by Naomi Finley
We’d never spoken about my mother. Why was he saying all this now? Prickles zapped under my skin.
Oblivious to the raw emotions his words ignited in me, he continued. “Many afternoons when I’d stop by, your mama would greet me with a cold glass of punch.” The deep creases in the corners of his eyes softened. “Couple of times, I seen her out riding with your uncle. One day, I rode up on them sitting on a blanket in the grass all cozy-like. I spied on them for a moment or two.” A pinkish tinge seeped through the gray scruff on his cheeks. “They were laughing and chatting, causing nobody no harm. I couldn’t help but wonder if she might love him. But then she married your father, and soon after, her belly grew with you. Around that time, your mama changed.”
“How so?”
“Her eyes became vacant. The sweet, carefree gal she once was was gone. After you were born, a spark of that gal returned. For a while, she’d bring you out to greet me. Other times I’d see her over there by the pond, reading to you.”
Through his memories, I envisioned the phantom of my mother with a small child.
“Olivia loved you more than anything, as sure as I’m sitting here on this horse. Never could figure out why she ran off. After all these years, it still doesn’t sit right in my gut. She wouldn’t just up and leave you.” His wind-chapped lips formed a firm line. It was apparent that the mystery around my mother’s disappearance that had tormented me still troubled the man.
It felt as if hands squeezed the breath from me as he continued. “Some say she bewitched the Hendricks brothers.” His shoulders slumped, and a haunting sadness darkened his gray eyes. “After she took off, your pa wasn’t ever the same. He became consumed with his businesses, and the other brother vanished altogether. People took to saying Olivia had run off with the younger brother and you. I wondered myself when the three of you disappeared. Then there were the rumors of the younger brother drifting in and out of town over the years.
“It was some years later that Charles started being seen around town with a wee one. Folks contrived a story that helped them come to peace with the situation in their minds.”
“I don’t see why they should concern themselves with other people’s lives.” I folded my arms across my chest, biting down hard on the corner of my lip.
“Folks always going to pry into others’ affairs. With your pa gone, I know that’s got to be hard on a young lady. Sure glad your uncle stuck around to help you run the place. Charles refused to speak about Olivia and him being gone, but I wanted you to know, no matter what folks say, your mama loved you. If it weren’t for the height you inherited from your pa, I’d say you were Olivia in the living flesh.”
Tears scratched at the back of my throat. Mr. Sterling wasn’t one for an idle tongue. He wanted me to know this. The genuine kindness on his face cracked the defensive shell I’d formed around myself. “I appreciate you telling me about my mother. For many years, I’ve wanted to know more about her, aside from the tiresome gossip of her running off with another man. I suppose I’ll never know for certain if the rumors hold any truth.”
I’d allow the town to savor the theory they’d concocted about my mother. Ben had told me everything he could about the passionate and fearless woman I aspired more and more every day to emulate.
“Your parents would be proud of the young lady you’ve become.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sterling.” I willed a cheerful smile.
“I’d best be on my way.” He pulled his reins and circled his horse back down the lane. With a wave over his shoulder, he took off at a gallop.
I flipped through the stack of mail. My heart caught when I noticed one from a William Still. Did he have news? What if…? I tore the letter open with trembling fingers.
Philadelphia, October 2nd, 1852
To Miss Hendricks,
It saddens me to inform you that I have no update on the girl Mag, whom you seek. With little information to go on, it does seem impossible to locate her. But I will keep searching.
W. Still
I dropped my hand to my side and blinked away tears. Mr. Still’s letters continued to snatch all hope from me with their endless dead ends. I tucked the mail into my saddlebag and leaned my forehead against my mare, clenching my eyes shut to cut off tears. I had to find her! But how?
Jimmy led a horse into the front yard. Tillie sat on the horse, gripping her carpet bag and the saddle.
“Lard, keep me on dis horse. Don’t let him git no funny ideas,” she whispered.
“Oh, Tillie, you’ll be just fine. The horse is the least of your worries,” I said, stepping on the carriage stone to mount my horse. Then we were off.
OUR HORSES HAD BARELY BROKEN a sweat by the time Tillie and I arrived at the Anderson farm.
As with Livingston, the Ashley River was the farm’s backdrop, but this property lay wide open, without the cozy appeal of lush gardens and trees. A smaller two-storey house sat in the center of the property. Over the years the white paint had cracked and chipped, revealing the weathered gray boards underneath. An enclosed porch extended from end to end at the front of the house. Knee-high grass swallowed up the two outbuildings and barn that sat to the right of the main house. A couple of slave shacks overlooked the river.
A few peacocks scurried around when I rode into the front yard, but aside from them and the hogs in the pasture, the property appeared lifeless. Where was Anderson? I’d expected him to come out to greet us. I rose up in my saddle and looked around. “Hello?” I called out.
Nothing.
“Mr. Anderson, it’s Willow Hendricks.”
No answer came.
I climbed down and tied the horse to the hitching post before removing my riding gloves.
A light cough came from Tillie, and I glanced up at her. Though her eyes were engrossed in the mane of her horse, a fleeting shift in her facial expression warned me of Anderson’s approach before he called out.
“Miss Hendricks, what a pleasure.” His gait was wide and fast as he entered the yard from the back.
Most women would swoon at the heart-pattering smile he offered me but, focused on the task at hand, I delivered Silas Anderson a flawless fixed smile while forcing myself to take full, even breaths. “Tillie here is one of my kitchen slaves. She’s a fine cook and can get your house in order. As we discussed, she’ll be in your service for one week and one week only.”
“You have my gratitude, Miss Hendricks.” He bowed gracefully.
I turned my back on him to face Tillie. “You go on now and get off that horse.”
Tillie hesitated.
“Come, girl, move along,” I said sternly.
“Yes, Missus.” She slipped from her horse.
Tillie held out the reins with a surprisingly steady hand. The tips of her fingers touched mine as I took the reins. Gathering her skirt, she spun to face the house, her shoulder blades angled back and her chin thrust out. With the courage of the African warrior prince Mammy had often told me stories about as a child, Tillie mounted the steps and disappeared inside, the door shutting silently behind her.
Worry and despair expanded in my chest as I stared after her. Pleading in my head that she transmit her courage into me, I fought against the sting of telltale tears. Stay strong. Keep the faith, I told myself.
Without warning, a massive, moving shadow engulfed me. My heart snagged in my throat and I stepped back, dropping my gloves. My hands came up, ready to fend off my attacker.
A man. A huge man, vast and wide. As he shuffled toward us, I imagined the shaking of trees and the crumbling of the earth beneath his feet. I inched back as he stopped beside Silas. “This is Caesar. He’s harmless,” Silas said, motioning for me to relax with his hand.
Head bowed, the man clasped his paw-like hands tight in front of him. He stood like a beast in an opium-induced trance.
“He was born a mute,” Silas said. Did he think that made the man less intimidating?
“Yes, well now, on to the reason I’m here,” I sai
d, disregarding the slave. “I am hiring the girl out to you in good faith. I pride myself on being a businesswoman. Slaves are an investment, and a slave marked will decrease their value. I can’t have that. I choose to have my stock of slaves in good health. I’d expect you to treat my slave no differently. If she’s returned to me marked or damaged in any way, I’ll come looking for the price I paid for her and the price for the inconvenience of finding another. Are we clear?” Sweat trickled down my inner thighs. I imagined it pooling in my boots.
“You have my word,” Silas said, his visage of a well-mannered gentleman never faltering.
I released a breath, nodded once, and turned to my horse.
Leaving the farm, I whispered a prayer of protection for Tillie.
Tillie
FROM THE WINDOW IN THE parlor, I watched Miss Willow ride away. I could barely hear my own thoughts from the drumming of my heart.
Please don’t leave me.
Be brave, Tillie, I imagined Miss Willow whispering back. Yesterday I’d found my courage in her, but now, without her, I could feel it slipping away. Down…down it went, fading with each breath I took.
You got to be strong. Ef folkses can run from deir masas and follow de North Star to freedom, you can do dis small ting de missus ask of you. One week, Miss Willow said, and den I’ll go home. I swiped the moisture from my eyes with the back of my hand.
From behind the musty-smelling blue gingham curtains, I spied on Mr. Anderson and the slave man. Never had I seen a black man like him. His shoulders seemed as wide as the Ashley River, and his head could touch the top of a mountain. I ain’t ever seen a mountain ’fore, but I’d say he’d be ’bout dat big.
Mr. Anderson and the slave exchanged a few words before Mr. Anderson strode toward the house. The slave turned to leave but then stopped and looked at the house. His eyes moved to the window where I stood, and he waved right at me like he knew I was spying. Then he dashed around back to the working yard.
The squeak of the front door opening sent me scurrying to the other side of the room. Grabbing the dusting cloth I’d found earlier, I glided my hand along the mantle. An imprint of my long fingers left a trail in the dust.
Mr. Anderson’s boots clicked across the floor. Click…shuffle…click…shuffle they went. Each step strummed the fear thrumming through me all morning. The third floorboard in the hallway right next to the double sliding doors outside the parlor creaked.
Then his footfalls stopped. His eyes were on me. I could feel them piercing through my back. Sweet Jesus, protect me.
“They call you Tillie?” he said, his voice flat.
I dug the heel of my left shoe into the floor plank and slowly turned around. Sticking my eyes to the clawed wooden foot of the settee, I said, “Dat’s right, Masa.”
“I see you’ve searched the place out.” In the yellow pattern on the floor coming from the window, I saw his finger poke at me, or at the cloth I held balled in a fist at my side.
Was he displeased? The thumping inside of me felt like it exploded. For a second that’s all I could hear. “I thought you’d want me to git right to work, Masa.”
From the low growl that rose from his chest to the way he shifted his weight to one foot, I listened and noted it all. A gray spider scurried from the oak baseboard over the flower-patterned hooked rug and across the toe of Mr. Anderson’s boot. The boot that was worn more than the other.
“You head on out to the kitchen house. You can start there. Supper is to be served at 5:00 p.m. sharp every night. Understood?”
“Yes, Masa.”
“Good. I’m not to be disturbed. Now, off with you.”
Out the back door I went, without another word. I scurried across the yard to the first outbuilding, where my feet caught at the doorway. My heart sank at the sight I saw.
“Oh, Lard have mussy!”
I’d found the kitchen house, all right, but it didn’t look like no kitchen house I’d ever seen before. It seemed like the critters from the woods had turned the place upside down and inside out. I took a deep breath and climbed the two steps into the house. A wooden table sat in the middle of the small room, heaped right full with dirty pots, plates, cups, and utensils. Muddy footprints trailed from the fireplace to the table to the cupboards.
Miss Rita would be piping mad if she could see this place. She’d go up one side of Mr. Anderson and his slave man and down the other, sending them running away with their faces hanging low and red with shame. I snickered at the thought. Besides, there was nothing to do but laugh. It was either laugh or squat in the corner and bawl over the task ahead.
So I did what needed doing.
Willow
SEVERAL DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE I’d left Tillie at the Anderson farm. And with each passing day, my stomach twisted into knots. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I paced the corridor all hours of the night. I’d considered spying on the farm, hoping to spot Tillie and ease my mind over her well-being.
Today I sat on an afghan by the edge of the pond, under the shadows of the moss-covered limbs of the grandest live oak on the plantation. On a lily pad in the center of the pond, a bullfrog croaked. White swans circled, dipping their beaks in the water and snapping up vegetation. A lone swan swam near the shoreline, extending and flapping its massive wings and showering me with droplets of water.
Gazing at my reflection in the pond, I traced my fingertips along the thick pink scar trailing up my neck, left by the lash of the whip and the night I tried to forget. The guilt I felt over Mary Grace’s rape had become increasingly harder to bear. Mary Grace had been free all along. Mammy should’ve taken her and left long ago. But because of me, Mammy had stayed, and because of me, her daughter had suffered a fate no woman wants for another. If only had played over and over in my head since I’d learned the truth that they were, in fact, free.
The workload of running Hendricks Enterprises and Livingston numbed the madness inside my head. Had my father felt the same? Had guilt cut away a little piece of him each day, changing him as it was changing me?
My parents had fought against slavery for decades, yet we owned slaves. Ownership of slaves on Livingston dated back to my grandparents. From those slaves came families, and as time progressed, families continued to grow. With that, more lives became enslaved at Livingston. As with all slave owners, we were bound by the legislative law that restricted the freeing of slaves. Laws might prevent me from setting them all free, but I wouldn’t allow it to keep me from doing what was right for the slaves.
Livingston was envied for its beauty and its prosperity. Unbeknownst to me, Father had used this advantage to transfer slaves in and out of Livingston. Risking being arrested, he’d hidden fugitives on his ships and moved them around the world. Many passed through Livingston before being moved along the channels to the next station, and many had enlisted right here to aid Father in the cause.
I’d spent so many years being a self-absorbed child, believing he wanted to keep my mother from me, that I hadn’t noticed the operation going on right under my nose. Though at times the past threatened to consume me, I forced myself to move forward. In secret, I encouraged slaves wanting to learn to read and write. We taught them trades to better themselves in hopes that one day the brighter future we all believed in would come. More and more folks all over the country were taking a stand against slavery.
As it was for the slaves here, some days were darker than others for me, and then my faith would dwindle. But we had to keep the faith, or all we’d striven for would be lost.
Lost on the battlefield inside my mind, I hadn’t heard anyone approach until a husky voice rescued me from my thoughts.
“I was told I could find you here.”
“Bowden!” My voice hitched, and for a moment my breathing stopped.
“The one and only.” He bowed extravagantly before straightening to his full height.
A soft, genuine smile curved the corners of his lips, a smile that cut at my heart. Guilt flared over the way I’
d left things last spring before leaving for Rhode Island—an emotion I hated above all others. I’d been avoiding him since my return. And from the look on his face, I guessed he knew it.
He lowered himself to the ground beside me, one knee bent, the other outstretched. He removed his hat and placed it on his bent knee. His dark waves shone in the sunlight, and his blue-green eyes captivated me with their intensity. In them I read longing and a burning passion.
I averted my eyes. The pain in his gaze was too great. “I’ve been meaning to let you know we were back, but I’ve had my hands full with things here. When did you get back?”
“A month ago,” he said.
He gazed out over the pond, his jaw-length hair partially hiding his expression from me. A desire to reach out and tuck his hair back so I could see him struck me, but I lowered my eyes and instead traced the outline of the tiny pink rosebuds on my ivory gown.
I’d missed him greatly, but my life was so busy, and time for matters of the heart wasn’t a priority in my life. I’d meant to write and tell him I needed more time to give him the answer he sought, but time had a way of slipping away. And with me trying to sort out my family’s affairs, I’d spent the summer meeting Father’s acquaintances, locating the station depots, and meeting my father’s station masters in the Northern states.
He deserved better.
“I knew falling for a girl like you would bring its challenges,” Bowden said.
“A girl like me?”
“A wild bronco,” he said with a dry chuckle.
“A horse? You’re categorizing me as a horse?” I laughed.
“I tend to enjoy horses. They’re magnificent creatures.”
“And me?” I needed to know he still loved me. No sooner had the desire to hear the words filled me than I quickly admonished myself for such a selfish thought.
He turned to look at me, and the pain in his eyes tore at me. “Irresistible.”
