“He had red hair that was darkening to brown with age. You are taller than he. But he was strong, I suppose one would say muscular. He had freckles and—” The words caught in my throat. It had been so long since I thought so specifically about Papa’s face, and he seemed suddenly there, so clearly in my mind.
“You miss him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I envy you your paternal felicity.” He paused and clucked at the horses before he continued. “Not that I wasn’t cared for. Nothing was deficient in that department. In fact, your experience of your father is more unusual than mine, I would think. Men dote on their sons in ways they cannot or perhaps will not with their daughters. But such attention can be a blessing and a curse. Or a ridiculous game of blindman’s buff. It’s as though my father tied my hands, turned me about in circles, pointed me in a direction, then pushed me out into the world. He removed the blindfold but, unfortunately, forgot to unbind my hands. And now what chance do I have?”
“To do what, sir?”
“To break free. To move in the direction that I can see and would most like to go.”
I didn’t know how to respond. How could I when I knew neither what bound him nor where he hoped to proceed? If he had asked such a question last night, I would have put it down to his drunken state. But in the clear, cold sobriety of the winter morning, I couldn’t dismiss his query as utter nonsense. The best course of action seemed to be to remain silent.
“I have puzzled you, Miss Bébinn. Good. While you search for answers in the air, you are not looking at me. It’s just as well. By the by, you are not pretty any more than I am handsome.” He turned and seemed to study me again. “But you are . . . striking.”
“I take after my father.”
“Not even a wince! You say that with such acceptance.”
“I don’t concern myself with what I can’t change, sir. I know who I am. I know what I look like.”
“Yes, well, the world makes much of one’s looks, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does, sir.”
“But you and I aren’t willing to be bowed by it! That must lend us some measure of superiority.”
“I’m not sure about being superior. There is something wise, though, about accepting one’s lot in life.”
“Ah, but now we return to my original query. When must one be accepting, and when must a man do everything in his power to break free?”
“I think, sir, it may depend on the consequences.”
“Humph!” Mr. Colchester shook his head. “I have underestimated you, Miss Bébinn. You are wiser than I.”
He was silent for a bit, and this allowed me time to formulate a question of my own.
“If I may ask, sir, what binds you?”
“We have come upon the village now.” Indeed, the main street was coming into view and the inhabitants of the small houses were emerging, perhaps in response to the sound of our cart.
“I will answer you another time,” Mr. Colchester continued. “But I will make one last observation. I believe your silence and restraint are not natural to your character. Our village is filled with a population once enslaved. I know the imprint such an existence has made on their lives. But I do not see such marks, explicit or otherwise, on you. Your reserve comes from something else. I will learn more about this. You’ll find I am a determined investigator.”
Mr. Colchester reined in the horses, and within a moment an older man who went by the name of Poney was at my side and offering his hand to help me down from the cart. Though he greeted me warmly, I could see I was soon forgotten because of the general delight from those who gathered over Mr. Colchester’s presence. He’d brought provisions, yes—fabrics for clothes to be sewn, coats for the children, pantry staples for kitchens. But the people of Lower Knoll had for Mr. Colchester a relaxed, congenial familiarity that I’d rarely seen colored folk have with a white man, even those considered friendly. The men embraced him, the women shook hands with him, and warm conversation flowed. He asked after their families and shared what news he had of the political landscape. All wanted to know if there would be a war, a topic that inspired both fear and a nervous excitement.
I would have felt an outsider in this scene if it hadn’t been for Jelly, who approached with some of her classmates, took my hand, and began a narrative of their activities punctuated often by a “Did not!” from her friends. I listened poorly. I wanted very much to hear what Mr. Colchester said but could only manage pieces of disjointed information. I was also, I must admit, distracted by my thoughts. Would I have my own role in this scene once my cottage was done and I lived in the village? Would I feel at home and welcomed? Then, I found, my inner reflection took a different turn. I saw myself in the cottage and hearing the sound of the cart and of Mr. Colchester being greeted by name. Would I come out and join this festive display? Or would I sit quietly and wait for a knock on my door? Would he visit me? Certainly, he would want to ask about the school and if I needed anything for it. Was that what I wanted?
Soon I sensed movement in the group. Mr. Colchester was making his way through the village accompanied by a talkative young man named Templeton, whom I knew to be Jelly’s father, and Evan, Templeton’s cousin, who was as silent as his relation was chatty. The two of them had been working on my cottage. Poney followed, guiding the horses pulling the cart.
“It’s a thing of beauty!” Templeton was saying. “Should be going full force in another month. We’ll ride on down there with you.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But Miss Bébinn’s work cannot be forgotten. I want to see how we’ve left it with the roof to be over her head.”
“That’s about all there is to it,” Templeton said. “A roof and not much else. Well, some stairs. Hadn’t had time to think too much about it.”
The site of the cottage, viewed in winter, didn’t have much to recommend it. Set down the road from the school, it seemed separated and lonely. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? The fine buckeye tree, meant to shade the dwelling in the summer, offered only bare branches, empty and uninviting.
“Nobody’s blaming you, Templeton. Miss Bébinn is not impatient.” Mr. Colchester opened the door.
One could see the whole house, front to back, upon entering. At some point Templeton and his men would add walls and, of course, windows. A chimney rose from a fireplace centered at the core of the building. It only wanted surroundings—a wall and perhaps a simple mantel. I walked over to the stairs to the loft and placed a hand on the makeshift door of Jelly’s hiding place underneath the stairs and smiled. The little girl must have discovered the space while her father was working.
Poney now spoke up and loudly. “No need to wait until spring. You order up some windows, and I can put ’em in by myself. That’s all she needs. We can do the rest later.”
There seemed to be some affirmation of this thought from the other men, but Mr. Colchester disagreed. “Wouldn’t be good for you to be out here in the cold working by yourself, Poney. By the time any windows got here—and the order would be slow owing to the time of year and the general unrest—we’d be in the thick of winter. Snow up to your knees. Leave it be for now.”