought about how I’d probably needed to see her just then. She reminded me of my work and how much I enjoyed it. Jelly’s eyes always seemed eager for filling. When I saw the ten-year-old sitting in the classroom with her big eyes, I felt like I’d need buckets to pour into her the knowledge she was looking for, but I only had a cup, maybe a small pitcher at most. It wasn’t going to be enough no matter how hard I tried, because I had to see to other students who didn’t take to learning as easily as Jelly did. It was something of a relief to know she was taking it on herself to read and add onto whatever I managed to relate to her in school. Maybe one day, if things changed, she could go to college. She could certainly become a teacher.