by Naomi Finley
Minutes later, heavy of heart, Whitney and I left the warehouse.
BY THE TIME WE PULLED up in front of the general store, the rain had lightened to a drizzle. Silver puddles glistened on the cobblestones with the reflections of shops and passersby. Horses clip-clopped down the street, pulling wagons and carriages. A freckle-faced newspaper boy splattered his gray trousers with water as he stomped through a puddle. Unfazed, he bellowed, “Read all about it! Get your paper!”
As I was climbing down from the wagon, a woman’s saccharine voice called out, “Is that you, Willow Hendricks?”
Every muscle in my body melded into stone. Her voice stopped the flowing of rivers and drove mother birds to abandon their nests. I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered, “Give me patience.”
Lucille Carter stood across the street on the boardwalk outside the dressmaker’s shop. In one lace-gloved hand, she clutched a cream-colored parasol. The other she waved frantically at us. Tucked under her arm was a brown paper-wrapped package. She threaded through carriages and wagons to cross the street.
“Have we not endured enough for one day?” Whitney’s expression soured unbecomingly, and she beat her foot on the ground with displeasure.
Relaxing my clenched jaw, I swung to face Lucille. With grace and composure, I feigned a smile of delight. There was a time when I’d have been troubled by the façade I displayed to folks, but the complexity of my life left no room for me to pause and ponder on these matters. When the troublesome thoughts entered my mind in moments alone, and when my mind settled at night, I pushed them away.
Lucille lifted the bottom of her pale yellow skirt and shook off the beads of rain. She turned her nose up in disgust at the mud spotting our faces and clothing and lost no time in intruding into our affairs. “What are you two doing out in this weather?”
“Delivering supplies to Miss Smith.” My fingers flexing at my sides, I countered with her own question. “Why are you out shopping on a day like today?”
She continued as if I hadn’t spoken, inspecting the back of the wagon. “Surely a delivery can wait for a more pleasant day.”
“How about you mind your own business and stay out of ours?” Whitney said as she circled the wagon to join us. Her shoulders were thrown back as if she were an archer taking aim, taut and ready. She pinned Lucille with a lethal glare.
Lucille’s heart-shaped mouth gaped open, and her hand slid up to her ivory throat. She swiftly recovered from her shock at Whitney’s bluntness and turned her highfalutin attitude on me. “For a girl from proper Southern society such as yourself, I’d think you’d surround yourself with more reputable company. Your first mistake was moving this obnoxious Northern girl into your home. My pa says you may as well be sleeping under the same roof as the enemy.” She gestured to Whitney as if she were an object. “If you keep up with your poor choice of company, it’ll surely lead to your fall from grace.”
I bristled at her words. “If you find the company I choose to keep so offensive to your sensitive taste, why do you go out of your way to seek me out?”
“I see she has already tainted your manners.” She clucked her tongue in disgust.
“Enough! I’m not in the mood for your intrusive ways, and I’ll not stand here and be ridiculed by you.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief at my bluntness, but she brushed it off. “Please forgive me if I offended you. I assure you it wasn’t my intent. On a more pleasant note,” she said without hesitation, “Julia’s coming to town next month, and I came to ask you about arranging a luncheon at your home for all of us, if need be.” She flicked a hand at Whitney as she would a pesky hornet, her eyes never leaving me.
“And why would we do something like that?” Whitney responded with a blistering chuckle.
Lucille’s face flinched ever so slightly.
If it wasn’t a sin to bet, I would’ve bet my prized Arabian mare that Whitney had Lucille’s knees knocking in her petticoats. I restrained the wicked smile that fought to broadcast itself across my face.
She ignored Whitney and pressed forward with her insistence on tea. “I know it’s rude to invite oneself, but with the remodeling at our plantation in preparation for the social season still finishing up, Mother says we can’t entertain guests.” Without taking a breath, she said, “Josephine has been acting rather strange lately, and for her sake, I thought maybe being around some other ladies might dispel the melancholy which appears to have overtaken her.”
Lucille wasn’t one to be underestimated for her cleverness. Compassion didn’t flow through her veins, but she aimed to play on our hearts by pretending Josephine might be in need. However, as self-centered as Lucille was, it was the hopefulness in her face that confused me.
What was she up to? Not only was it rude to invite oneself to another’s home, but it was a bizarre request after what had just transpired. It had to be another ploy to nose around for information. But what information? My heart sped up. Had her father put her up to this?
Though my instincts told me not to allow her anywhere near Livingston, she left me with no choice. My family’s social status amongst the Southern planters allowed me to pass crucial information to the leaders of the Underground Railroad. I had to extend an invitation if I expected to keep up the image of Livingston being a thriving slave-labor plantation.
I felt as if Whitney’s eyes were carving a groove in the side of my head. She was staring an intense warning at me. Ignoring her, I turned back to Lucille, smiled, and said, “We’d be more than happy to have you. I’ll send an invitation.”
THE CHIME OVER THE DOOR alerted the shopkeeper, Miss Caroline Smith, to our arrival. We found her balancing on a ladder, stocking shelves.
“Good afternoon, ladies; what can I help you with today?” She climbed down, each wooden rung groaning under her heavyset frame. Pressing her fingers against her navy blue calico skirt to smooth it, she circled the counter.
“We’ve brought some supplies for you,” I said as puddles from our clothes darkened the weathered oak floorboards.
Fair and sparse, Miss Smith’s barely perceptible brows dipped. Her gaze shifted from the mess on her once polished floors to the window.
“We thought we could beat the storm,” Whitney said with a slight hitch in her voice.
“I see.” Her thin lips pressed together. “Ladies alone without protection isn’t the wisest decision, what with rumors of the masked men roaming these parts again. They’re holding up stagecoaches and carriages along the roads and robbing them blind. Folks are lucky to get away with the clothes on their backs, from what I hear. It’d be wise to bring a strong slave with you from now on.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“We’d best get those goods in here, and let’s hope they’re salvageable. Pull the wagon around back.”
Later, with the supplies unloaded, I turned to bid Miss Smith a good day and found her studying me. Her set face held fast, but an unfamiliar softness filled her eyes. Pushing her spectacles up on her nose with an index finger, she said, “Your father was a good man. I miss his visits and doing business with a respectable and fair man like him. I don’t deal with men of his caliber often. He treated me well, me being an outsider and all.”
“Outsider?”
“Born and raised in the North. I came to Charleston after my family arranged a marriage between Amos and me. Before Amos and I could get married, he up and died on my journey here. Left this place to me.”
I remembered the shopkeeper whose blond hair was more frizzy than curly. When I visited the general store with my father as a little girl, he’d let me pick out the biggest of the peppermint sticks from a glass jar he kept by his register. When I grew older, he lent me books from his personal library. His collection was the grandest I’d ever laid eyes on. While my father attended to business in town, I’d rummage through the books swallowing up Amos’s cramped, dust-laden apartment above the store.
“My family is from Maine. Being a Northerner and all h
asn’t always been easy while living here in Charleston,” Miss Smith said.
I recalled Lucille’s harsh words from moments ago, portraying Whitney as the enemy. I’d known some folks viewed people from the North in this light, but with my father’s businesses, we’d often dined and met with people from all over the world. The idea of treating them differently seemed absurd to me.
I’d always found Miss Smith unapproachable. Regarding her now, I wondered if there was more to Caroline Smith than what one would assume.
A knock on the back door interrupted my pondering. Miss Smith’s eyes brightened. “Here’s my afternoon delivery. Will you please excuse me?” She turned, threw her shoulders back, and hurried to the rear of the store.
Delivery? In this weather? Whitney and I shared a look of puzzlement.
Miss Smith retrieved an umbrella propped against the doorframe and popped it up before opening the door and stepping outside.
While Whitney and I waited, we browsed through the store.
Minutes later, Whitney called out in a hushed voice, “Come here. You’ve got to see this.”
“Give me a moment.” I continued to flip through the pages of David Copperfield without looking up.
“Hurry,” she said impatiently.
I replaced the book on the table. “All right. I’m coming.”
Whitney hung in the shadows of the small window at the back of the shop, staring outside at whatever had piqued her interest.
“What is it?” I asked without lowering my voice.
“Shh! Don’t let them see you.” She grabbed me and pulled me into the darkened corner.
“Who?” I whispered. Being careful to stay out of sight, I took in the scene unfolding outside.
Miss Smith stood talking to a man of color. As we spied on the pair, I noticed Miss Smith’s relaxed posture. The man grinned broadly without lowering his gaze in the submissive way slaves did. Was he a freeman?
The thumping in my chest intensified. Did she…? No. Were the pair romantically involved? Whites mingling with coloreds was not accepted around these parts. Miss Smith would be run out of town. And the colored man—heaven only knew what they’d do to him.
Miss Smith turned to head back inside, and we scurried to the front. Whitney’s skirt brushed a stand displaying a set of china plates and set it teetering, and I jerked forward to catch them before they tumbled to the floor.
The door opened, followed by a gust of wind. Miss Smith shook off the umbrella and strode to the front of the store.
I stood by a shelf, engrossed in a forgettable vase that had suddenly become spectacular. The mallet vibrating in my ears jumbled the words she spoke to us. I kept my head down to avoid her seeing the guilt engulfing my face.
“I believe the sun is trying to break through the clouds, but the wind is picking up. You ladies should make for home now.”
“I thought—” Whitney started to say, but I grabbed her arm.
I lifted my head, glancing from Whitney to her. “You’re right. We’d best be going. I’m sorry for dripping water all over your floors.”
Miss Smith’s face was radiant, puzzling me. “Think nothing of it.” She brushed it off with a wave of her hand. “It was lovely to see you both.” She returned to the ladder, humming.
Lovely? What had happened to the gruff, unfriendly shopkeeper I’d known from before? I glanced at Whitney, and my puzzlement was reflected in her expression.
“And you, too,” we responded in unison, and walked out the door.
NO WORDS PASSED BETWEEN WHITNEY and me until the town faded behind us. As Miss Smith had predicted, the clouds parted, and the welcoming warmth of the sun beamed down on us.
“What are your thoughts on Miss Smith and her delivery man?” Whitney said.
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“I’ve an inkling they may have feelings for each other. What else could explain the change in her puckered, tight face to the nauseating glow surrounding her?”
I laughed. “Are you referring to happiness?”
“Whatever you want to call it. She’s an odd one. Something is going on between the two of them. I’m certain of it.”
“You sound like Lucille, inserting yourself into other people’s affairs.”
“Are you looking to dine alone this evening?” She glowered. Tendrils of her auburn curls blew in the wind, cupping her face.
I chuckled and shook my head, then turned my attention back to the road. My mind drifted to the slave who’d lost his life but a short while ago. A heaviness fell over me. We’d failed him. Maybe we should’ve hidden him at the plantation until he recovered. Perhaps he’d still be alive. But to chance that meant putting our whole operation at risk.
The sun was settling onto the horizon as we rounded the last bend before home. A rider on a chestnut bay approached us on the road. He rode right in the center of the narrow road, and like the men we’d met earlier in the day, he made no effort to move to the side.
“Are there no civil people left in this world?” I mumbled, slowing the horses to a stop.
The dark-haired man tipped the brim of his silk top hat. “Ladies.”
Whitney picked up the rifle.
“Easy there; I mean no harm.” His dark brown eyes roved over us, and an easy smile formed on his lips.
“One can never be too sure of the folks traveling these roads,” I said.
“Yet you ladies are traveling them alone?”
“We can handle ourselves.” Whitney cocked the rifle on her lap.
Unaffected by her attempt to warn him, he directed his words at me. “You must be Miss Hendricks?” He openly examined me from the top of my water-stained bonnet to the eyelets of my shoes peeking out from under my skirt.
I returned his bold inspection. He appeared to be in his early thirties, with the looks that would make any Southern belle bat her lashes and steal an extra peek or two. His clothes were of the finest quality. I arched a brow. “May I ask how you’d know this?”
“Your reputation as a woman of beauty and intelligence precedes you. Not to mention the boldness of your friend, Miss Barry.”
“I see.” I eased up on the reins.
“I purchased the plantation next to you.”
“You mean the Widow Jenson’s plantation?” Whitney said.
He rested a hand in a relaxed fist on his upper thigh. “It seems the widow couldn’t handle the hardship of a woman running a plantation alone. She became downright frightened her slaves would rape her in bed after the uprising at the Barry Plantation a while back. Poor woman.”
My father, who’d been known for being neighborly, had helped the Widow Jenson plenty of times. He’d send slaves over to help mend her fences and do other tasks around her homestead. Our blacksmith, Jimmy, had cared for her livestock on several occasions.
Father and I had often sat on her front porch, sharing punch and chatting about her brother and his family back East. I’d gathered that she got lonely from time to time, but to up and sell off without so much as a goodbye wasn’t like her. She was tough and could put any man to shame behind a plow.
“I knew Mrs. Jenson well, and it seems odd that she’d up and sell overnight.”
“It wasn’t overnight. I was in town on business this summer and overheard her tell the shopkeeper, Miss Smith, how she was looking to move back East. After a few days of thinking about it, I inquired in town on her whereabouts. I rode to her homestead and approached her with an offer she seemed more than willing to accept. I moved in before you all returned at the end of summer.”
“It appears you’ve inquired about our whereabouts.” My breath quickened. Whitney stirred on the seat.
“We’re neighbors, and it’d be my duty to ask about you. But no, you’re wrong. Families often leave for their summer homes when the heat comes. Forgive me for assuming you’d done the same.” He sat straighter in his saddle.
Oh! Heat crept over my cheeks. I’d jumped to conclusions, as I tended to do lately. T
he stranger’s assumptions were right. Whitney, the twins, Ben, and I had gone to our estate in Rhode Island to avoid the fever that often plagued South Carolina in the summer months.
I mimicked the planter’s perfect posture. “Mr.—”
“Silas. Silas Anderson.” He half bowed.
“We need to get on home. If you’ll kindly move out of the way, we’ll be about our business.”
“It’s not wise to leave a plantation without its master. I don’t know what your uncle was thinking, leaving it to be tended by slaves and mere womenfolk.”
My hands tightened on the reins. The townsfolk had never been told about Ben being my real father, and I had no intention of making it known.
Whitney, who’d let me handle things so far, scoffed, “Listen here, you—”
I lifted a hand to silence her. “I assure you, Mr. Anderson, we’re more than capable of attending to the matters at Livingston. As I’m the sole heir of the estate, my father thought it only fitting to teach me everything there was to know about running a plantation. You need not concern yourself with how us womenfolk run the place. In case you haven’t been informed, I’m the master of Livingston, not my uncle, and I’m the one who says how things are run. It would serve you well to keep your nose on your own plantation.”
“I see we’re getting off on the wrong foot. Do accept a gentleman’s apology if I insulted you. I’ll do as you suggest and stay out of your affairs.” He placed a noble hand to his chest and tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Hendricks, Miss Barry.”
Then he rode off.
With a click of my tongue and a smack of the reins, I urged the horses to head for home.
“That man makes me nervous. He’s too close to Livingston for my liking.” Whitney shuffled to cast a glance over her shoulder at the departed Mr. Anderson.
“Maybe he’s only being neighborly, as he stated. We can’t regard everyone as the enemy.”
“Can’t we? Until they prove otherwise, anyone who centers their eyes on us is Lucifer himself.”
