by Naomi Finley
“Of course.” I covered her hand with mine where it lay on the table, and felt it tremble. “What has you so upset?”
“I’m afraid to tell you because I fear you may react like Mama.”
She could tell me but one thing that would strike fear into me. I had attempted to conceal the abundance of emotions that created, but to no avail. Before she spoke what was in her heart, I knew what was coming, and my stomach churned. “Tell me.” I swallowed the lump in my throat, willing the threatening tears away.
“Magnus has asked me to marry him, and I’ve accepted.”
“That’s wonderful news!” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, yet part of me braced, because my heart told me there was more.
Her half smile revealed her uncertainty. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Of course. I’ve come to care about the Barlows dearly, and a union between you and Magnus would practically make you blood.” I smiled.
“You know I hold much love and respect for you, but the time has come that I wish to leave Livingston.”
I attempted to freeze my smile, but it slipped with the announcement. So it was as I had feared. Their love would take her on a new journey. She deserved happiness more than anyone, and as Magnus’s wife she would truly be free. He could provide a better life than the one she had at Livingston. All facts that resonated, but a grave sense of loss hollowed my core. I had learned a lesson in my poor behavior with Whitney’s departure, and I promised myself I wouldn’t hurt Mary Grace when the day came upon us. “I expected you would eventually come with the news of your desires.”
Her jaw dropped. “You knew?”
“One would be blind not to see how much you and Magnus love each other. You’re a free woman and should live your life as such. However,” I lowered my gaze to my hands lying in my lap, “I would be lying if I didn’t tell you the ache of knowing this day was coming hasn’t tormented me. With Whitney still gone, I’d tried to work on my fears of loss and wanting to keep my loved ones tucked away in a trunk for safekeeping. You aren’t treasures to be held hostage for my comfort.” Tears came, and I failed to stop them. “You’re my dearest friend and like a sister to me. I want your happiness more than anything. Not that you need it, but I give you my blessing. It is past time you have your own life.”
I just hoped it wasn’t too far away. My mind clutched at a vision of my own creation—Mary Grace and the children would move to the Barlows’ plantation, where we would visit often. The heart could handle that distance.
Uncertainty shone in her eyes, but she didn’t divulge anything further. “I accept your blessing, and your consent of my wish to leave warms the heart.”
“Good.” I scraped back my chair and retrieved an extra fork and the piece of pie. I returned to my seat and handed her a fork. “For old time’s sake.”
She laughed. “I suppose it won’t be often that we can sneak the first slice.”
“A moment for memory.” I forked in a mouthful and moaned with delight as its creamy decadence danced on my tongue. I silently sang Mammy’s praises.
“I will need to enlist your help.” Mary Grace swallowed a mouthful, and brushed pie crust crumbs from her lips.
“In what?”
“In obtaining Mama’s blessing.”
I paused in chewing and said with a full mouth, “Have you lost your mind?”
She grinned.
“Getting on Mammy’s bad side is a fate I don’t wish to face.”
“Together, we have always fared better at winning Mama over.”
“I don’t know…” Mammy’s feistiness could intimidate most, and her disapproval cut to the heart. I played with the last bite of pie on the plate, my appetite dispelled by the thought of the task.
“Please, you must help me.” She gripped my hand. “I know you can convince her.”
I heaved a sigh. “Very well. I will conjure the courage to face the wrath of the beast.”
She squealed and bounced in her chair before pitching forward to peck my cheek. “I knew I could count on you.”
I arched a brow. “May I suggest you contain the excitement. I’ve yet to approach her, and the outcome could be disheartening.”
Her smile faded, and her jaw set. “Then I will do what I must. Blessing or not, I will marry Magnus.” She pushed back her chair and marched from the room, leaving me gawking at the protest of the swinging door.
“Heaven help us all,” I whispered in the wake of her retreat.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I TRUDGED down to the forge to visit Jimmy and found him hovering over a broken wagon wheel. He looked up and straightened, wiping his hands on a leather apron. “Ah, Missus Willie, whatcha be needing?”
“Must I need something to pay you a visit?” I said with a laugh.
“Reckon not, but by de luks of dose puffy eyes, my guess would be you bin crying.”
“That obvious?” My shoulders slumped.
“Reckon so. What be troubling ya?”
I leaned against the worktable and used my shoe to draw in the soot and grime blanketing the floor as thoughts centered on the changes unfurling around me. “It seems silly,” I said.
“Sometimes troubles of de mind jus’ need sorting.”
Embracing the sadness that had enveloped me since Mary Grace’s revelation, I said, “I suppose I fear change as much as the next person. You and the folks of Livingston moving on causes me great distress, but who am I to stop them from pursuing their lives? I admit I’m guilty of using you all as a false sense of security. Change is happening across our country and here on this very plantation. Regardless of how we push for liberty for all Negroes, selfishly, I can’t help but dread the emptiness that would ensue. I am the biggest hypocrite of all.” Shame heated my cheeks at the inner battle that had roiled within me for years.
“Some of us folkses feel de same. We yearned for freedom so long, but now dat dere be a taste of et in de air, et leave us wid concern of what price we pay for what be ’round de bend.”
“Bowden believes revolution is coming for the South, and I’m inclined to believe so as well. We, like many Southerners, seek to trade with Europe. Our relationships in Europe continue to be crippled by Northern manufacturers and politicians endeavoring to exploit and control the South’s goods with tariffs that prevent European merchandise from being cost-effective. They continue to prevent our wares from ever reaching Europe, and all of this keeps Bowden from my side. Lincoln’s attempt to resupply Major Anderson and his garrison and the rebels shooting at Star of the West does not bode well. And it appears the negotiations between the major and General Beauregard are going nowhere.”
“Dat be so.” His face grew taut. “Wid war comes death and suffering. Reckon et de aftermath we need to fear most.”
A chasm opened in my stomach. “One moment I dream of a new Livingston where free blacks are employed on their own accord, and in the next, I envision the plantation a shell reduced by the devastation of war and folks’ desire to break the chains that have held them here.”
“Your concerns are fair ’nuf. I suppose I feel somewhat de same.”
I craned my neck to look at him. “How so?”
“When your pappy purchased me, I was a dead man walking. Dis place breathed life into me, and gave me purpose. Dis been my home for so long; I reckon et hard to imagine de change you speak of. Et only human to want to hold onto dose you love.”
I envisioned the beloved faces of those who roamed the grounds, making Livingston all it was, and the passion in my heart for each of them. Nightmares haunted me of racing to the quarters to find cabin doors slung open and no one to be found. What would become of Livingston if such a thing were to happen? What about Jimmy, Mammy, Tillie, Pete, and even Jones? Where would life take us all?
“Bowden says together we will face what comes.”
“Dere be wisdom in de masa. He steer you right.”
I chewed at the inside corner of my lip. “I hope he returns soon. His exte
nded bouts away fill me with the same loneliness as when Father would leave on business, but greater, of course.”
“Masa return to waiting arms soon ’nuf,” he said with a knowing smile.
“Missus Willow!” a panicked voice called.
I swung and marched to the doorway as a house servant raced into the work yard, her eyes scanning for me. “Here, Bella.” I stepped outside. “What is it?”
Eyes wide with concern, she said, “A carriage approaches and et coming fast.”
“Send up the call.” I gripped her arm.
She bobbed her head. “Yessum.”
I hoisted the sides of my skirt and sprinted for the front yard. The slave spiritual lifted, warning all of the possibility of impending danger.
Pausing to catch my breath, I squinted at the open carriage spewing dust as it charged up the lane. Whitney? Goosebumps puckered my flesh. I raced to meet her, my thoughts reeling with the urgency of her approach. She hadn’t mentioned her return in her last correspondence.
Upon seeing me, she reined in the team. I glanced from her to the frail man next to her. The fellow sat gripping the side of the carriage to keep from being launched overboard. He scowled at her. “You are insane, woman.”
“Hush.” She returned his glare. “We would never have reached here at your speed.” She clambered down. “Make haste and remove my trunk.”
“Here?” His brow wrinkled.
“Yes, here,” she scoffed. “And make it quick.”
He grumbled and hopped down.
“Whitney, what is it?” I gripped her arm and pulled her aside.
She glanced at me, her eyes never gaining focus. My insides churned with the sense that something was gravely wrong. “Is it Jack?” I placed a hand to my chest. “Don’t tell me. Aunt Em?” My mind whirled with possibilities for what might be frightening her.
She craned her neck to look at the driver, and I suspected she had seized his carriage to make it to Livingston. “Hold on,” she said. Turning, she strode to the man and removed payment from her handbag.
His scowl never subsided as he grabbed it and clambered atop the seat. Without a word, he turned the carriage and headed back down the lane. Most likely seeking to put distance between himself and her.
Her bizarre behavior ate at me. “Whitney, what is it?”
“Come.” She took me by the arm and hurried toward the house.
“What about your trunk?”
“We’ll send someone for it.” She marched on.
I yanked my arm from her but it didn’t stop her, and I found myself racing to keep up with her longer gait. “For God’s sake, tell me what has you charging in here as though death is on your heels.”
“If Reuben McCoy has his way, it will,” she said without missing a beat.
Reuben McCoy. Invisible vines rooted my feet to the ground. “What are you talking about?” I shouted after her.
She paused before whirling and marching back to me. My heart hammered at the look in her eyes. Fear. Unadulterated, irrefutable fear. “Whitney? You’re trembling. What is this about McCoy? Do you have information about his whereabouts?”
“Aunt Em and I were in New York, and a woman by the name of Amelie Laclaire sought us out in a coffeehouse. She claimed that you were in grave danger.” She quickly told me about the woman and what had transpired in New York.
My legs buckled and I dropped to the ground, thrown into the sea of nightmares that had persecuted me for so long. “Bowden,” I said. “We must get word to him.”
“I checked at the warehouses before coming here. But I was informed he is in California.”
“He isn’t to return for another week or so.” I looked up at her. “What will we do?”
“What we’ve always done.” She offered me a hand and I took it, allowing her to haul me up. “Long before you had a husband, it was women who ran this place. We will put plans into action. Come.” She steered me toward the house.
Yes. Think, Willow. Think.
“We have no idea what he has planned or when. Jones and his men are here. Though they are few in number, we will arm anyone else we must. I will send someone for Knox; we could use his help,” I said.
“Good. I’m glad to see the old you still lives in there somewhere, and marriage hasn’t stolen your courage.” Her sarcasm reigned, and instead of extending criticism, I anchored myself to the strength in her demeanor.
I scrambled up the front steps and barged into the house. “Tillie.”
“What is et, Missus Willow?” She descended the stairs with a chamber pot in hand.
“Go fetch Ben and Jones. Tell them to come quick and run like all hell has unleashed.”
She set the pot down and charged off.
“Land sakes, Missus Willow, what be all de trouble?” Mammy darted out of Tillie’s path as she raced by before proceeding purposefully down the corridor. Her forehead creased with concern as she glanced from me to Whitney.
“Reuben McCoy has resurfaced with a plan that could see all we love vanish before our eyes.” As I uttered the words, I cringed.
Whitney gripped a house boy’s arm on the way by. “Head over to my homestead and bring my husband here at once.”
“Yessum!” The boy dodged out the door.
“What you mean by dat?” Mammy stood awaiting an answer, her brow glistening with sweat.
Whispers and murmurs overtook the main floor and the balcony above as house folk listened.
“Everyone gather in the backyard. Quickly,” I said. “Whitney, gather guns and ammunition.”
Without a moment’s pause, she sprinted down the corridor.
“Missus Willie.” Jimmy called behind me. “What gwine on?”
I spun around to find him standing on the front veranda, taking a gander at the scurrying house servants. “Reuben McCoy. He’s coming.” Relieved at his arrival, I flung my arms around him. He stumbled under my weight before catching his balance. “He seeks to harm us with his bloody obsession with the curse.” My chest heaved with unraveling panic.
Warm hands patted my back. “Dere, dere, Missus Willie, we figure dis all out. Gather yourself.” Pulling back, he stared into my eyes, and for the first time, he cupped my cheek with a tender hand—before a cold glint appeared in his eyes and his shoulders rolled back. “I give my own life ’fore I let harm come to you. Black or not, I take up arms to defend dis plantation, and all dat call et home.”
“No white man stop me from shooting him dead where he stands,” Mammy said with conviction as she encircled my waist with an arm. “Wipe dem tears, angel gal. We bes’ do what needs doing.”
You must be strong. If you crumble, what then? I brushed away the tears and cleared my throat before eyeing Jimmy. “Ready a horse, and ride to the Barlows and tell them of our troubles.”
“Yessum.”
“But, Missus Willow, ef’n someone catches a black man on a horse, dey hang him for sho’,” Mammy said.
Mary Grace appeared. “She is right. I’ll go.”
Mammy’s head cranked around so fast, she probably pulled muscles. “You will not. I forbid et.” Fire spit from her eyes. “De white blood in you and de fact you to wed a white man don’t make you any less black dan James. You still black. No amount of whiteness you surround yourself wid gwine to change dat.”
“Yes, I’m black.” Mary Grace glared at her. “How can I forget, as it’s something you remind me of daily, lately. I’m proud of the Negro blood I bear. But that is neither here nor there and is insignificant in the current circumstances.” She eyed me. “James doesn’t venture far from the plantation. You and I have wandered these woods and trails all our lives. I can ride. I’ll be back with help as quickly as possible.”
“We have no time to stand here and argue,” I said. “Go. And be careful.”
She nodded, sent a glance at her mother, and bolted out the door. Mammy lunged forward and grasped the doorframe to steady herself as a guttural wail rose from her.
“Fetc
h Big John,” I said to Jimmy.
“Straightaway.” He departed.
“She will be fine.” I spoke an assurance I had no right to say. What did I know about what lay in wait? “Magnus may be white, but he is a good man, and he will see no harm comes to her.”
“He can’t stop what happens between here and his plantation.” She lifted her head to reveal tear-stained cheeks.
“Trust in God.” I pulled on her faith to instill strength. “Did he not return Big John to you?” When her sobs continued I looked helplessly around at the house, emptied of scuttling servants.
“Willow!” Ben burst through the back door and rushed toward us. “What is wrong?”
Mammy ceased her weeping and whirled to face him. My muscles eased ever so slightly with his arrival, and I strode to meet him. He clasped my shoulders and peered from a distraught Mammy to me.
“It’s Reuben McCoy,” I said.
His eyes widened. “What about him?”
“Follow me. I will inform everyone at once. Come, Mammy.” After she joined me, I looped an arm around her waist and guided her out the back door.
Outside on the back veranda, I waited until the murmurs died down. Joined by Whitney, Ben, and Mammy, and with all eyes on me, I addressed the people.
“It appears the freed man by the name of Burrell Rawlings was placed here as a spy by Reuben McCoy.”
A gasp went up, and folks gawked at neighbors.
I rested my hands on the railing. “He knows of our involvement in the cause and seeks to disarm us, and we remain uncertain what that all entails. But we must prepare for whatever is coming. It is with regret that I must call on you to help me defend you all.”
Mothers clutched their children, and husbands wrapped arms around their wives’ shoulders. Friends swapped frightened glances before a profusion of questions and concerns erupted.
“What are we to do?”
“How do we defend ourselves?”
“Et mean death to lift a hand to a white.” Pete pulled Tillie closer to his side.
“I understand your concerns, and they’re valid. I ask much of you, but you each have a choice—to stand and defend or seek protection. In his derangement, McCoy has proven not to see reason. With the notion that he can harm me by getting to you, I believe he will stop at nothing. Unfortunately, the truth he holds over us leaves us unable to call on neighbors for aid because, if we come out of this victorious, we can’t risk them knowing of Livingston’s operations.”
