American Dreams Read Free Page B

by a handsomely carved walnut staircase, ran down the center of the first floor. At the opposite end was another entrance, a twin to the baroque door they had just entered, complete with a fan-shaped transom above it.
    To the left, a set of double doors opened onto the front parlor. An intricately patterned rug of forest green and gold carpeted the room's wooden floor. Its colors complemented the green-velvet-covered mahogany settee that bore the distinctive design of a Phyfe-made piece. Yet the rug, the settee, the brass wall sconces, the Boston rockers—all the parlor's fine furnishings paled in significance before the room's massive fireplace. Carved out of walnut and crowned by a mantelpiece of chiseled marble, it rose the full height of the room.
    From the staircase came a whisper of furtive movement. Two black children peered at Eliza from between the carved banisters.
    Footsteps approached the great hall as a woman emerged from one of the main-floor rooms. A long apron covered the front of her gingham dress, and her black hair was twisted in a knot at the back of her head. Her face possessed the heavy bone structure associated with Indians.
    "You are here, Miss Hall," the woman said when she saw the new tutor with Temple. A smile immediately lifted the corners of her mouth, but it didn't erase the hollowed look of tiredness around her dark eyes. Temple introduced the woman as her mother, Victoria Gordon.
    "How do you do, Mrs. Gordon," Eliza murmured with respect, mindful of her position in the household.
    "We are pleased you agreed to come here, Miss Hall," Victoria Gordon replied in somewhat stilted English, then looked past Temple and Eliza in a searching manner, a furrow of concern appearing on her brow. "Is Kipp not with you?"
    "Kipp?" Eliza repeated.
    "My oldest son," Victoria Gordon explained. "I told him Temple had left to fetch you. He was to be outside to greet you when you arrived."
    "We saw no one," she replied.
    Victoria Gordon nodded in acceptance. "He grew tired of the wait, I think. He plays somewhere now." There was the tolerance of a mother's love in her voice.
    Eliza had the impression that Kipp Gordon had known little discipline at his mother's hands. According to Payton Fletcher, the oldest Gordon boy was eleven—a difficult age, neither young man nor child. An age when a firm hand was required.
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    At the top of the stairs, twelve-year-old Phoebe shrank back from the carved railings and grabbed the arm of her nine-year-old brother, Shadrach, pulling him with her. Crouching low, she wrapped her arms around her bony legs and hooked her fingers around her bare toes to hold the position while she peered down at the strange white woman below.
    "That be the teacher?" Shadrach whispered.
    Phoebe nodded. The pincushion of ribbon-tied braids on her head bobbed with the motion. "She be from the North. Master Will sent fo' her."
    "Master Kipp say them talkin' leaves be magic."
    "Master Kipp be teasin' you 'gain." Phoebe didn't like Kipp. He was always filling Shadrach's head with stories and being mean to him. "Ain't no magic. An' they be books, not talkin' leaves. The Indians calls them that 'cause they dumb. Be you dumb?"
    "No." But Shadrach didn't look too sure of that as he tucked his chin between his bent knees and gazed down at the white teacher.
    "Deuteronomy Jones over at old Master Stuart's place, he reads an' writes jus' like white folks does. He be real smart." Phoebe rocked back and thought about that young black man from the neighboring plantation. She hadn't seen him in a long time, but she remembered he was sure enough a fine-looking man. He had a smile that was all big and wide, the kind that made her feel warm all over.
    "I gwine to read an' write someday," Shadrach vowed.
    Phoebe started to tell him that was never going to happen, but the dream took hold of her, too. She realized it would be a fine thing. She wouldn't be just a house nigger anymore. If she could read and write,