“I’m not—”
“It’s outrageous. They’ve been good to you, Esmeralda, liberal. Is this how you thank them, by spreading a lie that could ruin any chance they have of happiness?”
“This isn’t about thanks. It’s about a deception.”
Tom stepped closer. “Listen, you think you saw something. But you don’t know what happened in that room. You don’t understand.” Mason, Tom thought. He would speak to Mason, possibly the one loyal servant John Henry had. “You saw a boy going into a room, then he made some noise on his way out. I’m sure Sonny’s made a fuss countless times. That’s not unusual.”
“Except the boy wasn’t Sonny.”
Her insolence, her refusal to back down, infuriated Tom further.
“I don’t think you comprehend what a serious accusation you’re making. It’s a downright fabrication, I’d say. Do you have some grievance against Mr. Davenport? Because that would explain it. And since this is a legal matter, that’s tantamount to interfering with the course of the law for your own ends. Is that what you’re doing? Because there are severe penalties for that.”
Esmeralda’s eyes widened.
“Should I talk to Judge Roy, Esmeralda? Should I tell him how you came to me with a malicious lie, corroborated by nobody, with the intention of—”
“Judge was in the room. I told you that.”
“Yes, you’re claiming those educated, powerful men were in the room, but you were the only one who ‘noticed’ it was a different boy? The only one who could see the true nature of the gathering.” Tom felt more confident now. “I expected more of you.” He paused to consider how to proceed. “You should thank your lucky stars I’m not inclined to tell Mr. Davenport about your treachery. Unless—”
“No, Mr. McCabe—”
He stopped her. “Well, I won’t, but not for your sake. This outrageous lie doesn’t deserve another airing. Your story stops here.” Tom marched toward the stairs. “Shut the door behind you.”
Esmeralda stormed back to the house. So this was how it was. Tom McCabe had made his choice. When it came down to it he was a coward and abettor, no more interested in justice than the Davenports. But the lives of innocents were at stake, and Esmeralda would not shrug that fact off.
The newspaper was no good to her, nor the law. Mrs. Davenport might be in on it. Mason didn’t want to help. Cook wouldn’t understand. There was no getting around it: she needed to talk to the boy’s real mother. She needed to go to Penny Farm.
Chapter Thirty
To get to Grace Mill was to face a different world of dangers. Esmeralda would need to sneak out of the house, walk the streets at night to her Uncle Joe, convince him to borrow a horse and cart—stealing, if they were caught—to take her to Penny Farm, and then be on a road, two Negroes traveling with whatever plausible reason she could dream up between now and then. It could end badly. And she was running out of time.
Esmeralda put on her shawl, coat and bonnet. Without a candle to guide her, she tiptoed along the narrow corridors of the servants’ quarters; down the creaky stairs; past the boys’ bedroom, holding back a sneeze; past the Davenports’ bedroom, eyes out for any sign that Mary was on one of her night-time wanderings, Esmeralda’s fingertips grazing the wall, her footfall as light as could be; and down one step then the next to the entrance.
From there, Esmeralda scampered to the kitchen and out the back door, walking as fast as she could.
* * *
Joe worked at a livery stable on Bell Street—Adams & Sons’ Livery and Sale Stables—and most nights, as his cottage was so far away, he slept at the stable, too. Esmeralda prayed he’d had no reason to be in his own bed tonight.
Ducking off the darkened street, Esmeralda passed the front of the two-story wooden livery building, with its dirty windows and enormous sign that read Will Furnish Hacks, Carriages, Buggies and Saddle Horses, Prices Right, and made her way to the back. The stable was only a few minutes’ walk from the street, though since it smelled of manure and hay Esmeralda felt as though she’d already journeyed to the countryside. She checked the stable’s main corridor for Joe, heard the horses stamping and grinding their teeth.
“Joe,” she called in a loud whisper. “Joe.” It was unlikely anyone else would be there, but she couldn’t be sure.
Joe wasn’t in the stable, so Esmeralda headed outside, past a cluster of unhorsed buggies waiting for cleaning or hitching. Nothing fancy here, she thought; richer folks went to the brick livery with the arched entryway a mile further on: Harcourt Livery: A First-Class Stable, Gentle Horses and Careful Drivers, All Kind of Turnouts. He wasn’t there either. But it was a cold February evening so she figured he’d have sought out the warmest place he could. She went into the toolshed, and there was Joe—snoring, on a ticking-covered mattress on the far side of the room. Esmeralda knelt down and shook him awake, apologetic but insistent.
“You can quit whispering. We’re alone.” Joe sat up.
“I need you to take me somewhere.”
Joe frowned at his niece in concern. “Middle of the night. Where is it you want to be?”
Esmeralda explained why she needed to go to Penny Farm.
“Lord, the lengths that family goes to to get what they want Your farm girl doesn’t stand a chance against them.”
“She’d have more of a chance if you’d get up and into one of those buggies.” She stood, waited for Joe to do the same. “You going in your undershirt?”
“I’m not sure yet I’m going anywhere. I’m thinking.” He stared out the shed’s open door. “It’d be a whole lot less dangerous in the daytime. Can’t we do this tomorrow?”
“For a thousand reasons, we can’t. I need your help now.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t get tetchy.” Joe pointed to his folded clothes on a stool near Esmeralda. “Pass me those and turn around.”
They went into the stables, where Joe took his hat from its peg, pushed one side of it back into shape and put it on, then lifted his coat from the rack. “We’ll hitch the chestnut mare to that buggy.”
“Let’s take the worst one, the one poor folk might own.”
“We’ll take the one I choose is what we’ll do,” he said.
The two worked swiftly and quietly. Joe patted the horse once she was in place. “So these people don’t know you’re coming? You want to sneak up on them in the dead of night? They’re white folk?”
“Yes. And we’d better hurry up about it.”
Farmer Penny squinted through a slit made by the part-opened back door. Mrs. Penny, behind him, pulled it open wider so she could see, too. They were both in their sleeping clothes, with Farmer Penny holding a kerosene lamp. Once Esmeralda explained who they were and why they’d come, Farmer Penny raised his lamp higher to check they were alone, then pulled them inside.
The four sat at the kitchen table, wind rattling the windows and steam from the kettle rising. Joe flicked his eyes from Farmer to Mrs. Penny and back again, watching their wariness give way to curiosity then revelation, anger and forceful agreement. It seemed that Esmeralda’s version of what had happened in the Davenports’ library struck a chord with them.
“She’s been had.” Farmer Penny whacked the table.
“Quiet, she needs her sleep.” Mrs. Penny turned to Esmeralda. “She had a long journey here with a hungry newborn, and then the shock of this. She’s been in bed on and off since that day at the Davenports’. I don’t know how she’ll take this news.”
Esmeralda shook her head.
“Question is what we do,” Farmer Penny said. “Your word against John Henry Davenport and the rest of them.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” Esmeralda murmured.
“They’re all in on it. Have to be.” Mrs. Penny wiped a spray of crumbs onto her palm.
Under the table, Joe prodded Esmeralda’s foot. They needed to get home.
“Oh, Grace.”
Esmeralda turned at the sound of Farmer Penny’s voice and saw Grace Mill, wearin
g a long cotton nightdress with no shawl or coat to cover it, her hair in a long plait draped over one shoulder, pale-skinned and slight as a switch.
“Dear girl, what are you doing awake?” Mrs. Penny said, standing up. “Come back to bed.”
“Who are you?” Grace asked Esmeralda. “I heard you say Davenport. Is this something about Ned?”
Farmer Penny addressed his wife. “She has a right.”
Grace pulled out a chair and sat facing Esmeralda. “Please tell me.”
“Let me get you back to bed,” Mrs. Penny said. “We’ll explain in the morning.”
“Best sit down, Mrs. Penny. The cat’s out of the bag,” Farmer Penny said.
Once Mrs. Penny had assured Grace they would speak with the sheriff first thing in the morning then steered her back to bed, she walked Esmeralda and Joe to the door.
“We’ll collect you from the back of the Davenports’ house on the way to the sheriff’s,” Mrs. Penny said. “Be ready at nine.”
“Oh no, ma’am. I’m done,” Esmeralda said. “I wanted Miss Mill to know the truth and now she does. The law will take care of the rest. I don’t expect that you and I will see one another again.”
“That may be what you think, but it’s not what’s going to happen,” Mrs. Penny replied. “Sheriff’s not going to take us seriously if we tell him a second-hand story from a mystery woman. No. You’ll come along, tell him in your own words what you told us.”
“Mr. Davenport would skin me alive. There’s a reason we’re here in the dead of night.”
“Well, y’all should’ve thought of that before. My loyalty is to Grace and her boy. I’m afraid I don’t know about you one bit.”
“I can’t be involved any more than this. The only way—but she’s too sick—” Esmeralda hesitated. “I could get you into the house, to the boy, tonight. It wouldn’t be hard. And he could leave, with his mama, go far away, wherever they want.”
“Oh, she’s not doing that. She could barely make it into the kitchen. You saw. They’d catch her, no doubt, and she’d be locked up with Gideon Wolf in a day, us in the cell next to her.”
“Time to go,” Joe whispered to Esmeralda.
“Dig your heels in all you want,” Mrs. Penny said. “Even if you don’t go with us tomorrow, the sheriff will come for you after we’ve spoken to him, and you can’t say no to that.” She rubbed her eyes.
Esmeralda and Joe rode back into town silent and scared, the clip-clop of the horse and the shake of the wheels thunderous in the night.
Esmeralda had no trouble making her way through the dark kitchen on her return to the house or avoiding the squeaky stairs to the second floor. But partway along the hall she heard Mrs. Davenport muttering to herself. Esmeralda froze, back flat against the wall, listening. She heard the click of a door, the boys’ bedroom door. Good Lord, she thought, she’s still going to them at night. If that wasn’t the sign of a troubled mind, she didn’t know what was.
Esmeralda considered what she could say if Mary spotted her. She was fully dressed, there was no doubt she was coming or going from the house, and even if she could stash her coat behind a chair, how would she explain her presence on this floor at this time of night? She’d say her youngest daughter had come down with a terrible fever, and that her sister Annalise had asked for her to come and help. She hadn’t wanted to wake the Davenports, so she’d taken the liberty of going to her sister’s house. And thank Heaven, the fever had broken not long after, so Esmeralda wouldn’t need to let any of this disturb her duties. The story was strong.
She considered running tiptoe past the boys’ bedroom. Maybe she could get upstairs to her room before Mrs. Davenport even came out. Her convoluted tale would be unnecessary. But she couldn’t see if the boys’ door was fully closed. And before she’d made a move, Mary walked out, right toward Esmeralda.
“Sally? Oh, poor dear. She’s fourteen now, isn’t she?” Mary had known her daughter’s name, her age; Esmeralda hadn’t expected that. “Men circle around a girl of that age, as though she’s a meal to be devoured. You’ll pick wisely for her, won’t you? Don’t say yes to the first man who shows up.”
“Thank you, ma’am. No, I won’t. Can I get your bed ready for you, Mrs. Davenport?”
“Dear Esmeralda, you’ve done enough caring about others for one night. I’ll get myself to bed. Do get some sleep yourself.” She took a few steps then turned back. “That does seem to be the lot of women, doesn’t it? Worrying about the welfare of others, keeping them safe, distracting them from hardships and horrors. Though without that role we’d be nothing, I suppose.”
Esmeralda willed Mrs. Davenport to stop talking, but to no avail.
“Did you know that Mr. Davenport has a sister? He never mentions her. Lord Brandt might love her, I wouldn’t know. Her portion of the Davenport inheritance likely played a role. But now,” Mary whispered conspiratorially, “there’s only the two of them in that enormous English mansion and no chance they’ll ever have children. Village named after his family, hundreds of servants, thousands of acres. He might regret his choice. A woman who can’t produce an heir—no matter how lively—well, he got half of what he wanted, didn’t he?” Mary’s eyes widened. “I have exactly the thing to cheer your Sally. Come.”
In the guest bedroom, Mary riffled through drawers of dresses folded in paper until she found the one she was searching for. She lifted a pale blue evening gown, beaded, slippery, shimmering, opalescent, and held it up next to her, admired it as though it were a third person in the room. “It’ll be a little long, but that’s easily fixed. I expect she’s as able as you are.” She held the gown out. “Take it, please. It’s lovely but I’ve worn it so many times. It’s such a waste to have it sit here when your girl could be cheered by it.”
There was nowhere, ever, that Sally Somerset could wear such a gown. People would think she’d stolen it. Esmeralda felt a flash of anger at being forced to muster gratitude for useless hand-me-downs from the lady of the house. All she wanted to do was go to sleep.
Oh, but how much her daughters would love to prance around the house dressed like royalty. Yes, she’d give this to them, this luxury she could never afford. Esmeralda put her hands out and let Mary, glowing from her ingenuity and generosity, give her the dress. Then after a fast goodnight, Esmeralda walked upstairs to her room, the gown draped dead and damned across one arm.
Chapter Thirty-One
Farmer Penny decided—ignoring his wife’s wishes this once—to speak to Sheriff Sherman alone. He had no desire to get Esmeralda in trouble, and didn’t see how the presence of a gaggle of women would help explain anything. Contrary to Mrs. Penny’s expectations, the sheriff bypassed Esmeralda and went straight to John Henry.
“My housekeeper thinks I have a stash of young boys in my home that I trot out on a whim?” John Henry raised his palms toward the ceiling. “Where? Where are these mystery children?”
The sheriff could see that John Henry was as wound-up as a hay bale. “It does seem far-fetched, but this can be answered in a minute. I only need to talk to your boy. Ask him about that day. I know he doesn’t speak—nods and shakes will do fine.”
“Absolutely not.” John Henry stood up. “I’ll not subject him to an interrogation. Especially one requested because my housekeeper snooped, snuck out of my house and spread lies—the contempt, the audacity of her!”
“Now, John, Esmeralda’s feisty but she’s not malicious. Have you crossed her in any way? Does she have a gripe?”
“A gripe ? She’s treated like royalty. I’ve bent over backward to be solicitous to her. There’s no Negro anywhere, in any house, who’s been more accommodated. And now I find she’s spreading vile rumors about me. Oh, there’s a lesson. Why did I ever think mutual respect was possible? Do you know I was even going to invite her lad to join—Never mind.”
“If I could talk to Esmeralda myself—”
John Henry didn’t skip a beat. “She’s not here. Who knows where she is, or what
fresh slander she’s spreading.”
The sheriff believed it would be remiss of him not to also tell Judge Roy about Esmeralda’s claim of a surrogate boy, so he went from the Davenport house to the judge’s chambers.
“If there’s any doubt about the viewing, this trial can’t go ahead. Esmeralda’s story casts a new light on the situation.”
“Not to my mind,” the judge said. “I was there. I don’t have any doubts about what happened.”
The sheriff frowned. Judge Roy was as brusquely adamant as John Henry. None of this was sitting right.
“Still, it might lay the issue to rest if there was another viewing, Your Honor. This time in the presence of people who know the boy. If I could be permitted to attend—”
“I know the boy. I hope you’re not suggesting I’m lying, Sheriff.”
“Not at all. But I do think the housekeeper’s accusation demands—”
“Then the result of the viewing stands, and I’ll allow it as evidence. I won’t have my trial derailed because of one troublemaking servant.”
Once the sheriff left, John Henry tracked Esmeralda down. His bellowing started the minute he glimpsed her through the kitchen doorway. While Cook stood at the stove, wooden spoon raised, not daring to move, John Henry yelled. He hit the wall hard, turned beet red and yelled some more. He circled Esmeralda around the chopping table, demanding she stand still so he could give her what she deserved. But Esmeralda matched each of his lunges to the left or right, so they came to a stalemate, facing one another, panting—one in fury, one in fear—as Cook held her breath and backed out of their way.
John Henry glared with steel-cold eyes, and lowered his voice to a growl. “How dare you, Esmeralda? After everything I’ve done for you.”
“The boy you showed Miss Mill was a stranger to this house. You lied to that poor woman.”
Lost Boy Found Page 18
