A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [117]
Lizzie caught his eye. He felt guilty that he had been thinking such harsh thoughts of her unborn child. She stared at first, unsure who he was; then she seemed to recognize him with a jolt. Perhaps she was shocked by the change in his appearance caused by the voyage.
He held her eye for a long time, hoping she would come over to him; but then she turned away without speaking and kicked her horse into a trot, and a moment later she disappeared into the woods.
27
A WEEK AFTER ARRIVING AT MOCKJACK HALL JAY Jamisson sat watching two slaves unpack a trunk of glassware. Belle was middle-aged and heavy, and she had ballooning breasts and a vast rear; but Mildred was about eighteen years old, with perfect tobacco-colored skin and lazy eyes. When she reached up to the shelves of the cabinet he could see her breasts move under the drab homespun shift she wore. His stare made both women uneasy, and they unwrapped the delicate crystal with shaky hands. If they broke anything they would have to be punished. Jay wondered if he should beat them.
The thought made him restless, and he got up and went outside. Mockjack Hall was a big, long-fronted house with a pillared portico facing down a Sloping lawn to the muddy Rappahannock River. Any house of its size in England would have been made of stone or brick, but this was a wood-frame building. It had been painted white with green shutters many years ago, but now the paint was peeling and the colors had faded to a uniform drab. At the back and sides were numerous outhouses containing the kitchen, laundry, and stables. The main house had grand reception rooms—drawing room, dining room, and even a ballroom—and spacious bedrooms upstairs, but the whole interior needed redecoration. There was much once fashionable imported furniture, and faded silk hangings and worn rugs. The air of lost grandeur about the place was like a smell of drains.
Nevertheless Jay felt good as he surveyed his estate from the portico. It was a thousand acres of cultivated fields, wooded hillsides, bright streams and broad ponds, with forty hands and three house servants; and the land and the people belonged to him. Not to his family, not to his father, but to him. At last he was a gentleman in his own right.
And this was just the start. He planned to cut a dash in Virginia society. He did not know just how colonial government worked, but he understood they had local leaders called vestrymen, and the assembly in Williamsburg was composed of burgesses, the equivalent of members of Parliament. Given his status he thought he might skip the local stage and stand for election to the House of Burgesses at the earliest opportunity. He wanted everyone to know that Jay Jamisson was a man of importance.
Lizzie came across the lawn, riding Blizzard, who had survived the voyage unscathed. She was riding him well, Jay thought, almost like a man—and then he realized, to his irritation, that she was riding astride. It was so vulgar for a woman to go up and down like that with her legs apart. When she reined in he said: “You shouldn’t ride like that.”
She put a hand on her rounded waist. “I’ve been going very slowly, just walking and trotting.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the baby. I hope nobody saw you riding astride.”
Her face fell, but her rejoinder was defiant, as always: “I don’t intend to ride sidesaddle out here.”
“Out here?” he repeated. “What does it matter where we are?”
“But there’s nobody here to see me.”
“I can see you. So can the servants. And we might have visitors. You wouldn’t walk around naked ‘out here,’ would you?”
“I’ll ride sidesaddle to church, and when we’re with company, but not on my own.”
There was no arguing with her in this mood. “Anyway, quite soon you’ll have to stop riding altogether, for the sake of the baby,” he said sulkily.
“But not just yet,” she said brightly. She was five months pregnant: she planned to stop riding at six. She changed the subject. “I’ve been looking around. The land is in better condition than the house. Sowerby is a drunk, but he has