The cold nights, especially cruel, tested her. She’d curl up inside a shed, a barn, anything to escape the wind, but the cold seeped through cracks. Sometimes she’d find an old unused horse blanket in a barn. She’d tell herself to awaken at dawn and she would, and move on.
She’d hitched a ride with a free black man who told her to wrap a bandana around a hat he had, tie it under her chin. She posed as his wife, finally making it into Richmond. She wanted to get out of Virginia, but she needed money for that. That man took her home to his wife, who allowed her to wash up. Mignon gratefully took an old skirt and a sweater from the wife. They suggested she see if she could find work at Georgina’s.
They didn’t mention that Georgina’s was a house of ill repute with a tavern of excellent food serving as a cover, but everyone knew. Mignon figured it out quickly enough when she was interviewed. Georgina, a white lady of some girth, needed help, and anyone who could cook was welcome. The lady, perhaps forties, did not inquire about Mignon’s background.
The reward for a runaway slave would be a pittance against one Saturday’s profits, and part of those profits included seeing that men had good food and good drink. Georgina prided herself on running an elegant establishment, which she did. If she had seen a sheet advertising a runaway slave, Georgina paid no attention. There were too many of them anyway.
Mignon kept to her duties, not showing her face in the main parlor.
Georgina’s girls were white and colored, as she called them. However these women came to her, the madam kept to herself. All were young, beautiful, eager for profits.
The head cook, Eudes, a free black, bossed Mignon around, but once he determined she knew what she was doing—which only took one night—he shut up and they worked side by side.
Tuesdays were slow but a steady trickle of well-dressed men did arrive, sitting in the parlor, talking to the girls. The parlor, with English furniture, allowed the men to watch the ladies as they offered them wine or stronger spirits.
Georgina bustled back in the kitchen. “Mr. Billiart would like mulled wine. He said he took a chill walking here.”
“He’s rich enough to have a carriage,” Eudes grumbled.
“Indeed he is, Eudes. And half of Richmond would know exactly where he is. Most especially his wife. This is her sewing circle night.” Georgina turned on her heel to leave, calling over her shoulder, “Not too much spice. He likes his mulled wine mild.”
“I know what he likes.” Eudes turned to Mignon. “You haven’t worked here Friday and Saturday nights, but most of Richmond’s finest are here. And they’re all in church on Sundays with their wives.”
Mignon said nothing.
Abby, young, gorgeous, sailed in, picked up a tray, placing it in front of Eudes, who put an entire decanter of mulled wine on it along with some crystal glasses.
Winking at Mignon, Abby bragged, “Gonna make me seventy dollars tonight. Seventy dollars.”
Mignon whispered to Eudes as the beauty left the room, “Can she make that much?”
“Can. Some of the girls have specialties and make more. Deborah specializes in teasing, driving them wild. She brags she can make two hundred a night on the weekends.” He looked Mignon up and down, figuring she knew little of the trade. “If there’s a position a fellow prefers, some like special clothes, the smart girl figures out how to give it to him. This way she gets a tip and Boss doesn’t interfere. Georgina knows how to keep everyone happy. For the most part.” He laughed at her. “Country girl?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Shrewd, Eudes, voice low, said, “You’re safe in the kitchen. And if the constables come around, we can hide you.”
Her eyes wide, she nodded.
“Honeychild, you’re not the first runaway to wind up at Georgina’s.”
She bent her head low, for she wouldn’t admit to being a runaway. She did say, “It’s good work.”
“ ’Tis. Some of those girls out front, they decided why give it to the master for free? This way they can make money. They find their way here, Georgina changes their looks a little. Gives them etiquette lessons. No one’s the wiser. Can you read?”
“No, Sir.”
He flipped a steak into chicken grease. “Reading is power.”
“Yes, Sir. I don’t know as I’m smart enough to read.”
He laughed a genuine laugh. “Girl, you look at those dumb clabberfaces in the front room. If they can learn to read and write, anyone can.”
With that he grabbed a bag of clabber off the shelf, sprinkling a little into the grease to thicken it. “I’ll help you.”
She smiled a little. “Yes, Sir.”
“You can call me Eudes.”
“Yes, Sir.” Then she laughed at herself and he laughed, too.
November 2, 2016 Wednesday
The fieldstone living quarters, built at the same time as St. Luke’s, were set on an east-west axis to catch the beautiful sunsets. Sun set earlier now as the winter solstice loomed ahead. Over the decades the well-proportioned structure first had lanterns and candles, then gas lighting, then electrical lighting. A coal furnace gave way to oil which just last year was supplanted by a brand-new heat pump costing $7,200 with installation. The water bubbled up from a deep well, good underground mountain runoff water.
Inside the fireplaces, chimneys cleaned each year, augmented the modern heat. As power often failed, the fireplaces proved essential. Maybe the house temperature hovered in the midfifties on those powerless days, but at least the pipes didn’t freeze. By the fireplace it would be warm.
The floors, old random-width heart pine, glowed with the centuries of use. The walls, repainted regularly, kept to the original colors, pale yellow, pale mint, pale blue. Anyone from the later eighteenth century would have called upon the pastor and felt right at home with the exception of electrical lighting, harsh to an eighteenth-century eye, and the soft purring of air from the vents. But the home was as it had always been. The attached stable became a garage, a toolshed was hidden behind the house, and a well-stocked woodshed attached to the kitchen side door by a covered walkway. Granted, one had to carry in all the cured wood, but it remained dry thanks to the sturdy shed with one old light fixture overhead.
Elocution, Lucy Fur, and Cazenovia commanded the pillows on the bed on the second story, facing east to wake up with sunrise. Facing east afforded a bit more warmth, as the winds usually socked the house from the northwest. Also facing east meant one need not overlook the graveyard, tranquil though it was, on the western side of the property. The graveyard sat below the two descending gorgeous church quads, the one surrounded by the arcades of the church. The huge, lower-level one was set off with a low stone wall, as was the graveyard. A hand-forged iron gate rested in the center of the graveyard wall, which stood at two and a half feet. Inside, various stones stood, some dating from the founding year of the church, 1781. The large log cabin built then had provided protection from the elements. The old cabin had been broken up in 1810 to make way for landscaping, Capability Brown’s ideas being all the rage. The few parishioners who died during that time rested in a tiny enclosure closer to the stone church itself, having been enlarged twice during construction, again on the west side. The later graveyard, established when the church and house were finished in 1786–87, bore testimony to the excellence of design and execution. All had stood the test of time. Over the years tombstones began to appear, as well as a few statues. Then, too, small square, low stones nestled by large tombstones. Usually a date and a faded name had been carved on the tiny stones that covered deceased infants and young children. No man or woman could ever assume that all their children would survive to adulthood. Fevers, whooping cough, sometimes measles, accidents carried off the young.