by Tamara Gill
“And now we'll have to hurry,” he said in a different tone, as he released her. “If I'm to divert suspicion from Coffee and Isaiah's flight, I need to get into town immediately to provide myself with an alibi. I'll take you home first, or to the Blake house, if you prefer.”
“I told my mother I was spending the day with Priscilla, so I'd better go there, I guess. Besides, I'd like her to be the first to hear our news.”
“She mustn't make it public until I've called on your father,” he cautioned. “I'll try to do that tomorrow, if I can.”
Kathryn nodded, then looked up at him anxiously. “Ryan, are you in any real danger now? I think I deserve to know.”
“I'll let you know as soon as I do. But to discover that, I must first return to town. Up with you, then, and let's be off.”
He tossed her into the saddle, and they continued on to where the track joined another. Ryan assured her it would get them to town more quickly than retracing their route.
“We have no wish to be seen coming from the direction of Fair Fields,” he added. “This way, I can take you to the Blakes's by a roundabout route and ride into Columbia alone, with no one the wiser about us having been together. I don't want my bride-to-be's reputation tarnished.”
She laughed at that and he urged the horses faster.
***
“Oh, Cathy, I am so happy for you,” exclaimed Priscilla in genuine delight at Kathryn's news. “I can scarcely wait to see Leslie Allerby's face when she hears the announcement.”
Kathryn glanced nervously at Priscilla's bedroom door. They finally had a brief respite from her younger siblings, but Kathryn wouldn't put it past fourteen-year-old Denise to listen at the keyhole. “You can't tell anyone yet, Priscilla!” she cautioned her friend. “Ryan still has to talk to my father.”
“As if he would refuse. Oh, Cathy, you look so happy! You do love him, don't you?” Ever romantic, Priscilla's eyes shone.
Kathryn nodded. “I've never . . . I mean, I never thought I could love anyone this way. And he loves me!”
“Did he say so?” Priscilla settled herself more comfortably among the pillows, ready to hear every detail. Kathryn couldn't oblige her, of course, but finally said enough to satisfy her.
“It's just as well,” said Priscilla thoughtfully when she finished. “My Polly told me that you had been seen riding alone with him. She got it from her sister, who spends time with one of your father's stablehands. Now your betrothal will be announced before that little tidbit can become common knowledge. Why were you riding out with him alone, Cathy?”
“Shopping,” she replied blandly.
Priscilla regarded her doubtfully. “Well, I don't think my Polly will spread it any further. She seems to like your Mr. James, though I can't think why, as he is one of the cruelest slave owners in South Carolina.”
Kathryn almost corrected her, but stopped herself in time. She knew now why Ryan had allowed those particular rumors to circulate, and she couldn't risk his safety with the truth. “Never mind that,” she said. “I wanted to ask if you will be bridesmaid at my wedding.” This turned the conversation back into safer channels until she felt she could reasonably go home.
Kathryn hardly remembered later how she passed the evening. She responded automatically to her parents' conversation while her mind flitted about like a hyperactive butterfly. She thought of her real parents and what they would think of her engagement, of Coffee and Isaiah's escape to New York, of what the future might hold for Ryan and herself—and, of course, of the incredible lovemaking they had shared that afternoon.
The only thing she tried not to think about was the possibility of returning to her own time. That was clearly out of the question now. Catherine was doubtless better off in the future, she reasoned, and as long as she stayed away from that damned clock while it was striking she should have nothing to worry about.
Ryan had told her not to expect him that evening, but she couldn't help worrying about him all the same. What if one of the other slaves talked? What if a reward were offered?
As she prepared for bed, she was so preoccupied she barely noticed little Alma's sniffling. The girl refilled the ewer and pitcher on her dresser for her evening wash, her breathing ragged, and as she turned to leave the room another stifled sob escaped, finally catching Kathryn's attention.
“Alma? Are you all right?” she asked, shaken out of her self-absorption. The slave girl stopped to turn huge, overflowing eyes toward her young mistress, nodding hastily.
“No, you're not. Come over here and tell me what's wrong.” She patted the bed invitingly, but the girl hesitated, taking only one tentative step toward her, fear and uncertainty replacing the misery in her eyes.
“Please, Alma, you can trust me. I promise.” Kathryn coaxed her as she might a very young child or a frightened animal.
Alma took two more steps, then three. Suddenly her reserve broke and she flung herself into Kathryn's arms, sobbing as if her heart was breaking. “Oh, miss, oh, miss!” she cried over and over while Kathryn stroked her shoulder, trying to calm her.
“It's all right, Alma. Whatever it is, we can make it all right,” she said, awkwardly trying to soothe the distraught girl. Gradually Alma's sobs quieted and she sat up, wiping her eyes.
“Thank ye, miss. Guess I needed a good cry. I does feel better now.” She rose to go.
“Wait, Alma! You haven't told me why you were crying.”
“Wal, miss, it ain't hardly no use. Ain't nothin' you could do, noways.”
“Now, how do you know that? Try me.”
Alma regarded her doubtfully for a moment, then sat back down. “It's my brother, miss, my Elmo, what belongs to Mr. Allerby. I thought we'd been right blessed to be sold so close together, so's we could see each other once in a whiles, but now I wisht he'd been sold to anybody else! Mr. Allerby, he's goin't' kill Elmo, I just know it!”
“Why, what has Elmo done?” asked Kathryn, doubtful now herself. What could she possibly do about Allerby's treatment of his own slaves?
“He ain't done nothin' 'cept not be big and strong enough to suit his master. He was bought for a houseboy, when we was brung from North Carliny two, three years ago, but the missus took a dislike to him and sent him out to the fields. He ain't no field worker, Miss!”
“How old is he?”
“Same age as me. We's twins, and allus been real close like. I guess I's about fourteen, from what Nancy says, so Elmo'd be the same. And he ain't no bigger'n me, neither.”
“And Mr. Allerby expects him to do the same amount of work as an adult?” Kathryn was aghast.
Alma nodded. “He whips him if he don't finish his task by dark. And now he's adding five lashes every day he don't finish!”
“And, of course, the more he's whipped, the weaker he gets, so he doesn't have a chance,” Kathryn finished, feeling ill. A desperate resolve was growing in her.
“That's right, miss. I seen him today, when Cook sent me over that side of town to buy some bacon. He says he's gone cut and run. Oh, miss, Mr. Allerby, he already had two slaves whipped to death for trying to escape! Elmo's got no place to go but the woods, and the dogs'll catch him sure! “ She started to cry again.
“Alma, listen to me,” said Kathryn with such authority that the girl stopped crying to regard her expectantly. “I'm going to take care of Elmo. You can trust me. I'll tell you how as soon as I can, but you're not to worry anymore. All right?”
Alma nodded, her eyes wide and trusting. Kathryn flinched at the simple faith she saw there, hoping she could justify it. She would. She had to.
“Okay, go on to bed, Alma. Everything's going to be all right.” Alma gave her a wavering smile, the first Kathryn had ever seen on her face, and went from the room, leaving Kathryn to figure out a solution to Elmo's problem as she prepared for bed.
Should she ask Mr. Prescott to buy him? She'd talk to Ryan tomorrow and get his opinion. He'd know what to do. The thought of Ryan recalled that afternoon and she soon
fell asleep, dreaming of their future together.
Kathryn slept late the next morning, and when she came down her mother greeted her with a broad smile. “Cathy, you are a very lucky girl!” she exclaimed the moment she saw her. “Your father will want to speak to you at once, I'm certain.” She hurried away to the room that doubled as a small library and Mr. Prescott's study, leaving Kathryn to follow more slowly. She suddenly realized what must have happened and her heart began to beat faster.
As she'd suspected, Ryan was with her father. At her entrance, Mr. Prescott said cheerfully, “I want a word alone with my daughter now, young man. Suppose you wait for her in the garden. That seems an appropriate place for such matters.” Ryan gave her a half wink as he went out, and the warmth that she felt broadened her smile as she turned to face Mr. Prescott.
“Well, my girl, I can see you know all about this business, as I might have expected, and you look happy enough, I'm glad to observe. I believe he'll make you a good husband, as well as a wealthy one, but it's what you think that matters. You'll have him?”
“Yes, Father, I will. And I do believe he'll make me happy. His wealth doesn't matter at all.” Kathryn was serious now, touched by his evident concern—more than she'd expected.
“Ah, youth. Think they can live on love and air. You'll be glad of the money, too, by and by, when you've children to feed and clothe. But. enough of that! Your young man is waiting to make his formal addresses in the garden. You'd best go to him.” He turned away quickly, and Kathryn wondered if she'd imagined the glimmer of a tear in his eye.
In the garden, Kathryn and Ryan embraced quickly and discreetly, aware of the watchful back windows of the house. “Let's make it official now, Catherine,” said Ryan as he released her. Going down on one knee, he inquired formally, “Miss Prescott, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Thank you, kind sir, I will,” she replied in the same tone. Then she grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Sit down and tell me everything that happened yesterday. We should be left alone for a while, so this is a good time to talk about it.”
“I'd like to be left even more alone,” said Ryan suggestively, with a leer that made her laugh, before he capitulated. “All right. Everything went according to plan, though it's as well I started back when I did. Those two guardsmen were just beginning a tour of the slave quarters when I returned. They started at old Joe's, thank God, and he held them up until I got there.”
“Joe? I don't remember him.”
“You haven't seen him. He's my overseer.”
“I thought you said you didn't have one,” said Kathryn in surprise.
“Technically, it is illegal to leave a plantation of slaves without a white overseer—leads to insurrection. So, technically, I have one. Old Joe. Though his eyes are too bleared by whiskey to oversee much of anything twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four,” he said with a chuckle. “But he has a very high opinion of his position, and had launched into one of his rambling speeches about how if anything was going on at Fair Fields, he'd be the first to know it. I think those guards were downright grateful to me for rescuing them, to tell you the truth.”
Kathryn laughed with him. “So Coffee and Isaiah—and you—are out of danger?”
“For the moment, at least. The Captain of the Guard must not have suspected much, or he'd have come himself. No one on my place would swear to anyone of Isaiah's description, so there's no proof he was ever on my plantation at all, just hearsay. He never went into town, you see. And Allerby heard nothing about Coffee, which means any search will be for one person, not two. They've an excellent chance of making it to New York.”
“I'm so glad. But what about you?” This was the question that really mattered to Kathryn. “Did Allerby's questions stir up any suspicion?”
“Apparently not—they asked only about Isaiah. Suspicion alone can't hurt me, anyway. They need proof, and I'm certain now they have none, or I would already have been arrested—or, should I say, they'd have tried to arrest me.” He gave her a cocky grin.
Kathryn very much wished now that she didn't have to bring up the next subject, but she'd given her word. “Ryan, I have a problem, and you are the only one I can ask about it.”
Immediately, he sobered. “What is it, Catherine? Your parents—”
She shook her head. “It's not exactly my problem, except that I've promised to help. Little Alma, the chambermaid, is very worried about her brother, who belongs to the Allerbys. He's being horribly mistreated and she's afraid he'll either be whipped to death or try to escape and be killed in the process. Do you think I should ask my father to buy him?”
Ryan was silent for a moment, then said slowly, “I hate to tell you this, Catherine, but your father isn't known for his kindness to his slaves any more than Allerby is. The boy's lot might improve, or it might not, but consider this; your father will want a reason, and if word gets back to Allerby that the boy has been telling tales, even to his sister, he'll likely be in worse straits than he is now.”
Kathryn's face fell. “I hadn't thought of that. Then I can't do anything? Poor Alma—I did promise her. And we can't just let Allerby kill him, he's only fourteen years old!” Biting her lip, she implored Ryan with her eyes.
His own softened in return. “No, we can't,” he said with sudden decision. “He's had two or three killed already, one of whom I tried to buy when I saw what was going on, but Allerby wouldn't sell. He's a vindictive little bastard, and takes the worst of his nature out on his slaves—he and his brute of an overseer. Somehow, we'll contrive the boy's escape. What is his name?”
“Elmo. He's Alma's twin brother.”
“Elmo. Hmm. Was he once a house slave?” Kathryn nodded. “I think I remember him. Scrawny lad. Allerby had no business making him a field hand. Can Alma get word to him for us?”
“I think so,” said Kathryn. “I can send her there myself if necessary.”
“Good,” said Ryan, leaning closer, “here's my idea . . .”
***
For the next few days, Ryan played the role of devoted fiancé, staying for dinner, tea and supper. Kathryn loved it. True, they were almost never alone and had to listen to Mrs. S-P's interminable plans for the wedding, announcements and trousseau, but they were together, which was enough—or almost enough.
During the few hours Ryan spent away from the Prescott house, Kathryn pored over the fashion plates her mother had brought. Beautiful clothes had always been a passion of hers and there'd been nothing in her time to compare with what she saw here.
Kathryn and Ryan did manage to snatch a brief hour alone in the gardens the day after their engagement. They sat on the stone bench near the rose bower, Kathryn's head on Ryan's shoulder, his arm about her waist. It was as though neither quite believed the marvel of their love yet, and wanted to slow time while they grew used to it.
After a long, happy silence they began first tentatively, then eagerly, to discuss their future together. They would live at Fair Fields, they decided, coming to town only when necessary. No dull business considerations would be allowed to intrude on the paradise they would create.
“I hired a new overseer this morning,” Ryan told Kathryn in the midst of these rosy plans. “He is just what I'd hoped for.”
“I didn't know you were looking for one. You have old Joe, after all.” She sat up a little straighter in surprise.
“Well, I've been thinking that I might not want to devote all of my time to growing cotton—especially over the next year or so.” His slow smile told her what he intended to spend his energies on, and she snuggled closer to him, approving thoroughly.
“Such as while we're on our honeymoon?” She walked her fingers up his arm.
“Such as. At any rate, Peter Morrison is a fine young man, lately from New England, who shares my views on how to get the most from one's workers. I feel I can trust him to manage Fair Fields as I would myself, whether I'm absent or simply . . . occupied.” He leaned down to g
ently nibble Kathryn's ear.
The only thing marring Kathryn's contentment was a little voice that wouldn't quite be silenced. It kept telling her that she owed Ryan the complete truth about herself.
Later! Later! she told it, pushing it to the back of her mind and willing herself to forget she had ever lived in the future. It almost worked.
Neither of the Prescotts could lavish enough attention on their soon-to-be son-in-law, or show enough deference to his opinions on matters great and small, from the wine best served with supper to the number of fields Mr. Prescott should plant next season. If Kathryn hadn't been so happy, she might have been embarrassed about their attitude. Still, his constant presence made it easy to arrange, through Alma, the plan for Elmo's escape.
***
Kathryn and Ryan waited in the woods near Allerby's plantation, where they'd arranged to meet Elmo one hour after moonrise, their horses occasionally snorting or stamping in the soft pine straw. Kathryn had found it absurdly easy to escape the Prescott mansion undetected. She'd merely waited until everyone was asleep and let herself out of the front door. Ryan had been waiting for her in the stables, her mare already saddled. Surprisingly, he hadn't even tried to talk her out of coming—not that he would have succeeded, of course.
She was just leaning over to ask Ryan how long they should wait when she heard a furtive scrambling in the underbrush. Watching Ryan, she realized he must have noticed it long before she did, for he didn't react at all, but kept stroking his horse's neck to keep it silent. Belatedly, she did the same. The rustling quickly grew louder, and in moments a slight shape stood before them, a darker shadow in the general gloom under the trees.
“Miz Prescott, that you?” came a hoarse whisper.
“Yes, Elmo, it's me,” she replied just as quietly.
“Let's get farther away before we say anything else, shall we?” suggested Ryan, reaching down with one hand and swinging the boy into the saddle in front of him. Kathryn heard Elmo gasp, but thankfully he did not cry out, and they walked their horses slowly, almost noiselessly, deeper into the woods for what seemed an eternity. Finally, Ryan pulled to a stop, setting the boy down and dismounting. Kathryn did likewise.
