Part I – Legacy
Glancing down at the gas gauge for the umpteenth time, Bridget cursed under her breath.
Her ’87 Ford Escort was good on gas, but her budget was still very tight. Why did she let
herself get talked into something like this? A six-hour drive from Grissettown, North
Carolina to Richmond, Virginia made no sense whatsoever. Still, the lawyer had been very
insistent.
She had barely known Grandpa Farnsworth when he was alive. She’d always been closer to
her father’s side of the family. Anyway, with the Farnsworth family everything always went
to the eldest son. It was a family tradition that went back generations and that wasn’t
about to change just because the twenty-first century had arrived. With another most
unladylike curse, Bridget took the next exit off I-95 scanning the cluster of gas stations
for the cheapest price.
It was noon when she reached Richmond. By the time she found South Pine Street it was
slipping past twelve fifteen. Another ten minutes passed before she found a place to
park.
The Law firm of Slater, Bolen, and Morse was located in a two-story brick home. A bronze
plaque outside proclaimed the house was originally built in 1782 and had survived the “War
of Northern Aggression”.
A mousy little receptionist asked her if she had an appointment. The secretary seemed
disappointed when Bridget produced the letter that requested her presence at the reading
of the will. With an audible huff, the girl reluctantly waved her up the stairs.
“It’s the office on the left; everyone is already waiting for you.”
Bridget was forty minutes late when she entered the conference room. Five pairs of eyes
looked up as she came in. Her mother and three uncles all turned in their seats to see who
had delayed the proceedings. The lawyer sitting behind his desk simply looked up and
nodded briefly.
“All right, then, we can get started,” he said.
With a rustle of papers, he began reading the document aloud, his voice a monotone. He
seemed young for a lawyer, especially one belonging to such a stuffy old law firm.
Young and kind of cute too, Bridget thought to herself. God, it must have been way too
long. Here she was lusting after a lawyer of all things, and she didn’t even know his
name.
Everyone was wearing respectful mourning clothing; her mother wore a black dress, the
lawyer, and her three Uncles were all dressed in dark suits. Bridget hadn’t even thought
about dressing up. Looking down at her worn jeans and pink tube top she couldn’t help but
blush. The room had the heavy solemnity of a church. Dark stained oak paneled three walls
and an extensive, glass-faced, bookcase took up the entire wall behind the lawyer. The
center of the room held four chairs; an empty fifth one sat right next to the lawyer’s
desk. She was hesitant to draw further attention to herself by moving forward to take that
seat – she still felt awkward as a teenager around her mother, even at 23. She stood
uncomfortably by the door waiting for it all to be over.
The will was simple enough. The daughter, her Mom, was receiving two rings and a cameo
pin, jewelry that had been in the family for years. Uncle Lloyd, as the youngest son,
would receive the private family library as well as a yearly stipend of two thousand
dollars to store and maintain it. Uncle Virgil, the middle son, would receive an antique
gun collection that spanned two hundred and fifty years. It was of considerable historic
value.
The bulk of the estate, three family properties, and a half dozen other real estate
holdings, were Uncle Earl’s inheritance. Then the lawyer was finished, with no mention of
Bridget and no explanation as to why she was there. The older adults rose and shook hands,
exchanging brisk condolences. Bridget fell into the role of door attendant, holding it
open for each of the four siblings as they left. Her mom was the last to leave, shooting a
disapproving frown at her daughter as she went out.
A very frustrated young lady waited for her elders to leave the building so she could
slink back to Brunswick County. She watched as they made their way down the staircase and
then jumped with a start when the lawyer tapped her on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry. Are you Bridget? Ms. Bridget McErien? You’re the oldest granddaughter of the
late Earl Farnsworth the sixth?” he asked.
Bridget nodded, too startled to respond more fully. He took her by the arm leading her
back into the room. He steered her to a chair that waited beside his desk. Like a
gentleman, he held the chair, indicating she should sit. Only then did he take his own
seat. Folding his arms and leaning forward he took a moment to study her before he spoke
again.
“This is rather important, so you’ll understand if I ask for some identification
first.”
Bridget pulled out her license, which she handed to him. He studied it for a moment
before handing it back with another nod. Reaching into his desk, he retrieved a yellowed
piece of folded paper resting on a flat plate of glass. He slid the glass toward her.
Bridget knew right away that it was old; no, not old, this was ancient. The paper was
thick and brittle, folded into thirds, secured with twine and a crumbling wax seal.
“That letter has been held by my firm for 200 years, four months and 12 days, waiting
for you. You’ll need some advice on opening it, or it may just crumble. The words inside,
however, are for your eyes alone.”
She shook her head in confusion. What the lawyer was saying was impossible. There was no
way someone could possibly know she would even exist two centuries ago, let alone want to
write a letter to her. Bridget turned the paper over and several pieces of the fragile wax
seal landed on the desk. The lawyer frowned at her casual handling of the ancient
artifact.
Scrawled across the front of the letter in flowing script were these words.
To my dear descendant of the distant future,
May your life and times be as fulsome as my own,
But may your burdens always be much lighter.
“Allow me to explain,” the lawyer said as he watched her read the greeting. “On July
2nd, 1807 the first Earl Farnsworth handed this letter into the care of our firm with the
following instructions. It was to be presented to the eldest living granddaughter, at the
passing of the hereditary Earl of Farnsworth, at least two centuries hence.”
Bridget looked even more bewildered, barely able to follow the explanation. “Earl of
Farnsworth?” she managed to stammer.
“How much do you know about your family history?” he asked her gently.
Bridget shrugged, “Not enough, apparently.”
“Your ancestors on your mother’s side have been Virginians from the time of the
Jamestown colony. Queen Elizabeth herself issued them a land grant, one that covered an
area nearly a third the size of England. It never truly developed under Lord Farnsworth.
At the time, Monacan and Manahoac Indian tribes were fighting over much of that land. They
were both disinclined to welcome your family, even with a royal writ. Still, on paper your
ancestors at one time owned all of central Virginia from the Pennsylvania border down into
central North Carolina. The term Lord Farnsworth was not the least bit pretentious back
then.
“By the time of the American Revolution rolled around your families holdings had been
reduced to several thousand hectares of wilderness and a handful of plantations scattered
throughout central Virginia. The War for Independence further divided your family and some
fled back to England, again reducing your land holdings. Since the birth of the American
nation the eldest son’s given name has always been Earl. That’s a nod to the original
Royal land grant as well as to the first Lord Farnsworth’s title.”
The lawyer paused, allowing the befuddled Bridget some time to absorb the history
lesson. She gingerly set the brittle paper down on the glass as she wondered what any of
this could possibly have to do with her. The lawyer seemed to anticipate her question.
“The gentleman who wrote you this letter was born in 1776. He was the first to be named
Earl, and if I’m calculating correctly, he would have been your Great, Great, Great,
Great, Great Grandfather on your mother’s side. We are unsure exactly why he felt a need
to communicate with a future generation or why he chose to address the matriarchal side of
the family. He wrote this letter at the age of thirty-two shortly after losing his wife of
fourteen years. He lived another four decades but never remarried.”
To say Bridget was intrigued now would be a vast understatement. That was probably the
young lawyer’s intention right along. She wondered how anyone, even a law firm, could have
held a secret letter through two centuries and never once peeked. She also wondered why
her mother had never mentioned any of this history to her.
“So how do I open it?” she asked at last.
The lawyer donned a pair of white cotton gloves. He brought out a second sheet of glass
and a spray bottle of clear liquid. He set the letter down on the new glass pane and
lightly misted the glass as well as the outside of the paper. Finally, he flipped the
letter on its back so the wax seal was again facing up.
“Until this morning, this letter was kept sealed in an oxygen free environment with 15%
humidity, at least for as long as those storage facilities have been available to us. This
added moisture should keep the paper from cracking. The wax seal is beyond restoration and
the twine is of no historic consequence.”
He deftly snipped the thin cord and gently pulled it away with a pair of tweezers. Then
he handed her the letter set, fold up, on the glass sheet like a serving tray.
“You should be able to open the letter itself, be gentle, wear cotton gloves, and then
place it between these two sheets of glass. When you are finished reading it you can
destroy it or take it with you, whichever you see as most fitting.”
The lawyer rose, leaving her alone in the privacy of his office. He paused at the door
and added these last words before stepping out into the hallway.
“Please don’t leave before seeing me again. There is one more thing I have for you.”
Then Bridget was alone with the letter, a letter sent from a long dead stranger. It had
traveled no great distance but rather across time. She slipped on the pair of white cotton
gloves he’d left her.
It wasn’t too difficult to open and when she slid the second glass plate over it the
letter flattened nicely. The handwriting was a little tricky to decipher at first but soon
she was reading the message Earl Farnsworth had written her over two hundred years ago.
It is more than mere whimsy that sends this missive forth across time. I have lost my
only love, the lady Farnsworth. Our time was too brief, but far more than I deserved. She
was the one made to pay for my sinful passions by a cruel and unjust deity. My lady had
but one request of me as she passed on. She was insistent that our children were to learn
of her life and origins. So little to ask, and yet this I cannot do. The family would be
destroyed by my sins of lust and greed.
Thus do I send these things forward to you: the three possessions that she claimed to
mark the passage of her life, and the journal that I insisted be kept a secret from all.
These are yours now. You possess the power to destroy the very family that has nurtured
you. I pray you have the strength and compassion to do what is right. Please try to
understand my beloved’s need and judge her none too harshly. At last, one of her children
shall know the truth of her life.
Respectfully Yours
Earl Farnsworth
Inscribed on the second day of July
in the year of our Lord Eighteen hundred and seven
Bridget read the text through twice trying to make sure she understood exactly what the
man was trying to say. He had loved his wife; that at least had shone through. He was
angry and embarrassed. No--those words was too mild--he was mortified and at the same time
raging against God. It was about something he had done, his “sins of lust and greed.” He
proclaimed her innocence, but it revolved around a secret that involved his dead wife. It
was something he insisted was not her fault, but his own. There was no way she was going
to understand any of this without the rest of the clues. The message was hardly clear but
the ‘power to destroy’ the family sounded ominous.
She knew she wanted to save this letter but she was equally sure she did not want to
share its contents, at least not until she knew what was going on. Bridget turned the
glass plates over so the words were face down, then rose and went to the door. The lawyer
was sitting patiently in the hallway, waiting.
“Um, Mister…?” Bridget fumbled.
“I’m sorry, Bolen, James Bolen,” he answered.
“Well Mr. Bolen, the letter mentions you have some other items for me.”
“Yes, yes, of course. It’s been stored in the vault. We can fetch it directly. Have you
decided what you want to do with the letter itself?”
“I want to keep it. I suppose I should leave it sandwiched between the glass plates for
now but…”
“Right,” James Bolen said. “I’ll get you something to put it all in. I believe we can
find something in the office.”
They went back into his office and Mr. Bolen handed her two large elastic bands to hold
the glass sheets in place over the page. Rummaging through his desk drawers he produced a
cardboard folder to hold the glass encased letter, then handed her a padded cloth bag with
handles to carry it all in. Throughout the process, he took great care not to glance at
the letter itself. Bridget could not help but admire his self-control. She would have been
beside herself to see what the letter said.
“Now if that’s everything, we can go down and get the valise that was also left for
you.”
She followed him down the stairs. The vault itself was in a back room on the first
floor. It was a walk in safe and a brass plate with the name “Mosler-Crane” adorned the
outer door. It looked to be a later addition to the house but even so, the forged steel
door was very old. After spinning his way through the combination and turning a huge metal
lever, James tugged at the door. The vault opened with an appropriately ancient creak.
There was no electricity inside the vault but a flashlight rested on a shelf near the
door. Bridget waited outside while Mr. Bolen went inside to find her inheritance. He
returned in a moment with a brown leather valise.
It was old; she could see that at once. It looked to be a simple box of hardened leather
some 18 inches long, a foot high, and half a foot deep. Wide leather straps held the two
halves together and a carved wooden handle topped the assemblage. While it may have been
two centuries old, the leather shined as if freshly polished. It had obviously been well
cared-for. She tried to imagine all those poor lawyers assigned to the annual task of
oiling the old leather travel case. Unlike the letter, there was no way of knowing whether
this had been opened sometime down through the ages. With a mental shrug, she conceded
there was nothing she could do about that. Trust was the currency of lawyers and she would
have to put a little faith in them.
“Is there anything else we can help you with?” James asked politely.
Bridget shook her head from side to side, as she reached for the valise.
“Then perhaps I could walk you out to your car,” he grinned.
Bridget wasn’t sure if he was hitting on her. She supposed not, but a girl could dream.
“All right, that would be nice,” she said and allowed him to carry the small case as he
followed her out the door. All too quickly, they reached her car. She wished her ride was
a little more upscale but he seemed not to notice. He held her door for her then circled
the car to place the valise on the passenger’s seat. Bridget racked her brain for
something more she could say or ask, but it looked like they were destined to part.
“If you need any help with this or have any questions please don’t hesitate to call.”
James Bolen handed her his business card as she started up her fading blue Escort and
sadly drove out of his life. Fifty miles down the highway the whimsy of their encounter
was already gone from her mind. Her thoughts turned to the mysterious box sitting on the
passenger’s seat. She reached over and gave the box a gentle shake. It was hard to tell
with all the road noise but Bridget thought she heard a soft tinkling noise.
God! She hoped nothing had been broken! Swearing under her breath again, she promised
herself she wouldn’t touch it until she was safely home.
Five and a half hours later, she was sitting at her kitchen table, an open leather box
on the table and a collection of four very perplexing objects arrayed before her. The
first was a short bunch of thin dry branches looking almost like a desiccated floral
bouquet--a bouquet that had long ago lost its flower heads. Wrapped tightly around the
near end of the bundle was an ancient, fraying rope.
The second item was of old-fashioned iron collar, hinged, with a hasp closure; the iron
was now red with rust. A small shinny chain depended from an iron ring fixed to the front
of it, perhaps that was silver. The collar itself was the type used to hold a prisoner in
days of yore. Despite its dark purpose, it seemed small, almost delicate. Roughly child
sized, she realized with a shudder.
The third item seemed commonplace compared to what had come before. It was a simple wide
leather belt, now stiff with age. Unlike the box, this leather had not been polished or
oiled and time had taken its toll. The only peculiarity about the belt was the lack of
holes or a buckle. Perhaps it had been a barber’s strop. It was the last item that took up
most of the valise’s space. It was a thick leather bound book made up, not of crumbling
paper, but of thin stiff parchment. Hefting the weighty book, Bridget hoped it could
explain this puzzling collection.
With a deep sigh, Bridget opened the book and started to read. There was no introduction
or explanation and the pages bore no dates. It wasn’t a diary but it seemed to be a
journal of sorts. To Bridget though, it had the tone of someone’s recollections. It seemed
to be a narrative written later in life, rather than a journal penned over time as events
unfolded. The writer made no claims of authenticity, but simply said her piece as if
telling a story she wanted others to hear.
******
I was born in the year 1775 and raised on the Three Willows Plantation. That estate was
then the property of the Monette Family. It was a sugar plantation, which lay halfway
between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. My family had been in the employment of the Monettes
for at least three generations, my Grandma Irene still worked in the kitchen and my Mother
Jacquette was Lady Adeline Monette’s personal maid.
Had I thought upon it, it might have seemed strange that three women of such obvious
Irish ancestry were given French Christian names. At the time, I was too young to take
notice of such minor matters. The lack of a surname meant nothing to me either; I knew no
better. The three of us were remarkably alike in appearance, with wavy red hair, green
eyes and pale freckled skin. Any one of the indentured Irishmen who served on the
plantation might have been my mother’s father. One of them certainly must have accounted
for my lineage but neither my mother nor my mother’s mother was ever willing to discuss
the matter with me. I simply wasn’t that curious.
I was by far the luckiest of my family. Although I was two years older than the
Monette’s only child Desirée, I was of slight build and appeared younger. Once
Basile and Adeline Monette determined that I would make the perfect companion for their
daughter, my life became truly charmed. Desirée and I played together, were
schooled together, and often I ate with the family as well. My wardrobe became far more
elaborate and lavish. When the family journeyed to New Orleans or Baton Rouge, I would
accompany them. I left behind my mother, for she was irrelevant to all including myself.
The Monettes became my surrogate parents. Like Desirée, they raised me in the
manner befitting a proper woman of the southern gentry, treating me no differently, even
though I was merely the daughter of a servant.
I can say without hesitation that those were the happiest days of my life. It was a time
of innocence, which I will never be able to reclaim. My idyllic circumstance did have one
small blemish: Desirée was the only child of the Monettes, and being the masters of
their domain, they treated their daughter like royalty. I had no real objection to this;
the girl seemed remarkably unspoiled despite her position. She treated me as an equal in
every way. Still there was the matter of those minor infractions that a child might
commit. How does one discipline the master’s child? It would of course be most unfitting
for Desirée to suffer corporal punishment, and yet she needed to learn of the
consequences of her misdeeds. Thus, we entered into our Saturday ritual.
Every Saturday after the midday meal, Desirée and I were sent forth to make a
willow switch. We would gather six flexible branches as long as my arm and no thicker than
my smallest finger. These we would strip of leaves and bark. Desirée was far more
nimble-fingered than I, so she would then weave the lower half of the bundle together and
then bind them with a thin hemp rope. Thus, each week we constructed a very functional
willow switch with a proper handle and half a dozen long, loose, springy branches. It was
a chore neither one of us would rush though. Still, all too quickly we were back in the
parlor. Our first task was to set the branches into a bucket of water by the fireplace. We
then sat side by side on the piano bench awaiting the pleasure of Desirée’s
parents. The wait was probably the worst part; we sat for what seemed like an hour trying
not to fidget. Mrs. Monette would be the first to arrive. We would rise and curtsy as she
entered, and then we stood, side by side with our hands crossed behind our backs. She
would list our transgressions for the last week. They were mostly childish things as we
were children and to be honest I probably instigated as many of them as Desirée.
Being late for meals, fidgeting through church service, dirtying our clothing, leaving the
house without an escort, all were worthy of a mild reprimand. Sometimes more serious
breaches occurred such as breaking cups or dishware, playing with the darkies, or talking
disrespectfully to the adults.
Mr. Monette would then enter the parlor, the two of them would weigh the week’s
offenses, and Mr. Monette would pronounce our sentence. The number of swats would vary
from week to week: always divisible by five and usually between 25 and 50 smacks.
Desirée would gasp at the announced penance and I would cringe, but from this
point on things moved in a frantic blur. I would lie across the length of the piano bench
and grasp the distant legs. Desirée would hesitantly lift the hem of my dress, and
hold my petticoats back, by this time she was usually sniffling. Mr. Monette would
ruefully pull down my last undergarment laying my bottom bare.
I would remain motionless with my eyes squeezed shut. It seemed to take forever for him
to retrieve the switch from its water bucket. I always shivered when he took his practice
swing and droplets of water splashed across my exposed skin. Then he would begin.
Desirée would scream aloud even before the first slash struck my flesh. He always
worked quickly, the blows falling in rapid succession. At the time I thought this a
cruelty; later I would learn it was a kindness. The sting would build, rapidly
overwhelming my senses, and by the tenth strike I was twisting and screaming as loudly as
Desirée. It was always over quickly, though the pain lingered through the rest of
the day.
Following our punishment, we would wait in place, left to contemplate our sins. The
parlor was open and I remained exposed. I worried the whole time that some passing servant
or house slave might see my naked shame. Desirée would try to comfort me, and
eventually Mrs. Monette would return to release her two sobbing girls. I would quickly
pull up my drawers and smooth down my skirts and we would both promise never to be bad
again.
It was a small price to pay. I was, as often as not, the one who started the mischief
for which we were punished and when Desirée was guilty, I still bore some
responsibility. I was, after all, the older child.
I felt that Desirée’s parents appreciated my penitent example and its role in
their daughter’s moral education. They were happy to have me as her companion and, for the
most part, I was a good influence on her. For them I suppose I occupied some middle ground
between a family friend and a servant. I certainly thought of them as my parents, more so
than my own mother and my unknown Papa.
In Desirée’s world, there was no ambiguity. I was her best friend and constant
companion. When she screamed in anguish and cried out during my punishment, we were truly
bonded. Pain was a burden I gladly took up for her. Our love was sealed with my torment
and the tears from her soul. We were closer than mere sisters. We were soul mates in the
all-encompassing way that only two young girls can be.
And so we grew up together.
I was, perhaps, the first to notice how interesting boys were becoming. Desirée
was not that far behind. This was a natural part of our upbringing and was, of course,
guided and supervised by the adults. I was a petite sixteen and Desirée was
fourteen when we began to entertain gentleman callers. This was a social event usually
limited to Sunday afternoons and always with both sets of parents present. The boys who
paid call were usually a few years older than us, sons of plantation owners, sons of
bankers and other business owners from the nearby cities. In short, we met young men of
property and prospects.
******
Bridget tried to suppress a yawn as she glanced up at the kitchen clock. It was eight
thirty; it had taken almost two hours to read a little more than a dozen pages. The script
was tough to decipher and the ink was a faded brown on the yellowed parchment. It wasn’t
so much boring; some parts actually had her fidgeting in her seat. It was just a lot more
work than reading a well-typed modern novel.
It was actually an interesting story, but one nagging question remained. What did any of
this have to do with her? It had come from Mom’s side of the family and they had been in
Virginia since, well, forever. The lawyer had said as much today. This story was about a
girl from the Deep South. Her Dad’s family was still in Ireland back when this was
written, a hundred years away from being driven across the sea by politics and hunger.
Speaking of hunger, Bridget thought, skipping lunch today was one thing but missing
dinner was something else entirely. She got up and rummaged through the cupboards looking
for something quick and easy for supper. A can of soup, crumbled crackers, and a diet Coke
made a barely acceptable supper. It was quick, though she knew she should try to eat more
greens.
As Bridget cleaned her few dishes, she glanced at the book once more but decided against
it. She’d wasted a whole day on this and she needed to catch up on work. No one else was
going to pay her way.
Heading out to the barn she was glad to see that Brian, her part time helper, had
remembered to shut the lights off. Maybe he was responsible enough to run the business for
a few days. That way she could take some time off occasionally. Still it was hard to
imagine entrusting your livelihood to part time teenage help.
The office was the only furnished room in the barn. In fact, it had once been the old
tack room. She reached over and fired up the computer before flopping down into her desk
chair. As always, Windows 98 took forever to boot up.
Her eyes came to rest on the huge wooden apothecary chest directly across from her desk.
Her dad would be spinning in his grave if he knew how it ended up being used. It was hard
to believe it had only been five years. Sometimes it felt like he’d been gone forever.
They had moved south from Norfolk when he got out of the Navy. She had still been in
grade school. The McErien side of the family didn’t have some fancy land grant, just an
old homestead with a barn on half a dozen acres. She’d fallen in love with the area, not
so surprising after the nomadic life of a military brat. Her dad had taken his savings and
poured it into a charter boat business. They did okay, feeling flush in the tourist season
and tightening their belts through the winter months.
Overall, it had been the best time of her life. She’d made it through high school and
gotten into the State College. Then half way through her sophomore year, her dad had up
and died on her. It was completely unexpected; he had just dropped dead of a heart attack
at fifty-two. She still had a hard time forgiving him. He’d deserted her when she needed
him. But the strangest part of his dying had been the will he left.
Suddenly she understood why her thoughts had meandered here. The will, her mom, no
wonder she had been so brusque this afternoon--it must have seemed like Déjà
vu. When her father passed away, he left his wife the business, the boat, his life
insurance, and all his worldly possessions save one. He bequeathed the family homestead to
his daughter. That hadn’t seemed to make a lot of sense at the time. Eventually she came
to see why he had done it.
Her mom had wanted to move north, back to Richmond to be closer to her family. First,
she had tried to persuade Bridget to sell the place. When that didn’t work, she had
challenged the will in court. Bridget was still nineteen at the time.
Finding her a competent adult, the courts upheld the will. Her mom had moved away
leaving her with a house, a barn, six acres, and no means of support. It was three years
before they spoke to each other again.
The first year was tough; college was out of the question now. She spent her first
spring and summer waiting tables at a roadhouse just outside of town. Halfway through a
desperate winter, she had come across a cache of flower seeds in the barn. Gardening was
one passion Bridget and her mom once shared.
More from desperation than any real business plan, Bridget began to repackage the bags
of bulk flower seeds.
The neighbor’s son had built her a website and before she knew what was happening she
was selling a few hundred dollars worth of seed packets a month. The apothecary her dad
had so lovingly restored became a seed-storage bin that kept the mice away.
Within two years, she had several green houses and a list of clients. Now she was
shipping seeds and plants all over the country. She even had to hire Brian just to keep up
with the packing and shipping.
Checking the website, Bridget downloaded the new orders and answered the e-mails.
The hour was late by the time she had caught everything up. The barn was quiet and she
could hear the wind blowing outside. Bridget checked the office over once, more then
locked up and headed back toward the house. The chill wind sent clouds scudding across the
moon’s face.
Sometimes at night, it could get lonely out here. It was enough to make her seriously
consider a roommate. Lord knows the house was big enough and they could split some of the
bills too.
It was past ten and she was ready for some sleep, it had been a long day. Bridget
absently picked up the old journal on her way through the kitchen. It would give her
something to read as she dropped off to sleep. She snuggled down under her comforter and
opened the old book to find her place.
******
The Plantation had a constant flow of guests. Young men of proper character often
traveled with their fathers, learning their family business. In addition to sugar, indigo,
and rice, Three Willows was renowned for breeding healthy and hardy field workers who sold
for very reasonable prices. When their fathers came to our plantation to purchase slaves
some of these young men also took the opportunity to pay call on us.
Desirée and I would meet with our potential beaus, smiling, nodding, and trying
hard not to giggle as the boys attempted to impress us with their polite conversation.
Afterwards we would spend hours in her room chattering and giggling as we considered each
lad one by one. It was obvious that the boys who arrived from far distant lands were much
more interesting, with their intriguing accents and news of far-off places. In our
imagination, they hoped some day to carry us off to an exotic distant land like the
Georgia, Florida, the Carolinas, or even far off Virginia. It was all great fun at this
point and in our innocence, we imagined we would remain close even after we were swept
away by our own true loves.
I was young; it was all terribly new. I might have been more aware of the dangers if I
had sought advice from my own mother, but by now Mrs. Monette had supplanted her. Surely,
she was so much wiser than my mother could ever hope to be. I would never have thought to
doubt Desirée’s intentions; we were so much more than friends.
Eventually the inevitable befell us. The only surprise was that it took two years before
it occurred. Desirée’s sixteenth birthday party had just past; I was nearly a
half-year past my eighteenth. It was a major social event attended by every eligible young
man in the Parish. Among the guests was a young gentleman from Virginia who was visiting
at the time. He was quite young, seventeen, and probably best suited for Desirée.
With his exotic accent, and wild tales of a newfound nation, he was by far the most
interesting and sophisticated of the young gentlemen in attendance. He showed an
enthrallment with me to the exclusion of my dearest friend.
I will confess I found that thrilling. We spent the evening dancing and conversing and
when Desirée tried to join in, he politely steered us away from her. We even
managed a few minutes alone on the porch and he kissed my hand as we talked. I remained
oblivious to the problem, until Desirée refused to open my gift for her.
Desirée would not talk to me for three days. Then, on Thursday, she behaved as if
all was well and I’d been forgiven. I was relieved, but I carefully avoided talking about
the young Mr. Farnsworth.
******
Bridget’s mind had barely registered the name and then it clicked like a puzzle piece
finally fitting into place. Mr. Farnsworth was the family connection, of course. Now the
only question was how they linked together in this story. She tried to envisioned a mildly
interesting romance until she remembered the words “power to destroy the family” in that
ancient letter still sitting on her kitchen table. This was all going to have to wait
until tomorrow; tonight she needed her sleep.
Exhaustion made for a dreamless night. She woke a few minutes before the alarm, flipped
on the bedside lamp, and blinked at the darkened window. It looked like another overcast
day to start the weekend. After a quick shower, she dressed in jeans and a heavy
long-sleeved work shirt; not much of a fashion statement but perfect for gardening on a
wet day.
She glanced over at the nightstand and saw her book laid open. Bridget smiled, trying to
remember. It was something about the girlfriend Desirée being in a snit, she
recalled. Bridget had never really had a close girlfriend; between moving so often and
being a bit of a tomboy it just hadn’t happened. In fact, her mom had been her only real
female role model.
Her mother had always stayed home to raise the kids. Bridget had chafed at what she
perceived as a life under masculine control. Paradoxically she loved and respected the
most obvious cause of those limits imposed upon her mother. Bridget had always loved her
Dad.
Crossing to her bureau, she found a bright pink ribbon, and marked her place before
closing the hard leather cover.
Saturday was a workday for her and with no school Brian always came early. The coffee
had just finished brewing when she heard him coming through the back door. He came into
the kitchen tall, handsome, and oh so dark. Her mom would have flipped out had she known
Bridget let ‘one of them’ in the house when she was alone.
“Care for some coffee, Brian?”
“Thank you ma’am, I’ll get it, and you’ll want cream and sugar in yours?”
God! She hated it when he called her that. There is nothing like a respectful “Ma’am” to
make a girl feel old. Of course, the other possibility was he said it because she was
white, but somehow that seemed even worse.
“Thanks for taking care of things yesterday. It really helped me out of a jam. I
downloaded some orders last night and printed them out for you; not too many, about twenty
and mostly for seeds. I’ll help with packing the plants and we should have you out of here
before noon. That way we can catch the mail truck and we won’t have to bring everything
into town.”
“Just don’t be tellin’ my Mom I skipped school ma’am. I like workin’ for you and can
always use the money but if she thinks you’re interferin’ with my schoolin’ I won’t be
workin’ here for long.”
“I’ll never tell. Just do me one favor, Brian, knock off the Ma’am crap. It’s Bridget.”
They had been through this before and she knew his response even before he gave it. He
said it with such a straight face she wasn’t sure if he was a great actor or he just
didn’t hear himself.
“Yes ma’am, I’ll try.”
They were sitting at the table sipping coffee and chatting when he picked up the ancient
iron collar. She realized the old letter under glass, and the entire contents of the
valise sat spread out on the table.
“What’s this?” he asked, picking up the collar with its attached silver chain.
“Uh, I was given a bunch of antique stuff when I went up to Richmond yesterday.”
It was as close to the truth as she was willing to share with him. He looked at the iron
collar, so tiny in his big hands and shrugged.
“Kinky,” he said, obviously aware of its purpose.
“Yeah, well maybe we should get to work,” she said, covering her sudden embarrassment.
They walked out to the barn together each cradling their own coffee cup. Brian grabbed
the order sheets and sauntered over to the packing and shipping area. Bridget headed into
the greenhouse. They worked in silence, quiet and efficient, without a single ‘ma’am’ to
disrupt her thoughts. She began to worry that Brian might be upset but when she brought
over the plants for shipping, he seemed fine. He looked up and smiled at her as the
printer spit out the shipping labels for the boxes he’d packed.
It was eleven thirty when he came into the office and plopped into the chair next to her
desk. The packages were sitting on her front porch and he’d left a note in the mailbox for
the mailman. He was just checking to see if she had anything else for him to do.
“Just check the timer for the drip irrigation on your way out. Oh and Brian, thanks a
lot for yesterday, you really helped me out.”
“Well, Ms. McErien,” he said with great formality, “Including yesterday I’ve put in
seventeen hours this week.”
“You’ll call me Bridget or you won’t get a red cent.”
Normally Brian put in about ten hours a week and she gave him seventy dollars. She paid
him under the table so even though it was less than minimum wage there were no taxes and
he walked away with more cash this way. It worked well for both of them. She was trying to
figure what seven dollars an hour for seventeen hours was when he broke into his singsong
voice again.
“Why surely Ms. Bridget, you can spare some coins for dis poor boy. Me momma be feelin’
poorly and I needs ta get her some medicine.”
He looked up grinning broadly and batting his eyelashes. She handed him six twenties
that he snatched out of her hand before she could blink.
“Keep it up, Brian, and you’ll never be asked to skip school again.”
With money on the line, Brian suddenly became quite serious. He even managed to drop the
ma’am and use her real name for once.
“No, seriously Bridget, I don’t mind helping out and school’s almost over for the year.
I can even run the computer for you; you know get the orders and stuff.”
“Well we’ll see how it goes. I just might want to take some time off.”
“I’m done with school next Friday.” He added hopefully.
“You did a good job yesterday Brian, thanks again.”
Then the boy was on his way and Bridget settled down in front of the computer. She
finished up in the barn a little after two.
Bridget was barely feeling hungry and she made herself lunch mostly out of habit. When
she sat down at the kitchen table with her sandwich and iced tea, she noticed everything
from the valise was still sitting out. As soon as she finished her lunch, Bridget set the
leather box on the chair next to her and swept the iron collar, switch, and the leather
strap into it. She put the glass-plated letter on top, and closed it up.
Bridget moved her collection of artifacts into the pantry, clearing a space on the top
shelf where they could rest undisturbed.
A quick glance through the window showed an overcast sky spitting a few drops; it made
for a perfect planting weather.
Bridget spent the afternoon puttering in the garden and the greenhouses never really
noticing the deepening gloom until it was truly dark outside. It was seven thirty when she
made it back into the office and she spent a few more hours on her computer corresponding
to various customers and friends.
When she finally returned to the house, Bridget briefly considered a frozen dinner in
front of the TV. The thought of microwaved lasagna and ‘Law and Order’ reruns was just too
depressing, so drove down to the local roadhouse.
“Chips” was a friendly place and she knew about half the people there, which made eating
alone not quite as pathetic as it sounded. She washed down a small steak and fries with a
few beers and even remembered to order a salad.
Willie Nelson crooned from the jukebox and she was asked to join in the dancing. Bridget
declined; there were only a few things she wouldn’t be caught dead doing, line dancing
with a bunch of would-be cowboys was one of them. She managed to escape after only three
beers and a promise she’d ‘hurry back real soon’.
It wasn’t quite midnight when she crawled into bed. Tomorrow was her day of rest and her
only plan was to sleep in. Bridget glanced over at the thick leather tome and shrugged.
She could read a little bit more before she dropped off to sleep.
******
Friday night Desirée came to my room after dark.
“It’s a full moon and they’re going to let the darkies jump the broom,” she explained.
I looked at her without the least bit of understanding.
“You know, what men do to women. Aren’t you curious?”
It was wrong; I knew that much. We could get in more trouble than my bottom could
handle. Still, I was relieved Desirée was talking to me again. Yes, I admit I was
curious too. The fact that it was Desirée’s idea made it seem safer somehow.
Dressed in our nightgowns we crept out of the house and down toward the bonfires. Even
from the main house, you could hear the rhythmic pounding of drums and the chanting voices
of the assembled slaves. I was frightened; I would have turned and run home but
Desirée held my hand and bravely pressed on. The leaping flames lit up the slave’s
quarters. We shivered in the shadows, two wide-eyed girls taking it all in.
I’m not sure what I expected. Mr. Monette was there among his slaves, as were several of
the overseers. The women were dancing. They were all but naked, wearing nothing but rope
belts with a few bits of bright cloth hanging from their waists. They danced together in a
square, breasts swaying and hips gyrating at an impossible speed as the drums beat out a
pounding rhythm. The men knelt in rows before the dancing women, watching with obvious
fascination. Every few moments one of the women would leap out of the square and dance
forward, facing the kneeling men as she jumped and spun her wild motions completely
exposed the woman’s naked flesh. The kneeling male slaves would squirm uncomfortably and
beat their fists on the ground to show their approval of the lewd display. An overseer
walking among the rows of field hands would eventually tap one of the men on the
shoulder.
With a whoop of joy, the chosen one would jump up, shuck off his pants, and dash toward
the swaying woman. Hand in hand, the two of them would skip over to the side of the square
and jump over a broom handle lying on the ground. Once they had jumped over the broomstick
three times they raced off toward the cabins together.
I’d only seen naked men in some of the art books in the library. We had giggled together
as we thumbed through drawings of Italian statuary. This was the first time I had seen a
live man naked. Even in the firelight, we could see the various stages of male arousal. It
was terrifying and fascinating all at once. I wanted more than anything to be back in my
bed, but I could not tear my eyes away. At the same time I wanted to sneak off to the
cabins and peer through the windows, not sure what I’d see, or if I’d understand. In the
dim light, I looked over at Desirée, knowing we needed to get away from this place
before we were caught. In the darkness, I gripped for her hand, leaning close to her ear.
“We need to go,” I told her.
Desirée was staring at another lucky field hand, his massive manhood swinging
back and forth, as he hopped over the broom handle. She looked over at me, kissed me on
the forehead, smiled, then opened her mouth and began to scream. I was stunned, confused,
and froze for a timeless moment.
Finally, I reacted. Still clinging to Desirée’s hand, I jumped up and ran for the
safety of the house. Desirée continued to scream, tugging and stumbling along
behind me as we ran. We were no match for her father or the two overseers. They caught us
before we had even made it out of the slaves’ quarters.
******
Bridget shivered involuntarily as she closed the book and gently laid it on the
nightstand. These girls were in deep trouble. Well, she thought with a shrug, no matter
what happened they had both gotten over it ages ago, so it really didn’t matter.
It must have been scary and exciting in a deliciously naughty way for them. Their Papa
would no doubt put the fear of God into them. The poor older girl would no doubt get a
paddling for the both of them. Then Desirée would weep at the unfairness of it all
and things would be better between them again.
Bridget needed to sleep but wasn’t overly tired. The book wasn’t turning out to be
anything like she expected, in fact, the story was making her a little agitated just now.
Snuggling under the covers Bridget wondered which direction her dreams would wander in
tonight. Would it be the hopeful slaves seeking carnal delights, or the frightened girls
facing their inevitable punishment? Either one filled her mind with uncomfortable images.
Bridget tried to think back to the last time she’d been with a man. Was it really five
years? Way back in college? It couldn’t have been that long ago, could it? All she knew
was that it had been a long while. She really needed to start meeting a better class of
men.
Night fell in her dreamscape with pounding of drums and the flickering light of a
bonfire. She knew immediately where her dreams had taken her. This time she was the one
who danced before the silent eyes of a kneeling phalanx of rough black men.
Threading through the rows she gyrated her hips with a skill and speed she could only
possess in a dream. Bridget was unnaturally calm in this situation brushing away the
clutching fists of the men as she drifted through the rows. She searched and searched, not
knowing exactly who she was looking for, only certain she would know him when she found
him. As she sought out her prize, the drums beat incessantly driving her body hard and
fast. A sheen of sweat was all that covered her now, yet she felt not the least hint of
shame. In her dream, she was proud of her body and the obvious lust it inspired in those
kneeling men.
Then he was before her.
It was Brian, kneeling erect and proud as she danced before him. She held out her hand
and he rose up ready and eager to follow her. She stared down in disbelief; his erection
was massive, fear mingled with desire. Her hand was barely able to circle the thick
throbbing flesh but she held it firmly as she turned and led the way back to her house.
Brian followed closely led by the hard fleshy leash that controls all men.
It was her own house she led him toward, and the drums and fire dissolved into the mist.
Her desire was still there though, and she dragged the poor boy through the back door
heading up the stairs toward her bedroom. His stiff swollen member proclaimed his own
eagerness.
Then he wilted in her grasp.
“Please momma, it not my fault.” Brian was stuttering.
Bridget looked up with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Brian’s dream mother stood
blocking the stairway with a bamboo cane in her hand. But this wasn’t Brian’s mom. This
woman was a dark skinned version of Bridget’s mother, right down to the outfit she had
worn to the lawyers yesterday.
She screamed at Bridget, swinging her cane wildly, like a drunken swordfighter. Bridget
stumbled backward trying to fend off the blows but the woman, who was and wasn’t her
mother, continued to slash indiscriminately at the two of them.
“How dare you! You pale Jezebel! Try to corrupt my sweet boy. He just a child damn you!
I’ve a mind to beat you till you plead forgiveness of de Lord.”
Bridget crawled away on hands and knees while the wild woman screamed and swatted at her
with the cane. Some crevice of her mind was aware it wasn’t true, knew that she would
never consider anything with her young assistant, was aware that none of this could really
happen. It didn’t stop her from crying out and twitching in bed with each swipe of the
cane.
Then the banshee was gone. Somehow a sobbing Bridget was in her own room, in her own
bed, but not alone. Brian, or an older, bolder, version of him, held her in his arms. His
arms stroked her with calm self-confidence, while his voice; deeper and richer than she
recalled murmured reassurance. Her resistance was melting and with it her clothing.
She abruptly noticed he was as naked as she had magically become. She studied his form
with unabashed wonder. He was everything she had ever dreamt of in a man, a dark Apollo,
with a manhood that was impressive without being terrifying. He knelt between her parted
thighs and she felt herself moisten in anticipation. Her right hand reached out for him
and brushed against her own cleft instead. Bridget whimpered.
--and woke with a moan.
She had never actually started to masturbate in her sleep before. Certainly not during a
dream about a teenager, let alone a black teenage boy. Trying to focus in on the
nightstand clock, she saw it was barely eleven forty-five, less than an hour since she had
closed her eyes.
With an effort, she pulled her damp fingers away. Her heart was pounding and despite her
yawns, she knew sleep was now beyond her grasp. Spying the tome that was responsible for
her predicament, she struggled to sit up. Reaching for the book, Bridget gave a weary
sigh. She would simply read until she fell asleep.
******
There was no question of waiting for Saturday afternoon. Punishment would be swift and
harsh. What we had done went beyond any sin ever contemplated by Desiree’s parents. The
men dragged us into the house, and I can honestly say that I feared for her safety more
than my own. Desirée was still screaming as they pulled us up the stairway toward
her father’s bedroom. The noise brought Mrs. Monette out into the hall. One sharp word and
the overseer holding Desirée released his grip, though the painful hold on my neck
and shoulder remained. Mr. Monette exchanged a few words with his wife and she nodded
retreating into her bedroom and closing the door behind her.
Once inside his room the door slammed shut. They tossed me to the ground at
Desirée’s feet. The overseers remained, both positioned between the two of us and
the only doorway out. It was unnecessary though; we never would have considered running
away.
“Please Daddy I’m sorry. She told me it was just a dance. I didn’t know.” Desirée
pled with such sincerity that even I would have believed her myself had I not been there.
Her father’s eyes turned toward me; his face a mask of red fury. I cringed and scuttled
behind Desirée seeking some form of protection from the very girl whose false
accusation had condemned me in her father’s mind. I looked up at him, prepared to offer
some defense, prepared to speak the truth, but his eyes burned with such clear hatred that
I was startled into silence.
Nothing I could say would placate him and to accuse his own daughter would only make
matters worse. My only hope was that Desirée would relent and tell the truth. Her
father strode toward me and she scurried out of the way. He crouched down before me,
grabbing my hair and pulling me forward until our faces were inches apart. I dearly wanted
to scream but was much too frightened.
“This is how you people repay me!” he shouted into my face.
“I bring you into my house! I treat you like my own family! This is what you do! You
just can’t help your nature I suppose. You just corrupt everything you touch, don’t you?
Even my own daughter isn’t safe from you! I thought you two were friends! Well no one will
ever know what you’ve done to her, you little bitch! You’ll be punished for this! Oh yes,
well punished, and then you’ll be gone from here forever.”
His words were frightening; his awful tone was terrifying. He screamed out the words
rapidly with such an uncontrolled vehemence that the spray of his spittle speckled my
face. I tried to scramble backward but he clutched my hair firmly and I twisted helplessly
in his grip. I was too frightened to grasp the full meaning of his words as I burst into
tears.
“Desirée, go to your room! I’ll deal with you later.”
“Please Daddy, I don’t want her anymore. Make her go away.”
Desirée’s voice was soft and almost cloyingly sweet; her father turned to glare
at her. I think in that moment he understood what had truly happened. If so, it didn’t
matter anymore. Things had gone too far.
“Get out!” he shouted at his daughter. “Get out now, before I change my mind.”
Desirée scrambled out the door, which one of the men then closed behind her. Mr.
Monette turned back toward me, the awful grimace on his face turning into an even more
frightening smile. He stood, pulling me up with him by his grip on my hair. With a casual
gesture, he flung me toward the feet of the two men guarding the door.
“Liam, Sean, strip her,” he barked.
| 
