by Naomi Finley
“Stay away, you savage! You come near me, and I’ll take your head off your shoulders.” Mammy swung a broom in the air, holding Henry at bay.
“Aw, Rita, et be over in no time,” he said. A grin of amusement parted his lips, and the black hole between his teeth was a reminder to us all of how Mammy had every right to be scared stiff.
Tillie hovered in the corridor, and the unsuccessful Mary Grace stood in the room with a brown glass bottle in her hand.
“Mama, please,” she begged.
This wasn’t going to go down as planned.
“Tillie, get a couple of men from the quarters.”
“Yessum.” She disappeared down the corridor.
There was only one way that tooth was coming out, and it was with force.
WEEKS HAD PASSED SINCE THE slave had shown up on the doorstep. So far, Mr. Thames hadn’t traced him back to Livingston, and the more days that passed, I believed he never would.
On the riverbank, I waited as Jones and a gang of slaves pushed off the dock in a riverboat loaded with supplies headed for town. “Don’t forget to pass along my message to Miss Smith,” I called out.
Jones nodded and half waved.
After they disappeared around the bend in the river, I strolled back to the house. I’d reached its corner when I heard the clip-clopping of a horse coming up the lane. I shielded my eyes to see who the rider might be.
“It’s Silas Anderson.” Her face pinched, Whitney stood on the front veranda, observing the approaching rider. I followed her gaze.
He rode with the air of a grand duke, his broad shoulders thrown back, his chin jutting up. He was dressed in tan breeches, a matching coat, and a silk cravat. Beneath his brown, soft-crowned hat, dark wisps of hair touched the tips of his ears. His knee-length black leather boots glimmered in the morning sun as if recently polished. Most would consider him a handsome man with an awareness of modern trends.
He tipped the brim of his hat as he pulled his mount to a halt.
“What can I help you with?” I said after pleasantries had passed between us.
“I’m finding myself short of help. The homestead came with a handful of slaves. They ran off shortly after I purchased the place.”
“Ruth and William too?”
“The widow took them with her. Said they weren’t included in the sale,” he said nonchalantly.
The widow had a fondness for the husband and wife. They’d been with her for as long as I could recall, and I could see her not wanting to part with them.
“And the others? You didn’t track them down?”
“If a man wants to run, he’ll run. I don’t have the manpower to be tramping through the swamps and trails I’m unfamiliar with to search for them.”
“But they’re an investment.” My curiosity perked at his nonchalant dismissal of the slaves. He’d said he’d been in town on business when he’d heard the widow mention wanting to move back East. Perhaps he was not from these parts?
“I prefer to hire white folk willing to work without their eyes on the lookout for an opportunity to run. My man Caesar has been with me since his mama ran off with a salesman passing through. He was barely six years old. I don’t consider him a slave. More like my right-hand man. I depend on him more than I should. If he were to get it into his head to run off, I don’t know how I’d manage. He does the work of three men.”
“Your views on the importance of slavery are odd for these parts. If you don’t mind me asking, where did you drift in from?”
“Jamestown. Jamestown, Kentucky. My pa was a miner.”
He didn’t come from a planter family. If his father was a miner that meant Mr. Anderson didn’t come from elite society. And the likelihood of his family owning slaves would be low. Maybe there was truth in his words. The ache of the tension gripping me eased.
As if sensing this, he broke into a winsome grin. “Will the defendant go free?” His eyes twinkled with a mixture of boyish glee and amusement.
My cheeks burned. “Yes.” I hid my face with a dip of my head.
“I was beginning to think I should climb down off this horse and ask if I might sit awhile until you’ve finished your investigation of me.”
“I apologize,” I said, peering up at him. “With all the rumors, I’m a bit on edge lately, as you can understand.” It wasn’t a complete lie.
“Certainly; think nothing of it. But perhaps from here on out, we can forgo the interrogation and have a conversation that’s more pleasant for the both of us.”
“I’d like that.”
“Very well, then.” He leaned his elbows across the neck of his horse, the reins hanging casually in his hand. “I intend to hire a woman from town to do the cooking and cleaning at my place. But I’ve yet to have a moment to inquire about someone. I wondered if you’d be so kind and hire out a slave until I find the time. Man or woman, it doesn’t matter none. As long as they can cook. I do enjoy a proper meal.”
“I don’t make it a habit of hiring out my slaves. Maybe you can inquire with the other neighboring plantations.”
“I’ve inquired at the Armstrong Plantation. Mr. Armstrong was none too welcoming.”
His statement stilled our conversation. His eyes remained fixed on mine.
A niggle of doubt rose in my mind. Bowden hired out his slaves. Why hadn’t he offered the service to Mr. Anderson? “Mr. Armstrong is a busy man,” I said in his defense. The air seemed to thicken at the mention of Bowden’s name. All summer I’d tried to block out any thoughts of him.
“One should never be too busy to offer proper hospitality to a neighbor,” Anderson said, breaking through my thoughts.
The approach of heavy footfalls turned my head. Whitney’s stiff face and compressed lips reminded me of my teacher, Miss Davis, at the uppity boarding school I’d attended. Cold and inquisitive, Whitney squinted up at Mr. Anderson. I wanted to jab her in the ribs and knock her from the judge’s seat she sat upon.
“Miss Barry,” he greeted her, his expression sober.
“Anderson,” she replied with a nod of her head. “I couldn’t help but overhear you were looking to hire a slave.” Her tone softened.
“That was my intent.”
“We’d consider hiring out for a good price.”
My mouth dropped open. I was dumbfounded at her willingness to send someone into unknown territory.
“Is that so?” He looked at me in confusion.
“Miss Barry has forgotten her place,” I said sharply. “As I stated, I do not hire out slaves.”
Whitney whirled to face me. “I do not mean to overstep my boundaries after you’ve been so kind, but the gentleman is right. It’s our duty to be good neighbors and help in whatever reasonable way possible.” She set her eyes on him, slid a hand to her throat, and lowered her thick auburn lashes. “Forgive me if I came off harshly,” she said. “Willow’s always telling me I judge people unfairly. I hope you won’t allow my poor behavior to reflect badly on her.” Her lashes swept up as she regarded him.
She couldn’t be serious! She was acting like all the girls she detested. Did she think she could use flirtation to make him retreat from the cliff she’d cornered him on with her hostility? What was she up to? Furthermore, was he accepting the white flag she waved? I swung my eyes back to him, my throat clamped with worry.
Whitney held his attention. His look of confusion had slipped into one of disapproval and unnerving dislike. He hadn’t fed into her change from a baying hound on the hunt for blood to the lamblike demeanor she’d so poorly executed.
Never could Whitney pull off the blushing Southern belle. It would take years under the watchful eye of Miss Davis to mold Whitney into a proper lady. Yet, even that seemed impossible. Woman or man, it didn’t matter to Whitney. She stated her mind and stood firm in her beliefs. Society didn’t take to women conducting themselves as boldly and outspokenly as Whitney did. From the beginning, it was the trait I’d admired most about her. However, in this moment, I wished
she was anything but that woman.
“What do you say, Miss Hendricks? You made it quite clear the other day that you were the rightful owner of this plantation.” A hard glint settled in his eyes as he looked to me. I couldn’t blame him. When Whitney’s quills were up, she didn’t provide the most welcoming company.
“Will you excuse us for a moment.” I smiled through clenched teeth. Not waiting for his reply, I grabbed Whitney by the arm and dragged her out of earshot.
“Willow—”
“Are you trying to get us found out?”
“No!” she whispered, a flash of remorse crossing her face.
“What are you thinking? Hiring someone out could endanger us all. Not to mention the way you marched up, looking to go into battle. You must control yourself for the sake of us all.” I felt tightly strung, pinging with building anxiety. Sweat formed at the nape of my neck.
“You’re right.” Her sweaty palm touched my wrist. Her eyes darted past me to eye Mr. Anderson. “Hear me out, and then you can make the final decision.”
“Out with it.”
“Sending the right person could provide us with information we can’t possibly obtain ourselves. If he’s who he says he is, then there is no real loss. If he’s pretending to get into your good graces for some reason, then we’d have the upper hand.”
“I don’t know—”
“Please don’t be pigheaded, and trust that I may be right.”
I folded my arms across my chest. I wasn’t the only pigheaded one. I opened my mouth to speak and then thought better of it. Maybe Whitney was right. He seemed harmless enough, but if Anderson was a danger to Livingston, we had to know.
I swung to look at him where he sat observing us. He sent me a charming smile that sent heat washing through me.
Whitney gave my elbow a rough shake. “Don’t let his good looks throw away all your common sense.”
“I’m not,” I said in exasperation. “We’ll do it your way for now. But it needs to be someone he’d underestimate.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“Tillie.”
“Tillie?” she screeched before catching herself. “You can’t be serious,” she whispered. “She’s the last person you should send.”
“You need to trust me on this one,” I said firmly.
“As you say.” She sank into an exaggerated curtsey.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “In the meantime, find some manners, and let’s send Mr. Anderson on his way,” I said.
She rose to her full height and arched back her shoulders. “I’ll send him on his way all right, with a swim in the pond.” I stifled a laugh. She looped arms with me, and we strolled back to Anderson.
“TILLIE, WHERE ARE YOU?” I called out, my voice sounding strained to my own ears as I swept from room to room in search of her.
“Here, Missus,” Tillie said from behind me.
“Come out from behind my skirts so I may speak to you,” I said, more firmly than I’d intended. I gently took her arm and pulled her from my shadow. “Follow me.”
“What is et, Missus? I ain’t done nothin’ wrong, have I?” Her arm trembled under my fingers.
“No, you need not worry. There’s an important matter I must speak to you about.”
In the study, I released her arm and gestured for her to take a seat as I closed the door. Strolling across the room, I came to stand in front of the mahogany desk my father had imported from the Caribbean. Tillie mauled her apron with her hands, mimicking what I felt was happening inside my chest. I can’t do this to her. Nausea swirled in my stomach. A week. Only a week, and then she’ll be back. I suppressed the panic coursing through me and pushed forward.
“We’ve been together for a while now.” My voice quavered. “You’ve proven your trustworthiness and your desire to be part of the movement here at Livingston. With this knowledge and understanding, I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”
Tillie’s head hung reverently.
Devoted to a fault.
“What is dis favor you speak on?”
“Mr. Anderson, our new neighbor, has come here asking to hire someone to do some housework and cooking at his farm. Whitney doesn’t care for the man and thinks he’s up to no good. We need someone we trust to be our ears and eyes and see if he poses a threat. I believe that person should be you.”
Tillie’s body hunched inward, and through quivering lips she said, “Who’d care for you?”
“Don’t you be worrying about me. If you’re too frightened and don’t wish to go, I’ll try to find someone else.”
“What ef he’s a bad man? What ef he hurts slaves?”
I swallowed hard. She spoke the words I’d feared most. What if I was sending her into danger? Was I risking her life? I crumbled. “Your concerns are valid. I’ve no right to ask this of you. We’ll come up with another plan.”
I moved around the desk and collapsed into the chair. What was I thinking? This was all wrong. Come what may, I couldn’t send her or any other slave without knowing precisely what I was sending them into.
“I’ll go,” she said.
“It’s all right. We’ll figure something else out. It was wrong of me to suggest such an idea. I can’t seem to think clearly lately.”
“Missus, please.” Her voice cracked. “Et be true I’m scared. More scared den I’ve ever bin, but dis is my chance. My chance to do somepin’ good for folkses. I’m tired of being scared. Ef you think dis man is a danger to us, I’ll go.”
“That’s just it. I don’t know this. But one can never be too careful, you know?” I looked at her for understanding.
“You’re awful good, Missus. Better dan any white woman or man I’ve ever known. You take many risks for colored folkses. I want to be lak you, the Moses woman, and Miss Ruby from de North. Dis here be my turn.” She pulled her shoulders back and thrust out her chin.
I went to her and knelt before her, lowering my head so I could look her in the eye. She had pretty eyes. Kind and trusting. Eyes that weren’t meant to stare at the floorboards or some cobwebbed corner. “You must know I can’t promise safety. I can’t stop by to check on you. When you leave here, you’re on your own. Do you understand that?”
Her fear-filled eyes searched my face for courage.
I cupped her chin and smiled. “You’re a courageous girl. If anyone can do this, you can. I’ve seen how you creep around unnoticed. You probably frighten the ghost.”
Her eyes grew large. “You thinking dere are ghosts at Livingston?”
I laughed and stood up, pulling her up with me. “No. It was a figure of speech.”
“What do you mean?”
I wrapped my arm around her and led her to the door. “Nothing. There’s no ghost. I told Mr. Anderson I’d deliver a slave myself tomorrow morning. If you’re certain you can do this, we’ll move forward with the plan.”
“Yessum, I am. But…I was wondering…can you keep dis from my mama? She’d worry, and her heart ain’t strong as et used to be.”
“But your visits to the quarters… She’ll suspect something is amiss.”
“Not ef you tell her I’m caught up at de big house.”
“Very well. I’ll conjure up something to tell her. We’ll leave for the Anderson farm in the morning, right after breakfast. If I get a feeling something is amiss when we arrive, the plan is off.”
“I trust you to do right by me.”
“Your courage won’t be forgotten,” I said.
Closing the door after her, I turned and leaned against it, sliding down until I sat on the floor in a cloud of petticoats and fabric. Drawing my knees up, I rested my cheek on my arms.
Tears did not come. Nor did the sadness. Emptiness and numbness enveloped me, controlling me like a disease as it ravaged through every fiber and crevice of my body.
And with that, I placed the well-being of Tillie into the hands of Silas Anderson.
MIDMORNING, PREPARING TO TAKE TILLIE to the Anderson farm, I
tacked up my horse, grimacing at the drumming of a red-bellied woodpecker high in a sweetbay magnolia tree. It elevated the pounding in my head left by a sleepless night. The muffled sound of a horse’s hooves lifted my head, and I peered over the back of my mount. Through the veil of my riding hat I made out Mr. Sterling, a neighboring farmer and the constable for this area, trotting up the lane.
A friendly smile pushed aside his jowls as he pulled his mount alongside me. Bending, he held out a bundle of mail. “Morning, Miss Hendricks.” On trips to town, Mr. Sterling and my father often picked up the mail for the folks in the surrounding area who could afford the cost of sending and receiving mail.
I returned his smile as I accepted the bundle. “How go things with you and the missus?”
“Waiting on the grandbaby to arrive. My Alice says it should be any day.” He removed the tattered brown hat he always wore cockeyed and scratched his balding head while glancing around the property. “Always loved this place. It’s like a little piece of heaven hidden away by these oak trees.”
I smiled, looking over my shoulder at the view around me. “It has a certain charm, doesn’t it?”
“I was a little boy when your grandpa built the place. My pappy and your grandpa were good friends. Pa would bring me along sometimes when he came to visit. I remember the slaves lifting those columns into place on that front veranda there.” He waved his hat at the main house. “I remember your mama, too. Pretty little thing with eyes that ate through a man’s soul.” His voice conveyed deep appreciation.
I stiffened and turned back to examine his face. “You knew my mother?”
“What man didn’t?” He clapped his leg in mirth.
I frowned at his remark, and his eyes widened in horror. “Wife’s always saying my words don’t come out right. What I was fixing to say is it was her beauty, I suppose, that made folks’ tongues waggle. Women beat their men with their parasols if they so much as craned their necks your mama’s way. Beauty was her curse. She never gave folks no cause to say the things they did. Your mama was made of a pure heart. Folks will always be folks. Nothing better to do than construct stories.”
