'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  The summer of her engagement to the judge—a man for whom she’d felt not the slightest affection, but of whom her father had greatly approved—she and Thomas had crossed paths, as she was often in town to make wedding arrangements, as well as alterations to the judge’s mansion. She and Thomas had never intended more than the careful, respectful friendship that was tolerated between servants and masters, especially those who had known one another as children, but a chance private encounter had made them realize their deeper affection for one another; more encounters, now arranged, led them into love and the beginning of an affair that had almost immediately left Abigail pregnant. They’d considered the alternatives left to them—Thomas’ mother was a quadroon, so perhaps the baby would inherit enough of the lighter skin to be passed off as a child of the judge, who was a dark-haired man; this had meant allowing the judge to make love to her, however—something Thomas could not tolerate, even though Abigail insisted she’d do anything to keep their child. But if it turned out the baby was not light-skinned, the outcome would have been terrible.

  Desperate, they’d realized they had no choice but to run away together, to go as far north as they could. Thomas was a freeman, after all, and could travel at will, though he rarely left the city, not willing to risk kidnapping by slavers who would then sell him back into bondage in the Deep South, where his claims to freedom would fall upon deaf ears. Travel was risky, and they could not be seen together, so they’d made separate arrangements to go as far as New York City, there to meet up and travel on to Boston. They’d met one last time so that Thomas could give her the purchased ticket and go over the plan again. Anxious and afraid, they’d taken comfort in their passion for one another, and this was how her father and oldest brother had found them, having spied out Abigail’s horse tied up behind an abandoned shack on the edge of the property.

  The fury on her father’s face as he’d absorbed the fact of her deceit and betrayal had terrified Abigail; sure that he had been about to kill them both, she’d begun to scream. Thomas had immediately adopted the role of contrite slave, scrambling away from her and declaring that he’d been overtaken by the devil, unable to control himself, begging forgiveness for his animal urges. Abigail’s older brother had scooped her up and whisked her from the room, even as she’d fought him, and then she’d heard the sound of her father’s pistol, which had caused her to faint.

  She’d been returned to consciousness by her brother’s hands as he shook her roughly and told her to get up, to wrap a shawl around her shoulders and come with him in the buggy. Stirred up, but silent, her brother had driven the horses down the dark lanes, turned off into the trees, and pulled up finally in front of a group of men who’d held torches, who’d greeted her with a great show of respect, who’d then held those torches up to illuminate for her the face of the man they’d been about to hang. Abigail had hardly recognized Thomas from the beating they’d administered, and again she’d cried out. The men had received her cries as a sign of her gentility, and this had only increased their rage toward the young man. In the light, she’d been able to see his eyes, to see his love for her, and had been about to scream the truth when he’d shaken his head imperceptibly. And then she’d understood—there was no truth that could save his life. All that was left was to save the life of his child. The end of the rope had been attached to a wagon; the men had applied their whips to the back of the horse, and it had jolted forword, hauling Thomas off the ground and into the air, where his feet had kicked and spasmed and his body had jerked for what seemed like an eternity, and then he was still but for the slow swaying of the rope, the creak of hemp against tree bark.

  Abigail sat still for some time after telling her brother this story, and he’d sat in silence beside her, holding her hand, both of them mourning the death of a man they’d loved. Their grandmother had known everything, Abigail confessed, had made all the arrangements to send the baby out with a slavewoman who would be free once she arrived in San Francisco. Abigail had visited them several times, had paid the woman well, and was grateful for the care she’d agreed to give the baby until Abigail could figure out what to do from there. She had thought to find herself a husband of darker coloring and then to adopt the baby, perhaps in the guise of taking on the child of a faithful former servant. It had seemed possible. But she hadn’t counted upon a San Francisco that was barely more than shacks and shanties, hadn’t counted upon the lack of social events that made meeting the hundreds of available men nearly impossible, hadn’t counted upon cholera.

  Hopkins was with her by then, and when Abigail fell sick and could not see to the child, whose caretaker had died, she was so very grateful for the help, so deeply indebted to the woman for finding a temporary home for her child, for keeping her secret. As for how easily she was manipulated and how quickly she descended into a kind of madness, Abigail could feel only shame and bitter remorse. She should never have entered into an affair with Thomas, knowing that he would be the one to pay; she should have stayed strong and coherent when they were found out, and stood her ground until he made his escape; she should have demanded that they cut him loose that night, shot her father before she saw her lover hanged; she should have told Rowen everything when they got to San Francisco instead of continuing the lies and deceit. It had been too easy for Hopkins to prey on her terrible guilt, and the price Abigail had paid for her love was high, though not nearly as high as that paid by poor Thomas.

  With Abigail’s permission, Wakefield had shared this story with Grace, whose compassion for the woman grew. She and Abigail began a tentative friendship, and Grace shared with her the conviction that God’s forgiveness was free for the asking, that it did not have to be earned, could not be earned, which made it all the more precious. She told Abigail of the struggles in her own life—the loss of her entire family, including her firstborn son and the husband she loved more than life itself—and she encouraged Abigail to find the strength to ask for forgiveness, and then to have faith in that forgiveness for the sake of the young daughter who would ask so many hard questions as she got older. Grace promised that as Abigail’s faith grew, so too would come the strength to forgive those who had trespassed against her, and then she would know peace at last.

  In the days that followed, a kind of harmony fell over the house. Enid stepped up to the role of head housekeeper with a competence that even Grace had not expected, further demonstrated in the gentle patience she showed the Peruvian girl they’d hired to train as maidservant. Grace was not the only one to notice Enid’s blossoming independence and maturity; Mister Litton was more forthcoming at the dinner table now, and—much to the shock of them all—had even managed one night to tell a joke! Enid’s shyness had all but disappeared, and she and George spent a part of each temperate evening out in the garden or in the stable, where she kept him company as he put the horses and cow to bed, saw to the carriage. Pressed for details of his youth, George had finally told Enid of his troubled past, and had then shared with her the letter he’d received from his mother in response to the one Grace had helped him write before Christmas. His mother had indeed been grateful to hear from him, had expressed her affection and her relief that his life had taken a turn for the better, that he had been redeemed. Grace had learned all of this when her offer to help him write again had been politely declined, George confessing shyly that Enid was now teaching him to read and would help him write his letters.

  Both Enid and George had helped Grace arrange a special dinner party for Mary Kate’s tenth birthday at the end of February, and though Liam had attended, Peter had not. Grace suspected it was partly his pride that wouldn’t allow him to enter the back door of another gentleman’s house and sit at the housekeeper’s kitchen table, but she kept her suspicions to herself, letting him make the excuse of an abundance of business details to be discussed now that Lars and Detra had decided to leave for Europe after Peter and Grace were married.

  Mary Kate had not minded the captain’s absence, had not even seeme
d to miss him much, Grace thought, what with a full party that included Enid and George, Jack and Liam, and Davey and Rose Mulhoney; even Doctor Wakefield had poked his head in long enough to wish her many happy returns of the day and give her a leather-bound journal in which to write her thoughts. Grace had made a three-layer yellow cake with raspberry preserves spread in between and fresh whipped cream on the top, hot buttered scones, lemonade, and tea—a feast for a girl who valued her food even to this day. Davey and Rose brought her a small box of chocolates wrapped up in a ribbon she could use in her hair, Enid and George gave her a laying hen of her own, Jack presented her with a slingshot and a bag of carefully chosen stones, but Liam gave her the most prized gift of all—a wildly colorful Mexican skirt and vest and a pair of embroidered slippers for her feet. She’d whisked them away immediately, only to return minutes later with them on, twirling to show off the skirt and vest, pointing her toes in the shoes. Though Grace had insisted she keep the skirt for special occasions, Mary Kate wore the vest every day and kept the slippers by the side of her bed. It had surprised Grace, who hadn’t realized the child had such an interest in clothes. She was a bit put out, having thought her own gift of three new books would have rated most highly, but really she didn’t mind—Mary Kate was ten; she’d reached the age of ten, and she was healthy. She was happy.

  Peter had made up for his lack of attendance by taking Mary Kate and Jack on a tour of Chinatown, where they ate bowls of noodles standing up, bought fireworks and kites, and poked their heads into the mysterious Chinese apothecary shop with its misty jars of what seemed to be animal eyes and pickled feet, bundled herbs, burning incense, powders, and potions. Peter had reported that for once Jack hadn’t anything to say, simply gazed at the counters with his mouth hanging open. He’d intended to take them both on board the ship, but Jack had stubbornly refused; the boy had developed an aversion to ships and wanted nothing to do with them, a stand his sister quietly supported.

  Grace wished with all her heart that Jack would come around to liking Peter, but she knew the number one man in his life was George Litton, followed closely by Mister Hewitt and Doctor Wakefield. Peter trailed a sorry fourth place, and Grace just wasn’t sure what to do about that.

  Despite the turmoil in the house, Mister Hewitt continued to come three mornings a week, and Grace was impressed with how much learning he’d been able to instill within her stubborn boy; Jack had begun to read on his own and could now count quite ably to twenty. Still, he was always ready to be cut loose after lunch, though Mister Hewitt had made a habit of staying on to visit with Miss Wakefield if she ventured down to the library. Grace noticed that he often had little pleasures to share with Abigail—a lovely yellow lemon to slice for her tea; glistening round red-and-white-striped peppermints from the candy man; the program from the latest play he’d attended, or from a musical event, or a lecture; a woman’s magazine, fresh off the boat—anything to catch and hold her interest, to bring her out of herself and give her a taste of the world that awaited her. Mister Hewitt knew about the child—they all did, though it was not something they carried beyond the walls of the house—and he, with his love for and understanding of children, gently encouraged her to think of what a five-year-old might really be like. He often pointed out Jack to her as the boy romped in the yard with his puppy, though he quietly reminded her that young Jack was truly all boy.

  At the end of two weeks, Doctor Wakefield had ridden out to meet the Calderons, the family with whom Eden lived, and had explained to them that he wished to continue the arrangement, at least for now, while slowly reintroducing Abigail into Eden’s life. Senora Calderon had been especially grateful to hear this, Wakefield had reported, as clearly she was fond of the little girl. There were eight children in the family, the youngest three of whom were being fostered; by all appearances, the Calderons were kind and devoted parents. For Abigail’s sake, Wakefield had been relieved to learn that the Calderons had spoken regularly to Eden of her mother, whom they described as an invalid who hoped to recover enough to one day meet her child. That day was coming, Wakefield had said to young Eden, taken by the girl’s solemn brown eyes and the mouth that was so like Abigail’s.

  Senora Calderon and Eden had come out of the house to say adíos, and Eden had handed the doctor a sampler that Senora Calderon told him was a copy of one that hung above her bed, a framed prayer that had been in the child’s bag the day she arrived. Eden liked to embroider, Wakefield was told, and spent hours a day at it; she had made this as a gift for her mother, though the other woman who sometimes came—Senora Hopkins—had not wanted to take it. That woman would no longer be coming, Wakefield had informed Senora Calderon; he himself would be riding out regularly to see Eden, and they should not hesitate to contact him if they needed anything at all.

  The visit had affected him; Grace could tell by the way he sat in his chair that evening, looking out the window, smoking pipe after pipe, hardly moving. She did not bother him but left him to his thoughts, and instead made up a tea tray for Abigail, which she delivered herself. Abigail also sat by the window, looking out, a sampler in her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said as Grace set the tray down on the little table by Abigail’s chair. “Did you see what Rowen brought back today?” She held out the sampler, her eyes red. “Eden made it for me.”

  Grace sat down across from Abigail and smoothed the linen piece out on her lap. It was the embroidery work of a child, though a child with talent; Grace’s expert eye recognized this at once.

  “’Tis very good,” she praised. “The letters are neatly done, and the lambs are dear. And the stars above. ’Tis a child’s prayer?”

  Abigail nodded. “She’s copied it from the one that hung over my own bed when I was a child. I brought it out with me so that she might have it.”

  “‘Jesus, tender shepherd, hear me. Bless thy little lamb tonight. Through the darkness, be thou near me. Keep me safe ’til morning light.’” Grace looked up. “And I guess He has, then.”

  Abigail’s eyes filled with tears, but she smiled. “I was sitting here thinking about sheep and shepherds, but really it’s about the morning light, isn’t it? The promise that after the darkness, there will be light.”

  “Aye.” Grace picked up the sampler and handed it back to Abigail. “And you’ll be able to see your way more clearly now. Morning light is also the promise of a new day.”

  “I hope we will always be friends now.” Abigail touched Grace’s hand. “Even after you’re married. I watch you with your children,” she added shyly. “You are the kind of mother I hope to be.”

  “No mother is perfect, you know, miss. We’ve as much to learn from them as they from us. They humble a person, children do. ’Tis the wonderful thing about them. How they make you see your place in the world.”

  Abigail nodded, her large gray eyes watching as Grace stood to go. “Could I join you for breakfast in the kitchen tomorrow morning?” she asked. “Would the children mind?”

  “They’ll be shocked speechless,” Grace admitted. “You’ve got them on the run, you know. Madwoman in the attic and all that.”

  To Grace’s surprise, Abigail burst out laughing, her countenance brightening into youthfulness, if only for that quick moment.

  “I guess it must’ve seemed that way,” she said contritely. “But perhaps they’ll think better of me after tomorrow.”

  “See you in the morning light, then.”

  Grace grinned and left the room, closing the door behind her. She went down the stairs and past the library, where the doctor still sat smoking his pipe, then into the kitchen, which was quiet and clean. Out in the yard, the children were trying to teach their puppies to fetch a stick, but the puppies were having none of it. The evening sun shone halos round the soft fluff of the children’s hair; Jack’s specs caught the light and threw it off as he tipped his head back and laughed, the way his father had always done; Mary Kate picked him up from behind and twirled him until they both fell down, glori
ously dizzy. They would be dirty when they came in, their clothes dusty, faces speckled with mud, bits of straw everywhere, and she would scold them as mothers are wont to do, but in her heart she would cherish this moment, for she knew what it was to be grateful.

  Thirty-two

  Whenever Mei Ling had the shop to herself and it was a morning such as this—low gray skies, gentle yet steady rain—a delicious sense of solitude washed over her and she experienced a heightened awareness that was almost sensual. The low light lent an intensity to colors that in sunlight seemed flat, less vivid: the dry, brown hills took on a reddish cast and, in some places, revealed the yellow of newest green; the sea, too, revealed its green in opaque chops crested with cream foam; the terns, the gulls, the crows, tossed about against the hills, the water, the sky, drawing the elements together in a single landscape. And in the city, the colored silk flags of Chinatown seemed more rich, more significant; the brick took on deeper shades of red and orange, stone glowed white and gray; lady’s parasols, feathered hats, calico bonnets, capes of muslin or velvet—lined in fur or not lined at all—the black lace of mantillas, the bridal white, pink cheeks, red lips, the glistening rings on their hands … all of these things, all of this color, spoke to Mei Ling with an emotion that flopped in her belly like a fat fish thrown onto the wharf. She had never allowed herself an internal experience such as this with her previous masters—even Chang-Li; it had seemed too painful to take notice of what the world had to offer, to participate in its beauty like this. But her life with Mister Sung was very different; she did not belong to him. In the beginning, she had not understood what that really meant, could not comprehend a life without the protection and guidance of a master, was afraid of belonging to herself, which she envisioned as coming to the top edge of a waterfall and not knowing how far it fell on the other side—seeing only that the river flowed and then it tumbled abruptly off the edge of the world. Mei Ling had not wanted to fall off the edge of the world, and it was only by attaching herself to Mister Sung that she had begun to see another river altogether, one that continued despite the interruption of falls. Now Mei Ling had landed and this new place was so very beautiful it sometimes moved her to tears, though she kept them to herself.