A Love Woven True

by Judith Miller

  After a few minutes she tried again to sit up. This time it wasn’t quite as bad. She felt around her, trying to figure out her location. It seemed to be some sort of cellar. The floor was dirt, hard-packed and cold. She had a blanket but nothing else.

  Reaching her hand out timidly, she was startled to feel the warm flesh of a human arm. A very small arm. Spencer! The memories of their kidnapping came flooding back. It was the shoe peddler. She couldn’t even remember his name. But why had he taken them?

  ‘‘Spencer?’’ She whispered the boy’s name in case their assailant should be close enough to hear. The boy stirred but didn’t awaken. Naomi pulled him into her arms and cradled him to keep him warm.

  ‘‘Po’ boy. Your mama’s gonna be worried sumptin’ fierce.’’

  Outside there was a noise as if someone or something was digging at the door. Unable to see in the dark, Naomi could only rely on sound. But it didn’t sound good. The noise continued until the unmistakable sound of a door being opened gave her mixed hope and trepidation. Either someone had found them . . . or their kidnapper was returning.

  Lantern light blinded Naomi as she clutched more tightly to Spencer. ‘‘Who’s dere?’’

  ‘‘So you’re awake.’’ The shoe peddler came down the wooden stairs, and Naomi struggled to fix her gaze on the man. What she saw, however, terrified her. The man carried a shovel and there was a revolver in his waistband, barely visible as the man’s coat pulled away when he set the lantern on one of the steps.

  ‘‘I’ve come to take care of business.’’

  ‘‘What be yo’ business with me and da boy?’’ Naomi asked, her voice quivering.

  ‘‘Well,’’ the man said, leaning on the shovel, ‘‘I thought I knew well enough what that was, but I was mistaken. I’m afraid I’ve come to put an end to your miserable life and to take the boy back to his grieving mother.’’

  Naomi felt her breath quicken. The man was going to kill her.

  But why? Most of the white folks in the North had been kind to her. Why would this one want to end her life? ‘‘Why ya wanna kill a Negro woman like me?’’

  The man laughed, chilling Naomi to the bone. Spencer stirred but still did not awaken as the man replied, ‘‘I took you because you were a Negro woman. There’s good money down south for the likes of you. But I didn’t intend to take the boy. I thought he was your boy. Thought I’d entice his pappy to follow after us if I took his family. But that’s not going to be the case. I took a white woman’s child, and while society would most likely not lift a finger to search for a black baby, they’ll move heaven and earth to locate a wealthy man’s son.’’

  Naomi knew her life depended on coming up with some reason for him to keep her alive. ‘‘I’m beggin’ you, suh,’’ she began. ‘‘Think ’bout what you’re fixin’ ta do. If you keep me alive, I’ll take care of the chile for you. The longer he goes missin’, the more thankful his mama’s gonna be. I promise I won’ give you no trouble. I’m thinkin’ you could tell ’em you found da both of us, and I’ll tell Miz Jasmine she should pay you a handsome sum of money. Ya need ta remember dis here boy is smart. He’s gonna tell his mama you’s da one what took us away. I can tell her he’s mistaken. Ya should spend some more time thinkin’ ’bout what you’s gonna do.’’

  The peddler stared at Naomi, looking confused about what he should do with her. ‘‘Surely the child isn’t old enough to tell his mother much.’’

  ‘‘Suh, he be a smart boy. Smarter’n most his age.’’

  The man growled, then tossed the shovel to the side. ‘‘Nothing in my life is ever simple. Nothing.’’

  Naomi gently stroked Spencer’s head, more for the comfort it offered her than for any it might allow him. She would just remain silent and pray. Pray for God to see her and Spencer and to have mercy on them . . . pray for the peddler to have mercy on them too.

  CHAPTER• 16

  ELINOR PLACED a heaping bowl of green beans seasoned with bacon drippings and minced onions in front of one of the girls and then surveyed the table.

  ‘‘The bread-and-butter pickles,’’ she muttered before hurrying back to the kitchen. Without fail, Lucinda Pritchett would remind her if she didn’t immediately see pickles on the table.

  Placing the crock directly in front of Lucinda with a firm thud, Elinor said, ‘‘You may ask God’s blessing on our supper, Lucinda.’’

  ‘‘It’s Mary’s turn,’’ Lucinda replied while opening the pickles.

  Elinor sighed and looked heavenward. ‘‘Mary, would you please pray for us?’’

  Mary uttered a quick, unintelligible prayer, followed by a loud amen. The clatter of metal utensils against china dishes began in earnest.

  ‘‘Cecilia Broadhurst told me this afternoon they think the little Houston boy that was kidnapped is dead,’’ Sarah Warren remarked while heaping a mountain of creamed potatoes onto her plate.

  ‘‘I don’t know how you have time to talk to Cecilia without causing yourself injury on the machines,’’ Lucinda said tersely. ‘‘At the speed they’ve got the machinery operating, it’s a wonder we aren’t all maimed.’’

  ‘‘You do have a way of adding charm to dinner conversations,’’ Sarah said with a giggle.

  ‘‘I’m not the one who mentioned the dead boy.’’ A loud clank sounded as Lucinda dropped her fork onto the china plate. ‘‘Speeding up the machinery is not a laughing matter. Do you realize how many mill workers have been injured this year alone? I think what they’ve done is sinful. It’s no wonder they’re permitting the Irish to work alongside us. If it weren’t from pure necessity, I’d quit working for those cruel taskmasters tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘Now you’ve done it,’’ Mary whispered to Sarah. ‘‘You’ve gone and got her started on a tirade.’’

  Fire burned in Lucinda’s cheeks. ‘‘I heard you whispering, Mary. When it’s your hair or fingers that’re caught in one of those evil machines, you’ll be singing a different song.’’

  There were several gasps, and Lucinda’s lips curled in a smug grin before loading a forkful of potatoes into her mouth.

  ‘‘I believe that’s enough talk about accidents and injuries,’’ Eli-nor said. ‘‘Perhaps we can find another topic to discuss.’’

  ‘‘Do you think it’s true about that little boy?’’ Mary asked while glancing around the table at her dinner partners.

  ‘‘I think Cecilia’s right,’’ Sarah replied. ‘‘I truly doubt he could live this long without his mama to care for him.’’

  Lucinda pointed her fork in Sarah’s direction. ‘‘Exactly where did Cecilia get her information? Likely her remarks are pure supposition, the same as anyone else’s.’’

  ‘‘Don’t point your fork, Lucinda—I expect proper etiquette from you girls,’’ Elinor corrected.

  Lucinda directed a look of irritation toward Elinor before lowering her fork and spearing several green beans. ‘‘Well, what do you think, Mrs. Brighton? Surely you don’t think a simple girl working in the mills knows what’s happened to the Houston boy, do you?’’

  ‘‘I have no idea. The only thing I truly know is that what happened is a tragedy, and I pray both the boy and woman have survived and will soon reappear.’’

  Lucinda wagged her head back and forth. ‘‘That’s about as likely to happen as the mill owners deciding to slow down the machinery or give us a raise in pay.’’

  Sarah glared at Lucinda. ‘‘Do you never tire of your negative outlook?’’

  ‘‘And why should I? I’ve never had any reason to do so. Unlike you, Sarah, my life has been filled with responsibilities and disappointment— even here in Lowell. Am I assigned to one of the floors with a kind supervisor like you? Of course not. Do the girls in my room afford me quiet time to read or meditate? Of course not. Am I able to spend my pay on fabric and jewelry like most of you? Of course not. When my life more closely resembles yours, perhaps I’ll have reason to become less negative, Sarah.’’

  ‘‘
Someone from the Tremont Mill told me they found that black woman by the mill pond,’’ Janet Wilson remarked.

  ‘‘Another rumor,’’ Lucinda said.

  ‘‘She’s probably correct,’’ Mary commented. ‘‘If they’d found either of them, I believe word would rapidly spread around town.’’

  While the girls continued their spirited discussion, Elinor thought of Oliver and the pain he’d endured knowing his horse had been used in the kidnapping. He’d suffered through the questioning by Matthew Cheever as well as the city marshal while enduring the gossip of the locals until the marshal concluded he’d not been involved. She’d personally witnessed the toll the entire incident had taken upon him, making him anxious and in ill humor, which was exactly the reason she’d taken time to bake a special apple cobbler. He’d be delivering shoes to the house this evening, and perhaps her baked goods would cheer him when everything else failed.

  ‘‘Don’t forget Mr. Maxwell will be distributing shoes this evening,’’ Elinor said as she began clearing plates from the table.

  Janet frowned and pushed away from the table, her chair scraping on the wood floor. ‘‘That means we’ll have to wait to go shopping.’’

  ‘‘Instead of worrying about going to the mercantile and spending more of your wages on frivolities, you should be pleased you had sufficient funds to purchase new shoes,’’ Lucinda retorted.

  Janet scowled at Lucinda before turning her attention to Eli-nor. ‘‘I’ll be upstairs if Mr. Maxwell should arrive early.’’

  Elinor nodded and continued into the kitchen. By the time she’d emerged from the kitchen after washing the dishes and making final preparations for the morning meal, Oliver had arrived and unpacked the last shoe.

  Shadows of concern seemed to surround Oliver as he closed his case. He moved the container to one side and then met Elinor’s gaze. ‘‘I believe I’ve finally finished for the night. I had planned only on making my deliveries but after seeing Janet’s new slippers, two of the other girls wanted to be measured.’’

  ‘‘I hope you’re pleased to have the additional business,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Yes, of course. However, I had hoped to have time to visit with you, and now it’s getting late.’’

  ‘‘It’s only nine o’clock. I can’t lock the door and retire until ten, so we have at least an hour,’’ she said sweetly. ‘‘I’ve made an apple cobbler if you’d like a piece.’’

  He smiled broadly. ‘‘You’re too kind,’’ he said. ‘‘May I help?’’

  ‘‘Why don’t you have a seat in the dining room,’’ she suggested. Moments later they sat opposite each other, Oliver devouring his cobbler while Elinor sipped a cup of tea.

  ‘‘Your cobbler is quite tasty. You do have a knack for baking,’’ he complimented as he picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth.

  ‘‘Thank you, Oliver. I’ve been concerned about you. How have you been faring?’’

  ‘‘As well as can be expected under the circumstances. I feel as though a cloak of suspicion surrounds me, and my thoughts constantly return to that poor boy’s mother and stepfather. This must be a terrible burden for them to bear—the ongoing worry about the child’s welfare, not knowing whether he’s alive or dead.’’

  Elinor nodded her agreement. ‘‘It must be equally hard on the Negro woman’s husband and child. I understand she has a small child about the same age as Spencer Houston. They must be suffering terribly also.’’

  Oliver ignored her remarks regarding Obadiah and Moses. ‘‘I think the search might be more successful if Mrs. Houston offered a reward. There’s nothing that makes people become more involved than the possibility of a reward. You might mention that fact to her or one of her many friends who attend the Ladies’ Aid meetings.’’

  Elinor’s brow puckered into deep creases. ‘‘Several of the girls mentioned at supper tonight that there have been rumors the boy is dead. And another girl mentioned the Negro woman was found by the mill pond. Have you heard anything further regarding their whereabouts?’’

  ‘‘No. Although I’m certain they haven’t been found. Otherwise, there would be more than a few idle rumors. The marshal and his constables would make certain everyone in town knew if they’d been successful locating the Houston boy. I still believe a reward would help. Will you be visiting with Mrs. Houston anytime soon?’’

  ‘‘Under the circumstances, I don’t imagine she’ll be at the next Ladies’ Aid meeting. If you think a reward would be helpful, perhaps you should mention it to the marshal. I would feel quite uncomfortable broaching the topic with Mrs. Houston if I should see her.’’

  ‘‘And I would feel equally uncomfortable approaching the marshal. I’ve given them enough of my time. I wonder what punishment will be levied against the kidnapper. Likely there would be little, if any, retribution if only the Negro had been taken, but having that Houston boy changes things, don’t you agree?’’

  Elinor gave him a puzzled gaze. ‘‘The woman is as important as the boy, Oliver.’’

  ‘‘Maybe in your eyes,’’ he said, but then met her eyes. ‘‘Of course, the woman is important, but the boy, the boy is, I mean his parents are . . .’’

  ‘‘Wealthy? White? Does that make their loss greater than that of the Negro woman’s husband? It’s that attitude that makes me even more committed to helping the runaways. People must begin to realize that the color of a person’s skin does not increase or decrease one’s value.’’

  ‘‘No, of course not,’’ he muttered. ‘‘So you’re continuing to assist with runaways and enjoying your Ladies’ Aid meetings?’’

  ‘‘Indeed. I’ve finally found something in which I find value, and I enjoy the thought that I’m helping others begin a new life,’’ she said, surprised at her own anger. ‘‘I can’t imagine how terrible it must be to live in some of the conditions I’ve heard the slaves tell about. Helping them gives me a sense of hope,’’ she said, giving him a wistful smile.

  ‘‘I do admire your willingness to aid those who are seeking to find a better life. We are, after all, commissioned to tell others of Christ and to do good works in His name.’’

  Elinor leaned forward and rested her forearms on the table, for the first time feeling that Oliver actually understood her conviction. ‘‘I didn’t realize you were so strong in your beliefs.’’

  ‘‘Ah, dear lady, you underestimate me. I was reared by a mother who made certain I knew the Bible. If nothing else, she wanted her children to know how to read and how to write, and to believe what she believed. I memorized my Bible verses or was beaten until I did.’’

  ‘‘While I don’t agree with your mother’s methods, I do wish I’d memorized more verses during my formative years. I’ve just recently found that the recollection of Scriptures can be a genuine blessing in times of difficulty,’’ Elinor said.

  ‘‘That may be true for many, but I find reliance upon my own inner strength a greater asset.’’

  ‘‘Do you? I think that’s one of the many differences between men and women. Men want to rely upon themselves, while women tend to find it more comforting to rely upon others. I’ve wondered if that’s why fewer men are able to completely give themselves over to God’s authority. Girls are taught at an early age they are to be subject to the authority of their fathers and husbands. On the other hand, boys are taught they are to grow into roles of authority.’’

  Oliver stroked his narrow mustache as though the act some- how helped him recall his memories. ‘‘My mother assumed authority without any difficulty whatsoever. I believe she enjoys control—which is likely what drove my father to drinking and an early death.’’

  ‘‘Life tends to take unexpected twists that we’ll never understand in this world. However, I’m beginning to learn I can use those experiences, whether good or bad, to assist me with my current dilemmas.’’

  Oliver squared his shoulders and gave her a confident smile.

  ‘‘And what dilemmas would you be facing? Perhaps
I can be of some assistance.’’

  For a brief moment Elinor faltered, but when Oliver leaned forward and earnestly gazed into her eyes, she returned his smile. Deep within, she believed he could be trusted. ‘‘The Ladies’ Aid group has entrusted me with the task of securing shoes for the runaways. During the summer months, shoes are not nearly so important, but winter will soon be approaching, and although I’ve had success in securing footwear for women and even children, it has been difficult finding shoes for men and older boys. I’ve met with limited success by placing containers at the churches and boardinghouses asking people to leave their old shoes for the needy. However, there have been very few donations of men’s shoes.’’

  ‘‘You’re correct in thinking that sturdy shoes will be a necessity. Even now, though the weather is warm, shoes would aid the runaways as they traverse the rough terrain.’’ He tapped his fingernails on the table. ‘‘I think I can be of assistance to you.’’

  Elinor’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. ‘‘You can? Oh, Oliver, now I wish I’d spoken to you sooner. When I think of the number of runaways who could have benefited from a pair of shoes had I only taken you into my confidence.’’

  He patted her hand. ‘‘What’s done is done. We can’t change the past. However, we have the future. Starting tomorrow, I’ll ask my customers to donate their old shoes for the needy and will deliver them to you each time I’m in Lowell. In addition, I’m certain that I can aid you with some new shoes and boots from time to time. Occasionally someone will order a pair of shoes but fail to have the funds when I deliver, and I can also talk to the cobblers who make my shoes. They may be willing to help.’’

  Elinor savored the taste of victory, the sweet aroma of success tingling her senses. At the next Ladies’ Aid meeting, she would give an excellent report. ‘‘What a kind man you are. I look forward to your assistance. I only wish it could come sooner.’’

  ‘‘Do you have an immediate need?’’

  ‘‘Yes. In fact, there’s a group heading toward Lowell as we speak. I’ve agreed to help, yet I have only four pairs of shoes.’’