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At that moment Jeyne entered, carrying a tray laden with teacups, saucers, a pot of tea, and freshly made cookies. My heart leapt at the sight of her. Her long, dark hair was pulled tight behind her head, revealing those deep, brown eyes I had come to love. I found myself unable to take my eyes off her as she moved quietly about the room. She sat the tray down and touched the side of her face with a delicate hand, probably to veil her tiredness.
Jeyne was slim and strong like her mother, but it was mid-afternoon, a busy time for the house servants who were, even now, getting dinner ready. From what I knew of Jeyne’s schedule, she would have already cleaned the bedrooms, swept the floors, poured away the washing water in the basins and emptied the chamber pots from our room in the privies behind the mansion.
“I’ll pour it,” I said, rising, finding any excuse to be near her.
I poured a cup of tea for my mother and in doing so, brushed my hand against hers. I felt the electricity between us and almost dropped the cup. Her beautiful eyes bore into mine and it was all I could do to not to touch her.
“No, let me,” she said, busying herself, wiping up the drops of tea that were not there.
“It’s all right, child,” Mother said sympathetically. “Let us be. We’ll call again if we need you.”
I looked after Jeyne as she walked out of the room and then turned to mother to hand her a cup of tea. I stopped in my tracks. There was no mistaking the look of deep concern in her eyes.
“Mother, what’s wrong?” I said. She was white as a sheet.
She wouldn’t look at me, but instead, took the tea with shaking hands. “Tread carefully,” she said. “I suspect your father knows.”
“Knows what?”
“Your feelings towards Jeyne.”
“Feelings?” I blinked. “I’m fond of her, yes. But that’s all...”
“You’re more than fond of her, Thomas,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re in love with her. Anyone with eyes can see that.”
I was about ten years old when my father bought Jeyne and Lizzie from a rich spinster desperate to get rid of them. Lizzie had been a housemaid to the woman’s brother, a wealthy, white doctor from Memphis, Tennessee whose wife had died of pneumonia years before. With no children of his own, the doctor was forced to elicit help from his sister. Much to her chagrin, Lizzie was the favored one as was proven when she bore him a child a few months later.
Although he was unable to publicly acknowledge Jeyne’s existence, in private, the doctor doted on her, almost to the point of obsession. The pure innocence and presence of a newborn child brought a sense of peace to the doctor’s aggrieved life. Yet, as news of the doctor’s lovechild spread, so, too, did the gossip. He lost several long-term patients, many of whom were loathe to be treated by a doctor who had lay with a “nigra.”
The guilt and devastation took a toll on the doctor and he died of a heart attack within a year. The doctor’s sister saw her brother’s death as the perfect opportunity to be rid of Lizzie and Jeyne once and for all. Property aside, it was too much to have her brother’s half-white child and black mistress living under the same roof. So, with the help of well-connected friends, she sold them down river for a hefty price.
Chapter Twelve
My mother was right. I was in love with Jeyne. Intensely. Later that night marked the beginning of what was to be an even deeper relationship between us.
Jeyne and I had just finished teaching our reading class with a small group of slaves, both young and old. Every week they came to a small, private cabin eager to learn their letters and read books even though they knew it was forbidden and against the law. Jeyne was one of the more advanced students in the class who assisted the children. Although my father never whipped the slaves he suspected could read, it was an unwritten rule that mother and I were never allowed to openly instruct them.
“When will we haveournext lesson?” Jeyne asked.
“You mean our private one?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
“Well, let’s see,” I said, pulling out a pocket watch. “I have some time...now.”
Her smiled widened.
We were alone and it felt right. Our moments were always stolen like this, short-lived bursts of freedom and openness. I moved in as close as our bodies would allow and breathed in the intoxicating warmth of her scent. She looked down at the book I had given her a few weeks ago, Alexander’s Pushkin’sPeter the Great’s Negro.
“It’s a wonderful love story,” she said.
“The writer is Russian. Their nostalgic that way.”
“Yes, they are…although not as romantic as the French,” she replied. “Or the Italians, for that matter.”
“So, you think the Italians are more romantic than the French?”
“Hmmm, in a way,” she said, her face so full of emotion that it made my heart melt. “Love is so urgent with them.”
