A Love Woven True

by Judith Miller

  ‘‘I understand. I apologize for my thoughtless behavior. Of course, I could argue that McKinley added to the strife—and even you asked a few leading questions.’’

  ‘‘You’re correct, and if I could have snatched back my last question to him, I would have done so.’’ They stopped then and stood side by side, very close. Jasmine became very aware of Nolan’s presence—the scent of his cologne, the rich blueness of his eyes. Realizing she was staring, Jasmine cleared her throat and headed for the door. ‘‘We had best go up and check on Spencer.’’

  ‘‘Yes, of course,’’ he agreed, following her into the foyer. ‘‘I must say I was astonished to have the president appear at your front door. How is it you never mentioned being related to him?’’

  ‘‘Mother and Mrs. Taylor are second cousins, so I’m not actually related to President Taylor. I’m barely related to his wife,’’ she said with a giggle. ‘‘But I always enjoyed visits with the Taylors and their daughters. I was especially fond of Sarah. The family called her Knox, but I always thought the name Sarah much prettier. Betty and I were both withdrawn, while Sarah was full of vigor, always a leader. We were quick to follow.’’

  The two of them stood in the entryway to the bedroom. Spencer was fast asleep, and Bessie was sitting nearby in a wooden rocking chair mending the torn pocket on her apron. ‘‘He wen right to sleep, ma’am,’’ she whispered.

  ‘‘Thank you, Bessie. Would you consider remaining with him until I come upstairs for the night?’’

  The older woman gave her a toothy grin. ‘‘ ’Course I’se gonna stay. You go on now. I’m mo’ than happy to sit here.’’

  ‘‘I believe I’ll look in on Mother while I’m up here, Nolan.

  Why don’t you join Father and the others?’’

  ‘‘If you’re sure you don’t want me . . . to come with you?’’

  There was something akin to longing in his expression, but Jasmine quickly looked away. ‘‘No. I’m certain she’s sleeping, but I’ll feel better if I stop in and check on her. I’ll come down momentarily.’’

  Jasmine met her father’s questioning gaze as she entered the parlor some time later. ‘‘She’s asleep. Her breathing seemed rather shallow, but she didn’t appear to be in distress.’’

  Her father sighed, obviously relieved to hear the brief report, while the others settled back in their chairs.

  ‘‘While we were enjoying our glass of port in the library, your father mentioned you have some Arabians, Jasmine. I’m interested in hearing how you came to own them. They are, after all, rather rare here in America, and quite honestly, one of the most beautiful animals in God’s creation.’’

  ‘‘I couldn’t agree more, President Taylor. However, I didn’t realize you would be interested in anything so . . .’’

  ‘‘Costly?’’ he asked with a wide grin.

  ‘‘Well, they are expensive, but Arabians are also quite showy.’’

  ‘‘Exactly! Sitting astride one of those beauties could make anyone appear grand and powerful. President Washington is patent confirmation of my observation. Have you viewed the paintings of him astride his Arabian? He looks absolutely magnificent—like a powerful warrior. Why, if I’d been riding one of those magnificent animals in Mexico, I would have given serious thought to prolonging the war just for the pure pleasure of riding the beast into battle!’’ He slapped his knee and emitted a loud guffaw.

  Jasmine smiled, certain the president was joking—at least about the Mexican War. ‘‘I assumed you were looking for animals that are more unpretentious.’’

  ‘‘I care little whether others find my choice of horses pretentious— and I expect to pay dearly for fine horseflesh.’’

  ‘‘In that case, I’m certain we can accommodate you,’’ she said, ‘‘but if you’ve set your mind upon Arabians, I would truly encourage you to visit us before you make your final decision, as we do have some others you might find entirely suitable.’’

  He scooted forward on his chair and bent forward, resting his arms upon his thighs. ‘‘Tell me, how is it you happen to own Arabians? Quite frankly, I didn’t realize anyone was breeding them here in America.’’

  ‘‘Interest in the Arabian breed continues to increase and, truth be told, there have been occasions when we’ve been unable to meet all requests.’’

  ‘‘How did you happen to develop an interest in Arabians?’’ Jasmine glanced toward Nolan. ‘‘Actually, it was my deceased husband who first acquired the Arabians with a thought toward breeding. A relative in England assisted him in securing the animals.’’

  ‘‘Who has taken charge of the horse business since your husband’s death?’’ the president inquired, looking in Nolan’s direction.

  ‘‘Bradley didn’t actually enter into the care and breeding of the horses,’’ Jasmine explained. ‘‘He was more an admirer and entrepreneur. Frankly, we had excellent help with the farm prior to his death, and those employees have remained with me. Our stable master has trained young Paddy O’Neill. Paddy is an acquisition from Lord Palmerston, a distant relative of Bradley.’’

  The president’s eyebrows arched like two woolly caterpillars. ‘‘How so?’’

  ‘‘Paddy and his sister, Kiara, were both sent to our home as the result of a game the elite gentry visiting Lord Palmerston had devised. Paddy and Kiara’s parents died in the potato famine, leaving them penniless and starving. The small parcel of land where the O’Neills farmed was owned by Lord Palmerston. He was in Ireland on holiday when Kiara went to his manse seeking aid. As part of that game or wager, Kiara and Paddy were sent to my deceased husband as indentured servants.’’

  ‘‘Surely you jest!’’ Taylor exclaimed.

  ‘‘Unfortunately, the story is true, and I fear that the two of them might have starved to death if they’d been left to their own devices in Ireland. However, I heartily disagreed with keeping indentured servants and made my distaste known to my husband. When Bradley died, I granted both Paddy and Kiara their freedom. Since Bradley’s death, Kiara has married Rogan Sheehan, and they live in a small house on my acreage. Paddy remains with me, working in the stables. His ability with the horses never ceases to amaze me.’’

  ‘‘I’m pleased to hear matters have ended well for both of them. But I am surprised your husband didn’t see fit to grant them their papers when they arrived. Releasing them from their indenture would have been the more Christian thing to do.’’

  ‘‘There are those who would say that freeing the slaves is the more Christian thing to do, also, but we know that’s not what folks in Mississippi and Louisiana believe,’’ McKinley remarked.

  Jasmine frowned at her brother. Once again, he had startled her with his stance, but more importantly, she worried his reply would cause another inflammatory discussion regarding slavery if she couldn’t turn the course of the conversation.

  ‘‘I believe you would find a journey to Lowell time well spent,’’ Nolan said. ‘‘Not only would it give you ample opportunity to view the horses, but you could also tour the textile mills.’’

  ‘‘I know you would find the mills fascinating,’’ Jasmine’s father agreed.

  ‘‘Absolutely!’’ Jasmine graced Nolan with a pleased smile, thankful he’d prevented further turmoil.

  The president stood and began pacing in front of the fireplace as though formulating a plan. ‘‘I do believe I could fit Lowell into my schedule, although it might not be as soon as I would like. And you’re correct, Nolan: a visit to the mills could prove advantageous in many ways. Speaking of activities in Lowell, I would surmise the gold rush west has created a changing face upon the workforce. Have you noted any consequences?’’

  ‘‘More than the Boston Associates care to acknowledge,’’ Jasmine replied. ‘‘At several meetings of our Ladies’ Aid Society, the women say their husbands are gravely concerned. The loss of skilled mechanics is disquieting, and there is anxiety over—’’ The sound of footsteps could be heard scurrying through
the upstairs hallway. Jasmine leaned forward and met Bessie’s wide-eyed gaze as the servant hurried toward her.

  ‘‘Miz Jasmine, you best come with me. You, too, Massa Wainwright,’’ she said. ‘‘Ain’t lookin’ none too good for the mistress.’’

  The black woman wrung an old handkerchief between her fingers as she spoke the soulful words.

  Jasmine jumped to her feet and fled toward the stairway, her heart pounding wildly. ‘‘Not yet, Jesus, not yet. Please don’t let her die. I’m not ready.’’ She whispered the words over and over until she reached her mother’s bedside. Leaning down, she embraced her mother’s body before placing a kiss upon her ashen cheek. Backing away from the deathbed, Jasmine glared upward as though looking through a window into heaven. ‘‘Didn’t you hear me? I’m not ready!’’ she accused, but only a deafening silence replied.

  CHAPTER • 4

  ELINOR BRIGHTON peered into the hallway mirror, straightened the ribbon on her hat, and exited the boardinghouse. Giving an extra tug on the doorknob, she listened as the metal latch gave its familiar click. Nodding in satisfaction, she marched down the two front steps and off toward the regularly scheduled meeting of the Ladies’ Aid Society. Her final determination to attend hadn’t been made until after preparing and serving the noonday meal. However, neither the substance of the meeting nor anyone who might be in attendance had influenced Elinor’s decision. Her choice to attend had been based solely upon whether there would be sufficient leftovers for the evening meal.

  Likely the girls would protest eating repeated fare for the evening meal, but Elinor had listened to their tiresome complaints before. They grumbled if the food was too hot or too cold, if they disliked a particular vegetable or meat, if they thought their sleeping space was too small, or if another girl snored—she had heard all manner of whining since she’d become a boardinghouse keeper for girls working in the mills. While listening to each petty grievance, she always maintained her silence, although she yearned to lash out at their triviality. She loathed feeling as though she were their servant, at their beck and call and constantly required to perform on their behalf. But as much as she disliked her position as a boardinghouse keeper, she knew she would remain, for she had no choice.

  The silly-minded mill girls had no idea what it was like to experience the cruel hardships of life, but their day would come. Years ago she’d thought life was good and the world was hers for the taking, back when she’d sailed from England to make her home in Lowell with Taylor and Bella Manning, her brother and his new bride. That had been a lifetime ago, or so it now seemed.

  Perhaps if she had remained in England and had not married at the first opportunity, things would be different now. But her past couldn’t be changed, and her future appeared bleak. While the sun consistently shone upon others, her life continually filled with heartache and failure. A gust of wind whipped at her cape and Elinor shivered, longing for the warmth of her long woolen cloak.

  In the distance she could see several buggies and carriages lined in the circular driveway that fronted the Donohue home. Perched upon a small knoll, the house was surrounded by several large trees. Elinor watched a curling trail of smoke rise from the chimney and blotch the horizon with a fading charcoal stain. The reminder of a warm fireplace beckoned her onward, and she bent her head against the wind until reaching the front door. She thumped the brass knocker and pranced from foot to foot in an attempt to ward off the chill that now permeated her entire body.

  The door swung open, and Daughtie greeted her with a bright smile. ‘‘Elinor! It’s so good to see you. You look lovely, as usual. I feared you weren’t coming when the hour grew late.’’

  Elinor removed her cape. ‘‘I had to prepare and serve the noonday meal for my boarders, clean the kitchen, and then walk to your house. Unlike many of your members, I have daily duties that require my time and attention. And, of course, I don’t have a buggy at my disposal either. I suppose you should expect that I will always be late.’’

  ‘‘My words weren’t meant as a condemnation, Elinor. I’m pleased you chose to join us. Come in. We’re just beginning the meeting. Let me get you a cup of tea to warm yourself,’’ she said, leading Elinor into the parlor.

  ‘‘No. I don’t want to make a spectacle of myself. I’m already late arriving. I’ll wait and have tea with everyone else. Please,’’ she said firmly.

  ‘‘Very well. Ladies, I believe we can now begin our meeting. I’m excited to report that all of the donations have been put to good use. However, with the onset of winter, we will need to collect even more warm clothing and blankets. Most of the runaways have only the clothes on their backs, and they are generally of a lightweight fabric. When these winter escapes take place, the people are ill-prepared for the cold weather that greets them as they proceed north. I’d suggest we work diligently both at our meetings and in our homes to help meet the needs that will soon face us. I hoped we could choose to either set a personal goal for contributions or set a goal for our group as a whole. What do you think?’’

  Mrs. Harper reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of embroidery work. ‘‘I’ve brought along some sewing to work on while we talk. If we all would stitch while we conduct our meetings, we could accomplish more,’’ she proudly suggested.

  Elinor glanced at the handiwork and gave a disgusted groan.

  ‘‘She’s doing fancywork for runaway slaves.’’

  Nettie met Elinor’s reproving stare. ‘‘Better to create something of beauty than contribute nothing at all.’’ She poked her needle into her fabric.

  Elinor’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘‘Why, whatever do you mean, Nettie Harper?’’

  ‘‘I may take longer to complete my projects because I value quality over quantity, but you appear to value neither. I haven’t seen you making any donations to the cause.’’

  ‘‘I don’t have the freedom to sit at home and perform charitable work all day while my maid completes the household duties.

  You seem to forget that I actually work to support myself,’’ she bristled.

  Nettie looked up from her stitching. ‘‘We’re all aware of your station in life, Elinor. You’ve made your situation clear to all of us—again and again.’’

  Daughtie moved to gracefully position herself between the two women. ‘‘As I was saying, I think if we could set reasonable goals, it would be helpful. I’m concerned about our lack of preparation. Most of our runaways continue onward to Canada. In the middle of winter, it’s a cruel journey, especially for those not accustomed to our cold New England weather.’’

  ‘‘It would appear best for all concerned if they waited until spring,’’ Elinor offered.

  A small gasp circulated throughout the room. ‘‘Slaves must take any opportunity available, whether it comes in the heat of summer or dead of winter,’’ Daughtie gently replied. ‘‘If they don’t run when the opportunity arises, they may never again have a chance at freedom.’’

  Elinor tilted her head and gave a slight nod. ‘‘I cannot disagree with your argument, Daughtie. But you must remember that it’s easy to offer an extra measure of charity when you’re prosperous. Try doing the same when you’re struggling to make ends meet. What you ask is too much.’’

  ‘‘Daughtie contributed profoundly when she was still a mill girl,’’ Lilly Cheever put in. ‘‘Perhaps more with her time than her money, but her dedication and hard work were worth more than any money the rest of us donated.’’

  ‘‘Don’t speak on my behalf,’’ Hannah Peabody said while leaning forward to make eye contact with Elinor. ‘‘I’m like you, a boardinghouse keeper. Even though I don’t have much money, I can still be of assistance and help to free slaves by donating my time and energy.’’

  ‘‘I don’t see how you can donate much time or energy if you’re keeping a decent boardinghouse.’’

  Daughtie sighed and patted Elinor’s hand. ‘‘Why don’t we talk later, Elinor?’’ she whispered. ‘‘I’d like to mo
ve forward with the meeting.’’

  Elinor shrugged and glanced heavenward. ‘‘If that’s what you’d prefer. It’s your meeting.’’

  Cupping a hand close to her lips, Nettie leaned toward Daugh-tie. ‘‘I don’t think Elinor is committed to freeing the slaves. Discussing confidential issues in her presence may prove to yield disastrous results,’’ she said in a hushed voice.

  ‘‘I heard your whispered accusation, Mrs. Harper. I resent your implication that I might divulge information that would place runaways in jeopardy. When I joined this group, I signed the same pledge as you.’’ The volume of Elinor’s voice escalated as she continued arguing her defense. ‘‘I’ve never broken my word to any of you, and I resent the unseemly attack you’ve made against my morals.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think she meant her remark as an accusation,’’ Daugh-tie stated in a hushed tone.

  ‘‘No need to whisper. Everyone in this room heard Nettie accuse me of disloyalty. The entire group may as well enter into the discussion. Perhaps you’d like to bring the topic of my ouster before the group, Nettie?’’ Elinor asked, straining her neck to catch Nettie Harper’s eye.

  ‘‘I was merely expressing what I thought might be a valid concern,’’ Nettie said, glancing around the room.

  Elinor clenched her hands into tightly coiled fists and momentarily wished she were a man. She would poke Nettie Harper right in her pompous nose. ‘‘I have a right to express my views without my loyalty being accused. Although I do not contribute as much as some, I will not break my word.’’

  ‘‘I believe we should move along to the real reasons why we’ve gathered,’’ Daughtie interjected. ‘‘Since I’m in charge of the meeting, I’m requesting that you both hold your tongues.’’

  Nettie squared her shoulders and pursed her lips into a tight knot while several other women arched their brows or nodded their heads in obvious approval.