The heat from Muncie’s starched white collar comforted him on this unusually cool October evening. Seven Sisters was full of candles and laughter, and it smelled like a banquet, just like one he had heard about in a fairy story. In the distance, the boy heard the deep, booming voice of Stokes, the house man, announcing supper to the guests. Muncie held the silver tray tightly—a neat trick while wearing thick, white cotton gloves. All serving slaves wore white gloves. Mr. Cottonwood would be mightily embarrassed to serve his guests food that slaves had been dipping their hands in. Best to keep the gloves on to show you had clean hands.
It took skill to keep those gloves clean and white during service, to walk in the stiff shoes, to tote a tray without clattering a spoon. Muncie had kept Early and the other boys up half the night walking the space of their small room until Stokes poked his head in and told him to go to bed. He wanted to practice; he didn’t dare trip and fall on his face.
Muncie’s heart pounded in his chest, and his dark skin flushed with excitement. Stokes strode to the servants’ hall, inspecting each of the gathered slaves. Muncie kept his eyes down respectfully, staring at his own reflection in the shiny tray. He bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from smiling. He hardly ever saw himself, except when he could slip off to the river. There were plenty of mirrors in Seven Sisters, but he could get smacked for looking too long in any of them. It was too late in the year to swim now.
His first night of dinner service seemed like a dream. Really, he was too young to serve, but he was tall. And Hooney, the missus’ housemaid, said he was pleasing to the eye even though he was very dark.
Early hadn’t lasted in service. Muncie didn’t know if Early had clattered spoons or gawked too much at the guests or spoken out of turn. Besides the beating he took, the older boy seemed relieved to leave the dining hall. He had no stomach for killing chickens and wearing shoes. He preferred spending his time fishing with Mr. Cottonwood or traveling with him into Mobile. Early didn’t care; he was happy. That made Muncie feel a bit better about taking his spot.
Tonight was a special night. A bunch of people he didn’t know were coming to dine with the Cottonwoods. In this little corner of what Muncie knew was a big world, the Cottonwoods meant everything to the plantation families of Old Mobile. Mrs. Cottonwood lay upstairs in her birthing bed, where she would stay until the baby arrived. She had a kind face and soft hands and had soothed his head once when he was full of the fever. Even though that was many years ago, Muncie remembered her cool touch and kind care. Now his friend Calpurnia was mistress of Seven Sisters, at least until Mrs. Cottonwood had the baby, since Mr. Cottonwood was often away. Calpurnia meant the world to Muncie, but she was also old enough to get married. Some gentlemen, both young gentlemen and some older men, were coming now from miles around to take a peek at Calpurnia. He didn’t know how he felt about that, but mostly, he didn’t think about it. There was always something to do nowadays.
Tonight, Calpurnia’s cousin Isla, her uncle Louis and a group of neighbors filled Seven Sisters to capacity. Calpurnia had told him that she didn’t really want to have this party and that she’d rather stay with her mother. She was nervous about the whole thing, and he wanted to make her proud. He loved Calpurnia, not like Tristan loved Isolde but like she was his own blood, like she was his kin. The very thought made Muncie blush again.
Besides the chatting of the people he served, the house seemed quiet after the business of the day. A stream of slaves had flowed from the main house to the cook house like a line of busy ants. Some toted water for baths; others carried trays of fruit and bottles of wine. When the hot food came to the house, two small boys ran out in front, tossing balls of hot cornbread at the hounds, shouting, “Hush puppy! Hush puppy!” Those pups couldn’t resist those treats. Once they gobbled them up, they were easily wrangled and taken away from the house before the dinner guests sat down. Nobody wanted to hear a pack of yapping dogs while they ate their dinner. That’s what Stokes said, although Muncie knew for a fact he was fond of those animals.
Suddenly, the guests came flooding into the room like magical creatures on mists of perfume. The ladies, most of whom Muncie didn’t recognize, wore dresses so big that the skirts swirled about them like colorful clouds. Some were made of colors he had never seen. He resisted the urge to touch the airy fabrics.
All of the gentlemen looked stiff and straight with high white collars and tapered cloaks, like the toy soldiers Muncie found stuffed in a box in the upstairs nursery a long time ago. Even Mr. Cottonwood looked clean and nice, like he’d been dipped in the Mobile River six or seven times. Tall Uncle Louis had white teeth that shone all the time, maybe because he smiled all the time. Muncie searched the crowd but did not see Calpurnia. He heard a nearby sniff and realized he was gawking. He didn’t dare to look at Stokes, instead shifting his eyes downward to his tray.
Stokes strode past him and the other slaves and walked to the wooden double doors of the dining hall. Standing tall and straight, he announced in his deepest voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Miss Calpurnia Cottonwood of Mobile and Miss Isla Torrence of Savannah.”
Feeling safe with Stokes at such a distance, Muncie peeked at the door. The two girls strode into the room together, arm in arm like two roses of different colors. Isla turned her head to cast her broad smile around the room—a move that seemed bold, beyond her fifteen years. Her blond curls bounced like they were happy too. Perky dimples showed brightly in her soft pink cheeks. Muncie could see, even in the failing light, that her eyes glistened with pleasure at all the attention.
Muncie’s heart sank when he saw his friend. Although she wore a small smile and tipped her head slightly at a few of the guests, her unhappiness was obvious to anyone with eyes. Taller than her cousin and thinner by far, Calpurnia looked like a queen, like Guinevere, without even trying. Her soft brown hair was piled high on her head with pretty combs tucked in the silky tresses. Coral earrings dangled from her ears; Muncie recognized them as Mrs. Cottonwood’s.
The gathered guests clapped appreciatively, and the ladies took a turn around the room and were seated on either side of Mr. Cottonwood at the head of the table. When Calpurnia sat down, Muncie could see her cheeks flush under all the attention. He knew she would rather be in the library or tugging at flowers and weeds or at her mother’s bedside—anywhere but there.
For the next hour, Muncie was too fearful to think of Miss Calpurnia, even though she was very close. He catered to Stokes’ every need and snapped to attention when summoned. It took all the discipline he had not to look interested in the conversations that teemed around the table, although he and the other slaves were very busy. Occasionally, he tossed a suspicious, disapproving look at one tall, dark-haired gentleman sitting a little too close to Calpurnia. Captain Garrett was his name. He had been here before and had taken Calpurnia on an unchaperoned stroll around the side garden. He insisted on pouring her drink and asked her questions that didn’t seem to be any of his business.
Muncie was relieved, for more than one reason, when the dinner service came to an end.
After dinner, the gentlemen would find a fine Kentucky whiskey waiting for them in the front parlor while the ladies would take lemonade, with gin if they chose, on the side porch. Musicians played softly in the background, and heaps of flowers on the mantelpieces and tables filled the dining hall with a heavy fragrance of magnolias, honeysuckle and beeswax.
Muncie wished he could pat Calpurnia’s hand and assure her that she was lovely and perfect. She would agonize later over every detail. Trying to get to Calpurnia nowadays to speak with her or just be with her had proven difficult. Every time he tried to walk with her in the grove or meet her near the gardens, he had met Isla instead. She seemed to know his every move, and even now as she left the dining hall, he felt her eyes on him. He blushed against his collar, now wet with sweat.
Isla had been at Seven Sisters only two weeks, but she acted as if she were the lady of the house. According to Hooney, the girl was putting on airs because everyone, even the house slaves, knew “that she was just a poor relation of no true standing.”
The day before the party, she had taken a fall near the fountains. At first, Muncie had felt alarmed when he saw her lying on the ground. She’d cried and cried, and he was worried that she had been hurt. But once he got there, he suspected she just wanted him to hold her. “Hold me, Muncie! No, don’t leave me here,” she had murmured like she was beginning to faint.
Normally, he wouldn’t touch her, but he didn’t dare leave her stranded in the yard either. As he had lifted her in his arms, she’d smelled like honeysuckle and stolen sweets. Feeling her soft little arms around his neck made him feel strong, like a man. But a greater, deeper fear gripped him inside. Instead of loving Isla, loving holding the frail little creature that clung to him too tightly, he couldn’t wait to deliver his misbegotten goods to someone else. He had called out to the house as he approached, “Mister Stokes, Mister Stokes, sir!”
Isla had protested angrily, saying he was walking too fast, but he’d ignored the feeling of her frilly clothes crushed under his hands and her girlish voice. He’d held her like she was a snake, a dangerous snake—like one of those black snakes that chased you with all their might until you began chasing them back. In this case, that didn’t seem like a good idea. He had done right in calling out, Stokes had said, but he must never again touch any of the women in the house. Not even if she fell down a well. Stokes had called him stupid, but Hooney had understood. Muncie hadn’t told anyone else, not even Calpurnia.
Muncie relinquished his silver tray at the waiting station and dabbed his forehead and neck with a towel. His breakfast was long gone, and he heard his stomach rumbling. But he shuffled after Stokes in his clunky shoes, ready to serve the men in the study. Mostly, he was supposed to watch and learn, but he had to be ready to help out if called on. So far, nothing exciting had happened. Mr. Cottonwood and Captain Garrett talked loudly about traffic along the Mobile River while the Cottonwoods’ neighbors, Mr. Semmes and Mr. Beauchamp, exchanged jokes that Muncie didn’t understand and then slapped one another on the back. Captain Garrett laughed too loudly, and it seemed he liked pouring Mr. Cottonwood his whiskey.
A light tap on the door surprised Muncie, and he hustled through the opening to see who was beckoning to him. Moving as fast as lightning and waving to him was Isla. “Muncie!”
A jolt of worry hit his stomach, and this time he knew it wasn’t a rumble of hunger. His brain yelled “Danger!” but he worried that something was wrong with Calpurnia. Against his better judgment, he slipped into the Blue Room, next to the men’s parlor, behind her. It was dark except for a single candelabrum that shone like a faraway beacon near the window.
Before he knew what was happening, Isla melted her body against his and planted her lips on his dry mouth.
Her kiss was delicious and tasted like lemonade. She made a little groan against him, shaking him back to reality, and he pushed her, holding her at arm’s length away from him. He didn’t know what to say except, “Please…” In a second, her inviting lips curled tightly in a rueful scowl, and her body stiffened. She suddenly seemed tall and imposing, not soft and pliable as she had been seconds before.
With savage ferocity, she slapped him across the face, stinging his cheek and his still-warm lips. “I know the truth about you, Muncie! You don’t think I see how you moon after Calpurnia like a whipped dog?” Her voice was a seething whisper. She stepped even farther away from him, peering at him. “She’s no better than me, even though she has a rich daddy and an old name. You’ll see, Muncie. You’ll see who the real woman is.” With that, she swished out of the Blue Room with a click of her heels. Muncie touched his hand to his cheek, still hot from Isla’s vicious slap….