(from Chapter 4)
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On the way back home, I noticed a group of trees off the road. I knew there was a stream there and that it was a pleasant spot. My uncle and I had eaten a picnic lunch there once before. "Wilson, would you mind pulling over for a while. There's a really nice spot there, and I want to sit there for a moment." I also wasn't in any hurry to get home. Wilson agreed and pulled the coach behind the trees so it wasn't visible from the road. I nodded in approval. If anyone saw us, we'd be hounded by nosy people asking to see his papers, and that would have ruined the tranquility I was seeking. After he secured the horses, he paced around awkwardly. He looked a little nervous, probably hoping I wasn't going to do anything that would get him into trouble again. "I'll just wait in the coach until you finish whatever it is you'll be doing," he said. "Nonsense," I said, sitting on a rock. "Come sit by me unless you'd rather not." "I had a picnic here once when I was a girl," I said wistfully as I gazed up at the crowns of the protective trees. When I noticed a wild flower next to me, I leaned over to pick it. When I turned back, I heard a quick rustling movement. Wilson had his hand on one of my new books. He smiled nervously. "I just wanted to look at it," he said quickly. "I'm sorry." "That's alright," I replied. I picked up the book and leafed through it. It contained assorted poems and short stories. "It doesn't have any pictures, though," I added. Wilson had a strange look on his face. He watched me so warily I felt like a predator in a hen house. "May I see it anyway?" he asked. I handed him the book back. He ran his hand over the green cloth cover and opened it gently like it was a delicate jewel. I watched him intently as his expressive mouth silently shaped itself into what looked like words. "Wilson, are you reading?" I asked. He closed the book again and didn't say anything. Gently, I touched his sleeve. "It's alright. You can tell me." Slowly he opened the book again and read aloud. It was slow and halting, but the words came faster as he read. By chance, he read a love poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. "How do I love thee," he said softly. "Let me count the ways." For a moment, I felt very strange. It was as if my lungs and heart and everything around us stopped. The birds stopped chirping, and the wind held its breath. I had a feeling I knew this man from somewhere before. I looked at him with a questioning look as if he might explain it to me, but he looked just as bewildered as I did. "I learned when I was a boy," he said. "I had a white playmate, and he taught me. When he got older, he wasn't my friend anymore. I never understood that." When he handed the book back to me, it was as if it might catch on fire and burn him. I pushed it back toward him. "Keep reading," I said. "Massa Walters," he argued. "I swear to you, Wilson, this is our secret." I laid back into the tall, soft grass and closed my eyes as I listened to his words. I hadn't enjoyed myself like this during my whole time at Chesterfield. When he stopped for a while, I opened my eyes. Wilson held the book slackly in his hand and was looking down at me with something that made a shiver of excitement dart down my spine . I sat up quickly and adjusted my bodice discreetly. I knew my cheeks were flaming red. "I'm sorry," Wilson said. "I didn't mean to look at you like that. You're just so pretty and all. I don't blame you for being mad." I made a motion to stand up, and he jumped up to give me a hand. I swayed a little from standing up so quickly in the heat. His strong hand steadied me. "I'm not mad." I was annoyed that my voice came out as a husky whisper. "We should probably go back now. Byron might be looking for me." Mentioning Byron's name was like pouring cold water on both of us. Wilson rushed to the coach and got it turned around. We took off down the path and soon arrived home. I was relieved not to see Byron around, and I knew Wilson was too. As I sat on the porch each day over the next several days, my mind kept sneaking out of the book I was holding and scampering back to the day Wilson read to me. All my thoughts kept landing in the same spot, the way he looked at me as I lay in the grass. I wanted to go to the stables to see him, but I was afraid to. I didn't want Byron to get mad at him. One evening Byron saw the green book I'd bought sitting on the nightstand in our bedroom. "What's this?" he asked. "One of your new books?" When I nodded, he thumbed through it carelessly. "Poetry?" he asked scornfully. "Oh, Byron, read a poem out loud," I said. "That would be so nice." He looked doubtful but flipped a few more pages. I sat on a nearby chair, prepared to listen. "How do I love thee," he began, and then he shook his head. "Olivia, I don't have time to read this sickening drivel. I have business documents to review tonight." "Maybe you have trouble reading that poem because you don't love me." "Don't be ridiculous," he replied. "I married you, didn't I? Hundreds of women would kill to be sitting where you are right now." My chair squeaked with the tension I was feeling. Questions that had been buried in my mind decided to come out now, and there was no putting them back. "Then tell me, Byron," I said. "Tell me you love me." "I think we've done quite enough chit chat for this evening. Good night." He flung the words at me, and they stung. Oddly enough, even though I hated him, I still wanted him to love me. Maybe then I could have stopped hating him. Then he tossed the book to the floor and left the room. I stared at the door that groaned shut behind him, and I bent to pick up the book. One of the corners of the cover was bent, and the page with the love poem was creased in half where it had hit the floor. Without knowing why, I flung myself across the bed and cried. |