by Naomi Finley
I inclined my head. “And to you, Captain.”
After he departed, I turned back to Bowden and found him half sitting and half leaning against the desk with arms folded and a look of amusement on his face. I released a breath. Perhaps he wasn’t too upset at the disruption.
“You know how to clear a room, don’t you?” he said.
“That was hardly my intention.” I walked to him and peered up into his jewel-toned eyes, and the look of devotion and admiration I found set my heart to fluttering. “Is it a crime to want to catch a glimpse of my husband?”
“Hardly.” He gripped my shoulders. “I spend my days with crude sailors and menfolk. We all could use the entertainment of a beautiful lady.” He nodded toward the door, and I followed his gaze to find the men in the warehouse had paused to steal a peek at us. He took my hand and led me to a corner of the office, out of sight to the workers and the windows overlooking the pier.
“What are—” He pressed me against the wall and covered my mouth with his. Delight and desire coursed through me as I became lost in the passion of his kiss. My fingers tangled in his hair, and I eagerly invited the attention I craved. When our lips parted, he didn’t step back. Instead, he stood gazing at me with eyes speaking to the depths of how he’d missed me as much as I had him.
Before coming to the office, I’d considered asking him to take a moment away from the busyness of the pier to join me at a coffeehouse. But after discovering him and the captain engrossed in what appeared to be a serious conversation, it left me wondering if something troubling concerned them. “You and the captain seemed to be discussing something of great importance when I arrived.” Avoiding his gaze, I traced the buttons of his white cotton shirt with a finger.
“Always down to business,” he said. “You know I could take offense to this.”
I tilted my head back to look at him. “To what?”
He ran a finger over my lips. “It’s been weeks since I felt the embrace of my wife. And when I finally get a few moments with her, her brain is elsewhere.”
“Not true.” I feigned a pout. “I long for these precious moments as much as you, but I was just curious, is all.”
“Willow Armstrong, curious? I would never have guessed it.” He laughed and released me. “Very well, my darling. Come, sit, and I will tell you what the good captain and I were discussing.” He took my hand and led me to the chair behind the desk.
Once I was seated, he perched on the edge of the desk in front of me and leaned forward with one elbow resting on his thigh. “Last week, before my return, he found a slave woman, battered and bleeding, seeking shelter on the Olivia II. When he questioned her on why she’d come here, she said that her mistress brought her.”
“Who was the mistress?”
“Josephine.” Concern flickered in his eyes.
“Josephine?” My heart beat faster. “But…why would she suggest she come here?”
“It appears she must think you got someone out once, and you will do it again. Maybe telling her of the boy’s whereabouts was a mistake.”
I chewed on the corner of my mouth.
“The more folks that know of our aiding slaves to escape, the more risk there is to our whole operation. You must speak to her and let her know that you will care for her son, but you aren’t going to help her every time she gets in a bind.”
“But to turn someone away who is in need isn’t right.”
“Should we risk all the others we can save for one?”
“Yes!” I stood, indignant. “No one who comes to us should be turned away.” How could he suggest such a thing?
“I couldn’t agree more.” He grabbed my hand as I pushed by him. “The passion in your soul is the reason I love you, but we can’t save them all. Is your parents’ work to be for nothing?”
“Of course, not.” My tension eased as I understood the intent behind his words.
“If I could turn back time, you know I would. But it is impossible. Going forward, I want to make sure I don’t make mistakes that’d cause undue harm.” Weariness lined his face, and he used his thumbs to rub the sides of his temples. “I hear him, you know.”
My stomach dropped at the haunting tone of his voice. “Who?”
“Gray.” He swallowed hard. “In my dreams. I can never see his face, and he never speaks. His guts are mangled, as they were that day, but the most troubling thing is how he just stands there pointing at me.”
Tears gathered in my throat. “Bowden, it is the devil’s torment. Gray wouldn’t want you to blame yourself or relive the past.”
“I know.” He stood and paced the room with his hands resting on his waist. “But it’s not only in my dreams. I see him in the streets.”
“It’s your mind playing tricks on you.”
“I know,” he said again. “At first I thought he was blaming me, but now I feel it’s a warning.”
“Warning?”
“Yes, like something is coming.”
I strode to him and wrapped my arms around his middle, resting my cheek against his chest. “You work too hard.”
His arms enveloped me.
After Gray’s death, Bowden had become bent on changing a country’s mentality. Then, after our union, he’d thrown himself into learning about our involvement in the Underground Railroad and my family’s businesses, leaving me to the operations at the plantation. After the loss of our son, he spent his time in the North, in Canada, and at the docks. I believed it was his way of burying his grief.
I tilted back my head to peer up at him. “Let’s take a stroll. A breath of fresh air would do you good.”
He regarded me with pained eyes, and after a moment his face softened and he nodded.
We strode along the boardwalk, pausing from time to time to greet acquaintances before continuing, finding solace in our togetherness. I stopped to admire a hat in the window of the milliner’s shop.
“Surely you wouldn’t wear the likes of that.” Bowden looked from the hat to me.
“Why not?” I asked.
“It looks like the designer plucked an ostrich and put every last feather on the hat. Not to mention it looks like a wig worn by the English.”
I laughed and turned my attention back to the hat, trying to see it through his eyes. Perhaps he was right. The hat did have a “look at me” appeal and was sure to be a conversation piece. I turned away from the window, and he released an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“I’m glad you agree. I wouldn’t want to be subjected to folks’ looks and the tittering behind hands as I accompany you.”
“Since when do you care what others think?” I said as we strolled along.
“If it saves me from purchasing that hat, I will develop such a concern.”
I loved us most when we could forget the burdens of life and get lost in each other’s company. But the lightheartedness of the afternoon was disrupted by a commotion across the street.
“You can take your business elsewhere. I won’t sell to you today or any other,” a man said.
I stopped when I saw Mr. Nelson, the miller, poking his finger against the chest of Mr. Barlow.
“Remove your hand, sir,” Mr. Barlow said with firm politeness.
“Nigger-lovers are bad enough, but a Christian man who’d marry one of the demons is lower than the darkies themselves.”
Mr. Nelson and my father had been longtime acquaintances. Surely a quick reminder of Southern hospitality would ease the passion of his prejudice. I stepped forward, bent on assisting Mr. Barlow, but Bowden clutched my forearm.
“Calm yourself,” he whispered through gritted teeth, for my ears only.
“But—”
“You will not insert yourself. Let Mr. Barlow handle things.”
“It’s unjust!” I said under my breath.
“And there isn’t a thing you can do about it. You marching over there isn’t going to change his views. He can sell to who he wants.”
At the commotion, people paus
ed on the boardwalk and stepped out of stores to watch. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Isabella and Callie exit the general store.
Mr. Barlow stepped back, putting distance between him and Mr. Nelson. “Your opinion holds no weight with me. As you stated, sir, I will take my business elsewhere.”
“You will be lucky if you find any decent man willing to do business with you.” The disgust hung heavy in Mr. Nelson’s voice.
“We shall see, won’t we? Good day, sir.” Mr. Barlow tipped his hat with more refinement than the finest of gentlemen.
The calmness of his demeanor only seemed to further agitate Mr. Nelson, and he reached out and smacked Mr. Barlow’s hat from his head. Both men turned to look at where it lay in the street.
To my right, I saw Callie step forward. Isabella clutched her arm, pulling her back. Some words passed between them, and the agony on Callie’s face as she shot a look back at Mr. Barlow contrasted with the unshakable composure of her mother.
“It appears there are a few things you and Miss Barlow have in common,” Bowden said in a low voice. I frowned at him. He returned my gaze. “Passion for right and wrong without the sense to control it.”
My body temperature rose as adrenaline pumped through my veins. “Do you wish to anger me?”
“Of course not. I’m merely suggesting that if you act on all the emotions pounding in your chest, you will cause more harm than good.”
I clenched my jaw, annoyed at him, Mr. Nelson, and the whole situation. I didn’t care to hear the truth when all I wanted to do was march over to Mr. Nelson and give him a piece of my mind. I heaved a sigh as the sensible part of me knew Bowden was right, which only infuriated me more. Why did he always have to be right?
My eyes went to Mr. Barlow’s hat as a passing buggy crushed it into the dirt. Wincing, I stood rooted on the boardwalk and suppressed tears of frustration. Every nerve in me rebelled against this wrong.
Mr. Barlow squared his shoulders and walked into the street to retrieve his hat. It was too ruined to wear. He carried it back and joined Miss Smith and his family.
“And you!” Mr. Nelson’s voice boomed. He struck at the sky with a fist. “We should have run you out of town when you first arrived. Northerners thinking they can come down here and take over our businesses. What next? You damn Northerners need to be taught a lesson, thinking you can stick your noses into how we run things in the South.” Tightness gripped my chest as I realized he had turned his contempt on Miss Smith. “I’ll see every Northerner’s flesh melt from their body before I let you question our way of life.”
Miss Smith turned her back on him. The Barlows exchanged a few words with her before stepping off the boardwalk and crossing to their carriage.
Mr. Barlow helped his wife in before turning to assist Callie. His eyes fell on us and Bowden and he exchanged a look before he climbed into the carriage and instructed the driver. Settling back in the seat, he smiled at Isabella and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. His display of pride in his wife before Charlestonians struck me with an abundance of guilt and shame.
Isabella and Mr. Barlow rode past with their heads held high, while Callie sat with her head lowered to hide the tears dampening her cheeks.
My hands flexed into fists at my sides, and an ache for the injustice of their suffering beat in my chest.
“Whites mixing with darkies,” a man behind us scoffed.
“It isn’t Christian,” a woman said.
I bit down hard to stifle a remark as we turned to find Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson gawking after the Barlows. When their carriage disappeared, Mr. Jefferson, an undertaker and a man of seventy years or so, twisted to face us. He looked through us as though we were the dead walking. A river of deep blue veins branched beneath his parchment-thin skin. At the sight of his perpetual scowl I felt my heart thump faster, as it had when I was a little girl. Yes, I decided, he could indeed be responsible for a child’s nightmares.
“I offer you my condolences, Mr. Armstrong,” Mr. Jefferson said.
Bowden’s brow furrowed. “What for?”
“When you sold your plantation, I’m sure you never imagined an Englishman and his nigger wife would be the owners.”
“And so nearby.” Mrs. Jefferson lifted a hand to her throat and offered me a look of sympathy.
“What the Englishman does is of no concern of mine.” Bowden’s fingers pressed into the small of my back.
The lines in Mr. Jefferson’s forehead deepened, if that were possible. “No?”
“Mr. Barlow’s lawyer offered me a fair price.” Bowden gripped my elbow and tipped his hat at Mrs. Jefferson. “Ma’am.” He eyed her husband, his face a blank. “Good day, Leroy.” He guided me around them and down the street at a pace that had me half running to keep up.
When we had turned off the main street and were headed in the direction of the harbor, he slowed. Jaw twitching, he remained silent. I eyed him in admiration. Although the poor treatment the Barlows had suffered bothered him as much as it did me, he’d remained in control, and because of him, our alliance with them would remain intact.
I ACCOMPANIED THE BARLOWS ONTO the back gallery of their home one evening, some weeks after the incident in Charleston. On the horizon, the sun touched the riverbank and blazed a crimson and magenta mural across the sky. Somewhere in the distance, the soothing vibrato of an owl’s call harmonized with the low country creatures of the night and the steady flow of the river. The plummeting evening temperature licked the air from my lungs and snatched our breath, drawing elongated billows before evaporating into the night.
The butler strode the gallery, lighting the lanterns posted on columns, and soon the soft glow from the flames cocooned us.
“It’s too bad prior obligations kept your husband from joining us this evening, as I do enjoy his company,” Mr. Barlow said.
I pulled my shawl tighter. “Yes, he was disappointed he couldn’t attend and told me to offer his deepest apologies.”
Magnus lowered himself into a freshly painted rocker. “I hope you won’t find my question intrusive, but I’m wondering about the whereabouts of Mary Grace’s husband.”
“How did you know about him?” I walked to a nearby rocker and sat down.
“When I visited your plantation some time back, she greeted me on the front veranda. We shared a few words before her mum joined us and was quick to let me know her daughter was married.” I heard disappointment in his voice.
Good ol’ Mammy, I thought, smiling to myself before studying Magnus. He was of average height with a boyish face and earnest, pale blue eyes. In the months since his arrival, he’d proven himself to be a gentleman in all regards.
“Well, do tell us. Where is this mystery man?” Callie said.
I looked to the river, and the image of Gray’s smiling face entered my mind. After a moment, I heaved a sigh and said, “He’s dead.”
Isabella sucked back a breath, and the Barlow men gawked at me.
“Dead?” Callie’s voice sounded hollow. “He wasn’t the victim of a slave catcher, was he?”
“But Miss Rita didn’t act like he was dead,” Magnus said.
“That is because she has spent her whole life protecting Mary Grace. She and the children are all Mam…Miss Rita has left.”
“How many children does she have?” Callie asked, but I got the feeling it was more for her brother than out of her own curiosity.
“Two. Well…one, really.”
“Which is it?” Callie pressed.
“Gray, her late husband, and she share a daughter named Evie. Some years ago, there was a massacre out in the swamps,” I said. “A Northerner by the name of Barry purchased a plantation. Savagery ran deep in his veins, and his foreman was no different. There was no end to the depths of brutality he unleashed on his slaves. One night, his slaves rebelled and burned down the plantation with Mr. Barry and his men inside. A posse gathered soon after to seek revenge for their deaths, and tracked the slaves deep into the swamps.” I shiver
ed at the memory of the wasted lives. What I’d seen was a nightmare that would stay with me forever.
“Against Father’s orders, my friend Whitney and I went out into the marshes to aid anyone we could. The slaves were defenseless, so it was over before it had barely begun. We found a survivor in the bodies, a young boy named Noah, and he was traumatized by what happened out there. We brought him back to Livingston, and he became taken with Mary Grace. She took the boy under her wing and nurtured him. Mary Grace and Gray adopted Noah, and with their love and commitment, he came out of his shell.
“When Gray was gutted by a man out for vengeance against my husband and family…” I glanced at my cold fingers lying in my lap.
“Dear God,” Isabella said.
“Old Mr. McCoy and his eldest son Rufus are responsible for my mother’s murder,” I continued. “Rufus died in a plantation fire. Reuben, the youngest son, murdered my father. He tried to kill Bowden. We succeeded in capturing him, but he escaped. Despite the wanted posters and the rewards for his capture, he hasn’t been spotted again. He is a mastermind unlike anyone you’ve ever seen before.” I informed them of his alias, Silas Anderson, and of his crimes.
“A monster!” Callie gasped when I’d finished.
“Yes. A brilliant one, and someone to be wary of. He is always two steps ahead. I’m relieved; I’ve managed to put behind me the nightmares of him coming back to finish what he started.”
“You’ve suffered so much.” Callie gripped my hand. “Your strength is admirable. I’m glad we are here to offer our support and protection.”
I smiled at her. “I’m grateful for your kindness.”
“We are family.” She returned my smile.
“Callie speaks for all of us in our dedication to you and all you love,” Mr. Barlow said.
My eyes welled with tears. “I can’t tell you how that warms my heart.”
“Let’s hope the future will be kinder.” Mr. Barlow rose. “If you will excuse me, I will retire to my study.” He leaned down and kissed his wife’s cheek. “My dear.”
She smiled up at him with reverence and affection.
After his footsteps had faded inside, Magnus rose, his expression troubled. “I will let you ladies continue your evening without me. I think I’ll take a stroll.”
