by Lynn Austin
The buildings downtown looked enormous to her: mountainous structures of brick and tabby and glass, with church steeples so tall she had to tilt her head way back to see the tops. They passed stately public buildings with pillars and statues and fancy carving, and tiny green parks with palmetto trees and neat flower beds. Best of all, Kitty saw color everywhere she looked—on the ladies’ dresses and flowered hats, on the canvas awnings that shaded the shops, on the brightly lettered signs that hung above the storefronts. She couldn’t read any of the signs, but most of them had pictures painted on them to show what was sold inside.
The traffic gradually thinned as they left the downtown area and drove through residential streets. The houses looked as big as Missy’s plantation house, but instead of being surrounded by fields and trees and grass, the city houses were crowded close together on small patches of land. One row of homes was painted a rainbow of colors with contrasting shutters and trim. Kitty itched to get out her paper and pencil—better still, Missy’s box of watercolors—and try to capture all of these wonderful sights.
The wagon finally reached the Goodmans’ town house and drove around to the courtyard at the rear. The house sat at the very edge of the city, overlooking the water, with broad piazzas that wrapped around the front and side of the house to catch the ocean breezes. The bay across the street looked bigger and wider than any river Kitty had ever seen. She longed to explore the mansion from top to bottom, but there wasn’t time. She had to follow Missy’s luggage upstairs to her bedroom and unpack all Missy’s things so she could get settled into her room. It was late at night before Kitty even saw her own quarters.
The slaves slept dormitory-style in a long, drab, two-story building behind the house. The kitchen and washhouse were downstairs, the slaves’ rooms upstairs. Bessie, her husband, Alfred, and a third slave stayed year-round to take care of the house. The remainder of the slaves—a dozen or more—traveled with the Goodmans from the plantation each time: the butler, cook, footmen, parlor maids, scullery maids, and chambermaids like Kitty.
The room Kitty shared with three other chambermaids had little more than a fireplace, a shuttered window, and two wooden beds. By the end of that long first day, Kitty was so tired from the fresh air, the excitement, and all the hard work, that she climbed in beside her bedmate and fell sound asleep.
Missy Claire spent the first few days that they were in Charleston shopping. She begged her mother to bring Kitty along with them. “She has a good eye for pretty things, Mother,” Missy Claire insisted. “And she always knows which colors go best together.” Kitty gladly followed Claire and Missus Goodman from one store to the next as they bought hats, shoes, jewelry, combs, and ribbons for Missy’s hair, and bolts of colorful fabric for new dresses. Charleston had a store for anything you wanted to buy, and Kitty shopped until her feet ached, savoring every minute of it. She loved choosing beautiful things for Missy, even if she would never wear any of them herself.
One afternoon, Missy Claire and her mother stopped for refreshments at a tearoom. Kitty stayed outside with Alfred, the coachman, riding beside him high on the driver’s seat. As they drove around the block, looking for a place to park the carriage, Kitty heard a strange jangling sound like broken bells. Trudging toward her from a side street was a long line of slaves, all chained together in two long rows. Shackles bound their wrists and feet, and they were forced to shuffle awkwardly, barely able to walk as the short, heavy chains that were fastened to their ankles dragged across the cobblestones. The slaves walked with their heads down, their backs bowed, passing through a gated entrance and into a grim building made of tabby.
“Is that a jail?” she asked Alfred.
“No, it’s the slave mart.” He spoke in a hushed voice, as if they were driving through a cemetery. He suddenly seemed in a big hurry to drive past the building, and he didn’t relax again until they had turned the corner.
“What’s a slave mart?” Kitty asked. She spoke as softly as he had.
“Them slaves is for sale,” he said with a sigh. “White folks are buying and selling them in that building, just like they buy and sell other things.”
Kitty had seen the endless variety of goods in the stores in Charleston, but she had never imagined that there would be a store for slaves, too. All of the slaves she knew had been born on Great Oak Plantation, starting out as little babies, just as she had. But Bertha said that Kitty’s mama had been sold after she’d tried to run away. Kitty tugged on Alfred’s sleeve to get his attention.
“If Massa Goodman was to sell one of us,” she asked, “would we go to a store like that, do you think?”
“I reckon so. Why?”
“He sold my mama when I was a little girl. Think she might still be in there?”
“No, they don’t stay there very long,” he said gruffly. “Slave trader comes along and buys her, he could be taking her anywhere… . That’s just the way it is.”
“Oh.”
Kitty had no choice but to accept this sad truth and give up the notion of ever seeing her mama again. It had seemed to her like such a long, long way to Charleston from the plantation, and she knew from the pictures in some of Missy Claire’s books that the world was an even bigger place than she could ever imagine. No telling where her mama went after she was sold.
For the next few minutes, Alfred was too busy maneuvering through the traffic and searching for a place to park the carriage to talk to Kitty. When he finally found a place within sight of the tearoom, he pulled the carriage to a stop, hitched the horses to the post, then climbed back up on the seat beside her to wait. A chilly breeze blew from the nearby river and Kitty hugged her shawl tightly around her, wishing she had white skin so she could sit inside the carriage, out of the wind—or better still, sit at a table inside the cozy tearoom.
“If you work real hard and do whatever Massa say,” Alfred said softly, “you never have to worry about being sold.”
Kitty was a little surprised to learn that he’d been thinking about the slave mart all this time—but then, so had she.
“I don’t even remember what my mama looked like,” she said.
Alfred gazed silently into the distance and nodded, his face somber. Kitty wondered if her own face looked as sad as his did. Then, worried that it did—and that Missy might see her—she forced all thoughts of her mother from her mind and tried to smile as she watched the door of the tearoom for her mistress.
“May I be excused from this luncheon, Mother? Please?” Missy Claire begged a few days later. “I don’t feel well. I have cramps.”
Kitty thought her mistress’s pale skin did look whiter than usual as she lay burrowed in her bed beneath the rumpled comforter. Missus Goodman pondered the request for a moment, and Kitty found herself hoping that she would give in and excuse Claire. Kitty was just as exhausted as Missy was from the endless round of social gatherings and parties. But unlike her mistress, Kitty wasn’t allowed to remain in bed until noon after a late night out, no matter how ill she felt.
Ever since they’d arrived in Charleston, Missy Claire had been attending countless dinners and teas and dances. Last night she’d gone to a lavish ball at the Citadel, where she had waltzed with so many young cadets that Kitty had to pull off Missy’s slippers and massage her aching feet. They’d driven home late at night beneath twinkling stars and gaslights, with carriages full of other partygoers rumbling past.
As Missy’s chambermaid, Kitty was required to attend every function with her, waiting nearby in case Missy required assistance for any reason, perhaps repairing Missy’s hair or her gown, if needed. The slaves often gathered together to socialize with each other while they waited, sometimes having quiet little parties of their own. Kitty was aware of several romances flourishing between her fellow servants, and she’d even seen couples kissing in the shadows and climbing into their masters’ empty carriages. But she was much too shy to make friends with any of the other slaves. Instead, she was content to watch Missy Claire and the o
ther white folks from afar, smelling the food, listening to the distant music and laughter. She accepted her life the way it was. Her skin was black. Parties and balls and tables piled with luscious food were for white people.
So was sleeping until noon as Missy had done. Kitty watched, waiting for her orders as Claire’s mother stood appraising her daughter. “No, your father really wants you at this dinner today, Claire,” she finally replied. “Roger Fuller is a friend of his, and the Fullers are one of our state’s leading families.”
“I don’t care,” Missy groaned, pulling the covers over her head.
“Well, you should care. Mr. Fuller has an enormous cotton plantation near Pocotaligo and a lovely town house in Beaufort.”
“Is he as rich as Father?” Claire asked from beneath the sheets.
“No,” Missus Goodman replied with a sly smile, “I believe Mr. Fuller is even wealthier. He has two sons, and all three men are here in town because the older son is thinking of attending the Citadel.”
“Then he’s too young to hunt for a wife,” Claire mumbled. “I’ll have dinner with them next year.”
Missus Goodman strode across the room and jerked the covers all the way down to the bottom of the bed. “Roger Fuller’s wife died six months ago. That makes three eligible gentlemen, Claire, all coming to our home for dinner today. Surely you can manage to impress one of them with your charm? Few families are wealthier than the Fullers.” She turned toward Kitty, gesturing to the heavily draped windows. “Open those curtains and get to work, girl. You have a little over an hour to make Claire presentable.”
Missy groaned. “But what about my cramps?”
“Take some laudanum.”
“I took laudanum last night, Mother. That’s why I still feel so groggy.”
“Then maybe a cup of warm milk will help. Kitty!” Missus Goodman shouted. “Don’t just stand there, move! Make her beautiful!” “Yes, ma’am.” Kitty quickly opened the drapes, then grabbed the pitcher and ran downstairs to fetch warm water for Missy’s washbasin. After Missy’s sponge bath, Kitty began the arduous task of dressing her in layer after layer of clothes—chemise, drawers, corset, stockings, hoops, crinolines and petticoats. She helped Missy into one of her beautiful new gowns, spending long minutes fastening the endless rows of fussy hooks and eyes. Then the delicate job of fixing Missy’s hair began. It was spider-web thin and difficult to style. It also tangled easily, and knowing the mood Missy was in today, Kitty braced herself for the inevitable slaps she would receive for hurting her. By the time the Fullers’ carriage arrived, the only remaining task was to help Claire choose her jewelry and accessories—parasol, handkerchief, hat, purse, cloak and reticule. Kitty was thankful that the dinner was being held here in the Goodmans’ home and the accessories would be kept to a minimum. Missy Claire had been known to take hours to make these final choices.
“Stay close by, Kitty,” Missy ordered as she prepared to sweep down the stairs to greet her guests. “I may need you.”
“Yes, Missy Claire.” Kitty tried to sound willing and cheerful, but she groaned inside at the thought of standing rigidly in place for the next two or three hours while her mistress dined on the multi-course meal. She found a spot in the hallway outside the dining room and watched the waiters carry in platters of food—oysters, broiled fish, buttery potatoes and vegetables, glazed ham. Everything looked delicious, but it was the aroma of roast turkey and gravy that made Kitty’s mouth water. She closed her eyes and imagined pouring creamy golden gravy over Cook’s buttermilk biscuits. Kitty’s stomach rumbled at the thought.
Hours passed, and Missy Claire left more food on her plate than she ate, pushing it around delicately with her fork while she chatted. Kitty watched the waiter whisk Claire’s still-laden plate away after the meal and longed to snatch it from his hand and eat the leftovers. She would have a chance to taste the remnants of the meal later, in the kitchen, but that could be hours from now, when Missy was in bed.
Kitty decided to study the dinner guests to help take her mind off her hunger. She was surprised to see how young Mr. Fuller’s two sons were—no older than Missy Claire. Surely they wouldn’t be making marriage arrangements at their age, would they? And Mr. Fuller looked too old for Missy, nearly the same age as her father. Mr. Fuller had an interesting face, though, with a broad forehead, pointed chin, and a brush-like mustache. His pale eyes were deep-set and a little too far apart, but he looked very kind. Kitty would have loved to sketch him.
By the time dessert was served, Kitty’s back and legs ached. She wondered how long she’d been standing. It felt like days. She was running out of ways to distract herself, and decided to inch closer so she could eavesdrop on the dinner conversation.
“What did you think of the Dred Scott case?” she heard Mr. Fuller ask.
Massa Goodman smiled broadly. “I think Chief Justice Taney and the Supreme Court made an excellent decision.” He turned to Fuller’s younger son who was stifling a yawn and said, “You young men may not realize, now, how important their ruling was, but you’ll appreciate it in the future.”
“What was it all about, Father?” the older son asked.
Fuller pushed his half-finished dessert away and pulled his coffee cup closer. “A slave named Dred Scott sued the court for his freedom, claiming that he had lived on free soil in the Missouri Territory for several years. The Supreme Court denied his claim, saying that since the Negro race is so far inferior to ours, they have no rights. Therefore, the court was not bound to consider the issue of Negro rights. Scott will remain a slave.”
“Of course, we knew that Negroes were inferior to us all along,” Massa Goodman added. “Anyone who works with them knows that they are. Without us, the entire race would be unable to fend for themselves. Slavery has helped Negroes learn a measure of civilized behavior, but by no means will they ever be equal to whites. We’re doing them a favor by teaching them skills and giving them food and clothing. They would never survive on their own.”
His words made Kitty want to shrink very small and hide somewhere. But as she fought the urge to disappear in shame, she saw Missy Claire beckoning to her from across the room. Kitty felt as though all eyes were on her as she tiptoed into the room and leaned close so Missy could whisper in her ear.
“I don’t feel well. Fetch me a cup of warm milk from the kitchen.”
Kitty hurried outside to the kitchen, relieved for the chance to flee from the conversation and the humiliating stares. She found Bessie and Cook and some of the other house slaves seated around the pine table, eating the remnants of the meal they’d worked so hard to prepare. In the middle of them all, sat the little old storyteller named Delia, who had visited along with the Fullers once before.
“Excuse me,” Kitty said. Her voice sounded louder than she’d planned. The conversation stopped as everyone looked up at her. “Missy Claire’s needing a cup of warm milk,” she said meekly.
“Missy Claire’s spoilt rotten,” Cook grumbled as she labored to her feet. “Five-course meal ain’t enough for her?”
Kitty didn’t reply. She couldn’t take her eyes off the storyteller. “Excuse me,” she said again, “but I once heard you telling about a land with all black people. You said they had villages and families and everything else without no white folks helping them. Is that true?”
“It’s true,” Delia replied. “And don’t you ever forget it, honey.”
“But I heard them talking at dinner just now, and Massa says we’d never be able to get by without white folks. Don’t he know about that land?”
“Oh, he knows all right,” Delia replied. “He has to lie about it because he also knows that they stole us away from there and forced us to be their slaves.”
Kitty still couldn’t forget the shame she’d felt at Massa’s words. “He’s saying we ain’t as good as white folks are. He says we’re an inferior race.”
“Lies!” Delia banged her fist on the table making the plates jump. “We’re no different than
they are! We’re all God’s children, no matter what color skin we have. Don’t you know we all come from the same mother and father—from Adam and Eve?”
“N-no, ma’am.”
“Don’t you go to church? Didn’t anyone ever teach you the Gospel, honey?” Something about the little woman’s gaze seemed to hold Kitty captive, against her will. She was sorry she had ever asked the question in the first place, sorry she had eavesdropped on Massa’s conversation.
“No, ma’am,” she replied, taking a step backward. “Missy Claire and them go to church every Sunday, but they say religion ain’t for colored folks. She say we don’t have souls.”
Delia exhaled and closed her eyes briefly. But when she spoke to Kitty her voice was kind. “You have a heart and a soul and a mind just like your missy. There ain’t no difference at all between the two of you.”
Her words shocked Kitty. She quickly glanced around at the others, worried that she might get into trouble for listening to Delia’s outrageous ideas. “But there is a difference,” Kitty said. “Missy can read and write, and her daddy owns a plantation and a house in town—”
“That don’t matter one bit,” Delia said, interrupting. “Underneath our skin, we’re all the same. And we ain’t inferior. The white folks believe it, and they want us to believe it, but it ain’t true.”
Kitty shook her head as if she could shake off Delia’s words. They couldn’t be true. If she was the same as Claire on the inside, then why did Claire eat rich food, wear beautiful clothes, and sleep in a feather bed? Why did Kitty have to empty Claire’s slops and sleep on cornshucks and do whatever Claire said, no matter how much she hated it? No, it couldn’t be true. She was Missy’s slave. There must be a good reason why. She glanced at the pan of milk warming on the coals. She wanted to grab it and run.
