William Thatcher, the fat mill owner, thundered into the room with a small, brightly wrapped package. “She here?”
Isaac gestured to Emily, who was trying to sink into the couch once again.
“Hmmm. Ain’t growed much yet. Here.” He tossed the gift in Emily’s lap.
Inside, she found a beautiful china horse that looked exactly like Coal Dust. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
He nodded. “I’ll tell her you loved it.”
“Wait” she said, jumping up. “I have something for her.” She ran to her room and pulled out pen and paper. Here was her chance to try out her plan. Hastily, she wrote:
Dear Miss Thatcher,
Thank you for the beautiful horse. I will treasure it, though I must neglect its real-life likeness temporarily. Shannon has left us and we are all swamped with responsibility. My uncle, especially, is suffering her loss. I hope some young lady soon steps forward to fill the vacancy.
Thank you again, and may the holidays find you soon well.
Sincerely,
Miss Emily Preston
It was brief, truthful yet deceptive, warm yet matter-of-fact. And if she had judged the young woman correctly, it would produce exactly the desired effect. She delivered the letter promptly.
Mr. Thatcher tucked it in his vest pocket and boomed, “Milford, what are you doing about—?”
But his question was interrupted by a shout and loud stomping on the porch. The door burst open and Mr. Burrows entered. Behind him, his two companions ushered in an injured black man. They kept their guns pointed in his direction even though his wrists were bound with iron and he shivered uncontrollably with cold.
Mr. Burrows grinned jovially. “We’ll be checking out.”
Isaac nodded and rose from the piano.
Emily’s stomach wrenched at the sight of the captive. The side of his head was sticky with blood that hadn’t yet crusted in his wooly hair. One eye was swollen shut, and his lip was split and bleeding. There was blood on his shirt as well, but Emily couldn’t tell if it had dripped from above or if it marked another injury.
Mr. Thatcher beamed at the newcomers. “Good day, Burrows! You found your man!”
The slave catcher shook his head. “No, that one got away. No sign of him anywhere. But I recognize this fellow from posters out of Georgia. He’ll bring a tidy reward.” He grinned again. “I think I’ll buy my kids something extra special for Christmas this year.”
Mr. Thatcher grunted. “Nasty business, slavery. But necessary, I suppose. Well, then, Merry Christmas to you all!” And he strolled from the room, his question forgotten.
As Isaac tended to the paperwork, Julia drew the freezing captive toward the fire and dabbed at his wounds with a wet handkerchief. She disappeared momentarily and returned with a gray woolen coat which she fastened around his shoulders. Then she wrapped a knitted muffler around his head and neck. Emily recognized it as one of her own. Finally, she pulled two pairs of woolen socks over the man’s raw, bare feet and slid them carefully into Malachi’s boots.
The man had watched her without expression. Now he took her hand and a look passed between them as old as kindness and mingled with dignity and sorrow. He stuttered out something in a language Emily didn’t recognize, though she thought she understood it.
It took only moments for the men to collect their belongings and leave, dragging with them the recaptured runaway and all of the afternoon’s cheer.
Chapter 14
The New Year roared in, and the business that marked the holiday traveling season faded away like memories of summer. The winter school term wouldn’t resume for another week, and Emily was content to finish the chores set before her.
On a dim, gray morning when she could see her own breath if she strayed too far from the roaring fireplace, Emily worked at polishing the wood in the sitting room. As she rubbed vigorously, chilly even beneath a heavy shawl, Melody Thatcher swished into the room looking as fresh as a spring bloom and smelling strongly of lavender water. She carried a basket covered with a plaid cloth.
She rested her burden on the half door of Isaac’s office and flashed him a beaming smile. “Mr. Milford, you never did come calling as you promised, so I had to take matters into my own hands.” She dimpled prettily. “I brought you some cookies. I made them myself. Mrs. Beasly tried to help but I wouldn’t let her.”
“Miss Thatcher, this is a surprise!” Isaac exclaimed, setting aside his paperwork and joining her in the sitting room.
Emily smirked, not quite as surprised.
“And very thoughtful of you,” he continued. “Thank you.” He took a small bite of one of the hard, round disks and set it down quickly.
Melody perched daintily on the divan. “This formality is so silly between such good friends. Please, call me Melody.”
“All right, if you will call me Isaac,” he smiled. “Would you care for some tea?”
“I would adore a cup, thank you.”
Isaac caught Emily’s eye and she nodded. When she returned with the tray a few minutes later, Melody was mid-sentence. “—have my sincere sympathies. And when I heard she left you understaffed, I thought the least I could do is offer my services.”
“What services?” he wondered quietly.
The woman missed his slightly mocking tone. “Oh, I can do any number of things. I can greet guests—and serve tea!” she exclaimed, taking the tea tray jubilantly. “I’m sure we’ll do just fine together. I’ve always liked your darling little hotel.”
Isaac accepted a cup and sipped at the hot liquid carefully. “I appreciate your offer, Melody, but during the slow season, I’m afraid your talents would be wasted.”
She touched his hand playfully. “Oh, nonsense,” she said and guided him into a lively conversation. When her cup was empty she rose, and Isaac helped her back into her wraps. “Now, I’ll come by tomorrow and no arguments,” she stated and swept from the room, stopping to give Isaac a little wave at the door.
“What on earth dat be about?” Julia asked, coming from the kitchen.
Isaac stepped into his office. “Miss Thatcher must have heard that Shannon is away. She came to offer her help.”
“Oh, lor’,” Julia muttered, retrieving the tea tray. “If dat chil’ come back, she gonna make mo’ work fo’ all of us.”
Emily bit down her grin. Melody Thatcher was young, beautiful and wealthy, but she was certainly no maid.
Perfect.
~
“Emily, I need to pick up some things at the dockside this morning. Would you like to ride along with me?”
Saturday was still young, but Emily had already cleaned three rooms. Now she was setting the dining room tables.
“Can I come?” Malachi asked.
Julia poked her head in from the kitchen. “Malachi Watson, you still gots to finish haulin’ wash water fo’ me. And then—”
“I’ll fetch your water after I hitch up Barnabas,” Isaac interrupted. “The kids need a little break. Maybe we’ll even stop at Maynard’s for pastries on our way home.”
“Don’t you go ruinin’ yo’ appetites now,” Julia admonished, returning to her kitchen. “Lunch gonna be ready when you all gets home.”
Emily glanced at the mantle clock. Ten forty-five. “Perhaps we should wait for Miss Thatcher,” she suggested hopefully as they struggled into their wraps. Melody had arrived promptly at eleven each day that week, bringing with her an elegance and grace that Emily hadn’t enjoyed since leaving home.
Isaac threw a look at the clock. “I really need to go now,” he said with more haste than Emily thought necessary. “I have a package arriving this morning and I’d like to claim it before it gets misplaced.”
Fresh snow softened hard edges and turned the city into a fairy world. Drifts overhung the tops of buildings and piled up like cotton along the road. Barnabas pulled them along the runner tracks, his breath frosting the air behind him.
“Mr. Milford, how long is Miss Thatcher going to keep h
elping us?”
“Probably until Shannon returns, Malachi.”
“How long will that be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Her family is getting better, thank goodness, and the quarantine has lifted. But scarlet fever is a long, slow recovery.”
“I wish she’d come back. Miss Thatcher isn’t good at much besides talking.”
Emily bristled. “What’s wrong with Miss Thatcher? She’s charming, witty, and colorful. She makes all of us laugh. I like having her around.”
Malachi rolled his eyes. “You just described a circus clown.”
Isaac pulled up before the docks and tied Barnabas. “Don’t go far,” he called to them. “I’ll be right back.”
Emily and Malachi wandered to the water’s edge. The river was a dark, cold, murky gray with a jagged fringe of frozen glass along its banks. Every now and again a chunk of ice floated downriver, broken off from the huge slabs piled up along Lake Huron’s shore. But when ships could get through, they did. Even in the snow and cold, the docks bustled with activity.
“Emily, why don’t you like Shannon?” Malachi asked, leaning against a crate.
“Who said I don’t like her?”
“You don’t fool me. I know you’re hoping your uncle marries Miss Thatcher. I bet you even had something to do with her coming around all the time.”
“She’d be an excellent hostess. A hotel must be hospitable, you know.”
“She can’t cook or clean. She’s not suited for your uncle’s way of life.”
“And Shannon is?” she scorned.
“Yes!”
“Malachi Watson,” she ranted, “my uncle is a blue-blooded Southern gentleman!”
“Emily Preston,” he argued, “your uncle runs a hotel in Detroit!”
Emily whirled, turning her back on him.
Malachi sighed. “Don’t you see? You’re trying to do the very thing to your uncle that you don’t want your parents to do to you. Mr. Isaac loves Shannon. You can’t dictate his life to meet your expectations.”
Isaac called to them and tied down a bulky package that clanged when it moved. “New tin ware,” he said in answer to their unspoken question.
Emily regarded the large crate. It contained enough for four hotels.
“And a package of seeds,” Isaac continued, pulling a small envelope from his pocket. “Shannon’s always been partial to bluebells. Shall we go surprise her?”
Malachi looked at Emily pointedly. She sank onto the seat and unhappily crossed her arms.
~
“Spring cleaning? Mama, it’s February!” Malachi protested.
“When de weather get warm, dese rooms gonna fill up with folk expectin’ clean quarters. Ain’t no better time to freshen ‘em than when dey’s standin’ empty. Won’t hurt you none to miss a week of school. ‘Sides, Miss Thatcher comin’ today. Gonna put dat girl to work.
“Miss Emily, I wants every scrap o’ cloth outta de upstairs: curtains, rugs, blankets, spreads. Malachi, when she done, you move furniture so’s we can scrub walls.”
When Melody whirled in the front door, the hotel already smelled strongly of lye soap. At the same moment, Isaac came downstairs toting a mattress to air on the porch.
“Isaac, what’s going on?” she inquired.
Julia thrust a bucket into the woman’s hands. “Spring cleanin’. Take dis upstairs. I want every fingerprint, every smudge, every piece o’ dust outta dis house. Start wid de windows.”
With a bewildered glance at Isaac, Melody carried the bucket up the staircase. Emily followed, desperate now to prove the young woman useful.
“Every window?” Melody asked doubtfully.
“It isn’t as hard as it sounds,” Emily encouraged. “Here, you just wring out the rag and wipe, see? And dry it with another cloth. Come on, try it.”
With Emily’s support, Melody managed to finish the first guest room. But as they moved on to the next one, she clasped her smooth hands together in dismay and went in search of Isaac. She found him cleaning ashes from the fireplace.
“I’m so sorry,” Melody began. Emily could see her apologetic smile from the stairway. “I completely forgot I’m supposed to be at Mrs. Grace’s house on Gratiot Avenue right now. She can’t see anymore, poor dear, and I promised I’d help her write letters to her family this morning. I’m so sorry.”
Isaac nodded graciously. “I understand. It’s wonderful of you to help her.”
Melody looked relieved. She smiled sweetly up at Isaac’s sooty face as he helped her into her wrap. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she promised with a cheery wave.
But she didn’t return the next day, and the day after that Mr. Thatcher came to move Coal Dust into his own stable with the invitation to ride anytime. On the fourth day, as Emily surveyed the freshly mopped dining room with satisfaction, she heard the front door open. She turned to see Shannon’s gentle smile.
~
Life fell back into routine so quickly it was as if Shannon had never left, and Emily had to admit Malachi was right. Shannon was better suited to the life her uncle had chosen. And she was as sweet as apple butter. Still, one stubborn corner of Emily’s pride wouldn’t accept the maid or the wedding plans she was busy fashioning.
One morning at breakfast Zeke sat reading his Bible, and Shannon leaned over his shoulder. “Ezekiel, I’m so proud of you for learning to read. I see you’ve found your namesake.”
“Yes, miss,” he said, reverently touching the page. “I always wanted to read the story I’s named after.”
“Well, what does it say?”
Zeke hesitated, looking around at the faces turning toward him expectantly. “I’s jus’ puzzlin’ over dese verses in chaptah thirty-eight. It say, ‘You will come from yo’ place outta de remote parts o’ de north, you and many peoples with you, all o’ dem ridin’ on horses, a great assembly and a mighty army; and you will come up against My people Israel like a cloud to cover de land.’”
Emily could feel a coldness start in her stomach and crawl down her arms and legs. She knew exactly what the old man was thinking. Once she had heard a slave singing such things on the plantation. It made her break into an icy sweat.
“You mean, you think the North is going to invade the South and free the slaves?” Shannon asked gently.
Emily’s fear made her lash out in anger. “That’s absolutely ridiculous!”
Isaac spoke up. “I hope it never comes to that, Shannon. War is a terrible business. The states must reach a peaceful agreement.”
Zeke was quiet a moment, and when he spoke, his words were completely out of character. “Peaceful fo’ whites, maybe, but black folk be sufferin’ and dyin’ while dey argue.”
Emily was shocked. “How dare you say such a thing, Ezekiel! My family has treated you well!”
Zeke pursed his lips. “Ain’t always so. It a hard thing to be a black man in de South. Maybe worse to be a woman.”
Shannon turned kindly eyes on the old man. “Zeke, why do you stay at Ella Wood?”
Zeke chuckled. It was a dry, raspy sound. “I’s seventy-eight years ol’, miss.”
Emily threw Shannon a look filled with all the scorn and rage she was feeling. “He stays because my mama owns him,” she exploded.
“Actually, Emily,” Isaac interrupted, “your mother doesn’t own Zeke any more than she owns me. I gave Zeke his freedom fifteen years ago. He followed your mama to Ella Wood of his own free will.”
Emily gaped at her uncle in disbelief. Then she rushed from the room, shoving Shannon roughly into a chair as she passed.
She didn’t move quickly enough.
Isaac caught her just outside the swinging door, his face dark with rage. He grabbed her roughly by the arm and dragged her through the kitchen and out across the frigid yard, releasing her only after they had reached the privacy of the stable. He loomed in the doorway, as big as Apollo, and glared at her with all the fury of the ancient gods.
“If you ever treat Shannon that way aga
in, you will not sit down for a week! Do you understand me?”
Emily flashed him a look of pure hatred.
“And I have had enough of this attitude of yours. What makes you better than Shannon? Better than Zeke?”
She threw back her head and focused all her contempt on him. “My father is William Samuel Jackson Preston III, owner of one of the largest plantations in all of Charleston County!”
“And what if that were all wiped away? What if your land was gone and your name meant nothing? What would make you better then?”
Her mouth opened in astonishment. “You’re crazy! That can’t happen in a million years!”
“Can’t it?” he asked in a voice deadly calm.
“You don’t believe Zeke’s reading meaning into that prophecy, do you?” she scoffed. “His notion of Northerners riding in to free the slaves is absolutely ridiculous.”
“Perhaps, but that’s beside the point. I want to know where you get this idea that God created you a little higher than the rest of humanity.”
She tossed her head. “I told you, I am the daughter of—”
“A pedigree?” he scorned. “Because your daddy has a number at the end of his name you have the right to cut down Shannon? Or to demand that Zeke fulfill your every petty wish? Or to show Malachi and Julia your disdain? I come from the same stock as you, sweetheart, and I can tell you Barnabas here has a nobler pedigree than we do. Under your fancy titles, you are just the same as everybody else.”
Emily narrowed her eyes spitefully. “Maybe I could agree to equal status with Shannon, but Isaac Milford, even without my wealth and name, I would still be white!”
He was blocking the doorway, so she whirled around and showed him her back. And there, leaning against a pitchfork at the back of the stable and listening to every word, stood Malachi.
Chapter 15
“Emily, spell ‘dictation,’” Mr. Marbliss called from the front of the room.
Emily’s gaze was fixed on the bare fingers of the maple tree across the street, though she didn’t really see them scratching against the side of the bakery in the breeze. Nor did she see the baker walk outside and stand looking up at it with his hands on his hips. She did see the midnight black eyes of Malachi staring unflinchingly at her from behind the stall’s half door. They were filled with something she couldn’t define. Not hurt, exactly. More like a sad disappointment that rendered her arguments to her uncle as hollow as the squirrel hole in the tree outside. She’d only been able to hold his gaze a moment before fleeing past her uncle and out the barn door.
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