Now Face to Face by Karleen Koen Read Free Book Online

creek, stepping through clumps of small bushes and around saplings, her boots sinking into leaves and mud. The galley slipped into the river. She and Hyacinthe ran to the riverbank.
    Spotswood cupped his hands around his mouth to shout. “You are not as alone as you think. The Randolphs are down the river—”
    Waving, the chant the slaves rowed to floating across the water to her, she shaded her eyes to watch until the galley rounded a bend in the river, a curl. Well, she thought, I am on my own. She looked around herself, at trees, river, fields. Not as alone as you think, the Governor had said, but at this moment, the strangeness of her surroundings felt overwhelming. You are leaving everything you know, leaving people who love you, leaving position and court, her mother had shouted. Once you arrive there, it won’t be as you imagine. Nothing ever is.
    Never run away from the truth, because it sits upon your shoulder. When you least expect it to, it will put its ugly face into yours and say boo. A saying of her grandmother’s. What have I taken on? thought Barbara. What do I know of running a plantation? Why did I not simply return with the Governor? Boo.
    Barbara glanced down at Hyacinthe’s face. He looked forlorn. What have I brought my beloved servants to? she thought. She squeezed Hyacinthe’s hand, and they began to walk back through the fields to the house.
    We ought not to plant this field again, she thought, but let it grow to grass so that the house has a wide lawn running to the river.
    Upstairs, in the house, a clothing trunk had been opened; out of it spilled a welter of ribbons, laces and feathers, shoes, stockings, gloves, stays, garters, chemises, the accoutrements of a woman of birth and name. Shawls, cloaks, lace caps, scarves, muffs, fans. They looked odd here, out of place. Thérèse knelt on the floor, sorting through satin ribbons, cherry, silver tissue, cinnamon, sky, colors Barbara had worn before mourning. There, among a pile of stark black widow’s gowns, were others peeping out: dove, daffodil, primrose. For use when her mourning was over. At Christmas, Roger would have been dead a year. Would they last here that long? What was she to do? How did she begin?
    She sat down, thinking that Jordan Bolling must have sent to London for this big bed, with its high, carved bedposts; across the room stood a matching chest on tall legs.
    How to begin? said her grandmother in her mind. By beginning. Order out of chaos.
    “We must make bed curtains, Thérèse, before winter comes, so that we can close them around the bed against cold. Hyacinthe, I must begin to sort myself out. Find paper and pen. They might be in the parlor—”
    “Parlor? Where in this tiny cottage is a parlor?” Thérèse was scornful.
    Better than weeping, thought Barbara. “The chamber with my chairs and table is now the parlor. See if there is paper and pen and ink there, Hyacinthe.”
    “There are those narrow beds downstairs, Thérèse. If we were to put one up here in that corner, and pull the big chest before it, Hyacinthe would have his own place.”
    What must I do? thought Barbara. Explore the whole plantation, ride across the river to see the other quarters, meet the two other overseers, introduce myself to neighbors. Neighbors were important here, the Governor had said. People depended upon one another here, he said. This house needed scrubbing and polishing. They must see what stores, what food was in the basement. She needed a counting of cattle and hogs and household goods. She needed an accounting of the tobacco being harvested.
    There was a storehouse on the second creek. The tobacco ships took on the tobacco there. She would need to look it over. At Tamworth Hall, in autumn, fruit was picked from the orchards for the making of wines and cordials and for cooking; hogs were killed, and sausages and puddings made; wood was cut and stored; nuts were picked from under the trees; candles were poured, seeds and herbs