by Naomi Finley
In my peripheral vision, I glimpsed the relief that flashed on the auctioneer’s face. I regarded the slave with skepticism, but the urgency in his gaze gave me pause, and I sighed. “Very well.” I reached into my pocketbook, removed banknotes, and thumped them against the auctioneer’s chest. “Take it and get out.”
“Splendid!” The auctioneer swept a hand of triumph through the air, and without a moment’s delay, strode out of the office.
I glared at his retreating back and cursed before turning my attention to the slave. “You sound like a Northerner.”
“Yes, sir.” The man looked me straight in the eye. “Born free as you.”
My suspicion rekindled. “And how did you end up in chains?”
“Well,” he said, “I was coming home from my job at the factory, and three men nabbed me on the street. Next thing I know, I wake in chains on a ship headed south.”
I believed his story. It was one I’d heard too often. The injustice of the crime inflicted upon him dispelled the anger I’d felt when the auctioneer had pushed me into a corner. “For the time being, you will come home with me, and from there, I’ll figure out what to do with you. As I stated to that slimy bastard,” I nodded toward the door the auctioneer had taken, “I don’t need another mouth to feed.”
“Yes, sir.” He bobbed his head eagerly.
I stepped forward and undid the ropes securing his wrists. If the man ran off, I cared little; it would save me the trouble of figuring out what to do with him. “In the meantime”—I gestured to one of the hired men—“if you could make yourself of use, I’d be obliged.”
“As you wish, sir.” Gratitude shone in his black eyes.
I grunted and returned to my office.
Willow
FOLKS IN THE SOUTH CELEBRATED when John Brown, charged with treason, murder, and insurrection, was put to death by hanging. In the North, people viewed every Southerner as Preston Brooks, and in the South, every Northerner became John Brown. After his death, Brown was exalted as a hero in the North.
In the South, threats of secession rang from taverns, marketplaces, and social gatherings, and became newspaper headlines as worry mounted over the Republicans attaining the White House. Contempt for Abraham Lincoln and his ambition to run for president cloaked the Southern states.
Months had passed since Bowden had returned home with the man he’d purchased at the auction. His explanation of how he’d become his master caused us both unease. Bowden had instructed Jones to keep an eye on the man claiming to be Burrell Rawlings. Mr. Rawlings appeared genuine enough, and proved to be a hard worker. His story pulled sympathy from the quarter folks, and they quickly embraced him.
One afternoon I stood on the back veranda, leaning against a column while watching folks in the work yard performing their daily tasks. I noticed Burrell standing near the corner of an outbuilding, observing Bowden and Jones in a conversation several feet away. Something about the way he craned his neck in an attempt to eavesdrop raised my suspicion, and I descended the stairs and trudged across the yard and around the outbuilding to approach him from behind.
“Is there something about my husband and Jones that interests you?”
He jumped and spun around, fear evident in his dark eyes. “I-I—no, ma’am. I will get back to my tasks.” He whirled to dash off.
“No!” My interactions with the man had been limited, but on that day, I felt compelled to know more about him. “Do stay,” I said in a gentler tone.
He froze with his back to me for several moments before turning to face me. “Is there something I can help you with?” He kept his gaze downcast, and his voice quavered.
“Tell me, Mr. Rawlings, do you have family in the North?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Children?”
He screwed up his face, but continued to answer my questions. “No, ma’am.”
I drew closer. “A wife, perhaps?”
He nodded.
“Surely she is concerned about your disappearance and has reported you missing.”
“I’d guess she has, but I hold no confidence in the authorities caring to locate me.”
Like him, I doubted the authorities would put much effort into locating a man missing from Five Points. They’d most likely put him down as dead from disease, murdered, or he’d set out for a chance at a better life without the burden of a wife. “How long have you been married?”
“Just over a year.”
“Newlyweds,” I said with enthusiasm. “How nice. Do you mind me asking what your wife’s name is?”
“Rose.”
“Ah, what a pretty name. I’m sure she is lovely.”
The trace of a smile formed on his lips. “She is. Her skin is the prettiest you ever saw. The color of the woman I see with you.”
“What woman?” I arched a brow.
“The slave woman?”
“Tillie?”
“No, the other one.”
“Mary Grace?”
“Yes, I believe that is what I heard you call her.”
“Your wife is a mulatto?”
“Yes, ma’am. And she is as lovely as a painting. Don’t know what she saw in me.” His shoulders slumped.
I regarded the handsome man before me. If his wife were the superficial sort, his looks alone would have turned her head.
“I always knew she deserved a man who would do right by her. But the fool woman loves me.”
“And I can see you love her too.”
He lifted his head, and I saw the pain in his eyes. “More than life itself.”
“Such love is a rarity.” The tension in my shoulders dissolved, and I smiled at him. “Mrs. Rawlings is lucky to have a husband that loves her so.”
He dropped his head. “If only that were true.”
“You are too hard on yourself,” I said. Instead of prying further, I bid him a good day and returned to the house.
In the study, I sat at the desk and retrieved stationery from a drawer. Lifting a pen from its holder, I dipped it in the inkwell and began a letter.
My dearest friend,
I hope this letter finds you, Saul, and your sweet girl in good health. I wish with all my heart that I could have accompanied Bowden and your father to New York to share in the joy of her birth.
I’m writing to ask you for a favor. I request that you inquire about a Burrell Rawlings and his wife, Rose. Mr. Rawlings worked at an iron factory in Lower Manhattan and claimed to reside in Five Points. Again, I find myself with few details and request much from you.
As always, I appreciate all the help you can provide.
Sincerely,
Willow Armstrong
I folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, and sealed it with the Armstrong family crest.
“Tillie,” I called.
“Yes, Missus?”
“See to it that someone delivers this letter to Mr. Sterling, so it can go out on tomorrow’s train.”
She had taken the letter and turned to go when I stopped her. “Has Pete said anything about Burrell Rawlings?”
“No, Missus.” She regarded me with inquisitive eyes.
“Ask him to keep his ears and eyes open and report back to me.”
“I do as you ask.” She curtsied.
I followed her from the room. As she walked down the corridor to the back door, I brushed away the troublesome suspicions of Mr. Rawlings and went to see if Bowden had finished up with Mr. Jones.
For now, I intended to keep my investigation into Mr. Rawlings’ origins to myself. If it proved he was indeed who he claimed, then I would set my mind to the matter and ensure he and his wife were reunited.
“MISSUS.” BREATHLESS, TILLIE RUSHED INTO the music room, where I sat for afternoon tea with Callie.
I glanced in her direction. “Yes, what is it?”
She held out an envelope. “Mr. Sterling brought de mail. Dere a letter from Missus Sparrow. Maybe she sends word ’bout de Rawlings fellow?”
“Yes, yes, bring it here.” I waved my fingers eagerly. Regardless of any news Ruby sent, Bowden had set plans in motion to have Rawlings returned to his wife, but I tore the letter open and skimmed the script.
“What does she say?” Callie leaned forward to get a peek.
My shoulders relaxed, and I regarded her over the letter. “She says that Mr. Rawlings is who he claims. She checked into him, and all seems to be in order.”
“She spoke to his wife?”
“No, she said she was unable to contact her, but others confirmed Rawlings’ story.”
“There you go. All is as it seems. Soon he will be returned to his wife,” Callie said with satisfaction. “The poor man has been through enough. You should have seen how they prodded at him while he stood on the auction block. Why, it was ghastly and downright disgraceful.” Her upturned nose curled in disgust.
“And you expected to see something different?”
“Well, no. But I suppose I wasn’t prepared for the indecency of them dropping men’s britches and lowering women’s frocks, exposing their bodies for all to see. Not to mention the prodding and jabbing as though they were beasts being led to slaughter.” Her voice quavered. “And the heartbreak as they tore families apart—why, it is something I’ll never forget. To think Grandmum and Mum suffered so. Such barbarity is unfathomable.” Despite her origins, Callie was as kept and as privileged as I had been. Although the Barlows had suffered their fair share of prejudice in England, and since their arrival in America, she had much to learn about the ways of the South.
“Barbarity the Hendricks family helped bring to this country,” I said despondently. “We can’t change the past. All we can do is continue with our united efforts.”
“Agreed.” She brightened, and the creases in her forehead softened. “I’m glad there’s nothing to worry about with this Rawlings bloke. At least you can remove that concern from your mind.” She bent forward and touched my hand.
I smiled. “I believe you’re right. Trouble is the last thing we need. Our stresses only mount with the menfolk’s controversies—the possibility of war and secession.”
Tillie cleared her throat, and Callie and I looked at her. She stood with hands clasped in front of her and eyes downcast.
I frowned. “What is it, Tillie?”
“I…et jus’ dat Pete say dis Rawlings fellow bin askin’ lots of questions.”
“About what?”
“’Bout de comings and goings of folkses here. And what kind of masas you all be. Always sneaking ’round, Pete say.”
Callie and I shared a look. “He is a free Northerner. Perhaps he’s curious, is all,” I said.
“Don’t know, Missus. Pete says he holds back and watches evvyone. Real creepy lak.”
I considered her words. “I will have Bowden take up the matter with Jones. One can never be too cautious. Thank you, Tillie.”
She curtsied and dismissed herself.
I stared after her, worry painting Mr. Rawlings as a villain sent to spy on us, but realizing the idiocy of my paranoia, I laughed. The sooner Mr. Rawlings left Livingston, the better.
“What is that look that tugs at your face?” Callie asked.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“Hardly nothing,” she said with a snort. “You’ve turned ashen.”
“Have I?” I patted my cheeks. “As you are aware, the risk of outsiders at Livingston comes at a high cost. The circumstances around Bowden being forced to purchase Mr. Rawlings make me nervous. But if Ruby says all is well, I will have to believe it is so.” I feigned a smile for both our sakes, but the knots tightened in my stomach. For a brief second, Reuben McCoy and his schemes came to mind, but I shook the image away. Calm yourself, Willow, I soothed. Everyone is not him and bent on pursuing your end.
The next morning, Bowden put Mr. Rawlings on a steamer headed for New York. We both breathed easier for it.
As we lay in bed a few nights later, I scooped into the curve of his arm.
“Willow?” Bowden said, sounding serious.
“Mmm.” I lay with my eyes closed and in pure bliss, listening to the beating of his heart while soaking in the warmth of his naked chest against my cheek.
He lifted my hand and laced his fingers with mine. “I hope, in time, we will have another child.”
I tensed, opening my eyes. My heart beat faster. Over the last years, we’d avoided speaking about having another child, and I’d managed to put such thoughts from my mind. To conceive a child meant the peril of facing more pain and loss. “I’m not ready,” I said.
“But when?” He slipped my head from his arm and propped himself up on an elbow.
“I don’t know.” Tears welled. I’d expected the subject would eventually arise between us.
“Stone shows no intention of settling down, and I wish for a son to carry on the Armstrong name. With our families so small, I think it would be wise to add to it.”
“But with the uncertainty in our country, do you think it’s wise to want a child?” I used the same excuse I’d applied to myself for endless months. The very one I’d plotted to offer him if he came asking. Time hadn’t mended my heart after the loss of my son. Most days, I merely suppressed thoughts of Little Ben.
“I won’t force you to do anything you aren’t ready for. But please tell me you will consider it. I wish to hear the laughter and pattering feet of our own children roaming these halls.”
I heard the whisper of disappointment in his voice, and guilt and shame at my shortcomings ran rampant in me. He deserved more, but I couldn’t give him what he asked. At least not now. “You aren’t angry with me, are you?” I peered up at him.
He played with a lock of my hair. “No.” A flicker in his expression gave me reason to believe he lied.
“In time, we will try again. I promise.” I reached up to kiss him before sinking back against the pillow.
He searched my eyes for affirmation. “That’s all I ask.” I heard a teasing tone in his voice as he said, “Perhaps Stone is the wisest of the Armstrong men.”
“How so?”
“He guarded his heart.” He chuckled and blocked my hand from its playful attack. Pinning my wrist to the bed, he rolled and straddled me.
The weight of his body on mine filled me with desire. His eyes grew intense as he peered down at me and proceeded to untie the strings of my night shift. “You, my darling, become more beautiful each day.”
I laughed. “Are you trying to flatter me, Mr. Armstrong?”
“Perhaps.” He placed a kiss on my lips before trailing his down my neck.
My body arched and molded against his. He slipped a hand inside my gown, sending goose pimples over my flesh. My desire surged. “Bowden,” I whispered.
“Mmm,” he said, his voice thick.
“I love you.”
He covered my mouth with his and muffled his affections.
In the heat of our passion, my ears tuned to the pounding of horses’ hooves. Bowden tensed and broke away. Tilting his head toward the sound, his expression grew concerned. He scrambled to his feet and moved to the chair under the window, pulling on a shirt.
I kicked back the covers and hurried to redo the laces of my shift. “Who do you think it could be at this time of night?” I asked.
“No idea. But they are in a rush. Stay here.” He marched to the door and exited.
I rose, grabbed a robe, and slipped my arms into it as I raced from our chamber. Bowden bounded down the stairs with me on his heels.
Mammy stumbled out of the parlor, sleepy-eyed and dressed in a nightcap and shift. “Et four riders, from what I can see,” she said, her eyes flitting to the front windows. “And dey got a nest of wasps after dem by de sounds of et.”
“Thank you, Henrietta.” Bowden gripped her shoulder as his bare feet hit the floor of the foyer. He glanced back up at me and shook his head, but didn’t bother scolding me for dismissing an order to stay put.
He lit a lantern before racing
to the door and stepping out onto the front veranda. Mammy and I traded a worried look and followed behind him.
Bowden held the lantern high as the riders reined in their horses at the bottom of the staircase. Someone broke into a coughing spell, and my breathing stopped when I caught sight of Rawlings in chains, forced to run behind a horse. His right eye was swollen shut, and the blood from a gash on his mouth had dried, streaking his chin.
“You Armstrong?”
“I am,” Bowden said.
“Name’s Ardy Baxter—”
“I know who you are.”
Baxter, a free black, lined his pockets by preying on his own kind.
“Well, then.” He hunched over his saddle horn with a leering grin that sent chills scurrying up and down my spine. “The bes’ damn nigger catcher you will ever find.”
“Is that so?” Bowden cocked a brow.
“Got something that belongs to you.” He yanked the rope, and Rawlings stumbled forward. “Said you sent him on an errand, and he got lost.” His eyes moved from Bowden to me, and he tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”
I nodded, unnerved by his chiseling stare.
“I sorry, Masa Bowden. I guess I lost my bearings,” Rawlings said.
I stifled my surprise at his willingness to conceal our aid.
“Does the darkie speak the truth?” Baxter asked.
“He does.” My chest tightened at the bite in his tone. “You in the business of returning slaves half dead to their owners?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jimmy entering the yard.
“I reckon we got a li’l excited in the chase. Ain’t that so, boys?” he said over his shoulder.
“That’s right,” several said.
Baxter’s grin was menacing. “The damn fool wouldn’t stop. We had to ’bout run him to death.”
I gritted my teeth to stifle a vile response.
“Release him at once,” Bowden said.
Jimmy darted forward to help Rawlings.
“Henrietta, see to it that his wounds are tended.”
“Straightaway, Masa,” Mammy said.
