Celia Hayes – The Accidental Texan

(Yes – for reasons, Minnie will say ‘no’ to the question that Pres Devereaux asks of her, after she has recovered from injuries in the dreadful carriage accident in the previous snippet.)

Within a week, Minnie was able to leave the bed and sickroom and dress herself with the aid of Annabelle, for her broken arm was still splinted and bound. It was Tuesday, Susan’s customary at-home day. Hepzibah fussed at her to rest and not overexert herself; which attention Minnie found at once endearing and exasperating.

“I’m not a child, Hepzibah – and not entirely incapable of caring for myself!” Minnie complained. She was seated at the dressing table, having combed out her long hair, but it was Annabelle weaving her hair into a long braid and pinning it up into a bun. Hepzibah had remade the bed with clean linen, and was folding up Minnie’s nightgown and wrapper, laying them in readiness on the smooth coverlet. For some curious reason Hepzibah had begun to treat Minnie, and to a lesser degree, Annabelle, in the same proprietary manner that she treated Susan’s daughters. 

“I done doubt that, Miz Minnie – it’s only been a week since you wuz feelin’ better. An’ if you have a relapse, don’t you go on blamin’ anyone but yourself.”  Annabelle’s eyes met Minnies’ in the mirror, a shared look of amused resignation in them.

“I will ensure that our dear invalid doesn’t overexert herself, Hepzibah,” Annabelle inserted the last of several hairpins into Minnie’s coiffure, and regarded her handiwork with an air of satisfaction. “There! Are you ready to go downstairs? Mr. Devereaux presented his card this morning – along with the usual tokens of his regard for you and dear little Charlotte … although my own suspicion is that he wished to observe and confirm for himself that you are well-recovered from your little adventure with the smashed carriage …”

“Carried you in his arms all de way from out Stony Creek ways,” Hepzibah interjected, with a shake of her head and with tones which combined awe and disapproval. “Even do’ a waggoneer brought y’all back the last couple mile… Miz Minnie, dat is a devotion mos’ powerful. You take care, you hear me? Marse Devereaux, he a man to be reckoned with – an’ careful, like. Like a flame in a powder-mill!”

With that dire prophetic statement, Hepzibah collected the most aged flower bouquets from the room and absented herself, her petticoats swishing with emphasis. Minnie looked into the mirror again, as Annabelle pinned a lace and linen house-cap over Minnie’s hair.

“Honestly, Minnie – she is so forward!” Annabelle lamented. “A woman of that color and station! I wonder how Susan endures such presumption!”

“I wonder also,” Minnie confessed, after a moment. “But it comes to me that women of determination and ability, no matter of what color, or station in life; they can exercise power, in any way that they can. It’s the power of the queen on the chessboard, you see. Hepzibah may be a slave, owned as certainly as Mr. Devereaux owns his prized carriage horse. But she is skilled in household management; dear Susan depends on that skill … and that is Hepzibah’s entrée into power.” Minnie laughed a little, as the certainty of this realization came to her. “Subtle power within the household, you see. Cousin Susan desires her household to run smoothly and well, for the love of My-Dear-Ambrose … and Hepzibah manages all that very well. And being a privileged house slave, she is afforded a certain degree of authority. Being a woman, she demonstrates that to other women. As well that she has probably supervised Susan’s girls from the time they were in the cradle. Still … her position is perilous.”

“How so, dear,” Annabelle ventured. “As near as I may see, there is much affection between Susan and Hepzibah – and not misplaced in the least.”

“Because as dear as Hepzibah may be to Susan and her daughters, as skilled as she might be in managing a domestic establishment,” Minnie adjusted the set of the lace fichu at her throat, and yielded up her seat at the dressing table for Annabelle to make adjustments to her own afternoon attire, “Her comfortable existence in this house hangs on chance…”

“As does the existence of every woman not blessed with a secure and independent income,” Annabelle settled herself before the mirror and began taking the pins out of her own hair. Minnie, feeling suddenly tired – although she would never admit this to Annabelle or to Hepzibah save under the tortures of the Spanish Inquisition – sat on the side of the bed and waited for Annabelle to finish with her own toilette. She continued, feeling as if she had been given the answer to a small puzzle. “Suppose that My-Dear-Ambrose fell into debt, through some mischance. Although honestly, I do not think he has ever felt the least bit reckless in his life, unlike some gentlemen of the South that I might mention. But suppose that he did, for the purposes of my argument. And by some further mischance, he died, leaving Susan in debt to creditors. She would have no choice; she must sell all those assets of value, just to keep herself from poverty and starvation. It is a wicked choice presented to her … but a household of slaves present the most substantial block of value to an estate, as such it stands under the slave system.”

“That would be … wicked!” Annabelle considered that prospective event, outlined by Minnie, who continued, remorselessly.

“Yes, it would be. But it would be a solution to a temporary market reversal. That quadroon child whom Miss Van Lew purchased, on the occasion of our excursion into the Shockoe Bottom? She was a natural daughter of man dealing in … what was it? Rice, I think. She was a child, indulged and loved, or so Miss Van Lew informed me – but when all was reversed upon the death of her father, her value was all in the marketplace. I am certain that Susan feels the most tender regard for Hepzibah; but what Hepzibah must know, although she might be able to tell herself otherwise – is that she can be sent to the Shockoe Bottom slave markets and sold. Perhaps with regret on the part of the family that are all but blood her own. But she can be sold. And that … that is a cruelty. A cruelty which must weigh heavily upon those who have the intellect to think on it, overmuch.”

“I see,” Annabelle set down her hairbrush, and met Minnie’s eyes in the mirror. “Malignant, is it not? The whole of the peculiar institution? I vow that we shall be more dedicated abolitionists after this visit than we ever were before.”

“There is much to be said for observing the monster with your own eyes, rather than at a comfortable distance and in a church pew, listening to the Reverend Slocomb,” Minnie ventured. “Perhaps I might do lectures on that subject … oh, to groups of ladies,” she added hastily, upon seeing Annabelle’s expression of utter horror, reflected in the mirror.

“Public talks?” Annabelle pushed in the final pin to her own coiffure and settled the brief lace and lawn widow’s house-bonnet over it. “Really, Minnie – that just won’t do! You have a social position to uphold! You can’t just go about giving public talks! Why, anyone might attend! What would everyone think? What would the Judge have said about that?”

“That the cause, my conscience and the occasion demand it,” Minnie replied. “I imagine that the same was said to Papa-the-Judge and to Cousin Peter in their youth when the matter of revolution against King George first came about. ‘Oh, think of your social position! Rebel against our King? Why, we’d never!”

“I suppose that you are right,” Annabelle admitted with a sigh. “Still, I consider what social cost we may have to pay amongst those whom we think of as friends and kinfolk, should we come out foursquare in public for abolition of the noxious practice.”

“There is always a cost for doing right, ‘Belle,” Minnie replied, feeling quite comfortable in that statement of which – to her – was obvious. “And if they should think the worst of us, in opposing slavery, and putting all the energies and resources that we have to bear against it … then, such persons were no true friends of ours!”

“Would you cast off dear kin from your regard,” Annabelle still appeared troubled in her mind, as she stood from before the dressing-table mirror. “Those who have tendered us hospitality and their fond regard – their deepest affections, their care for you, for us both. Especially after your unfortunate accident…”

“I admit, my dear – that Susan may feel that I have betrayed her hospitality,” Minnie took up her light shawl, a woolen thing from India, woven as finely as the flimsiest lawn fabric and colored in bright and exotic patterns. “But the vileness of the peculiar institution! I cannot remain silent for long, when silence implies approval.”

“Courtesy demands a tactful silence under this roof,” Annabelle reminded her. “There; are you ready for Susan’s callers? When you tire, dear – you can easily make your excuses.”

“I am not the least bit tired,” Minnie insisted. “Of being confined to a bed in this chamber. Otherwise I hunger for social diversion; thirst for it, like a man on a deserted island!”

Annabelle tilted her head, hearing some slight noise from downstairs – a door opening and closing, distant voices in the entry hall.

“Your diversion has arrived, I think!” she replied, and she and Minnie went downstairs to Susan’s parlor – there to see Pres Devereaux, with his hat and gloves beside him on the divan. He was alone, sitting bolt upright on the divan. He stood up readily – with eagerness, even – as Minnie and Annabelle entered the parlor. His eyes seemed to burn a more vivid blue in his tanned face, as he clasped Minnie’s hands with tenderness in his.

“My dear Miss Vining!” he exclaimed. “I am lost for words, in telling you how happy I am to see you recovered! I … and your friends here were … that is, we were … I called every day hoping for good news of your condition.”

“As you can see,” Minnie replied, unaccountably warmed by his obvious regard and relief. “I am well enough to take part in Susan’s social whirl … and I have such pleasant memories of our chess match…”

“I will call on you for a match as soon as it may be arranged,” Mr. Devereaux enthused – and Minnie noted that he only released her hands with reluctance. “In the meantime … if you are sufficiently recovered, would you take a turn around Mrs. Edmond’s garden with me? I have … well there is a question to ask of you, a question that I feel would be best asked in private…” for some unfathomable reason, Mr. Devereaux seemed nervous, uncertain. Minnie couldn’t begin to fathom why.

“The sunshine will be most welcome to me,” Minnie replied, “And the sight of Susan’s roses …although,” she added hastily. “The flowers that you have been sending to us are … they are most welcome, but poor substitute for a garden in summer.”

The tall French doors opening from the parlor onto the front verandah stood open, admitting that slight breeze which stirred the window hangings, and brought the faint scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. After weeks indoors, confined to bed, the out of doors drew Minnie irresistibly. Everything seemed impossibly large, lush, colorful. Mr. Devereaux offered her his elbow, and she leaned on it with good grace, feeling something of the same feeling of being sheltered and protected, as she had felt when he carried her away from the scene of that ghastly carriage accident. The garden, even a little wilted in the heat of late summer, still reflected the anxious care which Susan’s outdoor slaves took of it; spent blossoms dead-headed and removed, leaves and twigs swept from the greensward, the rambling jasmine and roses pruned and trained to arches and trellises. Minnie felt her spirits reviving, as her strength returned

“I have not been able to thank you properly for your care,” she ventured finally. “Looking after Charlotte and I, on that day. I think that I shall not be able to ride with confidence in a carriage again for some time, knowing that you are not present.”

“Would you, Miss Vining?” This appeared to cheer Mr. Devereaux. “Indeed, I am honored by your trust and regard. It makes the question that I mean to ask of you an easier one to venture, knowing that you think of me in that degree.”

“And what question might that be?” Minnie looked at him sideways; he was so much taller than she, all she might see of his countenance was his profile against the sky above, the sky which in summer was so very like the color of his eyes.

“Come. Let us sit under this trellis,” He led her towards the pergola at the bottom of the garden, heavily hung with pale pink roses, which had shed tender velvety petals underneath, like gentle confetti on the benches set underneath. He took out a handkerchief – one of those vast and useful man’s articles, not a dainty little wisp trimmed with lace – and swept some invisible dust off the bench before the two of them sat down upon it, side by side. “Mrs. Edmonds’ garden is a treasure, is it not? I have found it to be so very restful. Of all the gardens on Church Hill … hers is the most accomplished in design. Every aspect rewards the eye and the senses…” his words meandered off into thought, and Minnie wondered where they had gone, with some impatience. Charlotte and her mother would be in the parlor soon.

“You had a question which you wished to ask of me?” she chose in favor of asking directly; Minnie had no gift for social subterfuge, especially when it came to the male of the breed.

“Yes… of course.” Pres Devereaux appeared to hesitate, and then to plunge ahead, like a horse to a race. “Minnie … Miss Vining. Would you do me the honor of consenting to marry me?” “What?” Minnie gazed at him, in mixed shock and sheer disbelief

(While on a carriage excursion and chaperoning her young cousin Charlotte, who is being courted by Pres Deveraux, Minnie is involved in a dreadful carriage accident.)

She couldn’t breathe. All the air was sent from her lungs by the force of that fall over the side of Mr. Devereaux’s Tilbury gig. A constellation of exploding stars blotted out the sky overhead, and Minnie felt herself suspended between not being able to draw a breath and a white-hot agony exploding up to her shoulder and down to her hand, and from her head, which had struck the road with cruel force. Somewhere, a woman was crying out in alarm. She sounded very young, panicky – Minnie felt herself lifted, as limp and powerless as a rag doll in the grip of something. She couldn’t think, only felt – and what she felt was pain, pain and more pain.
“Miss Minnie! Wake up, open your eyes – speak to me!” a voice begged – a somehow familiar voice. A man. Authoritative … and for some curious reason, frantic in concern.
Minnie obeyed the command to open her eyes, although her sight was somewhat baffled by … oh, yes, the brim of her bonnet, now crushed and disarranged, and a flood of something sticky and warm on her face, wetting the collar of her dress. And this was the countenance of … oh, yes – she fished in her dis-jangled memory for a name. Mr. Devereaux, the handsome and raffish adventurer … presently courting the very young Charlotte Edmonds.
Yes. She was supposed to have been their watchful chaperone.
Minnie struggled to recall – yes, an aggravating and contrary man, a whirligig of opinions posed for nothing more than to harass and torment … but he … he was a man … and Minnie fished for knowledge and insight in her present torment.
A man who waged a war on a chessboard and was the most gallant when losing to a mere woman.
“She’s bleeding so awfully!” the younger voice exclaimed in horror – Charlotte; yes, that was Charlotte, daubing ineffectually at Minnie’s forehead with a dainty handkerchief smeared horribly red. Mr. Devereaux replied,
“Her head struck a large rock on the ground, I believe – and it is well known that such injuries always bleed out of all proportion … Miss Minnie, please speak to us!”
“Wha … h’ppened?” Minnie stumbled over the words. It hurt to speak.
“A runaway team, on the road!” Charlotte exclaimed. “The driver could not control them – he had fallen from the wagon, and the wagon struck Mr. Devereaux’s gig … they kept on going! And now the wheel is utterly smashed! What are we to do, Mr. Devereaux? What are we to do, since we are all this way from town? Surely, Cousin Minnie needs a doctor at once!”
“Miss Edmonds, calm yourself, I beg you.” Mr. Devereaux sounded as if he barely maintained control of his emotions, Minnie thought through the pain in her head and shooting up her arm like bolts of white-hot lightning. “Take your shawl and spread it out on the grass over there … good. Miss Minnie – forgive me if this causes you pain…”
“Hurts,” Minnie gasped, but with recovering her breath and voice. “My arm. The left. I … cannot move my fingers without pain … I fell with it under me…”
Mr. Devereaux’s strong fingers palpated Minnie’s arm, and the burst of white-hot lightning intensified, almost to the point of Minnie losing awareness entirely.
“I fear that one of the bones in your arm may be broken, my dear Miss Minnie!” he exclaimed in a whisper. “But I beg you – do not be stoic on my behalf. If you would cry out, or faint … I cannot bear that you would suffer in silence to spare my – our feelings. I would … Yes, Miss Edmonds – is Minnie’s shawl still in the gig? You must fetch it, girl – she must be wrapped closely, against the bodily cold that attends upon sudden injuries such as this. And find me … find me a straight stick, a length or branch sufficiently strong to construct a splint…”
Minnie felt a new warmth on her face as Charlotte bent over her – the girl was crying, and her tears splashed upon her own face. Useless! Minnie’s own intellect raged. Don’t be such a silly-billy, child! Do as Mr. Devereaux has asked, and be quick about it!
Now she felt herself to be lifted – Mr. Devereaux’s strong and steady arms underneath her shoulders and be knees both. He stood, lifting her from the dusty road as easily as she would herself have borne up a small child … He must be very strong, Minnie’s disjointed intellect observed, over the searing pain in her skull, and the white-hot agony in her arm.
Charlotte had gone away. Gone… gone somewhere. Minnie neither knew or cared. When she was aware again, and strictly enjoining her scattered thoughts to obey, she lay on her back, on something rather softer and more yielding than the hard and dusty road. Within her vision, Mr. Devereaux was tearing strips from a handkerchief – a large man’s handkerchief, of a rather more useful size and material than Charlotte’s wispy bit of lace. Or maybe it was a cloth napkin… Minnie’s thoughts went wandering again.
“Cold,” Minnie whispered, for she found herself shivering, in spite of the warmth of the day. Charlotte appeared, her face pale against the bright sky.
“I found your shawl, Cousin Minnie,” she said, sounding as if she were trying to be brave and not succeeding very well at it, as she tucked the folds of it around Minnie. “Mr. Devereaux has unhitched his horse from the gig – the poor thing was frightened to death, nearly – but unharmed. Which is good, as Mr. Devereaux paid a goodly sum for him. Once he has splinted your poor arm … we are going to walk back towards town, with him carrying you and I leading the horse. He says there should be someone along this road with a wagon, once we are closer…”
Minnie tried to thank the child – she still shivered, even when Mr. Devereaux removed his coat and added that to the shawl. He knelt next to her, with a small flask silver in his hand.
“Miss Minnie,” he ventured, with the gravest of expressions on his face. “I am prepared now to splint your arm, but I fear that it will briefly prove to be agonizing in the extreme … if you are not of committed temperance principles, might I persuade you to drink a little of his brandy? It’s for medicinal purposes, after all, and while it will not abolish pain entirely, it will take a little of the edge from it.”
Minnie brought herself to nod in acquiescence; he uncapped the flask and held it to her lips while she sipped. It tasted …warm, warm and fiery. The pain ebbed a little in her head, leaving her feeling a little as if she were floating, floating up into the sky like the little tufts of cotton-white cloud.
“I’m going to bind up your arm now,” Mr. Devereaux warned her. “So that the broken ends of bone will not grind against each other. Ready?”
Minnie nodded acknowledgment and set her teeth as Mr. Devereaux laid gentle fingers on her arm, murmuring instructions to young Charlotte.
Think of the clouds, she commanded herself. Look at the clouds, and think of nothing … no, think of the chess pieces, obedient and passive on the board. There was no pain. Chess pieces felt no pain. Breathe deep, look at the clouds and think of Mr. Devereaux’s marvelous chess pieces.
Oddly enough, this method of mental diversion proved effective; she did not banish the pain of a broken bone so much as she succeeded in setting it aside, in removing it from her immediate attention, although a sharp movement as Mr. Devereaux secured the last knot – perhaps that of the broken bone ends settling into place – nearly broke that adamantine concentration on the floating clouds overhead and figures of ivory. Upon the final knots being tied, securing her arm to a length of scrap wood – was it a broken bit from the Tilbury gig’s hood? She rather thought so – Mr. Devereaux cleared his throat.
“Are you ready, Miss Minnie? We should not have to walk very far before encountering help … this is not a well-traveled road, but in about half a mile, it runs into one…”
“You might take the horse,” Minnie suggested, faintly. “And leaving us, ride ahead and beg for assistance…”
“I will not think of abandoning you, or Miss Edmonds,” Mr. Devereaux insisted. “Not under any circumstances would I leave you alone. No – we return together, no matter how slowly may be our progress! Not another word, Miss Minnie; I will not hear any argument.”
Saying so, he stooped and lifted her into his arms once more, swathed in shawls and coat. Curiously, Minnie found this of considerable comfort. She hurt in every limb and sinew – but Mr. Devereaux would not abandon them all and take the horse. It felt as if she were part-floating, carried in tireless arms, until she floated away entirely into the sky and was aware of nothing more.

A cookbook, that is – one cookbook to rule them all. A good few years ago, what with the popularity of so many food and cooking websites, we got in the habit of printing out recipes that sounded good, and if they did turn out really, really good – putting them in sheet protectors in a three-ring binder for easy referral. That binder is the every-day reference for putting together an evening meal, only as time went on – the book got terribly random and unwieldy, with the recipes inserted in any old order. There were also pages of recipes that had once looked interesting, but not enough to actually cook them, or that we tried once and went ‘meh’ or alternate recipes for a dish that we had a recipe for that we liked better … and the pages themselves got sticky from use, or being splashed, the binder began falling apart … and I swear that one of the cats (now exiled to the Magnificent Cation) was in the habit of spraying on the back of the binder …so, time to cull, re-print, re-arrange, put into fresh page protectors and a brand-spanking-new binder and also to create a duplicate book for the day when the Daughter Unit has her own domestic establishment.

So that has been the current project, now that Luna City #8 is fairly launched. I started with going through and pulling out all the recipes for chicken. A few of them I had to just copy into a fresh document, most of them I retrieved from the various websites where they had originated, and copy-pasted into a new document. Doing this let me change the size of the font – look, it’s a bear to have to fetch my reading glasses to read a 8 or 9 point font, while reducing the recipe itself to a single page – because flipping over three pages to follow the same recipe is … not helpful, especially when half of it might be taken up with pretty pictures. (No, I don’t need the pictures. Ingredients and instructions are sufficient, thank you very much.)

After a weekend of working at this project, I have gotten all the way through the chicken recipes, and all of the beef/pork/lamb/venison recipes, which I think must have made up more than half of the original binder. The remaining sections – for vegetarian, fish, and miscellaneous side dishes and sauces should go much faster. And that – along with another chapter of the Civil War novel – was my project for the week.

Oh, still waiting to hear from the garage regarding my poor little car. Getting a replacement side light seems to be the main remaining challenge – it may very well have to come all the way from Japan by special order, although I would think that a little creative metal bending and plastic fabrication, such as Dad used to do in his garage for some of his automobile projects, would do the trick. It absolutely fries me that the idiot whose’ rotten driving caused the accident had no damage at all to his car – whereas I have now been without mine for a month and a half.

A longish and somewhat exhausting morning – this the day that my social security is paid into my bank account – (Yes, I collect it, having put into it for all those working years since the age of 16, and having no more patience for working full-time for other people) so we went up to New Braunfels for the semi-monthly purchase of meats and sausage at Granzins, then a little farther to the new super-HEB for assorted groceries, and then a loop around to Tractor Supply for flea spray, drops and collars for the critters. Who are all afflicted with the summertime plague of fleas, and the most seriously effective yet most reasonably-priced remedies are all available at Tractor Supply, including a carpet/surface spray which has a strong yet pleasing odor of citronella and only seems to be available at Tractor Supply. I wish that I drove a pickup truck – I wouldn’t feel like such a townie, pulling into the parking lot there. I might even pull on those vintage Ariat boots that I bought at a charity thrift shop a couple of years ago.

Anyway, loaded up at Granzins on chicken breasts, quarters, a small steak (which is my monthly treat) and some of their divine locally-made sausage, which makes a splendid main dish when rubbed with a little of Adams Reserve Steakhouse Rub, spritzed with a bit of olive oil and then baked until done. At the super-HEB, a 7 ½ pound pork tenderloin at a good price, to be chopped into roasts and boneless chops … and when returned home, an hour of time with the vacuum sealer, packaging it all up for the freezer – set with meat options for supper for the next month or maybe even longer. Look – we flirt with tasty vegan options at least one night a week, but that’s just for the variety of it. Otherwise, we are unashamed carnivores.

Part of the journey to New Braunfels involved a fitting … for a costume to be worn at a book-launch party in Seguin late next month by one of three – the author and my daughter Blondie to be the other two. I committed, in a moment of weakness and affectionate friendship for another author, to sew frontier ‘soiled dove’ outfits for the launch party bash. Easy enough – a white cotton shift, a flashy skirt with lace trim, and a fitted and laced bodice. The skirts and the shift are simple enough, the laced bodice must be fitted to each individual; the pattern is one I am not happy with, since I will have to add some extra lacing to the back of the bodice to ensure that the shoulder portion will not be slipping down … eh, the outfits will be marvelous when I have completed them.

Tuesday mid-day was likewise consumed by a necessary errand – to the cardiologist at BAMC for the yearly check-up. Yes, I seem to have developed a noticeable heart murmur in the last couple of years. Such was was noted when I was in my twenties, but was written off to a) pregnancy, b) a doctor doing research who apparently wanted to find such in healthy young adults for the purpose of generating a research report, and c) a bout of viral myocarditis discovered during a routine physical required when I was putting together an application for an officer commission – a condition which eventually healed on its’ own, although at the time it scared the bejesus out of my supervisors, my parents and the hospital administrators at the Misawa AB hospital. The comforting thing in the current iteration is that it doesn’t appear to have gotten any worse since being first observed. EKG – same as last year. Sound of it all – same as last year. Barely over the line for concern, according to the cardiologist. Hardly rating any concern, considering the appearances of other patients in the waiting area of the cardiology clinic – yeah, the full collection of canes, walkers, and wheel-chairs. Look – we all die of something. A dicky ticker over the next two or three decades appears to be my fate. I’m OK with that, considering some of the other alternatives.

Luna City Behind the 8 Ball is now available in Kindle, and on most other ebook formats! Enjoy! The print version will be available later on this month. (And if you really, really enjoy the Luna City series, please post a review somewhere, and tell all your friends!)