Chasing the Sunset

by Barbara Mack

  “Shrew!” he had screamed when she had confronted him with the letters, waving them in his face, too angry to be frightened in that moment. She had thought her uncle dead, and she had mourned him as much as she mourned her parents. She dodged David’s slap with the ease of long practice, and sneered at him, driven almost beyond control by this final, horrifying lie he had told her. She screamed her defiance in his face, then scrambled out of his way.

  “I could not have had the money if I did not marry you, now could I?” he had smirked, pouring himself a glass of port. Maggie knew he was only waiting for her to relax her guard so he could catch her; after all this time, she was wise to him. She knew him too well to fall for any of his tricks. “And you would not have married me if you’d had anywhere to go. Your parents were quite rich, and I coveted their fortune. Did not want to give up all that lovely money, even if I had to take you to get it. Do not believe all that claptrap about greed being one of the seven deadly sins. It is a virtue, in my book.” He had looked her over coldly. “I sent a letter to your uncle telling him that you were too ill to write, that you were fragile mentally from the loss of your parents. I paid a doctor to write a letter advising him not to visit, that in fact you were on the verge of madness . . . and I intend to make it true, dear.” He stalked her relentlessly, and Maggie darted behind the desk, looking for a way of escape. “I am tired of you, m’dear. I will have you put away somewhere, and I will come and visit you religiously once a month. Perhaps we will play a little while I am there, the dutiful husband. Come here,” he laughed, enjoying the chase as he always did. It got his blood up for what was to come next. “You know I am going to get you eventually. Might as well give in now.”

  It was the laugh that did it. He was so contemptuous of her, so sure that he could do anything he wanted to her without reprisal. She lost control, screaming, flinging things at him, and David had gone down to his knees when a lucky hit to the solar plexus from a crystal figurine left him gasping for breath. Maggie took advantage of his weakened state by smashing a vase over his head, once, then twice more. She then watched him topple over, his head striking the stone of the fireplace with a sickening thud.

  Blood, there was so very much blood . . . flowing down the top of his head to pool on the back of his jacket, flowing from underneath him to stain the carpet beneath him . . . Maggie reached out tentatively, her fingers trembling, to touch his chest. He did not move, did not seem to breathe, not even when she called his name and shook him roughly. She was horror-stricken, and she knew she had to leave, had to get out. She searched his office, desperately searching for anything of value, stuffing Ned’s letters in her pocket, digging with revulsion in David’s pockets for the keys to the safe and his money clip, thanking providence that she was wearing her mother’s brooch pinned to her underclothing as she always did to keep him from finding it and confiscating it. Then running, running . . . she had to get away, had to find Ned before they caught her . . .

  She woke with a jerk, twisted in her sheets, soaked in sweat, breathing fast, her heart running like a freight train. She did not sleep the rest of the night; she was afraid that the dream would come back. When the sun chased the moon from the sky, she was fiercely glad that she had a reason to leave the bed, the source of her nightmares. Glad that she did not have to lie there any more, stiff with remembered terrors and old horrors, her eyes glazed with tears that refused to fall.

  Maggie did her duties by rote the next day, her almost sleepless night telling on her. Kathleen seemed tired, too, and after the midday meal that Nick gulped down so fast he must not have tasted it, Maggie sighed and pushed back the hair that fell out of her coiffure no matter how many pins she put in it.

  “Kathleen, let’s go put our feet in the river,” she said tiredly. “We’ve nothing to do for the moment and I cannot take this blasted heat any longer. We’ve two days or so until we have to make blackberry preserves, the bread has to rise again before I can bake it, dinner is hours away, and I need to get out of here. I would like some company, too.”

  A grin made Kathleen’s eyes shine and made her cheeks into two round balls. She threw down the towel that she had been drying the dishes with and dropped her apron over a chair.

  “You do not have to say it twice to me,” she said. “I wanted to stop an hour ago, but I did not want to leave you here doing everything. Nick will not care. Men do not notice anything as long as their meals are on time, and you do not act as if you have a brain,” she scoffed. “Nick is better than most men, but he is still a man, and they all think they know everything. Arrogance is bred in the bone.”

  Maggie laughed. “Kathleen, whatever would your mother say?” she teased in an exaggerated southern accent, spreading her fingers across her chest and schooling her features into a parody of shock.

  “Are you joking? Where do you think that I learned all of this?”

  The two whooped with laughter and soon found themselves in the little cove, their feet plunged into the cold of the rushing water, splashing each other playfully as they sat back and enjoyed their extraordinary respite in the middle of the day. Maggie leaned forward to pat water on her face, careless of the fabric of her dress. It would dry quickly in this heat, and it was little more than a rag anymore. She needed new clothes. She sighed and imagined herself in silks and satins, reclining on her verandah, doing nothing more strenuous than lifting a glass of lemonade to her lips. She smiled and wet her handkerchief to lay on the back of her neck. Sounded appalling to her. She had sooner be shot than to lie around on her behind all day. She would go out of her mind without something to keep her busy.

  “What is that grin all ‘bout?” Kathleen asked as she flopped backward, the shade from the drooping branch of a willow tree making flickering little pictures on her face. “I swear sometimes you are the most mysterious person, Maggie. I never know what you are thinking.”

  “You will never guess, Kathleen.” Maggie rolled up on her side, her smile so big it was stretching her face. “I think my Uncle Ned’s got a sweetheart.”

  A fine line appeared between Kathleen’s blond brows. Her blue eyes regarded Maggie solemnly.

  “What makes you think that?” she asked slowly. “Old Ned is nice, but I have never seen him with a woman.”

  “That is because he is sneaking around with her in the middle of the night. I saw them last night when I was looking out my window. It was so hot, and I was just ...”

  “Did you mention this to anyone else?” Kathleen asked urgently, reaching out and gripping Maggie’s forearm. “Tell me you did not, Maggie, please!”

  Maggie stared at her. “Of course not. Who would I tell? You are the only friend I have got.” She searched her friend’s freckled face intently. “What is it, Kathleen? Tell me what is wrong.”

  A sudden thought rounded her eyes. “Kathleen, you are not . . . “

  Kathleen’s face turned bright red as she let go of Maggie’s arm and giggled. “Lordy, no! Me and . . . and Ned! He is even older than my Papa!”

  She sobered suddenly, and reached for Maggie’s hand to hold between both of hers. “I beg of you, Maggie, do not say anything about this. Do not mention it to anyone, even to Nick. I know he can be trusted, but I do not want to put him in a bad position. I probably should not tell you, but I know that I can trust you, and I so need to share it with someone.” She stared somberly into Maggie’s eyes, her normally merry face grave.

  "Do you know how Missouri became a state, Maggie?" Kathleen asked her. Maggie shook her head in a negative. "They entered the union as a slave state, at the same time as Maine entered as a free state, in order to keep the division of slave states and free states equal. Many who live in Missouri felt that this so-called Missouri Compromise was a betrayal of their most deeply felt beliefs, and even though all this happened before I was even born, I am one of those people. Are you familiar with the Fugitive Slave Act that was passed through Congress two years ago? It requires all citizens to assist in the recovery of fugi
tive slaves or to be jailed. It denies a fugitive a right to a jury trial. Instead of a trial, cases are instead handled by special commissioners." Kathleen smiled, but there was no humor in the gesture.

  "These commissioners are paid $5 for every fugitive whose fate they decide. They are paid $10 for every fugitive slave that they send back to their owners. Many free blacks have been captured by slave traders and taken before commissioners, and if the commissioner is a dishonest one, their fate is sealed. They are not allowed a trial by jury, and the commissioner who decides their fate has an incentive to declare them an escaped slave, so they often are."

  Maggie sat and listened, engrossed at the story her friend told her. How she and Ned, and others who hated the institution of slavery contrived to smuggle men, women, and children out to Northern states and Canada at great risk to themselves and their families. How each person only

  knew the next link in the chain of brave people who gambled with fate to do what was right. How she had stumbled onto Ned’s secret, how she had found a frightened man hidden in the stable several years ago when she had been only a child, and had threatened Ned with exposure unless he let her help. How Ned had blustered and grumbled and complained, but finally gave her small assignments, and how the assignments had gradually grown to larger, more dangerous ones as he came to trust her and her abilities. How last night was spent smuggling out a young woman who was owned by a neighboring farm, and that was who Maggie had seen in the night through her open window.

  Maggie felt tears sitting in a big, sodden lump in the back of her throat, and she reached out impulsively to embrace her friend. Nick owned no slaves. He had told her once that his father and mother did not believe that the institution of slavery was moral, and he had come to agree with them. She was suddenly, fiercely glad that there were no slaves here, and she was glad that Kathleen was her friend. She squeezed Kathleen tightly, in the first female embrace she had enjoyed since the death of her mother.

  “You are so brave,” she whispered, with her head pillowed on Kathleen’s comfortable shoulder. “I wish I were as brave as you.”

  Kathleen rocked her in her plump, warm arms, patting Maggie soothingly. “I am not brave,” she said. “Just opinionated. I cannot bear it when anyone does something that I know is wrong, and I know that slavery is wrong.”

  Maggie pushed away from Kathleen a little bit, and stared earnestly into her friend’s eyes. “I want to tell you something,” she said firmly, before she lost her nerve.

  Maggie and Kathleen spent the afternoon at the river, underneath the willow tree, while Maggie told her the whole, sorry story of her marriage. Kathleen was saddened and often enraged by the details of the tale Maggie relayed to her. She reached out often to touch her friend, to wipe away a tear, to squeeze her shoulder or her hand, or just to pat her leg and reassure Maggie that she was still there, that she understood. Maggie told her the whole of it, too, not the edited version that Ned and Nick had received. Kathleen let her know in no uncertain terms that she had nothing to feel guilty over. She had been abused, and she had not meant to kill her husband. It had been a horrible accident, and leaving had been the best thing that she could have possibly done. The wrong had been done to her, not to her husband, and she should not be ashamed. The shame had been his, not hers.

  Maggie felt the rest of her bitterness and fear fade away in that afternoon by the willow tree. She let the pain float away on the river that rushed by and made merry little noises as it went. Maggie felt so light, with the weight of her grief off of her soul, she felt as if she might float away. The anguish and the terror of her memories had no hold on her here, and the memories were losing their ability to hurt her so badly. Time and distance had conspired to dull the sting of those old sorrows, and Maggie felt that she was beginning to live again as a whole person, that a new, better person had been forged in the fire of her difficulties. She would never be the same innocent girl that she had once been, but she could be someone stronger, with just as much worth. She wanted to help Kathleen and Uncle Ned, and when she voiced that thought, she was told an emphatic no. It was too dangerous for her to sneak out of the house with Nick there. That was why Ned lived in his quarters over the stables. He had been asked to move into the house many times, and always gave the excuse that he wanted to be near the horses.

  Afterwards, Kathleen regarded her with sorrow in her fine blue eyes. “I am almost sorry that I told you, Maggie. Secrecy can be a terrible thing. It is a commitment, and this secret must be kept from everyone. Husbands, children, friends . . . and parents.” The last word was whispered, and Maggie knew how very much it hurt her to keep this from her parents. Kathleen always spoke of her parents with love, and it must be hard to keep something of this magnitude from them. “Not only the safety of others depends on this secrecy, but your safety, too.” Her bright blue eyes hardened. “Many of the big farms depend upon slave labor, and you could be jailed or even hung if anyone suspected that you knew about the freeing of slaves. Not many in this part of the country would be sympathetic to your views, either. Missouri is divided in its views, but the further south you go, the more slavery sympathizers there are. Here, though there are plenty who do not own slaves, there are many who would just as soon lynch you as jail you if they thought that you were helping their servants escape, or even that you knew someone who was.”

  “You can trust me, Kathleen,” Maggie said firmly. “I . . . I would never tell.”

  Kathleen wiped her hands dry on the hem of her dress, her head down, the sun striking sparks off of her golden hair. “I know you would not,” she said softly. “I just want you to realize what this may cost you. Lies, even ones by omission, have a way of escalating.”

  They started back towards the house, arms wrapped around each other, knowing without words that in each other they had found a steadfast friend, the kind that comes along only once or twice in a lifetime. They made a striking picture to Nick, who watched from the barn, where he was hidden from view. He felt his heart clench in his chest at the sight of them. They so obviously loved each other, and he wanted that with a fervor that approached lunacy. He wanted Maggie’s arm around his waist, wanted her to smile at him like that, only him. Christ, he was jealous of Kathleen! And he was hiding in the barn like a smitten child, spying on her. How much more unstable could he get? Next he would be jealous of the stable dog.

  Maggie went through the motions of making dinner in a haze, glad that they had done most of the preparation for the meal ahead of time. The bread, of course, was a total loss, oozing its soggy mass out of the pan and all over the table where they had put it to rise. She scraped it off the surface with a knife and made fluffy biscuits instead.

  When Kathleen left, Maggie waved a hand at her absently and mumbled a goodbye. She spoke not a word to Nick, who amazingly had turned up alone and eyed her broodingly throughout the meal. He had to ask twice for strawberry preserves for his biscuit, and once she filled his coffee cup when he said he did not want any more. He never said a word, and Maggie never even noticed. She walked around with a line between her worried eyes, lips pressed together. She was worried about Kathleen and Uncle Ned. She did not want to lose them when she had just come alive enough to love them. She cleaned up the dinner dishes still fretting over them, and then went wearily to bed, not caring that it was still light out. She was emotionally and physically exhausted, and she sought refuge in sleep.

  Maggie woke later with a start, bolting upright in the bed. She stared uneasily around at her familiar surroundings, and her heartbeat slowed gradually as she realized that nothing was amiss. Then she heard a thump from below, followed by another, and she reached for her threadbare robe, belting it around her. She crept apprehensively down the stairs without a candle, trying to make as little noise as possible. The thump came again, from the library, and she glided over silently. he heavy doors were ajar, and she peeped in. A broad smile creased her face, and a giggle slipped out before she could stifle it. Maggie clapped a hand ov
er her mouth, but it was too late. Nick whirled around and saw her, stopping his pursuit of the tiny gray-striped kitten who was apparently the cause of all the thumping and banging that had woken her. A heavy vase lay in pieces on the floor, and one of the small tables was overturned. He glared at her, and ran a raking hand through his already mussed hair.

  “I am glad you think that this is funny,” he growled. “I, however, do not. This little demon cat is for Tommy to take to the stables in the morning. Kathleen’s father rode over and gave it to me. He said its mother was a good mouser, and Tommy’s been missing the old cat down at the barn. We think something may have killed it and eaten it. He had made a pet of the old cat, and he has been kind of upset. I was going to put the ugly little thing in bed with him, since it is so little I was afraid to leave it at the stable alone, but there is only one problem.” He reached out a hand to the tiny little mite and was rewarded with an arched back and a hiss that would have put a mountain lion to shame. He pulled his hand back hastily. “I cannot catch it!”

  Maggie’s suppressed laugh started at her stomach and rose through her body until it spilled out her mouth in whoops. She doubled over, clutching her stomach as he scowled at her, crossing his scratched arms over his chest.

  “You catch the thing then,” Nick said forbiddingly. “Go ahead. Go on, Miss Know-All.”

  “Here kitty-kitty-kitty,” she murmured softly, reaching out a slow hand toward the little spitting speck of a cat. “It is all right, baby, come here now.” She stayed the motion of her hand and was rewarded when the kitten butted her hand with a minuscule head, and rubbed against her. She gathered the sweet, soft thing up against her chest, and Nick glared harder.