by Aileen Fish
“What business are you in, Mr. Damon?”
She saw Mr. Carter stiffen in his chair. He threw a harried look at Anna.
“Why, the business of growing corn, Miss Douglas. I thought you knew that. It is, after all, your land that I lease for my crops.”
She narrowed her eyes at his blithe smile.
“Yes, of course,” she said. To probe further would be considered too impolite, and she knew she must cease.
Mr. Damon inclined his head. Like her, he seemed to relax in the warmth of the kitchen and the hot tea. The grim lines that had creased his face for the past two days eased.
Anna sipped her tea and watched as Mrs. Carter, an expeditious cook if nothing else, began to set plates of food on the table. She put two additional plates on the tray, and Mr. Carter carried them away. He again returned quite quickly.
“The girls look just about done in. I think they will eat and sleep,” he said, taking a seat.
The group at the table waited until Mrs. Carter seated herself before enjoying the simple but satisfying repast.
They were almost done with their meal when a stranger appeared in the doorway. Mr. Carter jumped up.
“Ah! Mr. Stanhope! How nice to see you up and about so early. I trust we did not waken you?”
“No, I get up early.” The stranger, tall, husky and appearing to be older than Mr. Damon by a few years, pulled out a chair and sat down. Mrs. Carter rose and prepared a plate and some tea for him.
“I hope you slept well, Mr. Stanhope?” Mrs. Carter asked as she settled back down into her chair.
Mr. Stanhope nodded and applied himself to his food, seemingly disinterested in the others at the table. Anna caught Mr. Damon staring hard at the newcomer. She turned her eyes on Mr. Stanhope herself but found nothing particularly unusual about him that should have elicited such intense scrutiny from Mr. Damon...or anyone, for that matter. And yet, she also noticed Mr. Carter watching Mr. Stanhope with sharp eyes.
Mr. Stanhope wore his light-brown hair casually down to his shoulders. He appeared to spend little time on grooming or with a tailor. A wrinkled and faded white shirt could be seen under a well-worn gray vest and dark trousers. He wore no jacket at the table, but Anna allowed for the informality of the kitchen setting. After all, Mr. Carter still wore his robe. By contrast, Mr. Damon’s grooming, though he had ridden for the better part of two days, was faultless.
The table fell silent. Even Mrs. Carter seemed at a loss for words.
Anna wiped her mouth with her napkin and set it by her plate. Satiated by Mrs. Carter’s excellent cooking, she wanted nothing more than to check on Suzy, Sally and the baby and then go to sleep for hours and hours. They were a large party though, and Anna was not sure the Carters had rooms available. She could not find a way to broach the subject without raising suspicion.
Mr. Damon looked at her, and she met his eyes. He seemed to understand her question.
“Well then, Mrs. Carter,” he said in an oddly jovial voice quite unlike himself. “That was a lovely breakfast! I think we shall retire to our rooms. I, for one, have some correspondence to attend to, and I am sure the ladies have as well. We arrived so late last night that I, for one, did not even unpack.”
Anna slid her eyes to the bags and blankets on the floor and gave Mr. Damon a pointed look.
“Oh, good, our luggage was delivered,” he added. “I cannot imagine how the coach driver lost it.”
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Carter exclaimed. “Come with me to the desk in the front hall. I have some mail for you.”
The ruse seemed almost foolish as Mr. Stanhope appeared largely unconcerned about them.
Mr. Damon rose, and Anna and Mrs. Brickman followed suit. When Anna went to gather their bags and the blankets, Mr. Damon intercepted her and picked up the lot.
They followed Mrs. Carter into the entrance hall, where she stepped behind a desk and pulled two keys out from a drawer.
“We only have two rooms left,” she whispered. “Miss Douglas and Mrs. Brickman will have to share a room.”
“Yes, of course, that would be fine,” Mrs. Brickman whispered. “Thank you so much for giving us rooms at such short notice, Mrs. Carter. And breakfast was delightful!”
Anna nodded. “I would like to check on the ladies if I may,” she said.
“Yes, of course, you know the way, my dear. Since one of our other guests is awake and the other probably stirring, do be careful you are not seen going up to the attic.”
Anna nodded.
“I will see you in the room shortly,” she said to Mrs. Brickman. Mr. Damon, Mrs. Brickman and Anna climbed the stairs, and when Mrs. Brickman stopped at the second floor to go to their room, Mr. Damon followed Anna up the stairs.
She turned when she realized that he followed, but since they were exposed, she dared not even whisper. She shook her head in inquiry, and he gazed at her benignly.
She turned and tiptoed up the stairs, pushing open the attic door.
The fairly large attic ran the length and breadth of the inn, and the Carters had set up proper beds and mattresses for their guests. Suzy and Sally lay on two of them, both sound asleep, with Sara sleeping in her mother’s arms.
Anna, on the verge of picking up the tray of now empty plates, was stayed by Mr. Damon’s hand on her arm. She looked up at him, and he shook his head silently and urged her to set the tray down. She lowered the tray silently and left the room with Mr. Damon following.
She turned to him on the landing with a question in her eyes. He leaned close and bent his head to her ear.
“Mr. Stanhope might note the tray’s return and wonder who else is staying at the inn,” he whispered. His warm breath tickled the curls at her ear, and she shivered.
With fiery cheeks, she nodded and descended the stairs. She threw one last look over her shoulder toward Mr. Damon before entering her room. He stood before his own door, watching her with an enigmatic smile on his face. Her heart pounded, and she could not think clearly. His face had been so close to hers that he might have kissed her cheek had he wanted. She wished he had.
She threw herself into the room and stared at Mrs. Brickman.
“That man!” she breathed.
“Mr. Stanhope? A strange character, to be sure. He wanted only to eat, nothing more.”
“No, Mr. Damon. He is such a mystery to me. I cannot even tell if he likes me or quite dislikes me!”
She threw herself down on the bed.
Mrs. Brickman, in the act of pulling her nightdress from her bag, turned and looked at Anna.
“Oh, I think he likes you, Anna. Quite well.”
Anna, her arms behind her head, gave Mrs. Brickman a sheepish look.
“I am being quite foolish, am I not? We have so many other important matters to contend with at the moment. A man of mystery is not one of them, unless it is Mr. Stanhope. Did you see the way Mr. Damon stared at him? I wonder why.”
Just then, a light tap on the door stilled Anna’s voice. She sat upright and swung her legs to the floor just as Mrs. Brickman opened the door slightly.
“Some water, soap and towels, my dears,” Mrs. Carter said as she bustled in with a pot of steaming water. “I am sure you want to refresh yourselves.” Mrs. Brickman closed the door behind her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Carter. You are so kind,” Anna said. “I truly appreciate all you are doing for us and for Suzy, Sally and the baby. I plan to rest today and then return home tomorrow, so I will not take up any more of your valuable space. Will the ladies be all right? Where do they go from here?”
Mrs. Carter set the things down on a dresser and turned with a grimace.
“I cannot tell you that, my dear,” she said in a low voice. “As you well know, the railroad works in secrecy, and part of that secrecy is that we do not share the next station and agents with anyone else. Of course, there are the occasional emergencies when that information must be divulged, but for the most part, we are bound to those restrictions. I hope you unders
tand.”
Anna nodded. “I do...of course I do. I know they are in good hands with you.”
“We were not able to speak freely before, but why did Mr. Hanshaw not bring them? How is it that you accompany Mr. Damon?”
Anna stiffened. “It is Mr. Damon who accompanies us,” she said. “We had to move Suzy, Sally and the baby because slave catchers came to our house looking for them. They also went to my father’s store and threatened him. We knew we had to move them right away, and Mr. Hanshaw was out of town.
“I undertook the journey along with Mrs. Brickman because the slave catchers avowed they would watch my father. Mr. Damon, a neighbor who leases Father’s land, insisted on coming along.”
“He has been invaluable,” Mrs. Brickman said with a wry look in Anna’s direction.
“Yes, he has,” she agreed, and it was true. Anna did not care to think what the journey would have been like without his assistance.
“It seems, though, that you already have an acquaintanceship with Mr. Damon?” Anna asked.
Chapter 7
George could not bring himself to rest. He lay on his bed, but sleep would not come. He had no correspondence to attend to. That had just been an excuse in the presence of Mr. Stanhope.
No, he could not sleep. Images of Miss Anna Douglas played in his mind—the peaceful beauty of her face as she slept on their journey, the fire in her azure eyes when she was incensed with him, the determination on her face when she spoke of the railroad and the future of the slaves for which it had been designed.
George was absolutely besotted with her, though she did not know it. At least, he hoped she did not know. He had been for months, most likely from the first time he had met her at Mr. Douglas’ house when she served tea as he and her father discussed leasing the land. She had promptly disappeared, and he had not had occasion to speak to her at length since then.
But he had watched her, had watched over her, knowing the danger she and her father were in given their passion for rescuing escaped slaves on the Underground Railroad.
Once she had described the slave catchers, George had known that Red O’Reilly led that particular band, and he knew that O’Reilly would stop at nothing to apprehend the slaves.
George wondered how long O’Reilly had known that Mr. Douglas was the agent in Anamosa, and how he had discovered such.
Had O’Reilly followed him at some point? Had he watched and waited as George collected the women and the baby from the abandoned shack in Lafayette County, Missouri, close to the Wilson’s hemp plantation?
Neighbors of the Damons, the Wilsons were particularly vile slave owners, cruel and merciless. They worked the slaves to the point of exhaustion, sometimes even death, thinking little of their comforts, of their health.
George’s father, Elijah Damon, despised the Wilsons and had made numerous complaints to authorities, but no laws existed to protect the slaves. Though his father owned slaves, had in fact inherited them from his father, he treated them with fairness and kindness, refusing to separate families, providing them with medical care and adequate food and shelter.
Nevertheless, kind master or not, his father did own slaves, and George, having attended school in Vermont, had long ago realized the evil inherent in such a system. One simply did not own other human beings.
He had been ridiculed in school as other students learned of his background, of his Southern plantation-owning heritage, and he had held his head high. He had not defended their way of life. How could one in a Northern state that had long ago repudiated the institution of slavery?
George had railed against his mother’s decision to send him to school in the North, to her hometown, but her wishes had prevailed, and his father had given in despite George’s pleadings.
It was his grandfather—his mother’s father, Levi Haywood, a prominent farmer and leader of his Vermont community—who had consoled him when he returned from school defeated and humiliated. It was Levi Haywood who had taught him about the Underground Railroad and had shown him the route to Montreal, Canada.
George’s mother, Lydia, had fallen in love with a Southerner, the son of a slave-owning family. Against her parents’ wishes, she had moved to his hemp plantation in Missouri. According to George’s grandfather, his mother soon realized she had either to tolerate the notion that her husband’s family owned slaves or leave the man she loved. Once George had come along, she had chosen to stay.
When George finished school, he had returned to his family’s farm. But he had changed irrevocably, and he could not stomach the sight of slaves working the land. He had even looked at his nanny, Mabel, in a new way, previously unaware that she had never had a choice in whether to take care of him or not.
George had begged his father to free the slaves, but his father would not. And so George had left, returning to the North, where he had made a successful living as an attorney.
It was upon his grandfather’s death that George realized he could no longer sit idly by and tolerate the institution of slavery, that he must carry on his grandfather’s legacy.
Advised that a conductor was needed to transport slaves between his own home state of Missouri to the station in Anamosa, Iowa, he had volunteered and had been ferrying escaped slaves to Anamosa for the past six months.
He had purchased the farm near the stationmaster, Mr. Douglas, to facilitate the journey, but he had not expected to meet Anna. She had complicated matters to a great extent, and now he found himself worrying about her safety as well as that of his passengers.
A knock on his door brought short his reveries, and he sat up.
“Yes?” he called out.
“Mr. Damon? It is I, Anna Douglas,” she said in a low voice.
George drew in a sharp breath, thrust his feet into his boots and looked over his person to see that his trousers, vest and shirt looked presentable. He opened the door.
“Miss Douglas?” he hissed. “What on earth are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
She looked over her shoulder down the length of the hallway.
“No, I simply could not sleep. I have questions that must be answered.”
George did the only thing he could. He took her arm and pulled her gently inside the door. To leave her standing in the hallway would elicit not only comment but also perhaps suspicion from the other guests in the hotel—guests that George did not trust.
“Mr. Damon!” Anna protested, albeit mildly. “I cannot be in your room.”
“No, although I do not think you should necessarily stand in the hallway at this late hour either.” Reluctantly, he dropped his hand from her arm, and he crossed his arms over his chest.
“What questions do you have?”
Anna looked around as if for a seat, and George pulled a straight-backed chair away from the wall and centered it in the room. She seated herself primly, and he almost chuckled.
George looked at the bed, but to sit on that would not do. He stood.
“Will you not sit? I confess that your height intimidates me.”
“May I sit here?” he indicated the edge of the bed.
She nodded.
“And where is Mrs. Brickman? She would not approve of your visit,” George said as he sat.
“She is sound asleep. I wish that I were, but I am not.”
George nodded in sympathy.
“What is it that you wish to know?” He hoped she intended only to ask about their return journey.
“Is it your intention to accompany Mrs. Brickman and I when we return to Anamosa tomorrow morning? You do not have to, of course. I am fully capable of finding my way back. I was not certain whether or not you had other business in Dubuque.”
He nodded, in some relief.
“Yes, I do intend to escort you and Mrs. Brickman back to Anamosa. I thought we might leave first thing in the morning. Mrs. Carter will pack some provisions for us. Is that satisfactory?”
Morning sun filled the room, dispersing in patterns through the white lac
e curtains. The light played on her brown hair, highlighting the lighter, golden tendrils that fell to her neck. She had not changed from the blue-gray dress she had worn on the journey, though a smudge had been washed from her cheek. He had seen it this morning but did not want to embarrass her by mentioning it.
She nodded. He noted that she interlaced her fingers in her lap, twisting them nervously.
“Mr. Damon, I confess I am at a loss to understand some things about you, and they trouble me. For instance, why do you know Mr. and Mrs. Carter?”
“I have had business in Dubuque and have stayed here.” He prevaricated. It was time Anna knew about him, but he had hoped to keep that a secret for a while. Even Mr. Douglas did not realize he was the same man who had delivered the bundles to his home in the dark of night.
He offered her nothing further, hoping she would let go of the subject. But she had said “some things.” He waited.
“And if I were to ask after your business, you would say, ‘Why, the business of farming corn, Miss Douglas,’ would you not?”
George smiled then, a broad smile that must have shown the dimples in his cheeks, which mortified him.
“It is an answer, Miss Douglas.”
“I am not stupid, Mr. Damon.”
“No, I did not think you were,” he said with a shake of his head. He pressed his lips together to form a grave expression, although he was certain his eyes still danced.
“You seem to know a great deal about the Underground Railroad.”
He nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
He drew in a deep breath.
“My grandfather was an ardent abolitionist,” he said, “and he taught me much about the railroad.”
She drew her dark brows together in confusion.
“Your grandfather? A Southerner?”
“My maternal grandfather was from Vermont.”
“Oh! Was your mother raised in the North then?”
“Yes. She fell in love with my father and moved to his family’s hemp plantation in Missouri. She had a most difficult time, but she had made her choice. I suspect that was why she insisted on sending me north for my schooling. Not only so I would have an opportunity to know my grandfather, but so I would also come to understand another way of life.”
