I come from Alabama,
With a banjo on my knee.
I’m going to Louisiana,
My true love for to see.
It rained all night the day I left,
The weather it was dry.
The sun so hot, I froze to death,
Susannah, don’t you cry.
Within a few minutes, she had fallen into a working rhythm and almost all the laundry had been hung.
“Hi, Eliza.” A soft voice came from the parlor’s wide window, opened fully to let in the air on this breezy day. It was Sadie, the cook’s daughter. She wore a crisp white apron over her neat blue dress made of shirting, the same kind of dress that Eliza was hanging to dry. It might be a slave’s dress, but it fit Sadie well. Eliza couldn’t help wishing for a dress that gave her room to breathe. Her own dresses stretched too tight across Eliza’s shoulders. She couldn’t swing her arms wide, much less run freely.
“Hi, Sadie,” Eliza called back.
“You’ve got the prettiest voice,” Sadie said. “The old lady was all crotchety until she heard you singing—then she settled right down.”
“What old lady?” Eliza asked.
“Miss Sofia, the master’s aunt, just came to live with us. She’s a little . . .” Sadie tapped her head. “Your singing kept her still while I brushed her hair.”
Eliza ducked her head. She loved to sing, but she wasn’t sure it was right to be proud of something the Lord had given her.
“Come round to the kitchen after. My mama’s made shortbread.”
“I will,” Eliza beamed. Working for Miss Charlotte meant treats from the kitchen. Sadie’s mother was one of the finest bakers in town.
Eliza’s work let her see through the wide window into the grand house. She watched Sadie and the other house slaves polishing Miss Charlotte’s prized wood furniture and sweeping the floors. They were chatting and laughing. Their work looked easy. Eliza glanced down at her hands, raw and chapped from the wet laundry. Ma always talked about being free like it would solve all the family’s problems, but so far as Eliza could tell, freedom meant more work and less food. Look at Celia, she thought. Freedom hadn’t helped her at all—she had to steal to eat. But Sadie, a slave, was plump and had a soft life. Sadie didn’t have to worry about slave catchers kidnapping her off the street. If you were properly owned, you were protected.
Eliza gave herself a sharp shake; Ma would be furious if she ever heard her say such things.
Her mind on other matters, she didn’t notice when her hand slid along the sharp wire. A thin red line appeared. She stared at her palm, wondering why it didn’t hurt. Then the pain arrived. “Ow!” she cried.
Ma was out of the basement like a shot.
“What happened, Eliza?” she asked, breathless.
“It’s nothing, Ma.” The blood seeped through the cut, like a pool of water oozing up through the mud on the riverbank.
Ma clamped Eliza’s other hand over the cut. “Never mind, I know what happened. You were daydreaming or singing instead of paying attention to your work. Go inside and wash your hand at the kitchen pump,” she ordered.
“But I’m almost finished,” Eliza protested.
“Miss Charlotte’s the kindest woman in St. Louis, but if you bleed on her laundry and we have to do it again, she won’t pay us twice.” She gave Eliza a gentle push. “Now go. I’ll finish up.”
Eliza made her way into the kitchen by the side door. The smell of bread dough, yeasty and full of promise, filled her nose. Eliza loved the whitewashed walls and the wide, perfectly clean tiles on the floor. Everything was square—the stove, the table, the cupboards—all except Cook, who was round as one of her famous rolls. Her forehead beaded with sweat under her kerchief, Cook was pummeling the bread dough with her fists. Cook looked up. “What is it, Eliza?”
Wordlessly, Eliza held out her hand, palm up.
“Child, let’s wash that.” Cook ushered Eliza to the sink and began to pump water over the deep cut. “How did it happen?”
“I sliced it on the clothesline.”
Cook shook her head. “You’re not the first to cut yourself on that wire.”
Eliza jumped as the cold water flooded the cut. To take her mind off the sting of the water as it hit the wound, Eliza asked, “Who did the laundry before us?”
“The house did its own laundry. But one day Miss Charlotte said it was your ma’s job.”
“Weren’t there enough people to do the work?”
“More than enough.” Cook shrugged. “But we do what Miss Charlotte says. Besides, ain’t nobody gonna complain about doin’ less work.” She found a clean rag in her pantry and wrapped it tight around Eliza’s hand. “Now, sit and hold your hand above your heart. That will slow the bleedin’.”
Obediently Eliza lowered herself onto the stool and propped her arm up high on a shelf. It was a relief to be off her sore feet. She wished Ma could rest too, but Ma refused to take a break during the workday. “You get nothing in this world by coddling yourself,” she was fond of telling Eliza. Touching the bandage gingerly, Eliza thought a little coddling wouldn’t do her any harm.
The kitchen shared the wall with the parlor, and she heard a murmur of voices. The servants who had been cleaning the room scurried into the kitchen like mice fleeing a cat. For the brief moment the door was open, Eliza heard Miss Charlotte saying, “I’ve made my decision. The answer is no.” Her voice was in that spot between impatient and angry.
Sadie spied Eliza and came over. “It’s Mr. Mark,” she whispered. “He’s asking for money again.”
Eliza made a face at the mention of Mr. Mark. She wouldn’t soon forget how he’d knocked her down and treated her like the dirt under his high-heeled boots.
Cook, who was as curious as she was round, casually went to the door and nudged it open an inch so they could hear.
Mark sounded like a whining child wheedling for a treat. “Ma, I can’t go unless you help me.”
“Then you shouldn’t go, Mark,” Miss Charlotte said patiently. “There is plenty for you to do on the farm. It wouldn’t hurt you to spend some time out of the city doing some real work for a change.”
“I don’t want to work on the farm! I want to go west with Frank Sanford. The farm will never make me rich—but in California there’s gold lying about in streams for the taking.”
California! Eliza had been hearing about life on the frontier her whole life. Ma and Pa had met when their owners were stationed at a fort in the Wisconsin territory. Their stories of those times were mostly sad ones of hunger, cold, and crushed hopes. The only folks who had fared worse than the settlers had been the Indians. And the tales from far-off California were just as tragic.
“If something sounds too good to be true, it usually is,” Miss Charlotte replied sagely.
Eliza almost nodded in agreement; Ma liked to say that too.
“I’ve talked to men who’ve seen the gold. And touched it,” Mark insisted.
“And does it just leap from the river into your hands?” Miss Charlotte asked. “It’s backbreaking labor to mine gold, and you’ve never done a hard day’s work in your life.”
“I’ll show you I can do it,” he persisted. “Just give me five hundred dollars, and I’ll repay you tenfold when I strike it rich!”
“You’re a foolish boy,” Miss Charlotte said dismissively. “Besides, I don’t have that kind of cash lying about to just hand out for the asking. Now let me be while I talk to Cook about dinner.” Sadie hurried out of the kitchen through the other door before Miss Charlotte appeared.
Miss Charlotte was a handsome woman even though she was almost forty. Her spine was so straight, Eliza wondered if she had a steel rod in the back of her dress. She wore her thick dark hair, only slightly streaked with gray, gathered in a bun at the back of her head. Her husband traveled all the time so she was in charge of everything. Her slaves liked her, though she was strict. No one ever crossed Miss Charlotte. Except her son.
B
ut Mark wouldn’t give up so easily. He followed his mother into the kitchen. Eliza pressed herself into the corner, wishing she were shorter and less noticeable.
“Maybe you don’t have money,” Mark went on, relentless. “But you have far more slaves than you need. Just give me one of the breeding females to sell. You won’t have to do a thing.”
Eliza glared. Mark looked like a gentleman with his dark tailored suit and his black hair carefully arranged across his brow, but he talked about slaves as if they were animals.
“Absolutely not,” Miss Charlotte cried, her face flushed. “Our slaves depend on us to take care of them. That’s how my father raised us.”
“That was thirty years ago on a plantation in Virginia,” Mark countered, rejecting the past with a wave of his hand. “It’s not the same here.”
Eliza cocked her head. She’d never heard that Miss Charlotte’s family came from Virginia. Pa was from Virginia too, long ago.
“Our values don’t change because we move,” Miss Charlotte said.
“The family was quick enough to sell slaves when we needed money.”
“But I don’t need the money,” Miss Charlotte reminded him. “You do.”
“But, Mama—this means everything to me! Just give me one.” He pointed at Eliza. “That one would do. She’s old enough to fetch a good price.”
Before she could stop herself, Eliza stood up and spoke for herself. “Miss Charlotte doesn’t own me. No one owns me!”
Cook gasped. Despite Miss Charlotte’s frown, Eliza repeated loud and proud, “No one owns me.”
CHAPTER Five
“ELIZA, BE QUIET,” MISS CHARLOTTE SAID. TURNING TO HER son, she said in a casual voice, “She isn’t one of my slaves.”
Mark raised his eyebrows. “Who is she, then?”
“That’s none of your business,” his mother snapped.
Mark’s eyes darted between his mother and Eliza. “Mama, what are you hiding?”
“All that matters is that Eliza is not mine to sell.” Eliza was glad to hear the steel in Miss Charlotte’s voice. “In any case, my slaves aren’t livestock to be sold on the block. Sometimes we’ve had to sell some of our slaves, but we always found good homes for them.”
They aren’t extra kittens from a litter, Eliza thought. They’re people!
Mark made an exasperated noise. “Like Dr. Emerson?”
“What are you talking about?” Miss Charlotte asked cautiously.
“We sold a slave to Dr. Emerson, didn’t we?”
Eliza stepped backwards, speechless. Her father had been sold to Dr. Emerson.
“So?” Miss Charlotte’s hand went to the limp lace at her throat, and she darted a glance at Eliza.
“That slave is suing Emerson’s widow for his whole family’s freedom,” Mark said.
With a slight shake of her head, Miss Charlotte said, “My father sold Dred Scott years ago. This doesn’t concern you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Mama!” Mark said. “My friend Frank Sanford is the one I want to go to California with. He’s Mrs. Emerson’s favorite nephew. She told him that if she could sell her slaves, she’d stake him for our trip to California. But she can’t sell or profit by them while she waits for the court to decide. So she isn’t able to give Frank the money. It’s not fair.” Mark paced back and forth in the kitchen at an angle, making the square room seem half the size. Eliza pressed herself into the corner, but she made sure not to miss a word.
Miss Charlotte started to answer him, but she was interrupted by a knocking at the front door. A moment later Sadie appeared and said, “Miss Charlotte, it’s Miss Robinton. I showed her into the parlor.”
“I’ll be right there,” Miss Charlotte said. Turning back to Mark, she said, “You’ll have to find the money somewhere else.” She swept out of the room, her long skirt swishing along the wooden floor. To Eliza’s dismay, Mark stayed behind.
He looked at Eliza like a good housekeeper examines a joint of beef at the market. “Why is my mother protecting you?” he asked, moving toward her.
Crossing her arms across her chest, Eliza didn’t say a word.
“What’s your name?” He shoved her into the wall.
“Tell him, Eliza,” Cook said.
“I’m Eliza Scott,” she mumbled.
He took a step back in surprise. “Dred Scott’s daughter?” He rubbed his chin. “You’re one of the Emersons’ slaves.”
“I’m not a slave,” Eliza retorted.
“You are as soon as the judge throws your case out of court,” Mark fired back. “Then Mrs. Emerson can sell you and give the money to Frank. And I’ll be able to go to California.” He rubbed his hands together.
Despite the heat of the oven, Eliza’s skin prickled with goose pimples. A few minutes ago, the cut on Eliza’s hand was the worst problem she had—how had danger come so quickly?
Sounding braver than she felt, Eliza replied, “But until the court decides, no one can touch us!”
Mark’s weak mouth twisted into a sneer. “We’ll see about that,” he threatened.
Eliza clenched her jaw to keep her chin from trembling. Mark Charless didn’t really have any power over her—no matter what he said. She managed to meet his eyes squarely and not blink. Finally, with a grunt, he turned on his heel and stomped out of the room.
Sadie emerged from the shadows behind the swinging door. “Eliza, you’re in trouble now! Mr. Mark is as mean as a rabid dog,” she said.
Eliza sank back down on the stool and tried to catch her breath.
Cook’s face was grim. “Sadie, be respectful. Mr. Mark would send you to the block as soon as look at you.” She turned to Eliza and shook a floury finger at her. “And you, Eliza. Your ma taught you better than to talk back to the likes of him.”
“I only answered his questions,” Eliza protested, rubbing her breastbone where Mark had pushed her. “You won’t tell Ma, will you?”
“Just stay out of his way until he goes to Californy.” Cook lifted her dough in both hands and slammed it against the table. “Your ma’s heart’d break if anythin’ happened to you.”
Eliza nodded. She promised herself that in the future she’d keep her head down and her mouth shut. She slipped out of the kitchen and joined Ma and Lizzie in the basement. When she was with them, she could forget about Mark Charless.
Ma didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. She set Eliza to stirring the latest batch of soap even though Eliza only had the use of her right hand. She kept her bandaged arm pulled up on her chest, but it still ached. The heat rising from the fire Ma had built just outside the basement door made the sweat run down her face and into her eyes. But Eliza didn’t complain. She deserved to suffer. How often had Ma warned her about drawing attention to herself?
Ma added handfuls of dried lavender from the garden to the soap.
“That smells nice,” Eliza said.
“Miss Charlotte likes her laundry scented,” Ma answered.
“Even the servants’ clothes?”
“For that soap, we’ll add lemon balm. There’s plenty of that in the garden.”
Eliza knew the servants’ soap would still smell better than the soap Ma made from fat drippings. When we win our lawsuit, what will our clothes smell like? Eliza wondered.
Before Ma could disappear back into the cellar, Eliza seized the opportunity to ask, “Ma, why didn’t you tell me that Miss Charlotte’s family owned Pa once upon a time?”
“Who told you that?” Ma asked.
“I heard it in the kitchen,” Eliza answered with a half-truth. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“You didn’t need to know,” Ma replied, her voice tinged with warning. “It was long ago, and it doesn’t matter now.”
“But it does matter.” Eliza’s curiosity was stronger than her sense of caution. “Miss Charlotte gives us this work because she knows Pa, right? Cook told me that the house servants used to do the laundry. Why hire us when she has plenty of people to do it fo
r her?”
“Because I’m one of the best laundresses in the city. That soap you’re making is my own special recipe—no one else has it.”
“But . . .”
“Hush, Eliza. Miss Charlotte’s business is her own.” Ma turned her back on Eliza.
Eliza wiped the sweat from her forehead and sighed. If Ma didn’t want to answer questions, she wouldn’t. Luckily Eliza could ask Pa later.
Finally Ma agreed that the soap was done to her satisfaction. Eliza carefully packed it into three brown clay jugs and placed the jugs on a shelf in the basement. Eliza’s last task was to empty out her washing kettle. She dragged the heavy kettle close to the basement door.
“Lizzie, help me,” Eliza said.
Lizzie scurried out from the fort she’d built for herself under a table in the basement. “How?”
“We’ll tip it together. Don’t get wet.” Together, they tipped the pot until the cloudy rinse water poured out into the garden. Lizzie squealed with pleasure and threw a handful of little flower buds into the stream of water.
“Look, Lizzie, you have your own river!” Eliza said.
Ma stood watching them. Eliza caught a smile playing on her mother’s lips. When Ma saw Eliza’s eyes on her, she threw her shawl over her shoulders. “It’s time to go,” she said. Now that the workday was over, Eliza could hear the fatigue in her mother’s voice.
“Harriet!” It was Miss Charlotte standing at the parlor window. “Before you leave, come up and see me.”
“Of course, Miss Charlotte.”
“And bring Eliza,” Miss Charlotte added.
“That’s not necessary,” Ma protested. “She can wait down here with her sister.”
“Nonsense! I insist,” Miss Charlotte said. “Have Cook look after Lizzie. It’s Eliza I want to talk to you about.”
CHAPTER Six
“WE’LL BE RIGHT THERE,” MA CALLED UP. TURNING TO ELIZA, Ma whispered fiercely, “What did you do?”
Eliza felt as though her feet had grown roots. “Nothing, Ma,” she lied. What if Miss Charlotte told her mother about what had happened in the kitchen? Ma would never let Eliza out of her sight again.
Freedom's Price Page 3
