by Naomi Finley
Two bends in the road before home, Mary Grace pointed. “Look there. It looks like someone is in trouble.”
I squinted and picked out a carriage stuck in the middle of the road. One side appeared to be lower than the other. “Looks like they have broken a wheel.” I fumbled for the rifle under the seat.
Each time I spotted a carriage or a rider along the stretch of road, the memories of what had happened when Reuben—alias Silas Anderson—had approached Whitney and I, not a mile back, surfaced. His attempt on Bowden’s life. The revelation that he had murdered my father, Mrs. Jenson, and her slaves. His unsuccessful ambition to ensure I suffered the same fate. The awareness that his family had murdered my mother, and that he was the brother of Rufus, the man who’d hurt Mary Grace in unspeakable ways. Although the actions of Reuben no longer took precedence in my mind and fear of his return had subsided, he still haunted me.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Mary Grace’s fingers dig into the edge of the wagon seat. “You needn’t worry,” I said. “Whoever it may be, they most likely don’t pose a threat. We’ll see if they need our help. And if I get the slightest feeling that we’re in danger, we’ll be gone before they can act.” She glanced at me and bobbed her head, but anxiety flickered in her eyes.
As we drew near, I noticed the fabric of a woman’s dress as she stood looking down at a man kneeling in the mud.
I reined the team to a stop and cupped a hand around my mouth to be heard over the violence of the storm. “May we offer you a hand?”
The woman swung to look at us. Sopping dark ringlets hung beneath a burgundy-trimmed bonnet. She slopped toward us through the mud as the man rose to his feet and wiped muddied hands on his trousers. “The wheel hit a rut and broke. My brother was seeing what he could do.” The woman had an English accent.
“There’s nothing we can do without tools to fix it.” The man joined his sister at the side of our wagon. He glanced from me to Mary Grace, his gaze hesitating on her. “Miss.” He tipped his hat, and she quickly averted her gaze. “You don’t happen to have any tools in that wagon, do you, ma’am?” he said to me.
“No, but perhaps we could give you a ride,” I said, and Mary Grace inhaled sharply. “Where are you headed?”
“Home,” the woman said. She had delicate features, a cute upturned nose, and appeared to be twenty or so.
“Where is home?” I asked.
The man took off his hat, revealing blond hair, and shook off the rain. “Our parents purchased the old Armstrong plantation.”
“You don’t say.” My fingers tightened on the loose reins. “Am I to believe you’re the long-awaited Barlows from England?”
He grinned. “Indeed, we are.”
“My husband sold the property to you. We expected you some years back.”
The Barlow siblings shared a glance before the sister turned green-hued eyes on me. “Mum got sick, and was unfit to travel.”
Their lawyer had sent word to Sam, our family friend and a Charleston lawyer, about Mrs. Barlow’s illness, and I wondered if she still yet lived.
The gentleman replaced his hat and took a step forward. “Well, let us introduce ourselves. I’m Magnus, and this is my sister Emily.”
The woman’s brow knitted as she regarded her brother before turning her attention back to us. “How do you do.” She delivered an awkward curtsy, and almost fell back.
Magnus gripped her elbow to keep her upright. “We don’t need you breaking a bone before we return home. Mum will be worried about our delay. I’m surprised she hasn’t sent Dad or a stable hand out to find us.” He appeared to be some years older than his sister, perhaps in his early thirties.
“I’m afraid there isn’t room for all of us on the seat. If you don’t mind, sir, would you climb atop the supplies?” I nodded my head at the back.
“Missus Willow, it isn’t fitting.” Mary Grace leaped to her feet and stepped onto the wagon wheel to climb down. “The gentleman can have my seat.”
Magnus hurried around to her side. “No, miss. You stay where you are. I’ll take the back.” He gently gripped Mary Grace’s arm to aid her, but she recoiled from his touch. “I don’t mean you any harm.” He released her and, saying no more, returned to help his sister into the wagon. Mary Grace plopped down on the seat, and he clambered up onto the oiled tarp and wedged himself down between two crates.
I drove the wagon on toward the estate, keeping my eye on the lightning flashing in the distance.
BY THE TIME THE BRICK mansion came into view, the cold and misery I felt was reflected on the faces of the others. As we neared the home, I spotted a lanky, silver-haired gentleman pacing the front gallery.
From one of the outbuildings, a stableman bounded toward us. “Miss Barlow. Mr. Barlow. We were worried about you. Your dad had me hitching his horse.” His blue eyes roved over the sorry lot of us.
Magnus jumped off the back of the wagon with a splash into the water rippling down the drive. “We ran into trouble. Our carriage hit a rut and snapped the wheel clean off.” He hurried to my side. “Ma’am, I think it’s best if you and your friend come inside until the storm passes.”
“Our plantation is nearby,” I said through chattering teeth.
“You seem like a self-assured lady. I saw you keeping your eyes on the sky. You know as well as I, you’ll be driving right into the lightning.”
I glanced at the smoke coming out of the chimneys, and the thought of a toasty fire was downright inviting. “Mary Grace?” I glanced at her.
She shook her head. “We best get home. Everyone will be worried if we don’t show up.”
A crack of lightning split the sky, and Magnus tipped his head to shield his face from the rain and shouted, “They will have a lot more to worry about if that lightning hits you. Come in and dry off. Perhaps a cup of tea will soothe the chill. And as soon as the storm passes I will escort you ladies home.”
“We aren’t getting any drier, standing out here discussing it.” Miss Barlow gave me a nudge.
“Very well.” I stood. “We’ll take your offer. Besides, it will be nice to get to know our new neighbors.” Magnus’s hands gripped my waist and swung me to the ground. I wrapped my arms around myself in a desperate effort to stave off the chill as he lifted Miss Barlow.
Mary Grace crept forward, hesitantly eyeing me, and I gave her a nod. She rested her hands on his broad shoulders as Magnus lifted her to the ground as though she were weightless. When his hands lingered on her waist a moment too long for her liking, she clawed at his hands in rising panic.
Brow furrowed, he released her. “Sorry, miss. I-I…”
“Let’s get inside,” Miss Barlow urged. She smiled at Mary Grace and took her arm.
I glanced at Magnus, whose gaze followed Mary Grace as Miss Barlow led her toward the steps. He stood as though mulling over what he’d done wrong. But when someone had suffered as she had, trust didn’t come easily, and although she’d seemed to find contentment, she’d never forget what the whites had stolen. Years enslaved to my family. The knowledge that she was a free black kept hidden, a decision made by Father and Mammy. Her purity. Her husband.
Magnus looked at me, and the confusion subsided as he offered an arm. “Shall we?”
I took his arm and gathered the waterlogged fabric of my skirt. We hurried to the shelter of the gallery where the elderly gentleman awaited us.
“Son?” He glanced from Magnus to Miss Barlow. “What happened?”
Magnus reiterated what he’d told the stableman. “And then Mrs. Armstrong and…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Mary Grace, sir.” She offered a small curtsy.
“Mary Grace came along and offered us a ride,” he said.
“Welcome to our home.” The gentleman thrust out a hand. “I’m Daniel Barlow. Thanks for your assistance.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Barlow,” I said as his light grip sheathed my hand.
He guided us inside, where the warmth of the
home greeted us, and ordered white servants to stoke the fire and bring tea. I recalled how Bowden had said the man he sold the plantation to was a lover of art and not in favor of slavery. At first glance, it appeared there was truth in what Barlow’s lawyer had told Sam.
“Please forgive the chaos, as we are still getting settled,” he said.
All eyes turned toward a woman in a gray afternoon gown as she swept down the walnut staircase. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and pinned at the nape of her neck.
“Ah, my darling.” Mr. Barlow strode to the bottom of the stairs. “We have guests. This is Mrs. Armstrong, and her friend Mary Grace.” At the mention of our names, a look of surprise crossed the woman’s face. As she reached the last step, Mr. Barlow held out a hand, and she smiled tenderly at him and slipped slender fingers in his. “I’d like to introduce my wife, Isabella.”
When the woman drew near, she appeared to be some years younger than her husband. Ribbons of gray lined her dark hair, but her hazelnut skin was flawless, as if not touched by age. Mrs. Barlow smiled warmly as her gaze fell to the water puddle on the floor. “We’ve plenty of time for introductions later. You all must get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.” She motioned to a heavyset blond woman who stood nearby, awaiting instructions. “Take our guests upstairs and provide them with dry clothing.”
“Yes, Mrs. Barlow.” The servant gestured for us to follow.
Upstairs, she led us into a room with open chests overflowing with bolts of fabric. Smaller trunks held sewing notions. In the center of the room sat a desk and an Isaac Singer sewing machine, and in front of a window stood an empty wooden dress form. The servant closed the door behind us and moved to the closet. “Go head and get out of those clothes before you ruin the rug.”
“Are the Barlow women seamstresses?” I asked. We removed our bonnets and capes while marveling at the chests.
“Mrs. Barlow is one of the finest seamstresses in London.” She returned carrying two frocks, one yellow and one light blue. After draping the dresses on a chair, she returned to the closet. While she rummaged around inside, Mary Grace and I removed our clothing.
The woman walked out holding undergarments, and peered at Mary Grace and me. She gestured at me. “These should fit.” I unlaced my petticoats, and she turned her attention to Mary Grace. “Take off those bindings. I have undergarments for the both of you.”
Dressed in dry clothing, we were given cloths to pat our hair dry.
“I will have the garments laundered and delivered to you,” she said as we returned to the main floor. She led us to the parlor, where Mr. Barlow and Magnus stood in front of the fire, engaged in a quiet conversation. Mrs. Barlow entered the room behind us with a tray of tea and light refreshments.
My stomach rumbled as I eyed the platter of sandwiches. “We appreciate your hospitality.”
Mr. Barlow set his whiskey glass down on a stand. “I must visit your plantation and introduce myself to your husband.”
“I would be honored to return your hospitality. I will speak with my husband and arrange a time that we can all dine together.”
“Please, have a seat.” Magnus strode forward and motioned at a gold embroidered settee.
I mumbled a thank you and took a seat as Mary Grace turned to slip into the shadows of the room, as she was accustomed to doing in the presence of whites.
“No, you must join us.” Magnus summoned her with a wave of his hand. “We do not discriminate in this house.” He glanced at me. “If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Armstrong.”
“Of course.” I watched him with building curiosity. Although slavery was abolished in England, as it was in the North, racism raged in many parts of the world, regardless if people were slave owners or not. “Come, it’s quite all right.” I patted the seat beside me.
“I don’t know, Missus,” Mary Grace said.
“Please.” Magnus smiled at her. “We have no slaves here. Only hired staff who moved with us of their own free will.”
Boldness blazed in Mary Grace, and she looked him square in the eye with an unusual fierceness. “I’m free!”
“Please accept my apology.” Magnus dipped his head. “I assumed…”
“One must never assume,” Mrs. Barlow said softly as she poured tea into a cup and handed it to me.
“Mary Grace and her mother reside at Livingston, and it is as much their home as mine. Upon my mother’s death she gave them their freedom papers. No matter what the law states, they are free and have chosen to remain at Livingston.” Again I patted the settee, and Mary Grace seated herself. I gripped her hand to still its shaking before turning my attention back to the Barlows.
After serving tea to Mary Grace, Mrs. Barlow sat across from us on a sofa and the men took two armchairs. It was evident Mr. Barlow had a different outlook on whites and blacks; after all, he’d married a mulatto and sired a daughter. Magnus left me puzzled because he appeared to take more after his father, and I questioned if he carried any mixed blood at all. I pondered on Miss Barlow’s whereabouts, and if she’d be joining us.
“You pay no heed to the law?” Mr. Barlow asked.
“Some laws are meant to be broken,” I said. “What are your views on slavery?” I glanced from Mr. Barlow to his son.
“Slavery is a greedy man’s philosophy.” Magnus leaned back in his chair and steepled his index fingers under his chin.
I arched a brow. “If this is your core belief, why buy a plantation in the heart of slave country?”
“The desire for change, and matters we needed to tend to in Charleston,” Mr. Barlow answered, smoothing his mustache.
“We have family in the area that we wanted to check in on,” Mrs. Barlow said.
I peered at her over the rim of my teacup and frowned. “Is that so? I don’t believe I know of any Barlows in these parts.”
“That’s because it isn’t the Barlow side of the family we are inquiring about.” Green-hued eyes, much like her daughter’s, held mine.
I squirmed under her gaze. “If you don’t mind me asking—”
“Ask anything you like; we have nothing to hide.” The Barlow men had let Mrs. Barlow take the lead.
Miss Barlow entered the room, and the men rose and waited until she settled beside her mother before they return to their prior positions. Mrs. Barlow reached out and patted her daughter’s hand, then returned her gaze to me. “I believe, if we’re to be neighbors, honesty is the best measure. We’ve come here to inquire about your family and to check on you,” she said.
“Me?” My cup rattled as I placed it back on the saucer. “I’m afraid you’ve managed to confuse me, Mrs. Barlow.”
“Please, call me Isabella,” she said. “You see, I knew your father. In fact, we all did.”
My heart leaped. “Truly?”
She smiled. “Charles was a good friend to me long before he became friends with my husband. If you care to hear my story, you will understand exactly how important he was to us and how the loss of him has shaken us all.”
“Please.” I leaned forward, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. If they had been friends of Father’s, perhaps they would know of his daughter.
“Before slavery was abolished in England I was a slave, and my master, like many you hear about, was cruel. My mother and I suffered unspeakable abuse while enslaved in his household. It was during the last beating I received by his hand that something inside of me snapped, and determined to be free of him, I escaped. Weak from the lash, I collapsed in an alley, where Charles found me and took me to his townhouse. He cared for me until I recovered.” She paused. I wanted to urge her to continue, but the pain gripping her face kept me silent. “At first he frightened me because he was so reserved and the simple fact that he was a slave master. I soon realized he was a troubled man, imprisoned by the mysteries and secrets of his past. There was an ache in his eyes that pulled at me.”
I gulped at her mention of secrets from his past. Did she know about my parentag
e? “Father had an intimidating presence.” I tried to find some connection to the bridge that unified us. “Please, continue. I must know more.”
Tears glittered in her eyes, and she removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed their corners before continuing. “Charles and I both were scarred by our past, and it was what drew us together. In our friendship we found comfort, and I grew to love him. I suppose a piece of me always will.” She offered an apologetic look to her husband. “Although Charles treated me with affection and kindness, he could never love me the same way he loved your mother, and I realized that part of him would never be mine. After her death he returned to London, and sometime later, our friendship turned to intimacy, and I became pregnant.”
Her words faded at the mention of pregnancy. Was she the mother of Callie? If so, where was she?
“At first I never told him of the daughter we shared because I was scared. He was a slave owner, and I worried about his reaction to the news that he’d fathered a child of mixed blood. If anyone found out, it would ruin him.”
“But he did find out. He mentioned a daughter in his will,” I said.
“We do not know of the will, but yes, he knew of Callie. When Charles found us and I told him the truth, he made me a promise that he’d not turn his back on us.” She glanced at her daughter and squeezed her hand.
“He kept that promise to Mum and me.” Miss Barlow’s voice shook with emotion.
“You aren’t…” I gawked.
“I am Callie,” she said.
A chill rushed over me, and I turned to Magnus. “But you introduced your sister as Emily.”
He stirred in his seat. “I’m sorry about my dishonesty.” The awkward glance they’d exchanged on the road suddenly made sense.
“But why?” I asked.
“When you stated you were Mrs. Armstrong, I knew you were her,” he said. “I thought it best if the truth came from Mum.”
I swallowed hard and glanced back at Father’s lover and his daughter, Callie. “Is it really you?” Prickles scurried over my flesh.
