A Guardian of Slaves

by Naomi Finley

  “That’s been the approach we’ve taken so far, but it may not be the smartest choice for us to make.”

  “Not you too,” she grumbled.

  “What?”

  “First, Miss Smith questioning if it’s wise for us to be out alone. Then Mr. Fancy Pants with his question about our wisdom. Now you’re suggesting the methods we’ve followed for the last year may not be ‘smart’.”

  “We must be leery of people who are questionable. But I worry that if we go around looking down our noses at people while keeping everyone at bay, we may bring unwanted suspicion upon us. Mr. Anderson may be no threat at all. However, until proven otherwise, we’ll follow protocol and be on high alert until we see what kind of man he is.”

  “And how do you suggest we do that?”

  “One thing my father taught me is to embrace your enemy, find out everything you can, and use it to your advantage. And that’s precisely what I intend to do. I expect Ben to be home before the Christmas season. Until then, we’ll manage as we have so far.”

  Were we overthinking the situation? Or was there just cause to be concerned about Silas Anderson?

  THE HORSES TURNED DOWN THE lane to Livingston Plantation. Above, the wind whispered through the foliage of the oak trees’ canopy. The sun’s rays yawned and stretched through the branches, guiding the eye to the main house bathed in sunlight at the end of the lane.

  For the first time since we rode out in the early hours of the morn, I took a full breath. Home.

  Jimmy entered the yard from the back and took the reins I handed him when I’d pulled the team to a stop. His speckled gray brows were drawn together, and his brown eyes roved over me as if making sure I’d returned undamaged. His expression revealed that he wanted to ask questions, but his eyes flitted away as he thought otherwise.

  I wanted to fall into the warmth of his embrace and unload the grief that tormented me so. But it couldn’t be. I’d tried to convince myself it was best this way. The childish girl of my youth had vanished. In her place stood a woman governed by secrets and crippling burdens. Burdens brought on by the acceptance of my lot in life. Meetings cloaked in secrecy, whispering in corners and behind closed doors, all the while looking over my shoulder for prying eyes. Had I become Charles Hendricks? The sheltered flame that burned in my belly for the rights of the Negro race held strong.

  Whitney and I mounted the stairs to go inside the house as Mary Grace’s daughter’s cries vibrated the windowpanes. “That squalling baby makes my ears bleed,” Whitney said.

  Baby Evie had come into the world screaming and hadn’t been quiet for a moment since. I’d never been around babies until she was born.

  Inside, we followed Evie’s wails until we found Mary Grace, my childhood friend and handmaid, in the parlor with the baby strapped to her back. As she went around the room dusting the furniture, the child’s small fists beat at her mother’s back. Mary Grace’s sweet voice sang:

  O, go to sleepy, sleepy, li’l baby.

  ’Cause when you wake, you’ll git some cake,

  And ride a li’l white hossy.

  O, de li’l butterfly, he stole some pie,

  Go to sleepy, li’l baby.

  And flew so high till he put out his eye,

  O, go to sleepy, li’l baby.

  She glanced up as we entered. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Miss Willow. Usually I wouldn’t have Evie at the main house when I’m working, but Sara can’t get her to settle. I’m the only one that can, but today she’s being impossible.” Her shoulders sagged.

  “Hand her to me,” Whitney said.

  “That’s all right, Miss Whitney. I’ll tend to my child.”

  “You look ready to collapse.” Whitney moved forward and untied the child from her mother. The baby wailed louder.

  “Squawk, squawk, all day long, driving us all insane,” Whitney said to the baby as if she understood. She bounced the child in her arms while taking long strides across the parlor.

  The baby’s cries softened; she was most likely shocked out of her temper tantrum by the rough treatment she was suddenly receiving.

  “Now, was there any need of all the fussing?” Whitney stroked her head of wooly curls. Evie cooed, and a gummy smile split across her face.

  Mary Grace released a calming breath and mumbled a quiet prayer of gratitude.

  “Miss Evie and I are going to catch some fresh air,” Whitney said, heading for the door without a glance in our direction.

  For some reason, the babe had taken to Whitney’s boisterous ways. And as much as Whitney complained about her crying, she had taken to her too.

  “The child will take my sanity.” Mary Grace dabbed the corners of her eyes.

  In the past, all infants of domestic slaves stayed with their families in the quarters, but I couldn’t do that to Mary Grace. She’d been through enough. God had blessed her with a child created by her husband and not the men who still haunted her dreams.

  I shivered involuntarily as I recalled the rape Mary Grace had endured at the hands of the overseer and his man from Whitney’s father’s plantation. It was a night we all tried to forget. Rufus and Yates had gotten what they deserved, along with Whitney’s father. God had served justice to them, but death had been too kind for the likes of them.

  I’d never forgotten the night of Evie’s birth and how Mary Grace had relived the rape all over again with each labor pain that hit. Her blood-curling screams filled the cabin as I sat helplessly, mopping her sweat-drenched forehead.

  After the birth, she’d refused to look at the child, afraid she’d see her rapists’ faces staring back at her. She’d insisted we send the baby to a wet nurse down in the quarters, but Mammy was having none of it and demanded she take care of the child.

  After the child had all but loosened the nails on the plank boards of the cabin walls with her nagging wails, a sullen Mary Grace agreed to nurse the child. Mammy had brought the child to suckle, and much to our relief, the baby greedily drank her mother’s milk. Mary Grace had sat with her head turned and her eyes squeezed closed. Only when Mammy told her, “Gal, you go ahead and luk at dat babe. She’s as dark as a fine cup of strong coffee. Dat babe is Gray’s chile for sho’,” did she look upon her child for the first time.

  Mary Grace had doted on Evie from that day on and was every bit the mama Mammy was to her.

  “Mammy says Evie has colic and this stage will pass.” I placed a hand of comfort on her shoulder. “But until then, we’ll make bonnets lined with cotton to hug our ears and block out her wails.”

  Mary Grace laughed. “We may need to make them for the whole plantation. Sara says they can hear her screams in the quarters.”

  With the set of lungs Evie had, I was inclined to think Sara spoke the truth.

  “For the moment, she’s content. We’ll all take pleasure in her contentment while it lasts. I’ll be in the study if I’m needed.”

  She stared down at her hands. “Gone are the days of us lying up in your room, reading books and dreaming up fairy tales.”

  “Life has a way of forcing us into adulthood, whether we’re ready or not.” I, too, longed for days past. What I wouldn’t do to go back to the days of being our younger selves, tucked away in my room, giggling and laughing and oblivious to the reality of the world we lived in.

  “Nowadays, I feel as old as Mama looks.”

  “Don’t let her hear you calling her old.” I chuckled lightly as I walked down the corridor to the study.

  HOURS LATER, IN THE STUDY, I dipped my quill in the ink and stroked it neatly across the yellowed pages of the leather-bound journal that lay in front of me. The book held the names of the fugitive slaves my father had aided over the years, from the ones he’d helped while abroad to the ones that passed through Livingston. Beside their names were estimated ages and last known locations. Since then, the entries had changed from his scrawling penmanship to my neatly etched handwriting.

  I ran my fingers over the names on th
e page. So many lives had passed through my family’s hands. Lives of people looking to be free from the bondage in which my country held them.

  After Father’s death, I’d moved his manservant, Thaddeus, to Pennsylvania, where Father had tracked his family to their last known location. Currently, Thaddeus was employed as a butler for a white family.

  Encouraged by my father’s success in locating some families, I’d secretly started checking into Jimmy’s daughter’s whereabouts. It had proven to be impossible, as I had little to go on. I dreamed of reuniting him with her, but unlike the fairy tales Mary Grace and I had once read, their fairy tale was proving to have no happy ending.

  I rubbed the aching muscles in my neck. Since my father’s death, I’d muddled my way through the secrets surrounding my heritage and the man I’d thought was my father. I dove headfirst into his personal journals and ship ledgers, hoping to discover all his secrets. I’d come to understand that no matter how much I searched and read, I’d never truly understand the mystery surrounding Charles Hendricks.

  The writing on the pages blurred as my tired eyes burned. Closing the journal, I wrapped the leather strings securely around it before I circled the desk to the movable panel on the mahogany wall. With a press of the bottom corner, the panel swung out, and I placed the book on the narrow shelf inside.

  Back at the desk, I slumped into the chair, interlacing my fingers under my chin as I leaned back and stared at the image of my mother hanging over the fireplace. Her dark tresses were swept to the side in a mass of dark ringlets. The low-scooped neckline of her green velvet gown was trimmed in golden silk rope. Her green eyes shone like emeralds in a treasure chest, and her creamy-peach skin appeared soft and supple. Beauty adorning a queen, some might say. At first glance, one would think the woman with the alluring smile was happy, yet the artist had captured a great sadness in her eyes.

  I’d found the painting, along with several others, wrapped in canvas in an outbuilding at our Rhode Island estate. I’d brought them back, and they now sat in their rightful place on the walls and mantels of Livingston. After all, my mother was the heart of Livingston and should be honored as such.

  My mind turned back to the disturbing news I’d been told today pertaining to the masked men. “Copycats aiming to use the previous attacks of the masked men to their advantage, most likely,” I said to the painting.

  Rufus and his men’s ashes had settled long ago. Whitney, Mary Grace, and I had burned all evidence of our involvement from the night we sought justice on the men.

  But who were these impersonators, and what was their motive?

  I SHUT THE STUDY DOOR behind me and ambled down the corridor toward the staircase. Behind me a commotion announced the entrance of the twins, Whitney’s nine-year-old siblings, after an afternoon spent playing with the slave children. Whitney followed close behind.

  Jack held his arms snug across his chest. “I don’t want a bath. Can’t we change our clothes and be done with it?”

  “Why must you try me so, Jack Barry?” Whitney gave him a firm push toward the staircase. She’d met her match in her brother.

  I smiled in amusement as she tried to lasso the wild child. She caught me smiling and gave me her I’ll-speak-to-you-later look. I gathered the composure of a general reviewing his army before battle and stood aside to view the conflict going on in the foyer.

  Jack stomped his mud-covered boots. “I’m about sick of all you womenfolk. I’m almost ten, and you treat me like a child. With Mr. Hendricks away, I’m the man of the house. I’m figuring that means I have a say when I get cleaned up.”

  Whitney’s hands balled into fists on her slender hips. “Ten, twelve, or fifteen, you aren’t too old for me to take you over my knee and give you a good spanking.”

  Over the last year, Jack had sprouted up and now stood about eye level with Whitney’s chin. Yet I believed Whitney would still be capable of handing out a good tuning on his backside if need be.

  Kimie, Jack’s twin, differed from her brother and older sister. Never had I come across a child quite like her. From morning to night, she made her rounds on the plantation, nurturing and sprinkling a dusting of joy to all.

  Mary Grace sauntered into the foyer, shadowed by my new handmaid, Tillie.

  Kimie’s eyes lit up, and she skipped over to them. The rays of the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows gleamed off her wispy blond curls. She slipped her dainty hand into one of Mary Grace’s. “Can we use some of your pretty smells for our bath?”

  Sunlight haloed Mary Grace’s face. “You certainly can, Miss Kimie. I’ll bring them up straight away.”

  “Women,” Jack huffed with a narrowing of his eyes. “We need to have some menfolk around here. ’Bout time I moved on into town with Knox.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Whitney said with growing impatience. Almost weekly, Jack threatened Whitney with the same announcement.

  “If you married him, then we could all live together.”

  Whitney let out a snort. “In an apartment in town? Stop talking such gibberish. There’s no way you, of all boys, would be able to handle that.” She took his arm and hurried him up the stairs.

  Kimie followed but paused and poked her chin over the railing and said, “I like the one with the honey and lavender.”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Miss Kimie; I’ll bring all your favorites.” Mary Grace smiled affectionately at the girl.

  Pleased, Kimie turned and hopped up the stairs, her angelic voice humming a tune. I stared after her, envying her innocence.

  “Dat boy brings de whole yard of muck in wid him evvy time he goes out to play,” Mammy said as she came charging out of the warming kitchen. The door swung fiercely after her. “Tillie, you go off and fetch a broom and git dese floors swept. I won’t be having dis home luking lak no barn floor.”

  Tillie’s lips moved, but her words were barely audible as she wiped her palms in the folds of her skirt.

  “Heaven’s sakes, speak up, gal.”

  “Yessum. I go straight away.” Her voice squeaked as if an amateur violinist were playing it. She scurried off without so much as a creaking floorboard.

  “Fool gal is scared of evvything. Walks around here wid her chin on de ground. ’Fraid to even luk a nigger in de face. Her skinny behind jumps at evvy creak and groan in de place.”

  I laughed in amusement at Mammy’s sour disposition. “What’s stewing under that head rag of yours this evening?”

  “Nothin’,” Mammy said dryly.

  “You aren’t joshing anyone with your lies. Now, out with it.” I tapped my fingers on the banister post, awaiting her reply.

  “You tell Miss Willow the truth.” Mary Grace wrapped an arm around Mammy’s plump shoulders.

  “Gal, I done tole you not to be saying nothin’.”

  “Out with it!” I glanced from one dear face to another.

  “I got…ya see—no, et be all right.”

  “Oh Mama, I can’t put up with your crankiness any longer.” Mary Grace turned to me. “She has a tooth that needs pulling, and she’s too afraid to have it taken out.”

  “This is what this is all about?” I threw a hand in the air. “You can’t go around with an aching tooth. It may get infected and cause you heaps more trouble.”

  “It’s too late for that, I’m afraid,” Mary Grace said disapprovingly. “Infection set in days ago.”

  “You’ll go down to see Henry in the quarters and get the tooth taken care of, or you’ll be sleeping with the chickens tonight,” I said.

  Mammy’s full bosom heaved, and she said with a snort, “I’d rather sleep wid dose critters dan let dat crazy-eyed nigger anywhere near me wid his belt of rusty tools. He’s lakly to give me an infection far greater dan I already got.”

  I stifled a giggle at the wide-eyed, larger-than-life woman before me. Brief eye contact with Mary Grace informed me she wouldn’t be far behind. Having them in my life was like a warm shawl on a bitte
r winter day in Pennsylvania.

  “Henry will take good care of you. I’ve been to see him plenty of times.” And I’d hated it every time. I referred to his chair as the chair of horrors. It was a known fact that he showed no mercy when pulling a tooth. He informed every patient that came to see him that he pulled his own teeth, and whipped his tongue out to loop up into the space that once held his two front teeth. Henry took his work seriously. He’d pin you down with a knee to your middle, one hand molding your head to the back of the chair, and he’d yank your tooth with the other.

  “I ain’t having none of et, I said.” Mammy turned on her heels and strode out the front door with her arms swinging at her sides.

  We waited for her to be out of earshot before we burst into unladylike cackling. Stitches ate at our insides, and tears glistened on our cheeks by the time we regained control of ourselves.

  “Poor Mammy. She’s scared to death, and I can’t say I blame her much.”

  “I’ve got a plan that’ll fix her up real good.” A mischievous glimmer shone in Mary Grace’s eyes.

  “I know that look, and I’m half scared to find out what you’re thinking.”

  “You know that extra little something I put in Mama’s tea the night we took care of those Barry men?”

  I gasped. “You wouldn’t! Mammy wouldn’t fall for the same thing twice.”

  “You’re right. But you see, I went to Henry one day and got some ointment to help with the pain—”

  “And Mammy agreed to this?”

  “I let Mama think I’d made it myself. I’m thinking tonight I add the same potion to the ointment and it will put Mama under so we can get Henry up here to yank out the tooth.”

  “You figure she’ll be out for the whole thing?”

  “Maybe not by the time the tooth comes out, but by then, it’ll be over.” She grinned, pleased with herself.

  “You’re a wicked, wicked girl.” I laughed.

  “Mary Grace, will you bring my bath tray?” a small voice called from above.

  “Right away, Miss Kimie,” Mary Grace called back.