by Naomi Finley
Bowden leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his expression grave. “A great unrest has settled over our country, and if something isn’t done about it, war will come. And with it, brothers will turn on brothers. It does not bode well for the North, or the South.”
“And if there is to be a war, what side would you be fighting for?” Saul folded his hands under his chin.
Bowden straightened and leaned back in his chair. “I am a Southerner. Although I don’t support slavery and would give my life to right the wrongs I’ve done, I’d be forced to fight for land and country.”
“Kipling said if there is to be a war, he would be forced to fight with the North.” My nerves hummed at the thought of war. Mercy was only a few months old, and the turmoil threatening the country kept me awake at night.
“The whites have a choice in the matter of which side they’d stand united with, while we black Northerners and Southerners,” Saul gestured at Papa, “remain in chains, unable to defend our homes or families. This is our country as much as it is theirs. I was born and raised in America, yet I have no rights or say in what happens.” He jabbed at his chest with building passion. “When will justice come to all Americans? Look at the Supreme Court’s decision over Dred and Harriet Scott. ‘Blacks are not citizens,’ they say. Are we not people? Are we not American citizens? Who are they to say we can’t enter suits in a court of law? What does this mean for the future of us and our children?”
The scar on Bowden’s face reddened as his grip tightened on the snifter. “The injustices in this country will be our undoing.”
“No disrespect to you,” Saul said to Bowden, “but James, as a man enslaved to the South, what is your opinion?”
Papa sent a nervous glance at Bowden, who spread his hands wide. “You’re as free to speak as any man.”
Sadness pulled at Papa’s visage. “I reckon et be a mighty sad day, dat for sho’. But lak de rest of ya, some things bother me when I git to thinking ’bout what be happening.”
“Like what?” Bowden asked.
“Et folkses lak young Masa Jack and dese Northerners. Though dey say dey ain’t all right wid slavery, dey still view de world as whites and blacks. Ef a day come dat de country be at war, I reckon my heart be torn between de home and people I love in de South and my gal and her family here in de North,” Papa said.
The melancholy that filled the streets had overtaken the evening, and in hopes of veering our visit to more pleasant matters, I said, “The frame has gone up for the new school.”
Bowden’s face brightened. “That’s splendid news. In the downturn of the economy and all the talk of war, it’s good to have a sign of hope for people.”
“Is it a wise decision to continue?” I asked. “Willow wrote that business is down, and you’ve all sunk tremendous funding into the cause.”
“Allowing our slaves to escape, or providing them passage to freedom, has come at a high cost, but no amount of money can replace what is right and what is wrong. The folks at Livingston who expressed their desire to stay on and aid in our cause earn coin for a future we can only hope for. Endless efforts have been put into teaching folks skills and providing them with a quality life, regardless of the circumstances. But all of our efforts don’t change the fact that they’re slaves and we’re their masters. Although the numbers have dropped, the end of our exports of cotton to Europe has put a strain on our finances. The expense of caring for the people at Livingston is high, but we must do what is right for them.”
“And you and Missus Willie do dat,” Papa said. “Don’t seem to matter ef we free in de North or de promised land or a slave in de South, ’cause we still black. Until change comes in folkses’ minds and hearts, no war gwine to change a thing.”
“Unfortunately there is truth in what you speak.” Bowden dropped his gaze to the floorboards.
As the evening progressed, the events happening around the world and our concerns hung in the room like a massive cloud.
When I slipped into bed next to Saul that evening, I scooted into the curve of his arm and rested my cheek on his chest. “Do you think war will come?” I played with a tendril of hair on his chest.
“I don’t know.” He kissed my hair before resting his chin on the top of my head. “But if it does, there is nothing you or I can do to stop it.”
“I hate that Mercy has to grow up in a world where people judge each other by the color of their skin. What gives men the impression that one color is better than another?”
The rich silkiness of his voice deepened. “Humankind has always been driven by power and greed. The weak are trampled under the strong.”
“We may be black, and most of us born into slavery, but we aren’t weak.” Defensiveness vibrated in my chest. “Too many slaves have fallen under the impression that they’re incapable of surviving beyond their master’s house. A mentality carved by masters into their thinking since birth.”
“All we can do is continue to help those we can to gain freedom and start a new life.”
I fell asleep that night thinking of the limitations of freedom, and what it meant to be black in a world drowning in prejudice.
Willow
AT BREAKFAST ONE MORNING SOME weeks after Bowden returned home, Mammy set a platter of hot buttermilk biscuits on the table as Tillie filled my cup with coffee before moving on to Bowden. My eyes were drawn to her protruding stomach, and although I’d made a conscious decision to move on, some days my shortcomings consumed me. That morning, the familiar sadness tightened my chest, and although I’d fought to keep it hidden, the warmth of Bowden’s hand covered mine. I glanced at him, and the tenderness in his eyes told me I hadn’t succeeded.
“Josephine’s coming today to take care of the little matter we spoke of.” I slathered butter over a buttermilk biscuit.
“Is she?” He frowned. “Are you certain this is wise?” He eyed Tillie and Mammy and gestured for them to leave the room.
I waited until we were alone. “After losing Little Ben, the guilt of keeping the truth from her was too much. It was bad enough to witness her pain all these years, but I managed to keep quiet. After our loss, though, I realized just how much pain she was in. It wasn’t right; I should have told her from the start.”
He added cream to his coffee before forking a sausage. “You speak from your heart; it’s the thing I admire most about you. But you know as well as I, in her delicate state, if she’d known, she may have acted irrationally. You honored Jethro’s wishes; there can be no blame placed.”
I rested a hand on his wrist. “Thank you for trying to see good in me, and for loving me regardless. But you’re wrong and you know it. At first, yes, it was about helping them, but then it became about me. With losing Father, and the pressures of running this place, I found comfort in the child and welcomed the distraction. I was aware of this, but I never protected my heart. I love that little boy. And may God forgive me, but the thought of losing him eats me up inside.”
“It is better the child was loved and cared for than the alternative. What is done is done.”
I studied him, considering his undying love and devotion and its blindness.
“And no, I do not say these things because my love for you blinds me,” he said with a grin.
I gaped. His ability to read my most intimate thoughts continued to astound me.
“I know you, and I know your heart could never harm another.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek before capturing my watery gaze with his. “This pain we feel will ease with time. One day we will be blessed with another child.”
I rose and went to him, capturing his face in my hands as his arms encircled my waist. I kissed him, and he returned it with enough passion to make my head spin. Breathless, we pulled apart, and I smiled down at him with satisfaction. His beautiful eyes captured my soul. “I love you, Bowden Armstrong, with all that I am.”
“And I, you,” he said.
When I released him and returned to my seat, he said wi
th a chuckle, “Don’t you wish you’d agreed to marry me earlier?”
I shook my head in amusement and clicked the back of my spoon on the shell of the hard-boiled egg resting in the silver holder on my plate.
“I am meeting Sam at his office to go over the sale of the Rhode Island estate,” he said.
“I can’t believe we are selling it. I hate to see it go, but if we are to implement change, then we have no other choice.”
“We are fortunate to have enough to do so. Times are changing, and I worry it may not always be the case.”
“Do you think these murmurs of war could come to fruition?” I leveled a worried gaze at him.
“No one knows for certain, but there is cause to be concerned.”
We continued in conversation about his duties at the office, and maintenance of the grounds and outbuildings at Livingston before he laid his napkin on the table and stood. “I must go. Do you think you will be fine handling this matter without me?”
I nodded and rose to meet his embrace.
After he was gone, I sat thinking of what war could mean for Livingston and the South. My reflections turned to my loved ones in the North, but I swiftly pushed them away and concentrated on Josephine’s arrival.
Her private carriage rode in to Livingston shortly before noon, and I walked out onto the front veranda to greet her.
“Good day, Josephine.” I descended the stairs as her driver helped her out.
She stood under a blue silk parasol, her eyes wandering the grounds as though she were trying to spot her son.
“I trust your ride was enjoyable.” I pushed down the nerves that had been swirling in my stomach all morning, and reassured myself that I was doing right by the child and Josephine. But…what if she took Sailor and went on the run? I’d be powerless to stop her; the boy was hers, after all. The inner battle left me wishing I had been born without a conscience.
She wore a tight expression as she looked at me. “It seemed dreadfully long today.”
“Come, join me in the music room for some refreshments.” I took her arm as she lowered her parasol with shaking hands. “It will all be fine. You needn’t worry.” But would it? I gulped back my own worry.
Her eyes searched mine, as though she were trying to summon the courage I feigned. “Perhaps a drink will calm my nerves.”
“You’re in luck. Miss Rita makes some of the best cordial you’ll ever put your lips to.” I exuded cheerfulness for both our sakes.
Inside, we settled into gold embroidered armchairs overlooking the gardens. She removed lace gloves and laid them beside her. Time passed with light chatter, but as the objective of the day loomed, I nodded at Mary Grace, who stood just inside the threshold, waiting on further instructions. At my signal, she turned and left.
“Do you think he will like me?” Josephine said, openly vulnerable.
“You have nothing to fear.” I gave her a consoling smile. “He is a loving child.”
“Much like his father.” Her gaze grew far away, and a tenderness enveloped her face. “I’ve never been overly warm or approachable until Jethro. He changed me.”
“Love does that to a person,” I said with a light laugh. “I never saw myself having children until I married Bowden.”
“There are no proper words that can be said for your loss. All I can say is, I understand your pain,” she said.
I glanced at my hands, where they lay in my lap. “I know.” We sat quietly for a moment, two women intertwined in the ache of what motherhood had cost us. “For what it’s worth, I am truly sorry.”
“It is only you who holds any ill feelings,” she said. “I can’t begin to thank you for what you’ve done. And for the rest of my days, I will be grateful.”
I swallowed back tears, and the burden of my guilt lightened. If she could grace me with forgiveness, perhaps there was no place for the guilt I carried.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway silenced our conversation, and Josephine adjusted herself in her seat to peer at the door. “I’m scared,” she breathed.
My response stayed on my lips as Mary Grace and Sailor entered the room.
“Missus Willow!” He pulled his wrist free of Mary Grace’s hand and bounded toward me. “I’ve bin askin’ to come see you, but Mammy said no.” He appeared none too pleased as he came to stand in front of me.
I smiled and stroked his wooly curls. “We have a special guest. Why don’t you introduce yourself?” I peered over his head at Josephine, who sat gawking at the child with awe. It was as though she’d stepped back into the past.
Sailor spun around. “Oh, hello. “I’m Sailor. Who you be?” He stared with curiosity at his mother.
“I-I’m Josephine.”
“Os-iphine.” He tested the name. “Do you have any children? Missus Willow won’t let me play wid de other children.”
“Oh.” She looked from him to me with inquiring eyes.
“We had an outbreak of influenza in the quarters,” I said.
She returned her gaze to the boy. “Missus Willow knows best.”
“Do you got children?” he asked again.
She hesitated, and we shared a glance. I held my breath. “No, I don’t have children,” she said, and I slowly released the air constricting my lungs.
“Don’t you like dem?” He cocked his head.
A small smile played on her lips. “Of course.”
“Why don’t you got any?”
I touched his arm to stop his inquiries, but Josephine lifted a hand to stop me, appearing undisturbed by his invasive questioning. “Someday I hope to.”
He smiled at that. “Dat’s good.” The platter of cookies captured his attention.
Josephine leaned forward and plucked one from the platter and held it out to him. “Would you like one?”
Sailor’s eyes grew wide, and he nodded vigorously.
“Take it.” Josephine gestured at him with the cookie.
He looked to me. I smiled and nodded. He grinned and snapped up the cookie. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Tears pooled in Josephine’s eyes as she watched her son devour the cookie. Her fingers lifted from her lap and then settled again as she fought the urge to reach out and touch him.
Sailor coughed between mouthfuls.
“Mary Grace, please bring the child something to drink,” I said.
“Yes, Missus.” Mary Grace curtsied and scurried off.
“Sailor has a sweet tooth,” I said.
Josephine cleared her throat, suppressing the emotions twisting her face. “Is this true?”
He bobbed his head.
Josephine smiled and placed a hand on his thin shoulder. “I too have a sweet tooth.”
“Missus Willow do too,” he said between mouthfuls. “Guess dat makes us all the same.” He circled his finger at the three of us.
“Do you like us being the same?” Josephine asked.
“Sho’ do.” He rolled back his shoulders.
“Can I ask you a question?” Josephine directed her question at Sailor but glanced at me as if asking my permission. I gestured for her to continue. “Do you like it here?”
My chest tightened and I regarded her nervously.
He frowned at her. “What you mean?”
“Are you happy?”
He pushed the last bite into his mouth and gave her a nod, but his attention returned to the cookies. The tautness in Josephine’s shoulders eased. I handed him one. “This is the last.”
Mary Grace returned and handed a glass to Sailor. He swallowed a big gulp and wiped his lips with his sleeve.
“Why don’t you run along and play now. It was nice to meet you, Sailor.” Josephine stroked his arm, and his gaze locked on her hand.
“You gwine come again?”
“Would you like that?”
“Yessum,” he said.
She laughed.
He grinned, but confusion played on his face, as though he wasn’t sure what was so funny. However, Josephine’s
joy was obvious. The child had managed to delight his mother. My heart swelled as I observed the pair.
After Mary Grace and Sailor left the room, Josephine said with amusement, “I’m not sure if it was me he liked or the cookies.”
“Both, I’m sure,” I said.
“I wish he could see him.” Sadness enveloped her. “He is so much like his father. You were right; he is a beautiful boy, in heart and appearance.”
“What will you do now?” I asked.
“I don’t seek to disrupt what you have given the child, but I do have a request.”
Tightness gripped my throat as I waited for her to continue.
“Do you suppose I could see him again?”
I released a breath. “Of course. Anytime you wish.”
Later, as I walked her to the carriage, she paused and turned. “I can’t begin to express my gratitude for what you’ve done—”
I lifted a hand to stop her, then gently gripped her forearms, my gaze capturing hers. “Our secret has been a comfort to me. I love him, and as long as he resides at Livingston, Sailor will never want for anything.”
“Yes, I can see that.” She glanced down at her hands. “No one can ever know that he is mine. I don’t trust what my husband or father would do. He is the child I’ve heard about,” she said as though validating it to herself.
“You mean the bastard child of my husband or my uncle?” I said without skipping a beat.
“Yes.”
“He’s the only mulatto child at Livingston.”
“You endure what people are saying to protect him?”
“Bored tongues will always have reason to talk,” I said, resuming our stroll to the carriage. “The boy is safe and his identity unknown, and we intend to keep it that way.”
“I owe—”
“No!” I stopped in my tracks. “Please,” I said in a gentler tone. “I won’t hear it again. I did what needed doing, that is all.”
“Is it true?”
“What?” My brows lowered as I studied her.
“That you’re a Negro-lover?” She hurried to explain. “I mean, you’ve shown a fondness for them since we were children.”
