He nodded. “We have something in common, Miss Bébinn. Let’s leave it at that for tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” I rose and said good night to Missus Livingston. I was eager to go back to my room and out of his sight. But he had something more to add.
“Miss Bébinn, sometimes, not often but sometimes, we have air like that here in Ohio. We’ll keep a look out for it, you and I. When it comes, we’ll take a walk and compare it to the air in Louisiana.”
I didn’t know what to say. I stared at him a moment, then gave him a bit of a curtsy. It was all I could think of, and it seemed the right thing to do. I left the room.
Chapter 8
Missus Livingston checked on me before I went to bed. She worried I might be bruised from my fall. I took the opportunity to inquire more about my employer.
“Mr. Colchester is a strange young man, isn’t he, Missus Livingston?”
“Well, I suppose so, but not much different from any brash young man too full of himself.”
“More than that, I think. He is very abrupt. On the verge of rudeness.”
“True, but he has been drinking tonight. He is not like that all the time, so allowances can be made for him. He is not vicious; that’s what matters. I wouldn’t put up with him if he were. But then I am used to him. And he deserves some compassion.”
“Why?”
“He is responsible for so many. This whole community, really. Many of the inhabitants of Lower Knoll were once slaves of the Colchester family. But a good number are runaways. We have to be on the lookout for bounty hunters. They could kidnap one of our people and send them back south.”
I flinched at this. Missus Livingston seemed to forget that I would be under the same threat. Perhaps my fair appearance made her set me apart.
“Why doesn’t he stay and ensure the community is protected? Why does he leave it to others?”
“Well, he’s young.” She shrugged and looked toward the door as though she wanted to leave our conversation. “He has no friends here, no proper company.”
“What about his family?”
“None.”
I nodded. What she said fascinated me. Where was Mr. Colchester’s property in the South? Louisiana? I burned to know, but I didn’t think it wise to question further. And I could tell, by the way Missus Livingston increasingly avoided my direct gaze, that she didn’t want to say more. We parted with a fond but brief good night.
When I came down for breakfast the next morning, Mr. Colchester was sitting there at the table, just sitting there straight and proper like he was waiting. Leah brought out a plate of hot eggs and grits for me.
Mr. Colchester leaned forward. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir.”
He asked me questions in a careful way, like he didn’t want to scare me. He asked about my plan of teaching, how my students were. He wanted to know when I would start teaching the adults. I found it strange—he didn’t sound like a patron or even my boss when he asked. It sounded like he knew the names, knew the people. I ventured to ask a question of my own.
“How long have you been away, Mr. Colchester?”
“I suppose I left right before the spring went away, before the hot weather started sneaking in. But I’m not fond of this winter weather. Of being covered up.”
That would explain his bare feet, I thought. It’s not like one sees men’s naked feet that often. You’d think some men sleep in their boots. But he had been drunk before.
Much as I loved Leah’s soft-scrambled eggs, I couldn’t eat while Mr. Colchester was sitting there. Not that I wasn’t hungry. But when he was sitting there, it was like all my being, all my mind, needed to be focused on him and the blood all went to my head instead of my belly. I put down my fork. He didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Miss Bébinn, will you accompany me down to our little village this morning? I know you have no classes on a Saturday, but I’ve brought some gifts for the children, and I’d like to assess the progress on your cottage.”
“Yes, sir, we may go as soon as you like.”
When I went out to meet Mr. Colchester, I found him seated in one of the horse-drawn carts. The cart was filled with parcels of goods, and he seemed congenial, perhaps even proud of the abundance he obviously intended to bestow on Lower Knoll and its inhabitants.
“Come, Miss Bébinn. I’m eager to play my role of the good provider!”
He held out his hand, which I accepted, and I stepped up to the seat next to him. I positioned myself on the side, as far as possible on the bench away from him.
“No, sit here,” he said. He motioned me to move closer. “I wish to talk, and I won’t be able to hear your small, thin voice over the clopping of my eager horses.”
I obliged him, but there was little reason to do so. He proceeded at a leisurely pace; the horses didn’t make as much noise as they could have. But I didn’t object. I considered it an opportunity to study him, which was only fair since it seemed this was his intention for me.
The sun was not yet too high in the sky and cast a whitish winter light over the brown grasses and bare trees. I wasn’t cold. My coat and gloves were plain but well made. They stood up well against the windless morning. All signs foretold a fine day, with a clear sky once the mist burned away. Everything was still, save for the sound of the horses as we made our way down the winding hill.
Mr. Colchester, as he sat on the bench with the reins in his hands, looked healthier than he had seemed the night before. His skin was no longer flushed from whiskey, and there was a slight smile on his lips. He seemed to appreciate the strange, plain beauty of the morning and the brisk nature of its air. The light fell in such a way that I could still perceive his features under his hat—the swirl of colors that painted his irises, and the fine dark hair now flowing down and pressed against his neck. From the way he held the reins and the encouraging clucks he would give the horses, I sensed a gentleness about him that I wasn’t sure I could trust.
He turned suddenly, caught me looking at him, and laughed. “Am I captivating, Miss Bébinn?” he asked. “Am I that handsome?”
“I wouldn’t say handsome, sir. Striking perhaps. Different.”
His laughter stopped, and his face clouded.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean to offend you.”
“Different? Do I stick out sorely in the world? Am I unlike other . . . men?”
I felt as though he’d meant to say white men. I had no reason for such a suspicion, but something about him planted the thought in the back of my mind. I couldn’t place his concern otherwise. Mr. Colchester didn’t seem vain. I sought for the words that might console him.
“Sir, I beg your pardon. I meant that the only white man’s face I’ve had the opportunity to examine so closely was my father’s. You are different from him.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Mr. Colchester, I would rather not.”
“No? I suppose you wish to keep your privacy. But surely you can tell me how differently we look?”
“Looked,” I correct him. “He died several years ago.”
“Yes, you said you had no family. But what did he look like?”