Marilyn Holdsworth's Blog, page 5
October 28, 2011
Excerpt from The Beautiful American
Part II
The Diary
Ashlawn, 1792
“Jasmine!” I heared her call my name, but befo’ I could reach her, she was already on de flo’. Writhing like a fish outta water she was, poor thing. Her beautiful, blue-violet eyes rollin’ back, her porcelain skin all smudged with beads of sweat. Her graceful limbs contorted by spasms. I slid to de flo’ beside her; cradled her head, smoothin’ her thick, raven-black hair off her brow; and rocked her in my arms like a baby scared o’ de sleep demons. Das what she be like when de bad times came—de “falling sickness,” Masser James done calls it.
Masser James called me up to de house dat first mornin’ and sat me down in de library. I’d only been up to de house once befo’, and dat was Christmastime to help Esmeralda in de kitchen. Esmeralda was in a mighty tizzy dat day. Shakin’ her wooly head tied up with a bright red kerchief she muttered and moaned as she worked. “Never goin’ to be done in time ifin I don’t get dis here cookin’ started,” she grumbled, turning toward the huge brass cooking pot suspended from a crane in the kitchen fireplace. “You, girl,” she snapped at me. “Fetch some water from de spring room, and don’t go spillin’ none,” she ordered, shoving a pail at me, shooing me away from the long, pine sawbuck table, where she was fiercely chopping vegetables and potatoes with a wicked looking cleaver.
I remember it like it was yasserday, that first trip up to the big house, but my second visit be a bit hazy in my mind. Not dat I was scared of Masser James, more like I was tryin’ so hard to listen, understand what he was sayin’.
“I want you to move into the house, Jasmine. There’s a small attic room that will be adequate. When you’ve met my wife, she’ll show you. It’s up the back stairs from the kitchen.
“Aw, my dear, come in.” he stopped in midsentence, his eyes lighting up as Elizabeth Kortright Monroe floated through the library door. I felt my breath catch in my throat she be so beautiful. Delicate features framed by masses of coal-black hair; blue-violet eyes fringed with thick, dark lashes; and a small bow of a mouth turned up at the corners in a tiny smile.
“James,” she spoke in a softly lilting voice as she glided across the room to his side and took his hand. “Whatever have you been doing? And who is this?” she questioned, turning her full attention toward me.
“Jasmine, my dear. This is Jasmine. She’s going to be living here now with us, to assist you.”
For a moment, I thought she might protest. A look of dismay flitted across her exquisite face but then quickly vanished and she nodded. “Yes. That might be for the best. I’m sure you’re right, James.”
“I’ve already told her she will be in the attic room above the kitchen. I think she could be a help with Eliza, too.”
Again Mistress Elizabeth nodded.
*****
The Diary
Ashlawn, 1792
“Jasmine!” I heared her call my name, but befo’ I could reach her, she was already on de flo’. Writhing like a fish outta water she was, poor thing. Her beautiful, blue-violet eyes rollin’ back, her porcelain skin all smudged with beads of sweat. Her graceful limbs contorted by spasms. I slid to de flo’ beside her; cradled her head, smoothin’ her thick, raven-black hair off her brow; and rocked her in my arms like a baby scared o’ de sleep demons. Das what she be like when de bad times came—de “falling sickness,” Masser James done calls it.
Masser James called me up to de house dat first mornin’ and sat me down in de library. I’d only been up to de house once befo’, and dat was Christmastime to help Esmeralda in de kitchen. Esmeralda was in a mighty tizzy dat day. Shakin’ her wooly head tied up with a bright red kerchief she muttered and moaned as she worked. “Never goin’ to be done in time ifin I don’t get dis here cookin’ started,” she grumbled, turning toward the huge brass cooking pot suspended from a crane in the kitchen fireplace. “You, girl,” she snapped at me. “Fetch some water from de spring room, and don’t go spillin’ none,” she ordered, shoving a pail at me, shooing me away from the long, pine sawbuck table, where she was fiercely chopping vegetables and potatoes with a wicked looking cleaver.
I remember it like it was yasserday, that first trip up to the big house, but my second visit be a bit hazy in my mind. Not dat I was scared of Masser James, more like I was tryin’ so hard to listen, understand what he was sayin’.
“I want you to move into the house, Jasmine. There’s a small attic room that will be adequate. When you’ve met my wife, she’ll show you. It’s up the back stairs from the kitchen.
“Aw, my dear, come in.” he stopped in midsentence, his eyes lighting up as Elizabeth Kortright Monroe floated through the library door. I felt my breath catch in my throat she be so beautiful. Delicate features framed by masses of coal-black hair; blue-violet eyes fringed with thick, dark lashes; and a small bow of a mouth turned up at the corners in a tiny smile.
“James,” she spoke in a softly lilting voice as she glided across the room to his side and took his hand. “Whatever have you been doing? And who is this?” she questioned, turning her full attention toward me.
“Jasmine, my dear. This is Jasmine. She’s going to be living here now with us, to assist you.”
For a moment, I thought she might protest. A look of dismay flitted across her exquisite face but then quickly vanished and she nodded. “Yes. That might be for the best. I’m sure you’re right, James.”
“I’ve already told her she will be in the attic room above the kitchen. I think she could be a help with Eliza, too.”
Again Mistress Elizabeth nodded.
*****
