by Naomi Finley
Women were odd creatures. The more a man pushed them away, the harder they fought to win his attention. My thoughts shifted to the feisty Southern belle who had been the exception. Every day since I’d escaped the posses fixed on hanging me for murdering Charles Hendricks and the Widow Jensen, I’d salivated and planned my revenge.
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” I said, with more hostility than I’d intended.
She is too close, the voices warned.
I flexed my fingers on the seat, and the muscles in my neck cramped as I struggled to assert authority over the nattering.
“It doesn’t appear to be nothing.” She pouted, and leaned forward to stroke my inner thigh with a laced-gloved hand. “Perhaps we can find a more suitable place so that I can relieve you of your tension.”
I removed the cigar and gripped her face, and she winced from my grasp but said nothing. Covering her full, rouge-stained lips with mine, I wrapped an arm around her waist and crushed her delicate frame against me. Her bones popped, and my euphoria at her frailty heightened my passion. But again, she didn’t pull from my grasp; instead, she moaned with pleasure, and I succumbed to the lust that never waned between us.
Aware of the games she played with men, I had proceeded with caution in approaching her, but her mastery over foolhearted humans had intrigued me. I, on the other hand, would never fall victim to her. There was but one puppet master—me. However, no woman had ever intoxicated me as she had, and I fought against the bouts of vulnerability that arose in her presence. Defenselessness was an emotion I refused to experience again. For now, she held purpose. Domination would forever be mine, and I wasn’t against snapping her pretty little neck.
She forced her tongue into my mouth, and I bit down slightly, eliciting a whimper. I smiled in triumph, and my tongue, a fervent conqueror, gained control. Seizing the back of her neck, I pulled her tighter.
When I released her she touched slender fingers to her mouth, as if it was tender from our kiss. “I do declare, Oliver Evans, you have a way of leaving a woman breathless and aching.”
She referred to me by the alias I’d acquired from the husband of my late wife, Elizabeth Evans, a wealthy woman from Maine who’d been twenty years my senior and recently widowed before our encounter. She’d been the first of my victims after I’d fled to the North. I had wooed her, then endured her withered flesh next to mine for three insufferable months before I rid myself of her in a shallow grave. I left town with her fortune and under the identity of her late husband.
I sank back against the seat and inhaled another puff of the cigar while admiring Amelie.
She fixed her lopsided feathered hat and smoothed the bodice of her gown. The theater had been packed that night. Women had regarded her with displeasure while their gentlemen’s eyes had widened with appreciation for a woman many knew on a personal basis, and others admired from afar. She could entertain as many men as she liked; I cared not, because no one would own her as I did.
One night, after we had fallen back against the linens, perspiring and panting from copulating, she’d made her first mistake. Lost in her ardor, she had revealed her secret. I exhaled, recalling how I’d manipulated her trust, and in doing so, mastered her. If she ever endeavored to defy me, I would not hesitate to destroy the great Madame Laclaire.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed a cab pull up outside of the hotel, and moments later, pull away. Peering at the shadows where the altercation between Armstrong and the men had taken place, I discovered they had vanished.
Fool. You let him get away.
Silence.
Striking the roof, I signaled the driver to leave. My thoughts returned to Charleston and the face of the woman who taunted me in my dreams. On the seat, my hand balled into a fist and the nails bit into my flesh.
One day, you will see the Armstrongs’ hearts cease beating. Victory will be ours, the voices crowed.
Yes. The day would come when I would bathe in their blood and behold Willow’s beloved Livingston Plantation engulfed in flames. But I wouldn’t stop there. I would see the Hendricks name forever tarnished and their enterprises in ruins. My master plan had given me patience in the matter.
A day of reckoning was coming, but until then, I would bide my time…
Ruby
A CARRIAGE PULLED UP OUT front, and I lay my daughter in her bassinet before walking to the window to peer down at the street. The driver opened the door and Bowden exited. I started to turn away when someone stepped out behind him. Papa? My chest pounded. What in heaven’s name?
I tiptoed from the nursery and closed the door before darting down the corridor. Downstairs, I raced past the parlor but halted when I spotted Saul sitting, reading the paper.
“Come, dear husband. Bowden has arrived, and he’s brought Papa with him!”
He grinned and lowered his paper. “You must contain yourself, or you will burst from excitement.”
I frowned at the lack of surprise on his face. “You knew he was coming.”
“I received a letter from Mr. Armstrong saying that if he could convince James to come, he’d bring him, at the request of Willow.”
I rested my hands on my hips and scowled. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“It was to be a surprise.”
I clapped my hands under my chin. “I can’t believe you didn’t let on. You’re the worst at surprises. Come, we mustn’t make them wait. Besides, it’s been far too long.”
He strode to my side and dropped a kiss onto my temple. “You, my darling, are most beautiful when your eyes are alight with passion.”
My love for Saul had blossomed into a love I never thought possible. My affections for Kipling had dulled in comparison. I suppose I’d always love him in some way, but Saul had been good to me. We’d never had a lot, but love and respect continued to bond us.
The rap of the door knocker echoed in the foyer. I laced my fingers with Saul’s and pulled him toward the door. “I shall not wait another minute.” With a deep chuckle, he allowed me to lead him to the door.
Aisling, the young Irish woman I’d found near death in the slums of Five Points, entered the foyer. Orphaned soon after her arrival in New York, she’d taken to stealing to survive, as Will and I had done. We could hardly afford to pay her, but she had nowhere to go. So an arrangement was made, and we exchanged room and board for duties around the house. Our friends had thought us crazy, bringing her into our home, but I thought of my mother, and if she hadn’t found me and brought me home, I likely would have become another casualty of Five Points.
I’d given up my position at the newspaper office, but my work with the Anti-Slavery Society continued, and when I was away from home, Aisling cared for our daughter.
“Please prepare tea and refreshments to be served in the parlor. We have important guests tonight,” I said. “And then you can have the evening off. I know of a certain young man that would be delighted to sit a moment in your company.”
“Yes, Mrs. Sparrow.” Her cheeks grew rosy, and she curtsied before disappearing down the hall to the kitchen.
I opened the front door, and Bowden removed his hat with a grin that made his eyes glisten.
“Mr. Armstrong, it’s our utmost pleasure to welcome you to our home,” I said.
“I assure you, the pleasure is mine.” He stepped aside graciously and plucked Papa from his shadow. “I have someone who has journeyed far to see you.”
Papa removed his hat and stood looking awkward but smart in his dark suit. “Hello, how ya doing, gal.” His eyes took in Saul’s height, which intimidated even the whites. “Yes, sah. Well, I’ll be.” A look of approval softened his taut features.
“Come in.” I stepped aside. “You must tell us all about Willow, Mary Grace, and the others. What about young Kimie? How is she?”
“Ruby darling, you must let our guests settle in before you pelt them with questions.” Merriment shone in Saul’s eyes.
“Forgive me,” I said.
&
nbsp; “It’s quite all right.” Bowden crossed the threshold. “Kimie isn’t so young anymore, and she’s been a real blessing to Ben and the quarter folks. All she talks about is Florence Nightingale and how she led a group of female nurses to the Crimea a few years back. Knox says he wished he had the funding to send her off to Nightingale’s programs in British hospitals, but with farmers struggling to sell their crops extra funds are becoming scarce.”
“Kimie has passion on her side. She will do well.” I took their hats and hung them on pegs by the door. “Saul brought home the drawings for the new school today.”
Saul smiled at me and capped Bowden’s shoulder with a hand. “Shall we retire to the parlor and take a look?”
“I’m most eager,” Bowden said, and the pair walked on ahead.
“Let me git a luk at you, gal,” Papa said when we were alone.
I held out my arms for his inspection. I noted the dampness in his eyes.
“Well, I be. Motherhood luk mighty fine on ya.”
My heart leaped at his praise. “Do you want to see her?”
“’Bout to split wid excitement.” The tenderness in the man before me hugged my heart. I looped my arm through his. He offered a small smile, and calloused fingers patted my arm. We climbed the stairs and walked down the hallway to my daughter’s room.
“We ain’t gonna wake her, are we?” he whispered.
“It doesn’t matter. It isn’t every day a slave can travel the ocean to see his granddaughter,” I said.
He nodded. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.
“It will be fine. You mustn’t worry. She is just a baby.”
“Et ain’t dat I worried ’bout. Babes are so fragile, I plumb skeered I drop her.”
I opened the door and moved to light a lantern on the dresser, and then another on a stand by the rocking chair. Soon a warm glow filled the nursery. Mother and I had decorated the room in pale yellow and pink. A white-painted bassinet wreathed in pink silk and white fabric sat in the middle of the room.
I took Papa by the hand and led him to the cradle. We peered down at my chubby daughter, wrapped in a cream afghan knitted by the ladies from the Anti-Slavery Society of New York.
Papa inhaled as he gazed at the babe. “Well, ain’t dat somepin’. Lak a li’l angel, ain’t she?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“Reminds me of you when you were a babe. Many a night, I prayed dat de Lard would grant us wid a boy, but instead he gave me you. And although back den I was skeered of what et meant to have a gal in a world dat deems no justice for a slave, dese days I mighty happy I got you.”
Tears welled in my eyes, and I quickly brushed them away. There was so little time, and I wasn’t about to waste the moments I had with tears. “Do you want to hold her?”
“I think et bes’ we don’t wake her.” He wiped his palms on his pants.
I leaned forward and scooped the baby up before he could protest further.
He stepped back, his eyes flitting left and right. “Now wait one minute. I jus’ a clumsy ol’ blacksmith. Dese hands ain’t used to delicate things. Why, I ain’t touched a babe since you were a wee one.”
“She won’t break,” I said. “Take a seat. I’ll be right beside you, and if you decide you’re uncomfortable, I’ll take her.”
He nodded, and without another word, took a seat. He cautiously held out his arms. “Now, do et real easy lak.”
I placed the baby in his arms, and his cheeks puffed out with the breath he was holding.
“See? You’re a natural. Nothing to worry about at all.”
He released the air from his lungs in a gasp. My daughter stretched and struck her tiny fist at the heavens, and a tenderness washed over Papa’s face. “My, my…purty li’l thing she be.” His thumb stroked the babe’s unruly curls. “What you say you called her again?”
“Mercy.”
“Yes,” he cooed. “Might be dat Miss Rita’s Lard found mercy and returned you to me. Never thought I’d be off de plantation, sitting in a house my gal owns and holding my grandbaby. Guess an ol’ fool lak me gotta find some kind of goodness in dat.” Silent tears fell over his weathered cheeks. He touched Mercy’s hand with a finger, and her fingers flexed and encircled his. Instant love radiated from Papa’s face, and I knew at that moment that our goodbye would be much harder this time around.
Some time later, Papa lay Mercy back in her bed, then removed a small wooden rocking horse from his pocket. “I made dis for her, so she can know dat though I be far, I be thinking of her.” He placed it in the corner of the bassinet.
“I’m sure she will treasure it always.”
We left the room, and as we walked down the corridor, I asked, “How is Willow?” The concern over my friend’s loss had weighed on my heart since I’d received the news.
“She having a hard time. Reckon losing de babe left a hole in her heart. Doesn’t leave her chamber most days.” His voice cracked. “De gal don’t deserve to suffer so. She a good woman and she done so much for so many. Times lak dese is when I question Miss Rita’s God and why he let things lak dis happen.” He shook his head.
His insight into Willow’s grieving only deepened the ache in my soul for the woman he’d fathered in his heart. I envied the time she spent with him and the years slavery had robbed him and I of, but each day I was grateful he had her protection and love.
“And Bowden?” I lowered my voice on the landing as we came to a stop. “How is he holding up?”
“Throws himself into work. Menfolk different dan womens. But he hurting jus’ de same. Missus Willie ’bout de strongest woman I know next to Miss Rita, but dis loss did somepin’ to her. I reckon ’cause, lak most of us, we luked at de babe as a new start. De li’l masa was to be the next generation of masas dat believed all humans be equal. He was hope. And when you a slave, dere ain’t much hope.”
He approached the first step to descend, and I gripped his arm. “Are you happy, Papa?”
He paused and twisted to eye me. “Can a slave ever truly be happy?” He shrugged. “I don’t rightfully know. Suppose I don’t understand what true happiness be. But ef dis be my lot in dis life, I reckon property on Livingston be de closest thing dere is to happiness for a slave.”
His words grieved me. “You know, all you have to do is say the word and the Armstrongs or we would find a way to get you to Canada.”
He clucked his tongue and waved a hand in dismissal. “Folkses say dat in Canada white stuff called…s-snow falls from de heavens. In some places et up to your waist overnight, and dey say et real cold.” He shivered at the thought. “No sirree, dese ol’ bones ain’t made for dat weather. My home be in de South wid Missus Willie.”
I laughed and patted his arm as we descended the stairs.
The men stood as we entered the parlor. “Well, James, what do you think?” Bowden extended his arms in a grand sweep, anticipation evident on his face.
“She a mighty fine baby, Masa Bowden, sah.” Papa’s shoulders rolled back. “Mighty fine. I thank you for bringing me.”
Aisling strolled into the room carrying a tray of tea. She placed it on the table before us, then picked up the teapot and filled a cup.
“If you don’t mind.” Bowden opened his satchel and withdrew a bottle of brandy. “I thought we could have a toast to the arrival of a healthy babe to carry on the Sparrow name and James’s legacy.”
Papa gawked at Bowden, mouth agape, clearly struggling to conceal his emotions. Aisling hurried to a cabinet in the corner of the parlor, withdrew glasses, and placed them on the table.
Bowden poured an inch in each glass and handed one to each of the men, then raised his. “To Saul and Ruby: May love guide their footsteps and words throughout these next years. May Mercy bring you all the love you so richly deserve. James,” he centered his gaze on Papa, “may your family continue to grow and fill your life with joy.”
“Thank you, Masa.” Tears glistened in Papa’s eyes as he lifted his
glass and emptied the contents.
I lifted my teacup.
“Mrs. Sparrow, is there anything else you require?” Aisling asked.
“No, thank you. You may go and enjoy your evening.”
After she was gone, Bowden looked at me. “I do hope we will have the privilege of meeting the Stewarts during our visit.”
“Yes, certainly. My parents have requested we join them tomorrow evening at their home.” I glanced at Papa for his reaction.
“I sho’ lak to meet dese folkses who bin so good to my gal. Lak to thank dem,” he said.
My heart surged with happiness. I’d dreamed of the day, since I’d been reunited with Papa, of him meeting my parents.
“Splendid.” Bowden grinned before turning his attention to my husband. “Do tell me, where did your family originate? Have you always lived in the North?”
Saul entwined his fingers, resting them on his stomach. “I’ve lived in the North all my life, but my granddaddy was born in slavery. When I was a boy he told me the story of how he landed in New York. He stood on the dock by the harbor, his face elevated to the sky as he breathed in the air of freedom. The cheeps of a sparrow perched on the railing overlooking the Hudson River drew his attention. The little critter sat there and eyed my granddaddy, unafraid and curious. But at the blowing of the horn of an approaching steamer, he took flight, and as Granddaddy watched him until he disappeared, he decided to take the surname Sparrow.”
“Many slaves acquire a surname upon reaching freedom,” I said. “Some take new first names as well, as most don’t have the names given to them by their parents, but the ones appointed by their masters.”
Bowden lifted the snifter of brandy to his lips and took a sip before holding the glass to stare into the liquid as though he were preoccupied.
Thinking it better to change the subject, I said, “I do hope to visit Livingston again, but with all the unrest in our country we hesitate to travel south.”
“People speak of war as though it is something to take lightly,” Saul said. “Talk of Americans fighting fellow Americans—it’s ludicrous.”
