by Naomi Finley
My mind skipped back to the delivery man at the store. Recovering my voice, I advanced with caution. “Why don’t you enlighten us on what exactly you’re alluding to, Miss Smith?”
“Ripping families apart and selling them as if they were mere hogs,” she said bluntly.
“At one time in my life, I’d pass a colored person on the street without so much as a nod of acknowledgment. My family employed a colored woman, but at night she went home to her family. I’d heard how it was in the South, but it wasn’t part of my life, so I didn’t give it any thought.
“Since my arrival, more times than I can count, I’ve been disrespected and mistreated for merely being an outsider.” She glanced down at her hands, but not before I saw the shame on her face. “I hate to admit it, but being an outcast myself finally opened my eyes to the evil befalling the Negroes. I found myself relating to them more than the fine folk of Charleston. I’ve made it my mission to help them in whatever way I can.”
“What does this all have to do with me?”
She glanced around for eavesdroppers and said, “I know your father was an agent and used his ships to move cargo.”
On the surface, I maintained my composure. Inside, I struggled to control my rising anxiety. “What else do you suppose you know?”
“The day you came by the general store, you made a delivery to the docks first. How am I doing so far?”
I gulped. “How do you know this?”
“I have my sources. But as you know, leaking information about conductors and stations could be the derailment of the railroad. Do you follow now, Miss Whitney?”
Whitney looked wide-eyed from her to me.
“My father would never tell you about the network unless—” I gasped as the realization hit me.
“Unless I was his source.” She smiled knowingly. “You see, Miss Willow, I’m not as spooky as you’ve always believed. I don’t cook children and eat them at luncheons.”
My mouth gaped open, and the burn of my embarrassment reached the tips of my ears. I’d spoken those exact words to Mary Grace when we were little girls, waiting in the carriage while Miss Smith and Father had stood engaged in conversation.
Ben
THE CREW STRUGGLED TO CONTROL the vessel as the storm battered the Olivia II. Waves thrashed against the ship, threatening to rip it apart with each violent blow. Wooden crates and barrels squeaked and groaned below as they strained against their lashes.
The candle burned low in the cabin as I scanned the entries in Charles’s journal. Sam Bennick, my brother’s lawyer and our childhood friend, had found the journal and a slave ledger hidden in Charles’s townhome in London.
I paused on a page where the ink smeared and dripped down the page. Reading the excerpt, I swallowed hard as I envisioned Charles sitting where I sat now, writing the entry.
July 25, 1845
My dearest Olivia,
Months have faded into years. Yet time doesn’t ease the ache I’ve felt since they took you from me. Guilt fills me each day with the knowledge that I didn’t seek justice for you; neither have I found the ones responsible for ending your life.
Willow is growing into a remarkable woman. Raising her has proven to be challenging. I feel I may be failing her as a father. She is settled in the boarding school you attended and is none too happy about it. It grieved me to leave her, but it’s for the best. I don’t know the first thing about raising a child. The girl is spirited and a replica of you.
In her veins runs a great love and admiration for Livingston, as it did in yours. Willow’s love for the blacks outweighs all reasoning with her. She is headstrong and determined that she’ll be the one to set all blacks free. She aims to defy me at every turn. She will send me to an early grave.
I miss her greatly, but I can’t have her drawing attention to Livingston and the work we are doing with her outspoken ways. The secrets I carry and the truth I must keep hidden from her are a wedge that divides us. I fear most days she despises me, as her father does…
From time to time, I hear from Ben. The closeness we once shared as brothers is gone. His haunted eyes are something I understand all too well. I fear he hates me for laying claim to all that should have been his. God punishes me for the envy I hold in my heart toward my brother. I begrudge him your love and the child you bore with him.
I wonder, if circumstances had been different and you’d met me first, would I have been the one who won your heart?
Months at sea give me nothing but time to reflect on my life and the wrongs I’ve done. Nights when I’m troubled, my mind tricks me into seeing you skimming across the water with outstretched arms, only to fade as you draw near. Even from the grave, you haunt me.
A knock at the door startled me.
“Come in.” I closed the journal and looked up as the door opened.
Sam poked his head around the door, and his eyes fell to the journal. “Did you find any resolution in there?”
“If you mean understanding my brother, the answer is no.”
Sam shook the rain from his coat in the corridor before entering. He strolled to the narrow bed under the single small window and sat down. Age had left traces of silver threading through his dark hair.
“Charles and I were practically strangers. I thought, with all these months of living his life, that I’d begin to understand who he’d become. Maybe I’d find closure for the rivalry of our past. But I’ve come to feel like I’m chasing a ghost.”
Most of my life, I’d carried guilt over the hurt Charles felt because Olivia had loved me. Then there were times I’d wished I’d not given in to my brother’s demands and claimed Olivia as my own. But Charles and Olivia had quickly married after her father suffered a heart attack. She blamed herself. She believed she’d brought on the attack after she refused to marry Charles.
The scandal of me stealing my brother’s wife and folks finding out about Willow’s illegitimacy was something none of us could risk. Olivia would’ve been shunned and Charles humiliated. Where would that have left Willow? I loved them all too much to put them through that.
Charles’s death had changed everything. I’d emerged from the shadows and became part of my daughter’s life. However, Willow yearned for the only father she’d ever known, leaving me to roam in the shadows of my brother in her heart.
“When are you going to tell Willow about the girl?” Sam’s voice cut through my pondering.
“Soon.”
“It’s been a year.”
“She’s been through so much. I worry about her well-being. I don’t want to push her over the edge.”
“She’s a strong girl.”
“But one can only be strong so long.”
“Don’t make the same mistake Charles did. Secrets have a way of coming out, and with them comes disaster.”
“I will tell her when the time is right.”
“I urge you not to wait too long.”
“Damn Charles for leaving me to clean up his mess! What have I become, my brother’s keeper?” I stood and swiped my hands through my hair, then gripped and tugged on it.
The ship rocked under the force of another wave, and I clutched the desk to steady myself.
“You can’t get back the years that were stolen from you, but if you continue to live in the past, you’ll only rob yourself of a future with your daughter.”
“That’s the last thing I want to do. I won’t see her suffer anymore. I can’t see the pain in her eyes…” My voice clogged with emotion.
“You can’t control what life bestows on us. Nor can you protect her from the truth.”
I sighed. I knew Sam was right, but how did I begin to tell her…
Willow
SOME WEEKS HAD PASSED, AND Lucille sent a slave to inform me of Julia’s arrival. As expected, I returned an invitation for the ladies to join Whitney and me for a luncheon.
The morning the ladies were to come, I sat at the breakfast table, reviewing the preparations, assuring myself
that everything was in order for the arrival of the scathing Lucille Carter.
Whitney slid into her seat and stubbed her foot on the leg of the table. Her face crumpled in pain, and she muttered a curse under her breath. “Must we endure this day,” she said sourly.
“I feel the same as you, but if we want word to spread, Lucille is the one to do it.”
“The thought of enduring her company makes me ill. Perhaps I should come down with something.” She covered her mouth and feigned a cough.
“Perhaps you should be a good friend and help me. We’ll conduct ourselves as gracious hostesses. I’ll stroke Lucille’s ego and coo and giggle, even if it nauseates me to think of behaving in such a shameful and false way.”
Mammy entered the room from the warming kitchen.
“I, for one, will not lower myself to kissing Lucille’s feet. Besides, I’m sure they’re grotesque. Hairy and hideous,” Whitney said with a smirk.
“What?”
“Her feet.” She laughed and in a haunting, low voice intoned, “Nightly, she patrols the corridors, while below her, slaves huddle together and peer at the ceiling, paralyzed with fear by the sound of the curled toenail on her big toe scoring the planks as she hunts for the goblet of her handmaiden’s blood.” Her eyes twinkling with amusement, she took a big gulp of her water.
“Whitney Barry!” I burst into laughter.
Mammy sputtered, and the platter of eggs she carried clanged as she nearly dropped it on the table. A low cackle came from her.
My stomach ached from laughter, and I patted my index fingers under my eyes to wipe away the tears. Whitney had a way of breaking the tension, and I loved her for it. “We’ll get through this engagement. I hope I can count on you to take it seriously.”
“I promise to mind my manners and be dressed in my Sunday best.” She rolled back her shoulders and folded her hands in her lap.
I laughed. Whitney never let anyone’s opinion of her deter her from being herself, and I envied her. To be comfortable in one’s skin was an admirable trait.
“I look forward to catching up with Julia and hearing how she’s faring in married life up in the province of Canada,” Whitney said.
The twins dashed into the room with Mary Grace scurrying to catch up.
“Stop telling me I can’t marry him,” said a teary-eyed Kimie.
“Girls are dim-witted!” Jack plopped into his chair.
“What is all the fuss?” Whitney asked.
“Kimie thinks she’s going to marry that boy from the quarters. And I told her a white girl never mixes with the darkies.”
“He isn’t a darky. He’s my friend.” Her pink lips pouted.
“Jones says all slaves are darkies,” he shot back.
“Enough!” Whitney’s palm hit the table, rattling the glassware and utensils. “Jack, why do you insist on starting every morning like this?”
“I’m not. Kimie needs to start talking sense.”
“You need to worry about yourself and stop trying to father your sister.”
“Maybe if she had a father, then she wouldn’t be so brainless!” He looked away, his bottom lip quivering.
Whitney, caught off guard by his response, sat still.
“Ben will be home any day now, and I’ll ask him to take you to see the ocean. What do you think of that?” I said.
He turned to me, and his dejected face brightened. “When?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but soon.”
His narrow shoulders relaxed, and the trace of a smile formed on his lips.
“All right, apologize to your sister for being rude and hurtful,” Whitney said.
Jack muttered an apology, and all was forgotten between the siblings. But Whitney remained oddly quiet for the duration of the meal.
THE ENCLOSED BLACK CARRIAGE ENTERED Livingston in the early afternoon. All morning I’d paced my bedchamber, glancing in the looking glass and adjusting my hair. Much to Tillie’s dismay, I switched from one gown to another to the one I presently wore.
As of yesterday, all literature, paper, pencils, inkwells, and slates in the slave quarters had been removed and placed in trunks in one of the barns. The folks in the quarters were used to the protocol. Everyone fell into step to assure nothing was out of place and took their positions.
A breathless Mary Grace entered my chamber. “They’re coming, Miss Willow.”
I squeezed her hand on my way out of the room. “Make sure the children stay out of the house while they’re here.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Mary Grace said with the utmost obedience, sweeping low in a grand curtsy. One outer corner of her mouth inched up as her smiling eyes touched mine.
“And to think people consider you innocent and sweet. Wicked to the bone is more like it.” I shook my head and strode from the room.
Nausea roiled in my stomach as I descended the staircase.
Mammy stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for me.
Taking a deep breath, I patted my ringlets and smoothed my hands over the waist and skirt of my pleated blue taffeta gown. Sweat dampened the whalebone corset cutting into my prickling flesh.
“Et’ll be all right, gal,” Mammy said, warmth and encouragement radiating from her face. “Don’t let dem fillies scare ya none. You’re de Lady of Livingston. Now, git on out dere and show dem your regal self.”
“Regal?”
“Tillie said dat means lak a queen?” She grinned proudly.
“I’m hardly a queen, Mammy. But thank you.” I leaned in and quickly kissed her cheek.
Head held high, shoulders rolled back, I straightened my spine and headed for the front doors. “This is for you, Father,” I whispered.
Acting like the Mistress of Livingston and daughter of the respectable, departed Charles Hendricks, I grasped the bronze doorknobs and pulled open the doors. I swept onto the veranda with a fixed smile on my lips.
The carriage came to a stop beside the carriage stone. A footman circled the carriage and opened the door, the brass buttons on his brown velvet coat glinting in the sunlight. He held out a white-gloved hand, and a small gloved hand emerged from inside the carriage and lightly gripped it.
Ostrich feathers and the ivory and pink flowers on a high-brimmed, periwinkle-blue hat poked out. “It appears the plantation hasn’t gone into disrepair with the passing of your father,” Lucille said, performing a quick inspection of the property.
The fixed smile on my face vanished. I clenched my teeth and winced as I tasted blood from biting my inner cheek. Whitney’s warning rang clear in my head: She’s a meddlesome chinwag with no intention but to find out what is happening here.
I hadn’t forgotten anything. I’d made sure everything and everyone had their place. Had I forgotten anything? Panic and fear squirmed in my gut.
A swishing of material and the crunch of footfalls on the crushed stone drive turned my head. Whitney strolled toward me. Relief ran through me, and we exchanged tight smiles. Together we swung back to our guest.
“Hello, ladies,” I said, ignoring Lucille’s cool reference to my father’s passing.
Lucille had exited the carriage, and Josephine and Julia followed.
Josephine preferred to sit amidst the clouds rather than dwell amongst the living. Today, however, a radiant smile reached her cornflower-blue eyes—an oddly whole smile.
“Willow, my darling.” Julia pushed her way between the hoops and fabric of Josephine’s and Lucille’s skirts. She threw her arms around me, and I teetered backward, trying to catch my balance. “I’m so happy to see you.”
She stepped back and adjusted her lopsided silk and velvet hat. “Whitney, always a pleasure.” A sheen covered her freckle-dusted face. Her eyes watered with happiness.
“It appears married life suits you,” Whitney said, considering her a moment longer than usual.
“You think so?” Julia giggled, twirling about in a wave of scintillating burgundy taffeta and ribbons.
Whitney and I nodded
in agreement.
“And to think not long ago she was beside herself with melancholy because she had to marry Jeffery,” Josephine reminded us.
The apples of Julia’s cheeks glowed rosy. “That’s true, but I’ve grown since then.”
“Haven’t we all,” I said. “Mammy has set out—”
Lucille snorted with disgust. “Honestly, Willow, you’re a grown woman. You’d think you’d have stopped calling your slave Mammy by now.”
I blew out a calming breath. Play the gracious hostess and send her on her way. I talked my hands into relaxing at my sides when all they wanted to do was feel the smoothness of her delicate neck under my clenched fingers. “Does it really matter to you?”
“I suppose not, but how do you expect to be taken seriously if you still act like a child?”
“Lucille, shut up!” Josephine snapped.
Lucille’s jaw hung. “Josephine…I…well…never in my life…I was simply stating—”
“Every impolite thought that comes into that rambling brain of yours need not be spoken.” Josephine stepped forward and looped her arm in mine. “I’m starving.”
My mouth unhinged in the most unladylike manner. “I—I…yes.”
“Refreshments will be served in the parlor. If you ladies would like to move inside…” Whitney almost sang as she bestowed a doting smile on Josephine, relishing the embarrassment mottling Lucille’s face. Josephine had just earned herself a spot in Whitney’s good books, a difficult task to accomplish.
Off to a great start! I grumbled inwardly, and allowed Josephine to lead me inside.
THE AFTERNOON PROCEEDED AT AN exhausting pace, with Lucille jabbering nonstop, relaying the newest gossip she’d heard, Josephine’s scolding forgotten entirely. Lucille’s lack of intelligent conversation dulled my senses.
Mammy and Mary Grace had outdone themselves with the spread of food displayed on the white-clothed table. Hot tea biscuits, stewed fruit, tart preserves, fancy cakes, grated coconut…the dishes went on.
