developed eyes in the back of her head as a child ducking blows from her own vicious family people. The cook had seen Katharine and Esau together and had caught the temper of the relation.
Ellen worried that Mrs. Clover had found out the true paternity of Katharine’s baby. For Mrs. Clover sealed Katharine’s punishment by arranging for her lying-in to be in the shacks used by the bondwomen working the tobacco. Her labor was to be attended by Meander, the slave midwife, a further insult arranged by Mrs. Clover. Could she have guessed? The ramifications of this birth worried Ellen mightily.
“She’ll be seven years in the workhouse do this come out. Look at that child! It ain’t no ways white! This a colored baby child! Look at her head!” the midwife brayed like a mule. “Dis why she brung her down here!” Ellen was frightened that the woman wouldn’t keep her mouth closed. If word spread through the colored community and then to the white folks that a white girl had given birth to a colored baby, Katharine would be sent to the workhouse. The child would simply be taken and sold south to the first trader who had the price.
“How this come about? You know ’bout who she been screwing to bring a colored baby?” Meander interrogated Ellen. “What all is going on here, girl?”
Ellen looked at the copper-colored corkscrews on the babe’s head. The child’s hair color was similar to its mother’s hair, though it was not slick and straight. Her skin was butter-colored—a color often seen among colored folks. She’d never pass for white, and Katharine would never be allowed to stay a white woman and be her mama.
Ellen held a washbasin and pitcher for the old attendant and the woman scrubbed away Katharine’s bloody particulars from her hands and arms. The foul pail was given to Ellen to pitch. She was reluctant to turn her back on the old woman. It would be easy enough to smother the babe and be rid of the trouble. She sloshed the refuse out back of the cabin.
Ellen didn’t know what to say to the midwife so she said nothing—only looked at the woman and squinted a bit, as if fending off a foul breeze of questions. She didn’t have to do much talking. Mrs. Clover soon swooped in the cabin and took over the situation.
The first task she fell to was to upbraid the midwife for opening her mouth to croak at all. Mrs. Clover threatened to throttle the woman if she talked to anyone. She put her arms akimbo and convinced the other woman she was well up to the task of beating her senseless. The midwife took low. She stood back from the pallet where Katharine lay and calculated the value of her silence. She recognized Mrs. Clover as a white woman, but one who was surely scared. Only a dullard could miss that the cook held herself culpable in this pregnancy. And Meander was no dullard. Siobhan Clover’s fears were palpable. Mistress considered Mrs. Clover, because of her longevity on the place, to be the de facto supervisor of the white women who worked under her. She was to train them and keep her eyes on them for trouble. It was her responsibility to ensure that Katharine did not fall into just such a hole as she was peering out from. Mistress would see it that Mrs. Clover had shirked her duty. And the blame might splash upwards to soil the mistress’s skirts if the master got wind of what had really gone on beneath his nose.
Katharine Logan returned to the kitchen within a day of her delivery of the babe. Mrs. Clover instructed Katharine in wrapping her milk-swollen breasts and gave her a clean dress.
For the first two or three days after the birth, Katharine sniffled and wept. The cook berated her. She harangued that a worthless slacker like Katharine should be relieved that she’d been saved the trouble of raising a bastard child. Mrs. Clover said plainly that Katharine’s tears were unseemly, worthless, and tiresome and would not be tolerated.
The twisting, serpentine plot that Siobhan Clover concocted
Ellen worried that Mrs. Clover had found out the true paternity of Katharine’s baby. For Mrs. Clover sealed Katharine’s punishment by arranging for her lying-in to be in the shacks used by the bondwomen working the tobacco. Her labor was to be attended by Meander, the slave midwife, a further insult arranged by Mrs. Clover. Could she have guessed? The ramifications of this birth worried Ellen mightily.
“She’ll be seven years in the workhouse do this come out. Look at that child! It ain’t no ways white! This a colored baby child! Look at her head!” the midwife brayed like a mule. “Dis why she brung her down here!” Ellen was frightened that the woman wouldn’t keep her mouth closed. If word spread through the colored community and then to the white folks that a white girl had given birth to a colored baby, Katharine would be sent to the workhouse. The child would simply be taken and sold south to the first trader who had the price.
“How this come about? You know ’bout who she been screwing to bring a colored baby?” Meander interrogated Ellen. “What all is going on here, girl?”
Ellen looked at the copper-colored corkscrews on the babe’s head. The child’s hair color was similar to its mother’s hair, though it was not slick and straight. Her skin was butter-colored—a color often seen among colored folks. She’d never pass for white, and Katharine would never be allowed to stay a white woman and be her mama.
Ellen held a washbasin and pitcher for the old attendant and the woman scrubbed away Katharine’s bloody particulars from her hands and arms. The foul pail was given to Ellen to pitch. She was reluctant to turn her back on the old woman. It would be easy enough to smother the babe and be rid of the trouble. She sloshed the refuse out back of the cabin.
Ellen didn’t know what to say to the midwife so she said nothing—only looked at the woman and squinted a bit, as if fending off a foul breeze of questions. She didn’t have to do much talking. Mrs. Clover soon swooped in the cabin and took over the situation.
The first task she fell to was to upbraid the midwife for opening her mouth to croak at all. Mrs. Clover threatened to throttle the woman if she talked to anyone. She put her arms akimbo and convinced the other woman she was well up to the task of beating her senseless. The midwife took low. She stood back from the pallet where Katharine lay and calculated the value of her silence. She recognized Mrs. Clover as a white woman, but one who was surely scared. Only a dullard could miss that the cook held herself culpable in this pregnancy. And Meander was no dullard. Siobhan Clover’s fears were palpable. Mistress considered Mrs. Clover, because of her longevity on the place, to be the de facto supervisor of the white women who worked under her. She was to train them and keep her eyes on them for trouble. It was her responsibility to ensure that Katharine did not fall into just such a hole as she was peering out from. Mistress would see it that Mrs. Clover had shirked her duty. And the blame might splash upwards to soil the mistress’s skirts if the master got wind of what had really gone on beneath his nose.
Katharine Logan returned to the kitchen within a day of her delivery of the babe. Mrs. Clover instructed Katharine in wrapping her milk-swollen breasts and gave her a clean dress.
For the first two or three days after the birth, Katharine sniffled and wept. The cook berated her. She harangued that a worthless slacker like Katharine should be relieved that she’d been saved the trouble of raising a bastard child. Mrs. Clover said plainly that Katharine’s tears were unseemly, worthless, and tiresome and would not be tolerated.
The twisting, serpentine plot that Siobhan Clover concocted
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