Chapter 1
ROANOKE, VIRGINIA
1806
The whispered grumblings in the slave quarters on the Stovall Plantation were usually about Eris.
"Now, a gal like dat -- black as tar -- ain't got no business workin' in de big house," the old man named Make-Do complained.
"You sho' 'nuff right, Make-Do. In all my years, ah ain't nevah seen nothin' like it. Dark-skinded gal wit dem big ol' clumsy feets tendin' to Missus and givin out orders to de cook and e'rebody else workin' in de big house," agreed Peahead. "She sho' got Massuh fooled."
"Hmph! Don't nobody seem to know where she come from, but wherevah dat was, ah bet she wasn't nothin' but a field hand jes' like us," groused Peahead's wife, Florette.
Make-Do scratched his head. "If ah 'members co'reckly, Eris showed up here in de middle of de night. She told Massuh she been on de run from some evil slave owner way down in 'Bama somewhere."
"You mean to tell me dat gal ran all de way from 'Bama to Virginy?" Florette scrunched up her lips and shook her head. "Don't make no kinda sense dem slave catchers nevah got ahold'a her 'long de way."
"Massuh got such a good heart; took her in promisin' to hide her and all. She showed up buck naked -- ain't had nothin but a box filled up with potions and such. Told Massuh she was good at nursin' folk. Dat why he keep her up in de big house," explained Peahead.
"Well, it don't look like her nursin's worth mucha nothin'. Missus be gittin' sicker by de day," said a young woman by the name of Willa. "And why somebody blacker den soot talkin' like de white folk? And why she got dem strange-lookin' blue eyes?" There was a collective confused shaking of heads.
"Bet y'all don't know . . ." Willa paused, waiting to get the group's undivided attention. "Eris done started wearin' all Missus's clothes." Willa's bottom lip jutted out in disapproval.
"Wearin Missus's clothes!" Peahead and Florette chorused incredulously.
"Sho' 'nuff is." Make-Do confirmed with a nod. "Eris done give all her old frocks to Molly and Tookie." Make-Do had been on the Stovall Plantation long before the current master was born. Now, too old to work the fields, Make-Do kept an eye on the children and performed easy tasks that didn't require agility or a strong back .
"I done told dem girls they ain't gon' have nothin' but bad luck from wearin' dat evil woman's clothes," Make-Do continued.
"Uh-huh. I tried to warn 'em, too. Dey so happy to have spare frocks, dey won't even listen. But dey gon' see. Mark my words, dey sho' 'nuff gon' see," Willa said, staring off into space and shaking her head as if a future fraught with unparalleled horrors was being revealed.
"Lawd, look ovah dere." Peahead pointed toward the big house. All heads turned. In the distance, illuminated by moonlight, Eris was kneeling on the ground.
"What she up to now?" Florette inquired in a hushed tone.
Peahead stood up and squinted. "Look like she tendin' to dat garden a-hern."
"At night!" they all exclaimed loudly, then looked around anxiously, hoping Eris didn't catch them spying on her. But Eris was intently involved with gathering the herbs and roots she needed for the mistress's remedy.
"You know dat woman's stranger than a two-headed chicken," Peahead whispered nervously. "Wouldn't surprise me a bit if she diggin' a hole so's to holla down dere and talk to Satan hisself." Peahead gave a shudder. "Come on, Florette. We goin' inside. Ah don't wanna be nowhere near Eris after daylight. And 'specially not with dat full moon burnin' while she dealin' wit' de devil," he said ominously. Peahead and Florette gathered themselves to go inside their cabin, careful not to look in Eris's direction.
Willa latched onto Make-Do's arm and helped him to stand upright. After he was safely on his feet, Willa respectfully handed the old man his walking stick. She hurried to her cabin while old Make-Do shuffled on down the dusty path to his own shanty.
Edith Stovall, the mistress of the plantation, was so consumed with fever she had no idea that her fine garments had been relegated to adorning a lowly slave. Had she known, she would have diplomatically excused her husband's lack of judgment, but such impudence by a slave girl would have warranted a visit to the whipping post. Nine and thirty. That's how many lashes the ill-mannered, uppity heifer would have incurred if the mistress of the house had her strength and wits about her.
The mistress was stricken with a serious illness and according to her husband, Arthur, she was delirious. Talking out of her head -- accusing him of unspeakable acts since she'd been banished from his bed. Having the fever and carrying what appeared to be a deadly and contagious disease, of course she had had to be exiled from the marital bedroom. She was being quarantined until she got better or -- God forbid -- she died.
Since none of the local physicians could figure out what was wrong with Edith and none wanted to risk catching her strange sickness, it was lucky for Edith that Eris seemed immune. Eris could go in and out of Edith's sickroom and administer to her without so much as a cough or a sneeze.
Arthur was more than grateful to Eris. As master of the plantation, he couldn't afford to come down with the strange illness that had gripped his pitiful wife. Why, he'd lose everything his daddy had left him if he caught whatever was ailing his wife.
It was for the good of the plantation and the future of the Stovall family if Edith stayed far, far away from him as well as any essential slaves whose labor he depended upon. Until her health improved, Edith would have to stay tucked away in that cramped and musty bedroom up in the attic.
But in the meantime, a man had his needs. Manly desires that a sickly wife could not fulfill.
Eris used a sharp-edged rock to grind the mixture that she'd concocted in the moonlight and then carried it up the stairs to the attic. With the wooden bowl and ladle in hand, Eris used her hip to bump open the door to the quarantined room.
"Missus," Eris said sharply. "Wake up, Missus. It's time to take your remedy."
Although Arthur Stovall never came into the room personally, he'd been known to send in slaves whom he considered dispensable to periodically check on his wife and give him a report on her condition.
Eris wasn't willing to risk having unexpected visits from loose lips reporting that she wasn't giving the mistress the best treatment possible, so she set the bowl on the bedside table and used the hem of her apron to blot the perspiration from Edith's forehead. Then, certain that no prying eyes could see her, she roughly wiped the sickly woman's face and mouth, using the lace-edged pocket of the apron. With a hateful grimace, Eris dug the crust out of the corners of her patient's rapidly blinking eyes. The friction of the stiff lace was painful and caused angry red blotches to pop up all over Edith's frail face.
As far as Eris was concerned, the red blotches further proved that the mistress was contagious and required an extended quarantine. And more doses of her special remedy.
Eris gave a low chortle as she recalled the last slave the master had sent to the attic infirmary. Scared to death, old Make-Do had limped into the room holding a rag over his face. The rag covered his mouth, nose, and eyes.
He wasn't going to be able to give the master a detailed report being that he had neither seen nor smelled anything, so out of pure spite, Eris instructed Make-Do to empty the mistress's almost overflowing chamberpot.
Having to walk with a cane made carrying the contagious waste material cumbersome. One would have thought Make-Do had seen a ghost the way he whooped and hollered when bits of loose excrement splattered on his hand.
Imagining he'd been infected by the mistress, Make-Do coughed up blood for a week, but he finally pulled through. Eris found Make-Do's near-death experience extremely humorous and made a mental note to take better advantage of his simplemindedness in the future.
Eris was anxious to report that the Missus's ailment was not better, that she was even more emaciated and pale with a curious eruption of red welts, which were spreading all over her face. The Missus, Eris would sadly state, seemed to be getting worse. Excited, Eris hurriedly left the room, forgetting to administer the poisonous concoction.
Edith was weak and very thirsty. But her heart was filled with relief that the vile black slave had forgotten to force-feed her the twice-daily dosage of poison. Eris's lethal "remedy" was the instrument of the mistress's slow and agonizing demise.
Experiencing an unusually lucid period earlier that day, Edith had kept the poisonous mixture hidden beneath her tongue. She'd spat it out as soon as the slave woman left the room. And now, having skipped the evening dose as well, she was feeling strengthened and hopeful that she might survive this vexation dealt upon her by the hands of a slave. The gall!
Unwilling to risk exposure to his wife's malady, Arthur Stovall insisted that Eris shed the clothing she'd worn while attending to Edith and wash thoroughly before entering his chambers.
The mistress's nights on this earth were numbered. It was just a matter of time before Eris became the Mistress of the House. Although her name would not be affixed to any official documents, she'd be the mistress no less, and she would inform the slaves to address her as such. She'd already begun training Molly, the cook's assistant, to refer to her as Mistress.
Hearing her addressed as such would be a problem with the white people, of course. Therefore, she'd have to prohibit visitations by business associates who'd come snooping around. She'd insist that Arthur -- yes, she now called him Arthur -- conduct his business away from the home. She would not kowtow to lawyers, bookkeepers or such. No, Arthur would have to arrange his life to suit her needs.
Feeling powerful, ...
