Always and Forever

by Beverly Jenkins

  Inside, the mansion was so filled with guests one could hardly turn around and the noise of three hundred plus voices assaulted the ears. Grace didn’t see their host in the crush, but could see blue-liveried waitpeople, employed by the city’s finest Black catering establishment, wading in and out of the fray, offering the guests finger foods and refreshments from their trays. She helped herself to some of the deliciously prepared appetizers, then tried to make her way to a less crowded spot. As she did, she paused to share a few words with the prominent Frederick L. Barnett, who in 1879 founded Black Chicago’s first newspaper, the Conservator, and was now a very important voice in the community’s fight against Jim Crow and disenfranchisement. Barnett smiled upon seeing Grace. Barnett promised to send a reporter over next week to interview her about the brides and the wagon train so he could run a feature in his paper about the brides. Grace thanked him, then headed for the stairs in a quest for familiar and friendly faces. She dearly wished the aunts had come along but they were dining at home with the Henderson twins tonight.

  On the steps Grace paused a moment to greet the pastor of Quinn Chapel AME, Chicago’s oldest Black church, and the man at his side, the rector of St. Thomas Episcopal’s Black congregation. The city’s Black churches were the main beneficiaries of the monies that would be pledged this evening so they could carry on their work with those impoverished folks given short shrift by the White social agencies of the city.

  Grace moved through the gathering like a ghost. After spending time with M’dear, she found it hard to be in crowds now. She’d gotten used to the silence and serenity of a solitary life, and all the noise and tightly packed throng were starting to make her head ache.

  After spending an hour smiling falsely and talking with people who simply wanted to know if the tales Garth had been spreading about her having taken up with an illiterate Texan on the wagon train were true, Grace had had quite enough. A nosy old woman, a good friend of the Youngs, had been politely grilling Grace for the past quarter hour. Grace was just about to say something rude to the woman in response when silence settled over the gathering.

  Grace turned to see who could be responsible for quieting so many guests and her eyes locked with Jackson’s. Her legs went weak, and had she been the fainting type, someone would’ve been yelling for smelling salts then and there, but she wasn’t. Dressed in his hat and duster, denim trousers, cotton shirt, and boots, he stood in the center of the room, an exotic contrast to all the other men in their formal suits. She didn’t know whether to shed happy tears or sock him for the worry he’d caused her, but ever the Texan, he didn’t give her the choice.

  While the rest of the guests stared on, he crossed the room, picked her up in his arms, and headed toward the door. The thought came to Grace that the gossips were going to talk about her and Jackson forever, but she didn’t care. Placing her head against his heart she let herself be carried past hundreds of wide-eyed guests and savored every moment.

  As he placed her in the buggy he’d rented, she said quietly, “You know I’m mad at you.”

  He took his place on the seat and picked up the reins. “Figured you might be.”

  Without another word, he set the team in motion and directed them up the quiet street. As they traveled on, they left the gas lights and the fine homes behind and entered the rural stretch of trees and meadows that led back to the city. The stars were out and the quietness of the surroundings made for a perfect drive.

  “It’s a nice night,” Grace remarked softly.

  “Yes, it is.”

  They seemed to be the only two people in the world. The lights of the city could be seen in the distance up ahead, but it lay at least another thirty minutes away.

  Grace asked, “Do you suppose we can stop and just enjoy the moon for a few moments?”

  Jackson did as she’d asked and soon they were beside the road surrounded by silence and the moonlit darkness.

  “So, how are you?” he asked.

  “Fine. Babies are fine, too.”

  He looked over at her and tried to form the words. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when Trent showed up.”

  “Had you been there, you might not be here with me now,” she responded softly.

  The silence settled for a moment, then she asked, because her heart had to know, “Are you here for good?”

  “Yep. Ready to face the future with you. If you’ll still have me?”

  Grace knew they had much to talk about, but that could wait. “On one condition.”

  “And that being?”

  “That you tell me who wrote that beautiful poem you had M’dear give me.”

  He grinned. “Man’s name was George Moses Horton.”

  “Was he English?”

  Jackson chuckled. “With a name like Moses? No, he was a slave in North Carolina for about sixty years. Published over a hundred fifty poems in his day.”

  He draped an arm around her and kissed the top of her hair. “Is that really your only condition?”

  “Yep, the babies and I are satisfied.”

  The darkness shadowed his smile. “You look very beautiful tonight, hellion.”

  “You are quite a sight yourself, Mr. Blake.”

  Jackson hadn’t planned on kissing her (he thought they should talk more first), but he wound up doing it anyway because he couldn’t wait. Passion rose slowly, coursing through them like the warmth of a fine June day, making the kisses deepen and linger. He slid his tongue into the sweetness of her mouth and she an-swered in kind. He pulled her closer and she answered by kissing his throat above the bandanna tied around his neck, then slowly worked her way back to his lips. “I missed you…”

  “Not half as much as I missed you.”

  Jackson dragged her onto his lap. He fed her kisses and she savored them responsively. His hands caressed; her hands explored. The sounds of their heightened breathing rose against the cool night air.

  Unable to resist any longer, he opened her cloak and brushed his mouth across the warm swells of her breasts. She arched sharply in response while he groaned in pleasure, smelling the deep, fragrant tones of her perfume. “Damn, you smell good…”

  He slipped his fingers into the bodice of her gown and teased an already taut nipple. Rolling it back and forth, he slid his tongue over the provocative band around her throat and thrilled to her purring response. All he wanted was to strip her bare and make slow, sweet use of the buggy’s seat, but she’d freeze to death and so would he.

  “Darlin’, we need to move on before we both catch our death.”

  But he couldn’t resist the lure of her mouth, nor the nipple now peeking out of her dress. When he bent his head and dallied with it brazenly, Grace melted all over the seat.

  “You have on too many damn clothes…” he growled passionately.

  Because of the waves of passion she was riding upon, Grace dissolved under the feel of his strong hands gliding her dress up her thighs. The slit in her drawers offered him splendid access to a woman’s paradise and he plied the gates expertly. “I was wrong,” he husked out. “You’re dressed just right…”

  Seated on his lap, Grace purred as his finger found her, and the wantonness began to rise. His bold touch set her afire. Grace thought she had on too many clothes, too, but the strokes and circles making her hips rise with an all too familiar rhythm set the mundane thought aside. Her whole world centered on the splendor flowing from his touch and the heat propelling her upward.

  Jackson had never made love to a woman in a fancy ball dress before, and the sight of her all disheveled, her body ebbing and flowing from his touch, made him hard as a railroad tie. He wanted her like nobody’s business, but he kept reminding himself that no matter how warm and damp and hot she was, they needed to be doing this somewhere inside.

  “Grace, I’m going to bring you to pleasure and then we’re gonna go get warm, okay?”

  Grace didn’t care; she didn’t care at all. Sitting atop his lap, with her expensive black dress r
ucked up and down, she found that his dallying was making her so senseless, she’d’ve gladly flirted with frostbite if it meant the pleasuring would continue. The thick, hot promise in his voice as he whispered just what he intended to do fueled her passions even higher. When he boldly put words into action, her sighs escaped and her legs parted shamelessly for more. As she shattered with the climax, she had to use his sheltering shoulder to muffle her screaming release.

  Later, after her clothes were righted and her pulsing abated, she asked, as they drove through the darkness, “How’d you know where to find me tonight?”

  “Stopped by your house and your aunts told me, but not before giving me hell about not writing or wiring.”

  Grace grinned. “Good, then I won’t have to later.”

  “Do you know how much I love you?” he asked then.

  “Not half as much as I love you. Where do you want to live after the babies are born?”

  Starting over fresh somewhere new had been something he’d spent a lot of time thinking about the last few days. “I don’t want to live in Chicago.”

  “I know.”

  He tried to see the expression on her face. “That bother you?” he asked quietly.

  She shrugged. “I’m not going to lie and say it doesn’t. I’ve never lived anywhere else. My home is there, my job, but I know you can’t abide the place.”

  “You’re right, I can’t. So how about Denver?”

  Grace was surprised to say the least. “Denver?”

  “Yes, that way you can have your snow and I can be west of the Mississippi.”

  “Denver?”

  “Sure, there’re theaters and stores for shopping. We’d be right on the rail line if we wanted to go and visit the aunts or if they wanted to visit us. It’s settled, but not too.”

  “Could I start a bank there?”

  “I don’t see why not. The Black community is small, but growing.”

  He looked at her. “So, will you think about it?”

  “Sure.”

  A second later, she said, “I’ve made up my mind.”

  He chuckled. “Already?”

  “Yep, and the babies and I vote yes. Where you go, we go. If you want to live in Denver, so do we.”

  He grinned, stopped the buggy, and gently traced her freckled cheek. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

  “No, I don’t think you ever have.”

  “Well I do, very much, and thank you for saving me from Trent, and thank you most of all for being you. I was wrong to think you needed to be wrapped in cotton.”

  She smiled up. “Yes, you were, but I forgive you.”

  He kissed her gently, and she settled in against his side for the rest of the ride home.

  The aunts met them at the door and showered them with hugs and tears. That next evening as they ate the big welcome home dinner for Jackson the aunts had prepared, Grace finally told the aunts about M’dear’s prediction that she could be carrying more than one child. For the first time in her life, Grace saw that her aunts were speechless.

  In the weeks and months that followed, Grace continued her job at the bank and began to look more and more like a woman on the road to giving birth. Jackson began doing carpentry work around town, and once word got around about his skill, he had more jobs than he could handle.

  In late November, Grace received a letter from Belle announcing the birth of her daughter. Belle had named her Loreli Grace. Grace found the tribute so moving, she cried.

  The new year ushered in 1885, and Chicago hunkered down for the winter as the snow flew and the winds froze the hairs in people’s noses. The aunts returned home to Grand Rapids after the holidays, but pledged to be back in the spring in time to see the babies born. After their departure, Grace and Jackson made slow and gentle love in every room in the house.

  Mid-March brought no significant change in winter’s hold on everything, but it did bring a letter from Katherine Wildhorse. She’d given birth to a daughter and named her Jenny Rachel. It seemed Katherine had insisted upon Dixon being present at the delivery. She wrote:

  Hell, he was there at the beginning, I wanted him there at the end!

  Grace read further and laughed upon reading that Dix had fainted while observing the birth and had had to be carried from the room.

  At the end of April, Grace gave birth to twin boys. M’dear had been right. Although they were small, the midwife declared them healthy. The proud parents named one of the squalling babies Griffin Elliot Blake, after Jack’s brother and Grace’s father, and the other Royce Prescott Blake, for Jack’s father and the Old Buccaneer.

  That night Jackson tiptoed into Grace’s room. He expected her to be asleep after such a tiring experience, but found her lying in bed, holding and smiling down at her sleeping sons. At his entrance, she looked up, love shining in her eyes.

  “How are you?” he asked, as he came and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Tired, but glad.”

  She looked down at her sons. “M’dear was right, there was more than one, and they’re perfect, Jack.”

  “It’s too bad they’ll never know her.”

  “We’ll just have to tell them about her, and on our way to Denver, we should stop off and see Iva, too, maybe.”

  “I’d like that.”

  There was silence then as they observed the sleeping babies. Jackson leaned down and kissed each small brown forehead. “Thank you for my sons,” he whispered to her.

  “The aunts will probably erect a statue in your honor. Boys are rare in our family.”

  He then placed a kiss on her brow. “I’ll love you always, Grace.”

  With tears in her eyes, she whispered, “And I’ll love you always, too, Jackson. Always and forever.”

  Author’s Note

  Always and Forever is another story generated by you, my fans. After the 1997 publication of my fifth Avon novel, Topaz, the mail began rolling in. Most of you wanted to know what happened to Jackson Blake and the redheaded hellion Grace Atwood, so as usual, your wish is my command. I hope you enjoyed the ride.

  William Welles Brown, the author of Clotel; or the President’s Daughter, lived from 1815 to 1884. He escaped from slavery on New Year’s Day, 1834. During his fifty years of freedom, he wrote more than sixteen published works, ranging from a chronicle of his own escape titled Narrative of William W. Brown, Fugitive Slave, Written by Himself (1847) to the first drama written by an American of African descent, titled The Escape, or a Leap for Freedom (1858). He also authored a number of Black history books. Two that I’d love to get my hands on are The Black Man, His Antecedents, His Genius, and His Achievements (1863) and The Negro in the American Rebellion, His Heroism and His Fidelity (1867).

  Interestingly enough, when Clotel was finally published in the United States, almost ten years after the British edition, the title was changed to Clotelle: A Tale of the Southern States, and Currer’s daughters were no longer fathered by Thomas Jefferson, but by a senator. The original version was not published in the United States until 1969!

  Here’s a list of some of the books I used to help with the telling of Grace and Jackson’s story; some are old and out of print, but others are readily available. Please consult with your bookseller or local librarian if you need help with your search.

  Bolster, W. Jeffrey. Black Jacks: African American Seamen in the Age of Sail. Harvard University Press.1997. Cambridge, MA.

  Franklin, John Hope. Runaway Slaves: Rebels on the Plantation. Oxford University Press. 1999. New York.

  Magill, Frank N., ed. Masterpieces of African-American Literature. HarperCollins. 1992. New York.

  Mullane, Deirdre, ed. Crossing the Danger Water: Three Hundred Years of African-American Writing. Anchor Books. 1993. New York.

  Rogers, J. A. Sex and Race. Vol. 1. Rogers. 1967. St. Petersburg, FL.

  Sherman, Joan R., ed. African-American Poetry: An Anthology: 1773–1927.Dover Publications. 1997. New York.

  Spear, Allan H. Blac
k Chicago. University of Chicago Press. 1967. Chicago.

  Webster, Donovan. “Pirates of the Whyda.” National Geographic (May 1999).

  A special shout-out to all the ladies, and the three husbands who attended my pajama party last May. Thanks for such a marvelous time. Yes, we’re going to do it again—I just don’t know when. Special thanks also to the fans in Australia, Canada, England, and the Islands for their wonderful letters. Welcome to the fan family.

  In closing, I want to give thanks for all the prayers, letters, and words of encouragement that continue to flow my way. Sista fans of all races and denominations—you are the best. I am blessed by your support. Until next time.

  Peace.

  About the Author

  BEVERLY JENKINS has received numerous awards, including three Waldenbooks Best Sellers Awards, two Career Achievement Awards from Romantic Times magazine, and a Golden Pen Award from the Black Writer¹s Guild. In 1999, Ms. Jenkins was voted one of the Top Fifty Favorite African-American writers of the 20th Century by AABLC, the nations largest on-line African-American book club. To read more about Beverly, visit her website at www.beverlyjenkins.net.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

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