by Grace Walton
Her answer was completely peaceful and perfectly wise. “The way I sees it, Mr. Who-Ever-you are, everybody a slave to something or somebody. I just picked my own master. He’s happy with me. And I’m happy with Him.”
“But you ought to come to Europe,” he insisted, not willing to believe she could be content to make her home in such a racist place. “In France, I'm treated as anyone's equal no matter that I'm black.”
She gave an earthy chuckle and lay her ebony arm up against his where it rested on the table. The difference in their color was startling. She was burnt charcoal. He was pale café-au-lait.
“You ain’t much black is you, sir?” she asked respectfully. “But much as you try, you cain’t be my equal. Only God can do that for you. I ain’t much in the eyes of man, but I means alot to my Master. He wouldn't take nothing for me, cause the price he paid was way too high.” She waited quietly for him to speak, her eyes were full of understanding.
“I'm Mr. St. John's uncle,” he said, his words full of shame. “My father was his English grandfather. If my mother had been his wife instead of his slave, I'd be called milord. I want to believe the way you do.” He stopped to emphasize the words. “But I just can't seem to do it. Miss Aurora prayed for me, and I felt different for a while, but it didn't last.” He was miserable at what he considered his failure.
“Well, if Miss Rory done prayed over you, the Lord is sure on your trail. That’s the prayingest child I' ever seen.” She gripped his hand firmly. “And sir, it ain't about feeling different. It's about being different. And you cain't do that for yourself. You got to wait and let God do it for you.” She hauled her bulky form up and lumbered toward the food laid across the buffet.
“Now you eat some of this here breakfast. I got to go help Miss Rory get dressed to ride with Mr. Bram.” She very efficiently made him a delectable plate of food and came over to serve it to him, saying, “I’m thinking when Mister Dylan takes Miss Rory to that France place, I just might have to go and keep you company.”
“That will never happen.” He shook his head sadly. In his heart, Sander knew Rory was the one woman who could change Dylan's life. If his nephew would just allow her into his life, she could make him a different man.
“Well, no disrespect to you, but I think I'll wait to see what God has in mind. If He done picked out Mister Dylan for my lamb, ain't no way that man's leaving Savannah without her.”
Sander thought about that for a long, long time. It was incredible to come to grips with the truth that God was omnipotent. Everything, everything was under His sovereignty. Even the hearts of two stubborn, willful people like Aurora and Dylan.
After breakfast, he decided to speak to his nephew again. At the door of Dylan's chamber Sander stalled. He knew exactly what he must say to Dylan, it was just the method of saying it that had him confused. The knock was hesitant. There was no answer. So he tried again with more force. Still, there was no answer so Sander cracked the door to look into the room. He saw Dylan sitting indolently in the room's one comfortable chair. He held a book in the hand.
Without so much as a glance in the Sander's direction, he said coldly, “Get out.” His eyes never left the book.
“Dylan shouldn't you be resting?” It was fearful but concerned.
“I am resting. You are disturbing my rest.” The words were replete with barely controlled menace. “Now get out.”
Sander cleared his throat and said what he'd come to say. “She's going out riding with Gottlieb, Dylan.” He didn't want to tell his nephew, but knew he'd never be forgiven if he didn't.
“When?”
“I don't know.” The black man spread his hands out defensively. “I only know Tirzah left to help her dress. They could already be gone.”
“Get out my riding clothes.” He stood and began to strip off his morning clothes.
“No.” Sander crossed his arms and refused. “I won't get them. If you're so intent on killing yourself, you'll have to do it without me.”
“Fine.” Dylan opened the doors to the wardrobe and selected a biscuit colored riding coat and tall black riding boots. Dressing with mechanical speed he started giving Sander orders, “Find Connor. Tell him to obtain an invitation to the Avansley's ball tonight. I'll talk to him there. And tell him to be discreet. I don't want any of his Indian friends showing up in the Avansley’s garden.”
He stamped his feet into the boots and turned saying one more thing, “Sander, Bu Allah will be indisposed tonight. I need you to drive the carriage, just in case something should go wrong.” Then he strode out of the room without so much as a civil good bye.
Sander looked at the jumble of clothing spread over the floor. He bent to pick them up. Passing the chair, he stopped to see what Dylan had been reading. The book lay where it was tossed on the seat. Sander picked it up. He was stunned to see a Bible.
A quick search of the public rooms told him Rory was already gone. Dylan found Tirzah out in the detached kitchen starting to prepare the noon meal. It was a cold bright day, and a frosty gust of air blew in the open doorway where he stood.
“Where did they go Tirzah?” He had no time for preliminaries.
Tirzah did not even try to pretend she didn't know who he was talking about. “Miss Rory and Mister Bram?”
He nodded curtly.
“They went to pick up a baby from one of the sporting houses.” She winced at the fluent oath he bit out.
“Which one?”
“It’s called the Lavender Rose. It’s right down the road from O'Steen's,” she added, inwardly tickled at the fierce man's protectiveness. She didn't like Miss Rory traipsing around those fancy houses either.
“Is she wearing britches?” he ground out.
She nodded enthusiastically. “And a big old floppy hat to hide her face. They in a wagon of Mister Bram's.”
He strode off in the direction of the stable. He emerged at a gallop minutes later on the big rowdy black gelding. He had no difficulty finding the house in question. It was painted to match its name and was decorated with several soiled doves of all hues lounging invitingly in the second-story windows.
They called playfully down as he tied the horse to the hitching post of the establishment.
“Ah got first dibs on this one,” sang a thick southern accent.
“Hey Good-Lookin’, you want some company tonight?” another feminine voice inquired.
“Dahlin' I'll keep you company for free.” It was a different woman. One who was laughing and hopeful.
Dylan inspected them thoroughly from the street, as though he was considering all their offers. Carriages passed. He waited until the curious occupants clearly identified who the tall man staring up at the women in the windows was. Then he climbed the steps and entered the house.
It was much the same as any other house except for the heavily made-up ladies who graced its parlor and the overwhelming odor of cheap perfume. Some of the ladies rushed forward to greet him before the women from the upper story had time to descend. The others held back hoping a show of reticence might intrigue him.
But they all were thinking the same thing. This man was too good to miss. Men who looked like this one usually didn't need to rely on the services of paid professionals. They were rare indeed at the Lavender Rose.
Dylan included them all in his solemn bow and dashed their dreams with a single sentence. “Ladies, I'm looking for Aurora Windsor.”
They all looked like startled deer at the sound of the name. But one woman had enough presence of mind to ask weakly, “Who?”
She was a beautiful quadroon who looked to be in her mid-thirties. He gave her a white magnetic smile and repeated himself, “Aurora Windsor. She's here to pick up someone's unwanted baby I believe.”
“I, I don't know who you're talking about,” the same woman said. “Maybe you should try another place. We don't have anybody here by that name.” The thin wail of a baby drifted from the upstairs.
He grinned meaningfully into her eyes
. “Oh, I imagine you do.”
Dylan started toward the stairs, but was hampered by a hard-looking young girl who blocked his path. “Listen Mister,” she pled. “You don't want to go up there. My room's down here and I'll show you a real good time. Just forget about that baby. Please.” She tugged at the material of his sleeve, trying to distract him.
“No, thank you.” He smiled again, stepped around her desperate hands, and climbed the steps.
All the women hurried to follow until the older one who had spoken to him first warned them back. She trailed him up alone.
It was ridiculously easy to locate Rory. He just followed the baby's cries to a shabby room at the end of the hallway. Opening the door, he heard her cooing to the child.
“What a beautiful boy you are.” She made a picture of perfect maternal charm cuddling the baby.
And for a fleeting second, he wondered how she would look holding his child. A lump formed in his throat. But he quickly dismissed such a ludicrous thought.
“Your mama is so proud of you.” She continued to talk to the bundle in her arms. Then she turned her attention to the tired girl in the bed. “Arlene, he is the most precious baby, I've ever seen. I know you hate to part with him.”
Her voice was laden with sympathy. She cared for the poor creature lying there. The woman was apparently of mixed heritage being a delicate coffee color.
“I'll bring him to town as often as I can so you can spend time with him. The family on the island adopting him are good honest people. They'll raise him to be a fine man.”
“And he won't be nobody's slave?” The girl choked down a sob as she questioned Rory.
“That's right, Arlene. He'll never be anybody's slave.” Rory patted the girl's hand. “I promise he'll grow up a free man. He'll know how to read and write. I’ll teach him myself.”
Neither one noticed the dark, handsome man standing right outside the room in the hallway. But he listened to every word, and he filed it away.
“Miss Rory you knows I don't want to be in this place.” Arlene started sobbing softly. “I tell Master Sims I work hard in the fields if he let me leave this bad place. But he say I make him too much money here to leave. I thought about just drinkin’ the pennyroyal and dyin’ like Sue die. But I knows Jesus hate that worse than He hate this place. I'm prayin’ like you told me to. But Lord, I don't know what to do.”
A quiet, cultured voice interrupted his eavesdropping. “You can see this baby is not unwanted.” The older woman from downstairs joined him. She spoke quietly, her words a damning accusation.
“Yes, I can. But I'm still concerned for Miss Windsor. Do you have any concept of what would happen to her if this was found out?” His voice was a low match for hers.
The young women in the bedchamber were so absorbed in their own conversation that the couple outside the room continued to go unnoticed.
“Yes,” the woman hissed in anger. “We all realize how dangerous this is for her. That's why no one would ever say anything. What she does for us, no one else would dare try to do.”
“For the right price, someone would be more than grateful to talk,” he commented cynically.
Mister,” she said, not intimidated by his obvious wealth or tremendous address. In her life only the strongest could survive. And she was stronger than most. She’d survived against all the odds. “I've got a little girl who lives on Windsor's Island. She's two years old this April. Because of Miss Rory, my child is going to grow up white. Her father is white and the family who adopted her is white. They don't care that there might be a few scattered drops of African blood somewhere way back in her mother’s family. She'll grow up a Christian. She'll be proud of who and what she is. She'll never know her real mother is a slave. A yellow gal hired out to a sporting house. There is not money enough in this whole wide world to make me dishonor that trust.”
“But you, Madam are clearly a woman of character and discernment.” He inclined his head to her politely. She dipped a perfect curtsy in response to his gallantry. “But many have no such sterling qualities.”
“Are you going to make her stop helping our children?” she asked bleakly feeling as if she already knew his answer. This was a man who protected what was his. And she could tell, by the way he watched Aurora Windsor that the lady in question belonged to him. Even if the girl didn’t know it yet.
“No one could stop her.” He smiled. “But I think I can persuade her there are better ways to collect children than in a wagon in broad daylight.
“Dylan!” Rory's voice was scandalized as she finally became aware of his presence. “What are you doing here?” She didn't want to hear the answer. If he was here as a customer, she’d surely sit down in the floor and cry like the babe in her arms.
“You have a very lurid mind Rory,” he mocked.
She blushed under the scrutiny of his gaze.
“Can I ask you the same question, sweetheart?”
“You could ask,” she answered evasively. “But I pray you won't.”
“Then I won't.”
She threw him a grateful glance. She bundled the infant up to leave. Bending over the bed, she held the boy up to his mother for one last kiss before she took him away.
“Thank you Miss Rory,” the girl whispered. “God bless you.”
“God bless you, Arlene. Don't give up. I'm still praying for you. God will have His way yet.”
Dylan took Rory firmly by the elbow and escorted her down the stairs.
“We need an empty room and a bottle of brandy,” he told the older woman on the steps behind them. She hurried off to get the brandy, leaving them at the foot of the stairs.
“Why do we need an empty room and a bottle of brandy?” Rory asked him suspiciously.
“I'm not planning on luring you into a room, getting you drunk, and stealing your virtue if that's what's worrying you.”
“I never thought that,” she objected incensed.
“Never?” The raised eyebrow told her he didn't believe her.
“Why do we need those things?” She lifted her chin in a challenge.
“We need them because I want to get you away from here as quickly and quietly as possible.” There was a detached quality to his voice. “Where's Gottlieb?”
“Out back with the wagon,” she answered automatically not even wondering how he knew about Bram. “He always waits in the back.”
“I should have known he would make sure to keep himself safe and well hidden while you came in and took all the risks.” The expression on his face was cold.
“It isn't like that at all,” she argued. “He's very brave just to come with me.”
“We'll have to see that his bravery is rewarded.” Dylan's words were a menacing monotone.
The woman returned before Rory could fashion another defense for her friend.
“Here is the brandy.” She handed a small flask to Dylan. “If you'll follow me, I'll show you to a quiet chamber.”
She led them towards the back of the house and into a Spartan empty bedroom. Without waiting, she turned and went back to the front of the bordello.
Rory watched as Dylan withdrew a clean handkerchief from his vest pocket. He began methodically twisting it. When he was satisfied with its shape, he unscrewed the cap of the flask. He soaked the end of the handkerchief with the brandy. The baby continued to fuss occasionally breaking into a high-pitched cry as Dylan made all these preparations.
“Give me the baby.” He reached over to take the child.
She moved neatly sideways and avoided him. “Why?”
“I'm not going to hurt him sweetheart.” He was trying to be patient. “I'm just going to make sure he will be very quiet.”
Rory reluctantly handed him the baby. “What do you know about babies Dylan?” she asked in a disbelieving manner.
“I have two younger brothers and a younger sister.” He expertly cradled the boy in one arm while he rubbed the handkerchief softly against the baby's cheek. Presently, the baby
grasped the soaked cloth in his mouth and began to suck. Satisfied Dylan finished his statement. “So I know how to keep babies quiet in an emergency.”
“Won't that brandy hurt him?” she asked worried.
“No,” he assured her calmly. “It’s an old remedy I learned from my siblings’ nurse. There’s not enough spirits on the handkerchief to harm him. But he will take a nice long nap.” In a few minutes, the baby was sound asleep. Dylan laid him on the bed.
“Rory do not misunderstand what I am about to do,” he warned as he began to remove his clothes. Her eyes widened as he pulled off the riding coat and the conservative vest underneath it. Next came the intricately tied neckcloth but when he began to unbutton his white shirt, she could bear it no longer.
“Dylan!” She turned around and faced the wall in mortification.
“Trust me sweetheart.” He laughed softly at her reaction.
She heard the shirt come off. Then it sounded curiously like he was wiping up the floor.
“You can turn around now,” he invited. “I'm safely covered and your sensibilities won't be offended.”
The Dylan St. John she saw when she turned was not the one she knew. His coat, neckcloth, and vest lay discarded on the floor. His beautiful white shirt was no longer clean. It looked as if he had swept the floor with it. His shirt was not tucked neatly into his pants. In fact, it flowed down and covered a substantial portion of his expensively tailored britches. As she watched, he mussed his hair violently with his hands.
He gave her a lopsided grin tilted his head and spoke with a thick backwoods accent. “Give us a kiss Missus.”
Rory laughed, delighted with his transformation. “How do you do that?”
“Constant practice,” he replied in an amused drawl. “Now I'll go out to our hero in the back and send him home. Wait here for me.”
“Bram won't leave without me.” She was certain of her friend in the wagon.
“Yes, he will,” Dylan said in a quietly dangerous voice. He was back in less than five minutes.
“Bram left me here?” she asked in bewilderment.
“He left you,” he answered matter-of-factly.
