by Naomi Finley
“No more reading. Or knitting or mending. I’m bored stiff.” I plunked myself down in a chair at the wooden table in the center of the kitchen house. Many tears and laughter and hours of cooking and chatting had centered around the table with Mary Grace, Mammy, and me. Then when Whitney arrived, she’d joined us. My hand moved across the table with fondness for memories of times past.
“We all miss dem, angel gal. Et ain’t gonna be de same widout de young’uns and Miss Whitney.” Mammy pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Some things I wish would never change.” I slumped forward, resting my elbow on the table to cup my cheek in my hand. My gaze floated out into the yard.
Mary Grace and Gray strolled toward the front yard, hand in hand. She pulled Gray’s arm tight to her side as her chin tipped up and she regarded him with adoring eyes. Her light, carefree laughter was followed by his deep chuckle. A smile touched my lips. Though I felt I was imposing on a tender moment between husband and wife, I shamelessly watched them. I’d always admired their relationship. It was honest and genuine, the kind of marriage built on a solid foundation of trust and respect. Everything I’d wanted with Bowden. If people had control over who stole their hearts, I’d have picked a man less complicated.
“You got dat dreamy luk in your eyes. De one you git when you think of Mr. Armstrong. Any chance he’s de reason for dat sadness leaking over your face?”
I lifted a finger to dab at my tears. “I do try to forget him. Honestly, I do. I’ve sent endless prayers up to heaven, begging God to remove him from my thoughts. But He’s as sick of hearing about him as you all are. Why must I be so weak? Each time I see Bowden I want to recant my refusal of his proposal.”
“Et will all work out.” She patted my hand.
“I used to think so, too.”
“Ef Mr. Armstrong sells his place lak whisper has et, my Mary Grace will be beside herself wid grief. Et ain’t no secret dat Mr. Armstrong has a fondness for Gray. Ef he moves to Texas, I’m scared he plans to take him wid him.”
My teeth pulled on the corner of my lip as I considered the truth of her words. “I can’t see Bowden parting with him.”
“’Less you talk to him,” Mammy said.
“What could I do?”
“Purchase him.” She squeezed my hand.
My eyes gravitated to the couple, who now stood in the yard locked in a kiss for all the plantation to see: the freedom of an affection forbidden in public for ladies and gentlemen. Again, I soaked in the beauty of their love.
Mammy was right, it’d break Mary Grace’s heart to lose him. Would Bowden consider selling Gray to me? “I will speak to him about it,” I said.
“Bless you.”
“Don’t be blessing me quite yet.”
“Ef you jus’ marry de man, both my gals git de men dey wants.”
“If only it were that simple.”
“I know what’s in your heart. And et be honor and good. I don’t lak seeing you upset, is all.” Mammy bowed her head and peered at her clasped hands resting on the table.
I stood, and on my way out, I paused and rested a hand on her thick shoulder. “To think my own mother handpicked you to help raise me. If she only knew what a great mother she’d left in her place. How blessed am I?” I smiled down at her upturned face.
“Sweet angel gal.” Tears pooled in her eyes and her hand covered mine. A hand that’d dried my tears and soothed away my fears every day of my life. She was a treasure beyond all mothers.
I left Mammy to her puttering around the kitchen house. With Sundays being the one day the slaves had off, Mammy, like Jimmy, could often be found at her usual post around the plantation. The pair were similar in so many ways. If I approved of arranged marriages, I’d have seen to it they’d jumped the broom years ago.
I passed Mary Grace and Gray on my way to the house. “Afternoon, Miss Willow.” Gray encircled Mary Grace’s waist with an arm.
“Afternoon, you two.” I smiled.
“Pa!” A shadow followed the squeal, whipping by me to wiggle in between the couple.
“You got to go already?” Noah lifted big, adoring eyes to his pa.
Gray stroked the top of his six-year-old son’s head. “Mr. Armstrong is expecting me back soon.”
“You coming next Sunday, right?”
“Lak I always do.”
“We go fishing ’gain?” He nodded for his pa.
“Are we going fishing again,” Mary Grace corrected.
“What she said.” He tilted his head at his mama, never letting his pleading eyes leave his pa’s face.
The parents shared a smile.
“You’ve forgotten your manners.” Mary Grace nodded at me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Missus. How do you do?” Noah’s eyes rolled from me to his mama, to see if he’d said what she requested of him.
“You did well, son,” she said.
He beamed. She gave him a gentle push. “Now, run along and play.”
Noah clutched his pa’s legs, squeezing all his love and yearning for his pa into one massive hug, in case Gray were to forget his son’s love between now and Sunday.
After the boy ran off, Gray said, “Dat boy got de strength of ten sons.”
“That he does,” I said before moving on to the house.
“De Lard shone favor on us by giving us dat boy,” I heard Gray say.
It hadn’t mattered that Noah wasn’t born of Mary Grace’s body; they loved him. In their love the boy found healing, and his real mama—who’d lost her life in the swamp massacre—faded from his memory.
Bowden
“MASA, COME QUICK!” A VOICE rang out.
I lowered the newspaper I’d been reading and rose to my feet at the commotion.
A field slave raced into the front yard, gasping for breath. “Et’s Gray, Masa.”
“What about him?” I asked as I bolted across the piazza, my guts knotting.
“Someone laid a beating on him. He’s barely breathing.” His dark eyes were crazed with panic.
A domestic slave came out onto the porch, and I ordered her to grab my medical bag. My heart thundered in my ears as I charged down the steps. “How? He’s at the Livingston Plantation.”
The man mauled the legs of his trousers with his palms. “He should’ve bin back hours ago.”
I took off running toward Gray’s cabin without waiting to hear anything more. How could I have lost track of time? My heart pounding fiercely in my chest, I crossed the backyard with the slave on my heels.
At the cabin, I threw open the door, and Gray’s pa’s grief-stricken face turned to me. He knelt holding the hand of the still bloody form lying on the bed. Life had taken another blow at the father, and his shoulders slumped as endless tears soaked his timeworn cheeks.
With leaden footsteps, I moved to Gray’s bedside and squeezed his pa’s shoulder before turning my eyes to the man in the bed. His face was darkened with the blood pooling under his flesh, and his sharp jawline disappeared in the swelling distorting his face. The hand that hung over the side of the bed was deformed and crushed and looked like someone had taken a hammer to it. Multiple gashes from a blade had torn away the front of his shirt and the white and bloody masses oozing through the gaps of fabric and flesh ripped a groan from low in my chest. “No…” I swiped a hand over my face and dropped to my knees.
Gray’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. I peeled back his shirt with trembling hands and swallowed the bile racing up my throat. Lacerations to his chest and stomach exposed his insides, and I knew that not even a miracle would save him.
“Cloths. Hot water. Get my bag!” I bellowed to the slaves hovering in the doorway. Blinking, I cut off the tears burning my eyes and frantically tried to tuck his innards back inside his body cavity.
Show mercy…please don’t take him. I don’t know how, but I promise I’ll do right. Please help me save him, I blubbered like a helpless fool.
The door burst open, and a slave arrived with
my bag.
I grabbed the bag as Gray’s leg thrashed and his body stiffened before growing still. Placing an ear to his chest, I listened for a heartbeat, and the silence that followed sent a cold dread rushing over me. I rocked back on my heels and took in the image of the broken man kneeling beside me. His thin shoulders shook as grief wracked his body. Silent, painful tears trailed down the lines etched into his face from a life of sorrow.
The daunting voice reverberating in my head whispered, Is he so different from you? Together we knelt at the bedside, he a slave and I his master, both grieving over the loss of a great man…his son. Was the pain carving through his chest any less authentic and raw? A heaviness settled in the depths of my stomach, and the shame of who I was pulled my eyes from him.
I looked long and hard at the body of the man on the bed, and my jaw trembled as I thought on the one thing that’d burned inside of him. A vision that’d kept a smile on his face and pushed him through each day of oppression I’d forced on him. The hope that allowed him to look at me not as a master, but as a man who’d lost his way. He’d faced the hardships placed on him with bravery and aspiration. As he’d fought through the race we call life, he’d held freedom in his line of vision. And I’d kept that God-given right from him.
Who am I? Tears of guilt blinded me. The weight of all the wrongs I’d done in life slumped my shoulders and I wept as hard as the day I’d received the news of my parents’ death.
A gentle hand capped my shoulder, and Gray’s pa’s voice was but a hollow whisper. “He’s wid my Millie now.”
Stumbling to my feet, I cleared my throat and wiped my face with my forearm. “I’ll send for Mary Grace. After she’s said her goodbyes, we’ll prepare him for burial.”
I turned and ushered the others from the cabin, leaving him to be with his son. As I stepped out on the stoop, several pairs of concerned eyes fell on me.
“Is he all right, Masa?” someone said.
“He’s gone.” I moved past them toward the yard, summoning them with a hand to follow.
In the middle of the circle of wide-eyed slaves, I asked, “Anyone know who did this?”
“No, Masa.” A mutter arose.
“Who found him?”
“De blacksmith’s boy,” a woman said.
“Where is he now?”
“I’m here, Masa.” The slaves stepped aside as a boy about ten years of age pushed his way to the front of the small gathering.
“Where did you find him?”
“Beside de privy.”
“How did he get there in his condition?” I hadn’t realized I’d said my thought aloud until the boy answered.
“I don’t rightfully know, Masa, but I found dis lying on his chest.” The boy held up a cloth.
Stepping toward him, I whipped it from his hand, and he stumbled back, trembling.
“You did good, boy,” I said gruffly, pushing down the emotions stewing in me. Turning the cloth over in my hand to inspect it, my breathing caught as I recognized what I held.
So far the masked men had been untraceable, so why now would Silas be clumsy and leave behind a mask? Was he sending me a warning; and if so, why? With news spreading of my selling out and moving to Texas, I’d thought he’d remove me as his target. Had he discovered it was me who’d searched his place looking for something to pin on the bastard? There was no way I’d be leaving here without knowing who Silas Anderson really was and what his intentions were with Willow and Livingston.
I knotted the mask in my hand. “George,” I called to a slave standing at the back of the cluster of slaves.
“Yes, Masa.” The slave moved uncertainly forward.
“I need you to saddle a horse and head out to the Livingston Plantation and bring Gray’s wife here.”
“A horse, Masa?”
“Yes. A bloody horse!” I threw over my shoulder as I made my way to the house.
He hurried to keep up with me. “But ef someone sees a man lak me on a horse, dey’d think I stole et, and I’ll end up lak Gray.”
I spun around to face him and lashed him with the rage stewing in my chest. “And if you don’t go, I’ll whip your hide myself.”
He staggered back, beads of sweat forming on his forehead to trickle down the corner of his eye. “Right away, Masa. I go, right away.”
Dammit! I hooked my fingers through my hair. “Meet me at the house in ten minutes. I’ll prepare your ticket.”
He nodded and turned and broke into a full-out run in the direction of the stables.
On the front piazza, I met the slave with the ticket. “Be careful, and be aware of your surroundings,” I said.
“Yes, Masa.” He pulled his reins, and a cloud of dust stirred in the air as his horse charged down the lane toward Livingston.
“Be safe,” I whispered after him.
“Masa, can I git you somepin’?” Abigail stepped out on the piazza, her face drawn with concern.
“Whiskey.” I lowered myself down on the front step. Resting my elbows on my knees, I clasped my trembling hands and glanced out over the front fields at the human forms busy at work.
Early that morning I’d handed Gray his ticket to go spend his day off with his family, and he’d practically bounced with excitement as I’d drawn it up. After he’d left my study I’d watched him race down the lane; his feet had barely touched the ground in his eagerness to get to Livingston.
Never had I known a slave like him. Days when he’d reported back to me on matters around the plantation, I’d find myself wanting him to stay. I’d not wanted to admit it, but in him, I’d seen a commonality a master shouldn’t find in a slave. He’d had wisdom and wit about him that I admired and respected.
Words Willow had spoken to me on the day I’d asked for her hand in marriage took precedence in my thoughts: “Men are not meant to be owned as one would cattle. What if they’d been the ones with the upper hand and we were the ones working the fields? What if I were the one summoned to the master’s bed so he could use my body as he desired? And I was forced to bear his children. What then, Bowden?”
Until that day I’d never thought of it before, I’d been so used to doing things the way I’d always known. Like any other businessman, I’d wanted to make a profit. I’d never given much thought to the rights or wrongs in our ways. Yet Willow’s convictions badgered my conscience more every day.
I dropped my head and squeezed my eyes shut. Inwardly, I laughed, mocking myself at my pathetic attempt to call on God. In my desperation, I’d begged him to save Gray, expecting him to hear me, but he’d turned a deaf ear to me. But why wouldn’t he? I wasn’t a praying man. Bitterness chewed through me as I opened my eyes.
A hand with a crystal glass of amber liquid entered my peripheral vision, and without turning, I snatched the glass and threw back the whiskey. The satisfying burn trickled down my throat and heated my belly. The blood drained from the knuckles of the hand gripping the glass.
“More, Masa?” Abigail had sensed my mood, and her question was timid.
I shook my head and waved her away.
Her footfalls faded and thoughts of losing Gray encumbered me.
“You will pay! Your spree of terrorizing folks is over.” I set my glass on the steps with a clank and made my way down to the quarters.
Whatever it took, I’d pin Silas’s crimes around his neck, and he’d be revealed for the thieving, murdering snake he was.
Willow
OUR ENCLOSED CARRIAGE JERKED SIDE to side, groaning and creaking as it tore up the lane of the Armstrong Plantation at a speed I was sure would topple us over. My fingers dug into the side panel to steady myself. Silent tears ran down my face and darkened the bodice of my dress. For Mary Grace’s sake, I tried to control the anger ripping through me. The inside skin of my lip was raw and stinging from the gnawing of my teeth.
Across from me, Mammy sat with her eyes closed; her lips moved without words, as runnels of tears curved over her plump cheeks and became lost in the hea
d rag of her weeping daughter.
Mary Grace hid her face in the side of Mammy’s bosom, and her hands beat at her mother’s lap as her wails echoed throughout the carriage. “Why, why?”
Ben sat beside me on the seat with his hand interlocked with mine, and I clung to the strength the warmth of his fingers provided.
Leaning my head against the carriage wall, I closed my eyes to escape the agony going on around me.
I hadn’t realized our carriage had come to a stop until Ben’s voice parted the barrier in my mind. “We’re here.”
The footman opened the door, and Ben stepped out and turned to help Mary Grace and Mammy before offering me a hand.
Gray’s pa and Bowden came to greet us, and Mary Grace walked into the outstretched arms of her husband’s father. After a tearful embrace, they headed for the quarters with Mammy trailing behind them.
Bowden had held Gray in high regard and the magnitude of his feelings was palpable as he watched them walk away. He’d always seemed unbreakable, but now he stood vulnerable and unsure of himself. He turned and I saw the red threads lining his anguished eyes from past tears shed. “Thanks for bringing her.”
I inclined my head in a gesture of acknowledgment but hung back, feeling helpless and tongue-tied.
“How did this happen?” Ben asked.
“Come.” Bowden twisted on his heels and strode toward the house.
We followed him inside and down the corridor to a room at the far end of the house.
He stepped to the side of the doorway and extended a hand, inviting us inside. “Please.”
Bowden strode to the desk, picked up a piece of cloth, and held it up to reveal what appeared to be a mask. “Someone went to the trouble of bringing Gray back here and left this behind.” Hardness crept into Bowden’s eyes, and bone-shaking chills coursed through me at the transformation in him. Dark and deadly determination consumed him as he seated himself on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms.
Ben stepped forward and took the cloth; inspecting it, he said, “Looks like the mask worn by the men who held up our carriage.”
