Chapter Nineteen

Nancy knew most happiness when she was with Saint. He grew into a handsome boy with soft brown curls and wide-spaced eyes, but the somber cast to his expression had her forever trying to provoke a smile. She loved his deep, unusual laugh, although Judy stiffened whenever she heard it.

By the time he was three years old, Saint could ride a pony and throw a line to catch fish. He watched everyone around him intently, gathering from faces and gestures much of what he could not hear. He was far from stupid, she was sure, but he still did not speak a recognizable word, and it was clear that he could only hear the loudest of noises. Saint was deaf and dumb. That was the bald truth, and nothing in Dick, Judy or Nancy's experience had prepared them for it. Nancy was never alone with Dick if she could help it, but concern for her nephew finally prompted her to seek him out in the stable.

She found him in his shirtsleeves, brushing down Star, while the horse, Jack's favorite, chewed on hay and snorted, her long tail swishing back and forth. She stood in the shadows, watching Dick work. He dragged his arm across his face, wiping away a sheen of sweat. His cotton shirt was drenched, leached onto his back and shoulders. Memories brought heat to her face. When he straightened up, she cleared her throat.

"Nancy!"

He moved toward her, and she raised her hands. "I'm only here to talk about Saint."

"Ah." His expression was hard to read. He twisted the cloth he held in his hands, and his shoulders dropped. "Well, let's hear it then. What about the boy?"

"Perhaps you and Judy have already discussed it. But she won't speak to me on the subject." She drew a deep breath. "I'm worried about him."

Dick frowned. He turned and bolted Star in her stable and then led Nancy to a bench out in the open with a view down to the tobacco fields. She took a seat and was glad and sad at the same time when he sat down as far from her side as was possible.

"Saint does not hear well," she said. "I can't tell how bad it is, but I think very bad. I know little of such matters. I keep hoping for change. He doesn't speak. I fear he will not."

"He is only a babe. There's plenty of time for him to talk, surely?"

"But what if he doesn't?" Silence followed. Nancy thought of all she wanted to say. She watched a hawk swoop across the fields and the afternoon sun dapple the trees in a hundred shades of green. "It's time to call in a doctor and get some advice. I'll do anything in my power to help or teach him. He is a bright boy, I'm sure of it. I am worried, however, that he'll never be able to manage the plantation." She let that comment settle for a moment and then forced out the words she had come to say. "You and Judy need to have another child."

"What?" Dick sprang to his feet and turned on her. "My God, Nancy, what's this? The first time you speak to me alone in months, no, in a year or more, and this is your subject?" He stepped forward as if to grab at her, and she shrank back. He stopped and his eyebrows rose.

"Don't touch me," she said. Tears stung her ears and nose. His expression was so wounded. But they had come so far. His eyes bored into her, and a single tear slid down her cheek. "You and your wife need more children. It is your duty."

She couldn't bear his eyes. Dreaded what he might say.

"Duty." There was a hollowness in his voice that hurt her chest, but she forced herself to stay silent. In a moment, he resumed his place beside her on the bench. "You're right, of course."

She stole a sideways glance at him. His shoulders were slumped, his whole body defeated. "I heard you say to her once that she was your wife. That you were all each other had. You said that she was your wife and she needed to act like it."

"And now you come to tell me that I must act like a husband."

"I do."

"It is hard, Nance. Mighty hard."

"Yes."

"Do you find it hard too?" His voice was a whisper. She stole another glance, but he was looking straight ahead. Nancy forced herself to do the same.

"Every day." She sensed movement next to her, imagined him nodding, kept her eyes on the horizon.

"Wait here," he said. "I won't be long."

Her eyes followed him as he strode off. Unwelcome tears flooded her eyes and she fumbled for a handkerchief. He must agree to get advice about Saint. As for the rest? It was like cutting her heart out.

Within minutes, he was back. Her tears were under control and she hoped she looked calm enough. He sat down and fumbled in his pocket. "You are right in what you say. And I will do your bidding." She opened her mouth to speak, but he continued. "In both matters. I will write to Mr. Tucker, to Doctor Alves and to Benjamin Harvey, a fellow I knew at Columbia. I'm sure there was a similar case in his family. I pray you are wrong about the boy, but we will do as you wish."

"Thank you. I thought I might also write to Leslie Alexander in Edinburgh. He was our tutor at Tuckahoe for a time. He's a clever man. Might I ask his advice about Saint?"

Dick shrugged. "I suppose it won't hurt. But Nancy—"

She had to look at him again. His face was strained, his eyes dark, his mouth thin, all his customary brightness dimmed. "I want you to have this."

Dick reached into a pocket and pulled out a ring. "Don't say anything, I want you to have it. My mother gave me it after my father died. You don't need to wear it. Knowing you have it is enough."

With that, he left her again, disappearing back into the stable and calling for Billy to help him fill the water troughs.

Slowly, Nancy opened her hand and examined the ring. Black enamel. A small gemstone, shaped like a coffin. A mourning ring.

A few months later, she received a reply from Scotland. Leslie Alexander wrote extensively about methods used in Spain to teach deaf children not only to read and write but also to speak. There was a man from Edinburgh, a Dr. Braidwood, who'd recently opened a school in London. Hope flared as she read. Alexander planned to send her material and instructions. He wrote that there had been whole books published in Europe about teaching the deaf, and he would send her any he could get his hands on. For now, he proposed she begin working with Saint on the naming of household items and people. There was no reason why the boy could not read and write. She should start at once.

Nancy wasted no time. Saint loved horses, so she began in the stable. Horse. Saddle. Rope. Hay. Water. Tack. Hoof. Tail. Mane. With Saint watching her every move, she wrote each word on paper and pinned or placed it next to the object named. Then she made a duplicate of each and handed them to Saint. His eagerness and interest thrilled her. As Leslie Alexander had instructed, when she pointed to each word and the object it represented, she made sure to look Saint directly in the face and say each word clearly and repeatedly. It was easy to make a game of things. She put the word "hay" down on a bale by the stable door. She pointed to it and then to the pile of words spread out on the ground before the boy. She tried to look confused. Could he understand her? When Saint pointed to the word "hay" on the papers before him, she cried out and clapped. Saint clapped too and let out his low, gurgling laugh.

Teaching Saint to write, according to Alexander, was of prime importance, and she must begin with fingerspelling to make the connection between the whole words she was teaching and his handwriting practice. In a second letter, he provided a fingerspelling system for her to use, and she spent every spare moment with the boy watching him learn to mimic her gestures on his own chubby fingers. Dick and Judy showed little interest, but Nancy did not care. For the first time in years, she felt alive and useful. Leslie Alexander wrote again, sharing his correspondence with Dr. Braidwood. They had discussed the frustrations experienced by deaf children and the importance of using a language of signs to speed interaction. Writing would come, but progress was slow. If Nancy and Saint were to develop signs and gestures for specific activities or situations, their communication would be much enhanced. She read this with delight. They already had many such signs. When he wanted to ride, Saint held up imaginary reins and stamped his feet. When he wanted water, he drank from an imaginary glass. For milk, he drank from it in sips instead of gulps. Every morning, for months, Nancy had asked him how he was by tapping on his chest twice and tilting her head.

The kitchen house was a treasure trove of words. Sarah, Lottie and Sally all suffered having their names pinned to their dresses and their busy workplace littered with scraps of paper precisely naming everything from the Betty lamps to Sarah's favorite spider pans and kick toaster. Following Leslie Alexander's instructions, she began teaching him words in groups: pot, kettle, skillet, spit. Ladle, dish, basin, spoon. Door, latch, bolt, lock, key. Shirt, button, sleeve, cuff. She enjoyed it, seeing the world anew, and Jack became an unexpected ally.

On his first visit after Nancy began Saint's lessons, she sensed him watching them. This was nothing new and reminded her of a time when Jack's attention had caused distress, but she quickly realized that Saint was his focus now, not her. He asked no questions, but of all the family, Jack was the most consistent in his efforts to communicate with Saint, to talk to him face to face, to use gesture and facial expression to get his message across, and even to add a new word to Saint's written vocabulary — uncle.

On his next visit, Jack showed her several small bound leather notebooks he proposed giving to Saint.

"What do you think?" he asked, biting on his lip.

"They're perfect! Come!" She led him out to the kitchen garden where Saint was pulling weeds with Billy Ellis. Sarah's son was tall now and strong. A young man with firm muscles and bright eyes — eyes Nancy had seen falling more and more often on her maid, Phebe.

"What are they doing?" Jack stopped up short as Nancy closed the gate to the garden. She followed his gaze.

"Talking with their hands! Isn't it wonderful? Saint and I have taught Billy together. Syphax too." She sounded more confident than she was. It occurred to her that Jack might not approve of Billy being taught to sign, but if Syphax was involved and Dick allowed it, surely Jack could not object? She felt his eyes on her and lifted her chin. "I'll teach you if you like," she said.

"Boy!" Jack called out at Billy who looked up. Saint turned when he saw Billy react, and his face burst into smiles at the sight of his uncle. He ran to them, arms flailing and gurgles of laughter spilling from his lips. Jack opened the gate, and Saint barreled into his leg.

They turned to walk back to the house, but after a few steps, Saint tugged on her skirts. He stopped and gestured.

"What's he saying?" asked Jack.

"He wants to show you how he can ride. He asks if you will let him ride Star with you."

"He does?" Jack looked down at his nephew and then back to Nancy. "Why not!"

A few minutes later, Nancy's heart filled as she watched Jack ride off with Saint in front of him. They would find Dick, she was sure, and likely not be back until dinner time. Contentment, a rare feeling, settled around her shoulders. It was all she hoped for, and more than she deserved, but with the sun on her face and the scent of pollen in the air, she allowed herself to feel useful, and worthy, and perhaps even optimistic that things could change — and not always for the worse.

"Did you tell Sarah to slaughter the pig yet?"

Her sister stood ten feet away on the steps of Bizarre. She had one hand on her hip and the other on her midriff, holding herself and telling Nancy what Judy had not yet said in words: that she was pregnant again.

"You startled me."

"Always daydreaming." Judy rolled her eyes and her lips puckered in distaste. "There is work to be done. Where is the boy?"

Why must she call him the boy? The muscles in Nancy's jaw clenched, but she forced her face to relax. "He is gone riding with Jack. I expect they will be out for hours. What would you wish me to do first, Sister?"

"First? Did I not just speak to you? The pig, Nancy. Speak to Sarah about the pig. And tell her the parlor floor needs swept again."

She joined Judy on the steps. "How are you feeling?"

Judy glared. "When do I have time to stop and consider my feelings? You have enough feelings for us both, I'd say." She turned and walked back into the house, throwing a parting shot over her shoulder. "There are letters for you on the hallway table. But mind you see about that pig first!"

The letters explained at least some of Judy's sourness. One was from Mr. Tucker, now a regular correspondent, the other from Patsy. Their Tuckahoe relatives were a point of contention. None would visit, but not long after Father died, Patsy had written, making no reference to Dick's trial or her part in it. Instead, she wrote of the family, and if Patsy was not quite able to contain her bitterness over her husband's lost inheritance, Nancy didn't begrudge her that feeling and was glad to hear news of her siblings, particularly the younger ones. Any lingering resentment she held over Patsy's words in the Cumberland courtroom vanished. She offered the letter to Judy to read, but her sister recoiled. Every subsequent letter from their siblings brought on a storm of ill humor from Judy. Doors slammed, dishes were sent back to the kitchen, fault was found with everything. Dust billowed out from under the beds. Stains blossomed on bedclothes. Weeds sprouted in the flowerbeds. The slaves were rowdy, the women stared, the men were sly. Even Sarah, in the kitchen, knew the sharp edges of Judy's tongue. Lottie and Sally, if they weren't careful, suffered the force of Judy's hand. Dick simply disappeared for a few days. Nancy made sure to keep Saint out of reach.

She took the letters out onto the porch. Tucker's letters always brought her joy. Stories of Dick's extended family easily filled several pages, reminding her of past days at Tuckahoe with her own siblings and the watchful, busy eye of her mother — cherished memories. Patsy's letter was full of talk of renovations at Monticello, her beloved father's opinions and news of her growing family. Patsy and Tom had lost a daughter to a fever, but Patsy was expecting again and wrote of her optimism of being blessed with another girl to replace the lost child, Ellen. Thinking of the little girl, Nancy wanted to weep. Her hand went to the mourning ring, hanging around her neck on a chain, hidden by the cotton wrap she always wore and tucked firmly into her bodice. Its solidity steadied her. Still, this battle always to contain her emotions, to turn away from thoughts, to live braced against her own mind and feelings, was exhausting. She let the letters fall on the table beside her. Judy could pick them up and read or not as she chose. She closed her eyes and let the blackness of her eyelids swallow her up. The idea of dying came to her, and it seemed sweet. Then she heard her name called.

"Nancy!" Jack's voice broke the silence. "Come and take Saint from me." He rode up to the house and reined in Star as he spoke. "He's a capital fellow, but I promised to go back and look at the west field with Dick, and I can't keep my eye on him at the same time."

She jumped to her feet and flew down the steps. Saint's cheeks were pink, his hair windblown and curly. She was about to stretch out her arms to him when Judy appeared from nowhere and elbowed her aside.

"I'll take him," she said. "Come, boy."

Nancy took a step back as Jack lifted Saint from the saddle and handed him to his mother. She bit down on the jealousy that flashed into her mind. He was Judy's son, no one wanted his mother to love him more than she did. And yet, she resented being pushed away and enjoyed a flare of pleasure when Saint suddenly wriggled in Judy's arms and arched his back, stretching out for Nancy instead. Judy froze. For a moment, Nancy thought Saint would relax into his mother's arms, but no, he bucked again, his feet kicking, and Judy had little choice but to thrust him into Nancy's willing embrace. Saint threw his arms around her neck and buried his face under her chin.

"Good to see you, Sister." Jack smiled down at Judy as if nothing were amiss. "You look well." This seemed to mollify her. Some of the color in her cheeks faded, and Nancy hoped Saint would not suffer later for his rejection now.